24: MIAMI
INT. WAREHOUSE – DAY
LOS ANGELES, 1986
A forklift slowly moves through a large, decrepit warehouse carrying a payload of four, massive boxes. It drops them off, turns around and heads back for a few more. Each of the boxes read "FRAGILE". TONY ANGELO, a short, fat mob kingpin watches from the catwalk above. He takes a puff from his fat cigar and checks his watch...
ANGELO: Late...I knew it.
FRANCO, his right-hand-man approaches him.
ANGELO: What is it, Franco?
FRANCO: Mr. Castillo is waiting for you, sir.
Angelo nods and follows Franco to the first floor.
INT. SMALL OFFICE – DAY
MARTIN CASTILLO waits in a small office on the bottom floor of the warehouse. The place is disgusting – the walls are peeling, the ceiling is riddled with holes and the floor is covered in dark, mysterious stains.
Castillo is your typical playboy type – tanned skin, neat blond hair, flashy jewelry and a white linen suit. He's got his feet up on the table and is reading a GLOBE magazine.
Just as he flips a page, the door opens. He looks over and sees Franco and Angelo enter. Castillo sets the magazine and looks up Angelo, a smile on his face.
CASTILLO: You must be Tony Angelo – pleasure to meet you.
He extends a hand.
ANGELO: Get your fuckin' feet off my table.
Castillo does so.
CASTILLO: Sorry – I didn't mean to offend you, sir.
Angelo sits down across from Castillo.
ANGELO: Now listen, Mr. Castillo – I don't know who you are and frankly – I don't give a fuck. I'm a businessman and I don't have any time for small talk. So lets get started.
CASTILLO: Sure thing. You know the deal, right?
ANGELO: $50,000 for 5 keys. I assume you've brought the cash.
CASTILLO: Of course. Fifty grand in small bills. You know...it would've been easy if you let me wire the money. But, never mind that. Show me the powder.
Franco sets a suitcase down on the desk in front of Castillo. He flips open the locks, revealing five large plastic bags filled with white powder. Castillo nods his head in approval.
CASTILLO: Well it looks like you've held up to your bargain, all right. Do you mind if I have a taste?
ANGELO: Go ahead. Just make it quick.
Castillo cuts open a bag and dips a finger inside. He pulls is hand back and touches his powder covered finger to his tongue...
Suddenly, his face turns BRIGHT RED and Castillo goes into a coughing fit.
CASTILLO (spitting the powder out): What the hell is this shit?
ANGELO: Pure Colombian. The best of the best. A little strong for you?
CASTILLO: Yeah...yeah...
ANGELO: So...now that it's settled in, what do you think.
CASTILLO: I'm gonna give it to you straight up...you have the right to remain silent.
Angelo's face LIGHTS UP in RAGE. Castillo DIVES out of his chair just as Angelo pulls out a DESERT EAGLE and starts blasting.
As bullets EXPLODE the coke bags, Castillo crawls forward and ARCS his leg at Angelo, sweeping him to the floor. He quickly gets up and disarms Franco with a JAB to the stomach.
Castillo draws his police issue Colt 45 and displays his badge...this man is not who we think he is. His name is JACK BAUER and he's part of the LAPD's vice squad. He ditches the fake Latin accent.
JACK: Nobody move! Franco – you get on your knees, face the wall and put your hands on your head. Angelo – lie face down with your arms stretched toward me. Backup's on the way, so don't you even think about doing anything stupid.
ANGELO: Bauer...you son of a bitch!
JACK: C'mon, Tony – it ain't that bad. You've been to prison before. Just remember...sleep with one eye open, don't piss off your cellmate and most importantly...don't drop the soap. Follow those rules and you'll be just fine.
ANGELO: Thanks for the advice, Jack. But I have some other plans.
Angelo sticks two fingers in his mouth and WHISTLES. Within seconds, suit clad mafiosos swarm the area, submachine guns trained on Jack.
JACK: Oh...shit.
MOBSTER: Don't fuckin' move!
Jack looks for a way out. There is none.
He keeps his gun on Angelo.
JACK: Take another step and I'll blow his fuckin' brains out!
ANGELO: Go ahead, Jack. Might as well take me down with you.
JACK: Shut up.
And with that, Angelo SPRINGS UP and DECKS Jack in the face with a right cross. He spins back, blood flying out of his mouth. Franco runs forward and SLAMS Jack in the sternum with a FLYING KICK. The force of the blow sends him FLYING through the flimsy wooden door and into the warehouse.
ANGELO: Kill him.
Jack gets up and pulls his sidearm from his coat – a tiny PPK pistol. As thugs pour out of the office, he OPENS FIRE, covering himself as he retreats behind a stack of crates.
The thugs UNLOAD on him, SPRAYING the crates with bullets. White powder leaks out from each of the holes, quickly forming piles of cocaine on the floor.
Jack scoops up a pile of the powder in his hand and moves away from the crates. He takes a thug by surprise – throwing powder in his eyes and grabbing his Tec-9. He SLAMS the thug into metal pillar, knocking him out cold.
Franco ducks down and FIRES at Jack. Rounds SPARK off the pillar, ricocheting rounds. Two of the stray bullets hit a thug, killing him.
Jack returns fire, sending Franco scattering for shelter. He whips around and rolls in the cocaine, FIRING his Tec-9. Angelo and three thugs unload a simultaneous onslaught of bullets at him, sending cocaine and woodchips flying.
Jack stops momentarily and places a round in the forehead of the thug standing right next to Angelo. Blood SPLATTERS all over his white suit, staining it crimson.
ANGELO: BAUER!
Angelo runs forward, BLASTING. Jack dives and rolls. He gets up and runs into a maze of boxes, Angelo and this thugs close behind. As he cuts a corner, the forklift pulls right ahead of him with a thug in the driver's seat...armed with a machine pistol.
He FIRES. Jack fakes right and leaps into the forklift, throwing the thug off his seat. He takes control of the vehicle and backs up, CRUSHING the thug.
Three scumbags left. Jack speeds forward, thugs running from the forklift. Angelo is still coming up from behind, FIRING his Desert Eagle. Slugs SLAM the vehicle, SPARKING off the metal.
Two of the thugs jump right in front of Jack, spraying. He SWERVES, letting the forklift collide with one. The thug is launched sideways into a pillar. The other keeps firing. Jack backs up, turns around and RAMS him straight on, impaling the scumbag of the lifting mechanism.
Franco suddenly appears on top of the crates and OPENS FIRE on Jack. A round pierces the gas tank, causing BLACK SMOKE to rise from the vehicle.
Jack jumps out as it careens toward a stack of crates and COLLIDES, triggering a MASSIVE EXPLOSION! The force of the blast sends FRANCO FLYING! He smacks to the ground, spine snapped to pieces.
Just Jack and Angelo left.
ANGELO: You're pretty good, pig. But not good enough.
BOOM! Angelo FIRES, hitting Jack in the shoulder. He screams and hits the ground, dropping his gun. Angelo slowly moves forward.
ANGELO: Whaddaya say, Jack? One in the head for a quick finish or a couple in the chest for an open casket.
JACK: Neither.
ANGELO: I'm afraid that's not an option, Jack.
JACK: We'll see about that.
Jack spots a fallen thug's Colt 45 lying nearby. Without hesitation, he goes for it. Angelo FIRES, pumping two rounds into a crate.
Jack picks it up, rolls over and BLASTS two rounds – taking out both of Angelo's kneecaps. The fat mobster screams, drops his weapon and collapses into the fetal position. Jack holsters the 45, kneels down next to Angelo and cuffs him with a zip-tie.
JACK: You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in the court of law...you've been in this position before so I'll spare you the rest of the details. Anyway, sit tight – LAPD's gonna be here any minute to haul your fat ass up to County.
Jack pats Angelo on the back.
EXT. WAREHOUSE – DUSK
Jack sits on the hood of his puke green 1984 Buick Skyhawk smoking a cigar. LAPD has swarmed the area – surrounding the warehouse with black-and-whites and hauling out body bag after body bag. POLICE CHIEF WILLIAM DONOVAN approaches Jack. He's a rotund, mustached man with a cheap suit and a head of thinning hair.
DONOVAN: Jack Bauer...can you go anywhere without leaving a body count behind you?
JACK: Believe me, I've tried. It just never works out.
DONOVAN: The commander has been chewing me out ever since I brought you into the Vice Squad...and now I'm starting to think I should have listened to him in the first place.
JACK: Sorry, sir – I'm just doing my job.
DONOVAN: 10 men dead, $500,000 in property damage and a federal witness in a wheelchair...how's that gonna look on your record?
JACK: Look, sir, you got what you wanted. Tony Angelo is going to prison, his operations have been shut down and over 100 kilos of cocaine has been seized. Now tell me...did I do something wrong?
DONOVAN: In theory, no, but we at the LAPD do things by the book. Listen, Jack, you're a damn fine cop. One of the finest this precinct has ever had. But this time you have gone to far...I spoke with the commander...he wants you off the force.
Jack exhales.
DONOVAN: I know how it must feel, Jack...and don't you even think I'm gonna let talent like you go to waste. I just got off the phone with a new agency in Miami. They're just getting started and could use a guy like you.
JACK: Vice?
DONOVAN: No. The Counter Terrorist Unit. They're a branch of the CIA dedicated solely to combating terrorist threats. And right now they're dealing with the Cuba situation and need all the help they can get. You in?
JACK: Yeah.
DONOVAN: Good.
Donovan reaches into his coat and hands Jack a plane ticket.
DONOVAN: That's you're ticket. You leave tomorrow.