Bloodline

Prologue: Agent Alexander Anthony Almedia

The soft hum of servers provided a monotonous backdrop in the depths of CTU's digital archives as Alex Almeida hunched over his workstation. The clock on the wall seemed to mock him with each passing second, its steady ticking a reminder of time slipping away. The glow of ancient files played across his determined features, casting sharp shadows that emphasized the tension in his jaw.

"Alex." Emily Winters' voice cut through his concentration, gentle but firm. She placed a steaming cup of coffee beside him, her third peace offering of the night. "It's almost midnight. You've been at this for hours."

He didn't look up, his fingers continuing their relentless dance across the keyboard. "Just a few more minutes, Em. I think I'm onto something here."

"That's what you said two hours ago." She pulled up a chair, the wheels squeaking slightly against the polished floor. "What exactly are you hoping to find tonight that thirty-four years of investigation missed?"

Alex finally stopped typing, his hands hovering over the keyboard as he released a heavy sigh. "I don't know, Em. A clue, a whisper, anything that explains why Dad would turn into the very thing he spent his life fighting against." He turned to face her, his dark eyes reflecting a storm of emotions. "Don't you ever wonder why nobody talks about it? Why Uncle Jack changes the subject every time I bring it up?"

Emily reached out, her fingers intertwining with his. "Maybe because it hurts them too much. Your father wasn't just your dad, Alex. He was Jack's best friend, your mom's whole world."

"That's exactly my point!" Alex pulled his hand away, gesturing at the screen. "He was all those things, and then suddenly he wasn't? It doesn't add up. People don't just wake up one morning and decide to become terrorists."

"Sometimes good people make terrible choices," Emily said softly. "Especially when they're hurting."

Alex's laugh was bitter. "Is that what they told you in training? The official CTU line about Tony Almeida's betrayal?"

"Hey." Emily's voice sharpened. "That's not fair. I'm here because I care about you, not because of some CTU protocol. I'm here because I remember how you looked that day two years ago when we found that arms dealer in Mexico, and he recognized your name. I'm here because I held you that night when you finally let yourself break down and cry about it."

The hurt in her voice made Alex deflate slightly. "I'm sorry, Em. I just... I need to understand. Every time I walk these halls, I feel the weight of his legacy. The whispers, the sideways glances. 'There goes Tony Almeida's son.' Like they're waiting for me to snap too."

"You want to know what I think?" Emily stood up, moving behind him to massage his tense shoulders. "I think they look at you and see exactly what I see – someone who's twice the agent his father ever was, because you've had to work ten times as hard to prove yourself."

"Em..."

"No, let me finish." Her fingers worked at a particularly tight knot in his shoulder. "You think I don't notice how you stay late to help the new analysts, even though some of them treat you like you're radioactive at first? How you volunteer for the worst assignments so nobody can ever accuse you of getting special treatment? How you've never once used your connections with Jack to make things easier for yourself?"

Alex leaned back into her touch. "I'm pretty sure I used those connections to get a certain promising rookie assigned as my partner."

Emily tugged playfully at his hair. "Please. Like I wasn't top of our class anyway. Besides, Jack told me later he was planning to partner us regardless. Said something about me being the only one stubborn enough to handle you."

"He wasn't wrong." Alex reached up to catch her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm. "I don't know what I'd do without you, Em."

"Probably starve to death while obsessing over cold cases," she teased, but her voice was tender. "What triggered this tonight? You've been obsessing more than usual lately."

Alex reached for a file on his desk, the paper worn at the edges from frequent handling. "I found this in the old archives. It's a witness statement from the day of the explosion, but it doesn't match the official report. The timing is off by seventeen minutes."

"That could be a clerical error," Emily suggested, though her investigative instincts were already engaged.

"Or it could be deliberate." Alex pulled up another document on his screen. "Look at this. The security footage from that day? It's missing exactly seventeen minutes. What are the odds?"

Emily leaned in, her brow furrowing as she studied the timestamps. "Have you shown this to Director O'Brien?"

"Not yet. I wanted to gather more evidence first." Alex rubbed his eyes tiredly. "There's something else. A name I've never seen before, mentioned only once in all the files. Someone who was there that day but never appeared in any official statements."

"Alex..." Emily's voice carried a note of warning. "Be careful. Some doors, once opened, can't be closed again. Remember what happened with the Chen investigation?"

"That was different," Alex protested. "We were right about Chen."

"Yes, and it nearly got us both killed." Emily perched on the edge of his desk, forcing him to look at her. "I'm not saying don't investigate. I'm saying let's be smart about this. Let's take our time, build a solid case before we start poking the hornet's nest."

"Em, I've been taking my time for ten years. Ever since I was old enough to understand what happened, I've been piecing this together bit by bit. And now..." He ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "What if everything we think we know about that day is wrong? What if my father wasn't a traitor at all?"

"And what if he was?" Her words were gentle but direct. "Are you prepared for that possibility? Because I need to know you can handle whatever we find. I need to know you won't..." She trailed off, biting her lip.

"Won't what? Turn out like him?" The bitterness was back in his voice.

"No." Emily cupped his face in her hands, forcing him to meet her gaze. "That you won't let this consume you. That you'll remember you're not alone in this. That you'll trust me enough to let me help carry this burden."

Before Alex could respond, his phone buzzed. He glanced at it and sighed - another late-night email about the case files he'd requested.

Emily squeezed his shoulder. "That's it. We're done for tonight. Whatever answers you're looking for will still be here tomorrow."

"Em..." he started to protest, but she was already saving his files and powering down the workstation.

"No arguments. You've been running on coffee and stubbornness for the past sixteen hours." She tugged gently at his sleeve. "Come on. You're coming home with me, I'm making you eat something that isn't from the vending machine, and then you're getting at least six hours of sleep."

"Is that an order, Agent Winters?" A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Absolutely. And don't think I won't call your Uncle Jack if you try to argue. He may be 'mellowed out' now, but he can still pull rank when he needs to."

"You fight dirty," Alex chuckled, finally standing up and stretching his stiff muscles. "Is that why you're still here at midnight instead of at home planning our weekend with your family?"

"No, I'm here because I love you, you idiot." The words slipped out naturally, as if she'd said them a thousand times before, though they both knew it was the first. The sudden silence was deafening.

Alex stared at her, his expression softening into something vulnerable and young. "Em..."

"Don't." She held up a hand, her cheeks flushed. "Don't make it a thing. I know the timing is terrible, and we agreed to take things slow because of work, and—"

He cut her off with a kiss, pulling her close until she melted against him. When they finally broke apart, he rested his forehead against hers. "I love you too. Have since that day at the shooting range, probably."

Emily laughed shakily. "Well, that's good. Otherwise, this weekend with my family would have been really awkward."

Alex smiled, the tension finally leaving his shoulders. "Have I mentioned lately how lucky I am to have you as my partner?"

"Not nearly often enough." Emily gathered her things, stifling a yawn. "And don't think being sleep-deprived gets you out of dinner with my parents this weekend. Your obsession with conspiracy theories is not a valid excuse."

"Wouldn't dream of it." Alex held the door for her. "Your mom's lasagna is worth facing any amount of interrogation. Though I have to say, between your mom's courtroom experience and your dad's ER triage skills, I'm not sure which of them is more intimidating."

Emily laughed as they walked toward the parking garage. "Mom's definitely scarier. Twenty years as a federal prosecutor before starting her own practice – she can make hardened criminals crack just by raising an eyebrow. But Dad's the one you really have to watch out for. He likes to act all casual while he's grilling you, pretending he's just making conversation while he's secretly cataloging every response."

"I noticed that last time. He kept asking these seemingly random questions about my five-year plan while showing me his fishing gear."

"Classic Dr. Winters technique," Emily grinned, bumping his shoulder playfully. "He does the same thing with difficult patients in the ER. Gets them talking about their weekend plans while he's actually assessing their mental state. Though I have to say, you handled it better than most of my previous boyfriends. Remember when I told you about that guy in college who actually tried to present Mom and Dad with a PowerPoint about his intentions?"

"No way," Alex laughed. "What happened?"

"Mom cross-examined him about his citations, and Dad just sat there making little notes on his phone the whole time. Poor guy was sweating bullets." She squeezed his hand. "But they really do like you, you know. Mom told me she's impressed by how you handle yourself under pressure at work, and Dad keeps showing me his old fishing cabin 'just in case we ever need a quiet place for a small ceremony.'"

"Is that a proposal, Agent Winters?"

"In your dreams, Agent Almeida." But her smile was soft. "Besides, you still have to learn how to fish this weekend. Dad's very clear that no son-in-law of his can be afraid of worms."

"It's not fear, it's a perfectly reasonable aversion," Alex protested, following her to her car. "I've faced down armed suspects without blinking, but I draw the line at handling live bait."

Emily stopped at her car, keys in hand, and turned to face him. The fluorescent lights of the garage cast strange shadows across her face, but her eyes were bright and clear. "You know what I think?"

"That I'm being ridiculous about the worms?"

"That you're exactly like your father." She held up a hand when he tensed. "Not in the way you're worried about. The way Jack tells it, Tony Almeida could stare down the worst terrorists without flinching, but he'd do anything to get out of going fishing. Said it was 'inefficient' compared to just buying fish at the market."

Alex laughed softly, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. "I didn't know that."

"There's probably a lot of stories like that – the small moments, the human things that didn't make it into any official reports." She stepped closer, straightening his collar with careful fingers. "Maybe that's where you should start looking. Not in the case files, but in the memories of the people who knew him best."

"Em..." He caught her hand, pressing it against his chest. "How do you always know exactly what to say?"

"Years of practice talking you down from ledges." She rose on her tiptoes to kiss him softly. "Come on. Let's go home. I'll make that pasta you like, and maybe if you're really nice, I won't tell Dad about your 'perfectly reasonable aversion' to worms."

"That's blackmail, Agent Winters." Alex opened the car door for her with an exaggerated bow. "I'm pretty sure there are regulations against that."

"CTU's finest analyst, and you can't even handle a little night crawler." Emily slid behind the wheel, grinning up at him. "Don't worry, I'm sure Dad will start you off with the rubber ones. You know, the kind they make for children."

"Oh, that's how it's going to be?" Alex got in on the passenger side, trying to look stern but failing miserably. "You know," Alex said as they walked to her car, "I could always call in sick this weekend. CTU agents are very prone to sudden, mysterious illnesses. It's practically in the handbook."

"Nice try." She started the car, shooting him a playful glare. "But I've already told Mom you're coming, and you know how she feels about proper notification procedures."

"The great Agent Almeida, defeated by his future mother-in-law's scheduling requirements." He shook his head as they pulled out of the garage. "If the suspects only knew."

"Just wait until Dad starts showing you his detailed powerpoints about fishing techniques." Emily grinned as she turned onto the empty street. "He's got one for every species of fish in the lake. With annotations."

"Suddenly those all-night stakeouts don't seem so bad."

The city lights blurred past their windows as Emily navigated them home, their laughter about fishing lessons gradually fading into a comfortable silence. Alex watched the familiar streets slip by, his mind inevitably drifting back to the files waiting on his desk. Beside him, Emily seemed lost in her own thoughts, her fingers tapping an absent rhythm on the steering wheel.

"You know," she said finally, her voice softer than before, "Mom was telling me something interesting the other day. About my grandfather—her dad."

Alex turned to look at her. Emily rarely spoke about Ryan Chappelle, the grandfather she'd never met. He knew the broad strokes—former Regional Division Director at CTU, killed in the line of duty before Emily was born—but the details were usually left untouched, a family wound that had never quite healed.

"She found some old photos while cleaning out the attic," Emily continued, her eyes fixed on the road. "Pictures of him with her and Aunt Christine and Uncle Ryan when they were kids. Before my great-grandmother Victoria died."

She paused at a red light, the crimson glow casting shadows across her face. "Mom said he was different back then. Used to take them camping, taught them how to fish. Mom said those were the happiest times, before everything changed. Just the four of them by the lake, making s'mores and telling stories under the stars. But after Victoria's cancer... he just disappeared into work. CTU became his whole life."

"That's why your mom became a prosecutor?" Alex asked gently. He'd always wondered about Caitlin Winters' choice to pursue justice from outside the agency.

Emily nodded. "Eight years. That's how long they went without really seeing him. Mom was still in college, trying to figure out who she wanted to be. They all thought there'd be time later to fix things, to bridge that gap. And then suddenly there wasn't." She paused, her fingers tightening on the steering wheel. "Mom hadn't even finished her degree when she got the call about what happened at CTU."

The light turned green, and they moved forward into the night. Alex reached over to squeeze her hand, understanding the weight of unspoken regrets passed down through generations.

"Mom says that's why she's so insistent about family dinners, about making time. Why she keeps pushing Dad to renovate that cabin." Emily's smile was bittersweet. "She doesn't want to look back someday and wish she'd tried harder to keep everyone close."

The words hung between them as they pulled into their apartment complex's parking lot. Alex thought about his own family's fractured history, about all the questions left unanswered. About Jack Bauer, who had been forced to take Ryan Chappelle's life that day, and who had later become like a second father to Alex himself. The interweaving of their families' tragedies felt almost predetermined, as if their paths had been destined to cross.

Emily turned off the engine but didn't move to get out. "Sometimes I wonder what he would think of all this. Me following in his footsteps at CTU, falling in love with Tony Almeida's son..." She turned to Alex with a slight smile. "Life has a weird way of bringing things full circle, doesn't it?"

Alex leaned over to kiss her softly. "Come on. Let's get inside. I'll make us some tea."

They made their way up to their apartment, the weight of family histories and untold stories following them like shadows. Later, as they got ready for bed, Emily pulled on one of Alex's old CTU training academy shirts and curled up against him.

"Promise me something?" she murmured, already half-asleep.

"Anything."

"Whatever you find out about your dad... don't let it consume you. Some regrets can't be fixed, but new ones can be prevented."

Alex held her closer, breathing in the familiar scent of her shampoo. "I promise."

The clock on the bedside table read 2:37 AM. Alex's eyes were wide open, the darkness of their bedroom seemingly amplifying his racing thoughts. He could hear Emily's gentle, rhythmic breathing beside him—an anchor in his tumultuous mental sea. The seventeen missing minutes from the security footage kept replaying in his mind, along with that name he'd found—the one that appeared only once in all the files. Marcus Whitmore. A ghost in the records, mentioned in passing in a single witness statement, then vanishing like smoke.

His dad, Tony, supposedly turned traitor, transformed by grief into someone unrecognizable. And his mom, waking up to a world irrevocably altered, believing her husband to be dead. It didn't sit right; there were too many holes in that story. His gut twisted with the knowledge that something crucial was being withheld from the narrative—the essential truth that lay somewhere in the void of Uncle Jack's carefully measured words and silences.

Alex turned his head slightly, studying Emily's peaceful face in the dim light filtering through their bedroom window. She'd fallen asleep still wearing one of his old CTU training academy t-shirts, her hand curled loosely around his pillow. Hours earlier, she'd made good on her promise of pasta, filling their small apartment with the smell of garlic and basil, telling him stories about her dad's legendary fishing disasters until he was laughing despite himself.

But now, in the hollow quiet of the early morning, those seventeen missing minutes haunted him. The witness statement had mentioned an address—a warehouse in the industrial district that had been abandoned even back then. The official report dismissed it as irrelevant, the witness deemed unreliable. But why? And why had that particular detail been buried so deeply in the files?

Quietly, so as not to disturb Emily, Alex slid out of bed. He dressed in the dark, his fingers deftly finding his clothes. His movement was that of a shadow, a specter of a son seeking answers that refused to be confined to daylight hours. His gun and badge were locked in their safe by the door—standard procedure when off duty. He retrieved them silently, muscle memory guiding his hands through the combination.

Once ready, he scribbled a note on the notepad they kept by the phone—it wouldn't be fair to leave without one:

Em,

Can't sleep. Need to clear my head. Don't worry, I'll be back soon.

-Love, Alex

He placed the note on her pillow and leaned down to kiss her forehead gently. She stirred slightly, murmuring something about fishing lures, but didn't wake. The sight made his chest tighten with affection and guilt. She'd tell him this was exactly the kind of reckless behavior they'd talked about avoiding, and she'd be right. But some questions couldn't wait for morning.

The night air was cool as he slipped out of their apartment building, the city uncommonly quiet. His car was still parked where they'd left it earlier, Emily's gentle teasing about his parking skills echoing in his memory. He sat behind the wheel for a moment, second-guessing himself. This was exactly the kind of solo operation that got agents in trouble. Emily's voice in his head was crystal clear: "This is how people end up walking into traps."

But he wasn't walking into anything blind. He'd memorized the layout of the industrial district, studied satellite imagery of the area during his lunch break. The warehouse in question had been abandoned for decades, its ownership buried under layers of shell companies that had dissolved years ago. Perfect for storing secrets that someone wanted to forget.

The drive took twenty minutes through empty streets. Los Angeles was never truly asleep, but at this hour it came close, the usual chaos reduced to a low hum of distant traffic and the occasional siren. Alex parked two blocks from the warehouse, basic tactical procedure ingrained from years of training. The surrounding buildings were dark shapes against the night sky, their broken windows like empty eyes watching his approach.

The warehouse itself was a hulking presence, its brick walls stained with decades of neglect. A chain-link fence surrounded the property, sporting multiple "No Trespassing" signs in various states of decay. Alex found a gap in the fence partially hidden by overgrown weeds—evidence that others had been here before him.

His flashlight beam cut through the darkness as he approached the building, though he kept it pointed downward to minimize his visibility from the street. The main entrance was padlocked, but a side door hung slightly ajar, its hinges rusted. The smell hit him first as he stepped inside—mold and decay, the musty breath of abandonment.

The warehouse interior was a cathedral of shadows, his footsteps echoing despite his attempt at stealth. Broken glass crunched under his feet, and somewhere above him, pigeons rustled in the rafters. The beam of his flashlight revealed graffiti-covered walls, piles of debris, and the skeletal remains of old machinery.

But there was something else. As he moved deeper into the building, he noticed areas where the dust on the floor had been disturbed. Recent footprints, multiple sets. He wasn't the first person to visit this place tonight.

Then, in a far corner partially hidden behind a collapsed shelving unit, Alex found something that made his pulse quicken—an old CTU evidence box, covered in dust, its seal broken. The box shouldn't have been here. Any evidence from his father's case should have been stored in the CTU archive or destroyed according to protocol.

"There you are..." he whispered, a thrill of discovery meeting a pang of suspicion. He reached for the box, his training warring with his desperation for answers.

"Looking for something?" The voice came from behind him—dry, tinged with malice.

Alex spun around, flashlight beam cutting through the darkness to illuminate the figure now emerging from the shadows. A man, middle-aged, his features half-hidden beneath the brim of a dark hat. He moved with the careful precision of someone who knew how to handle themselves in confrontations.

"Who are you?" Alex demanded, his free hand instinctively moving toward his weapon.

"Ah, the prodigal son... searching for answers, no?" the man sneered, stepping into the faint light. His face was lined with age and something harder—the kind of weathering that came from years of living in the darker corners of the world. "I might be inclined to ask you the same question, considering you're trespassing."

"I'm a federal agent," Alex countered, though he was off duty and unsure of this man's intentions. The situation was deteriorating rapidly into exactly the kind of scenario Emily had warned him about.

"You don't say?" the man chuckled humorlessly. "Looks like you've stumbled into something over your head, Agent Almeida." He spoke the name with particular emphasis, like it carried weight beyond mere identification.

Alex's pulse quickened, his grip on the flashlight tightening. "What do you know about Tony Almeida?"

"Oh, I know plenty," the stranger replied, his voice edged with dark intent. Something metallic glinted in his hand—not a weapon, but what looked like an old CTU badge. "Your father and I had quite the history. But then again, history has a way of being rewritten, doesn't it?"

"I just want the truth," Alex said firmly, trying to keep his voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

"The truth?" The man shook his head, and for a moment, something like pity crossed his features. "The truth is like this old building—neglected and ready to bury you under its weight. Your father understood that, in the end. Some answers come at too high a price."

Suddenly, there was a click, a sound that didn't belong—a sound that seemed to signal an ending. Alex had heard that particular mechanical tick before, during CTU demolitions training. His body was moving before his mind fully processed the implications, lunging toward the stranger just as the world erupted into noise and light.

The explosion's roar was deafening, ripping through the building like a monstrous beast set free. The force of it threw Alex backward, his flashlight spinning away into the darkness. Heat and debris filled the air as the warehouse's ancient structure groaned in protest. His last conscious thought was of Emily—of her smile in the car earlier, of the note he'd left on her pillow, of all the questions that would now go unanswered.

Then nothing but the hard, unforgiving grip of unconsciousness, and somewhere in the distance, the wail of sirens approaching through the Los Angeles night.