[[ los angeles ]]

[justdidntseeit]

[ ticking like a time bomb ]

June 11, 2005
Los Angeles, Calif.
3:08 a.m.

“Get his wallet.”

“How much?”

“Couple hundred.”

Kate concentrates on the voices, willing her sluggish brain to make sense of the words. Her cheek feels wet; she brings an unsteady hand to her face, and squints at the blood on her fingers.

Nosebleed, she decides, exhaling through her mouth. Turning her head, she focuses on the indistinct shadows standing over Yusuf's unmoving form.

Yusuf.

A rollercoaster rushes between her ears as she tries to sit up.

The chip, CTU —

“Come on, let’s go.”

“What’s this?”

“C’mon, let’s get outta here — ”

“Wait, check this out.”

Her eyes widen as one of the men pulls the small plastic case from Yusuf’s wallet.

“Come on, just take it, let’s go.”

“Get in the car.” John Deere jerks his head toward the Yukon. “I’m driving.”

“Wait.”

She can’t make her voice work.

“Wait,” she repeats, louder this time, standing on shaky legs while the world tilts and rights itself. “You took something from me — it’s mine.”

She staggers toward them on legs that feel like water.

“What’re you doing with him, anyway?” John Deere sneers as she leans a hand on the hood of the vehicle for balance. “You think he’s got money? The only thing worse than those bastards in our country is people like you.”

“No.” She shakes her head, blinking the spots from her still-blurred vision. “It’s not like that. I just need that plastic case you took from him.”

“What, this?”

“Yeah.” She reaches for it, but the man in the jean jacket grabs her arms, twisting them behind her back.

John Deere tilts his head and takes a step closer.

“What is it?”

“It’s got information on it.” She ignores the stench of stale sweat and the ache in her arms. “It’s not worth anything — please, just give it to me.”

He closes his fist around the case.

“What’ll you give us for it?”

“I’ll pay you,” she offers without hesitation. “I’ve got money.”

“How much?”

She doesn’t have her wallet or her debit card, or even her checkbook, and her heart thuds against her ribs.

Just get the chip.

“It’s not here, it’s at my house.”

“Forget it, Marcus,” the third man says, shaking his head. “Let’s just go.”

“Wait.” Marcus narrows his eyes and readjusts the brim of his cap. “Where’s your house?”

“Hancock Park.”

Just get the chip.

The mantra plays over and over in her mind as they shove her into the backseat.

---

3:46 a.m.

“Come on, come on. You better hurry up.”

She’s surprised her hands are steady as she turns the dial on the safe.

“There.”

She opens it and lifts out a thick stack of euros.

Marcus snatches the money.

“What the hell is this?”

“There should be at least twenty thousand euros there.”

“Euros?” His mouth twists in an ugly frown.

“It — it’s European money.”

What if I miscounted, what if it’s less, what if —

“I look European to you?” He tosses the notes on her bed. “Where’s the cash?”

“That is cash.” The strength returns to her words. “It’s as good as dollars.”

Something dark flashes in Marcus’ eyes.

“We want cash money, you understand me?”

She swallows as the barrel of Yusuf’s gun presses into the soft underside of her jaw.

“Marcus?” Jean Jacket says, lifting a cream-colored envelope out of the safe and handing it over.

“You think this is real?” The third man holds up a diamond tennis bracelet.

Her lungs constrict.

Don’t, please, that was Mom’s —

“No,” Jean Jacket says, scoffing, “they keep the fake ones locked up.”

Marcus finishes thumbing through the envelope.

“Fifteen hundred.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Marcus nods, short and sharp, as he pockets the cash.

“Now what do we do?” the third one asks behind Kate’s shoulder.

“Look, just — just take it all,” she offers while Marcus eyes her darkly. “Just give me the chip.”

Marcus shakes his head, looking at the two men.

“She knows what we look like.”

She clenches her jaw as tight as the swelling allows.

“We had a deal.”

“He’s right.” Jean Jacket puts a heavy hand on her arm. “We can’t just leave you here.”

Panic licks at her stomach lining.

“Look, just take everything.” She jerks her elbow, but Jean Jacket's fingers dig into her skin. “I won’t tell anyone. I won’t tell the police — just give me the chip.”

“Marcus, don’t do this, man,” the third one says, and Kate mentally labels him Bashful. “Let’s just take the stuff and go.”

“The second we walk outta here, she’s callin’ the cops.” Marcus racks the gun. “I can’t get locked up again.”

He raises the weapon.

“No — ”

Bashful tackles Marcus just as Marcus pulls the trigger, and the shot punches the wall two feet to her left.

She wrenches away from Jean Jacket and sprints into the hallway, dodging into the dining room as two more shots follow. Another chips wood and splinters drywall. She knocks a floor lamp (housewarming present from Marie) behind her as she races through the living room and skids into the foyer.

Her hand is on the doorknob, and she’s begging the Landlord she’ll find the bar when Jean Jacket claps a hand on her shoulder.

nonono

She stumbles backward and lands hard on her knees, still trying to squirm from his bruising grip (the door, get to the door) — and looks up to see Marcus lowering Yusuf’s gun to her forehead.

She tries to glare at him through the tears sheening her eyes.

youdontknowwhatyouredoing

Jean Jacket’s hands fly from her shoulders and he falls to the hardwood; Marcus and Bashful dash to her bedroom.

“Kate, are you all right?”

Jack?

He steps into the foyer, firing another silenced round down the hall.

“Yeah.” Part of her wonders if she’s already been shot, if this is some kind of wish fulfillment conjured by her dying brain. “But they’ve got the chip.”

“How many rooms at the end of the hall?”

“Two.” She’s on autopilot, and nearly does a double-take when she sees Jack is barefoot. “Master bedroom and a bathroom.”

“Stay down.”

---

4:41 a.m.

She’s in the kitchen, leaning against the marble-topped island, unable to stomach the red-blue, red-blue, red-blue flashing lights visible through the front windows.

This is all my fault. I could’ve prevented this, prevented everything, and now the chip’s damaged —

She can hear the muted voices of the police officers and the coroner, the zip of a body bag closing and the metallic rattle of the gurney as it rises and locks into place.

“Kate, are you all right?”

It’s Jack’s voice, quiet and concerned.

She sniffles; she can’t turn around, not yet. Not when her face is too hot and she can’t seem to curb the burn behind her eyes.

“Kate — ”

“Everything that happened today … ” She wipes her cheeks and shakes her head, so tired that even her teeth hurt. “Every-everything that’s still happening — I — it’s my fault.”

“No.” Jack steps closer, and she can see he’s wearing Marcus’ black boots now. “We never would’ve found the bomb in time if it wasn’t for you.”

“But Marie — ” She bites the inside of her swollen cheek, tasting blood on her tongue. “She was the one behind the bomb, she helped — ”

“Yes, but you’re not your sister.”

“I should’ve seen something before it got this bad. What she did could start a war, and I could’ve stopped it, I could’ve — ”

“No.”

He’s even closer now, and she lifts her eyes to his collar. His black jacket is zipped nearly all the way up, but she could almost swear he’s no longer wearing a shirt underneath.

“Kate, you couldn’t’ve. There are things in this world that are just out of our control. Sometimes we like to blame ourselves for them so we can make sense of them.”

Finally meeting his eyes, she shakes her head while his features turn to a watery blur.

“C’mere.”

Jack wraps her into a gentle hug, and her eyes slip shut. She lets herself relax against him as he strokes her hair, and for a half-second, it doesn’t matter that he’s not Bill and she’s not in the bar, because she’s finally safe.

“There was nothing you could’ve done.” His voice is low and close, and he pulls back to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear.

The simple act is so familiar — Bill’s done the same thing so many times — it makes her ache.

Jack’s still looking at her, eyes soft and sympathetic, when his phone rings, the shrill sound startling them both.

His hand drops from her hair.

“Sorry, excuse me.”

He pulls the cell from his pocket and flips it open, stepping back to speak to the caller.

She pulls in a short, shaky breath and scrubs her eyes, half-listening to Jack’s end of the conversation.

“Two-ten Laurel Canyon Road in North Hollywood.”

He moves over to the island and scribbles the address on a notepad she keeps there for grocery and to-do lists.

Ending the call, he gives her an apologetic smile.

“I’m sorry, I’ve got to go.”

“Where?”

“We got something off the chip — not what we were looking for, but it’s a lead. I’m gonna have to follow it up.”

She can only nod.

This isn’t going to end — there’s going to be a war, and it’s my fault.

“As soon as you’re ready to leave here, one of the officers will take you back to CTU so you can give them your statement.”

“Thanks.”

She’s dreading the debriefing already. So much has happened in the last few hours, she’s not sure she even understands it all.