Free 24: Deadline (24 Series) by James Swallow

avoid contact with any police or Air National Guard units.
    It was time to go dark. He switched off his transponder, cutting off any attempt local air traffic controllers might make to find his vector and lead others to him. Then Jack deactivated the Long Ranger’s running lights and the cockpit illumination until the only light he had was the soft glow of the instrument panel. The sun had set and the azure sky was darkening to black. As long as he could keep below the radar detection threshold and away from urban centers, escape was possible.
    At least until this thing runs out of gas, he thought. And then what the hell am I going to do?
    He glanced down at the black bag where he had dumped it on the empty seat beside him, thinking about the micro-SIM card he had recovered from the apartment. The FBI would have access to his CTU personnel file, and that would have most of the names and numbers from his “black book.” If Hadley was smart, he would already have taps on the most likely subjects and communications traffic analysts watching everyone else. And then there were the Russians, who had deep pockets, a very long reach and a whole different set of intelligence resources.
    He couldn’t call Kim to alert her about his situation, or pull in favors from his usual contacts. Finishing what he had started was going to involve thinking a long way outside the box. He put the helicopter into a shallow turn and pointed it in the direction of the vanished sun.
    Slowly, it came to Jack that the only person who could help him was a dead man.

 
    05
    The warehouse on the outskirts of Pittsburgh had once stored colossal rolls of paper for transport to printing works and factories all over the country, but now it was an echoing, vacant space. Just one more example of the economic downturn writ large across the city’s infrastructure, home now to a colony of tenacious rats and little else.
    The homeless and the unlucky knew better than to try and find shelter in the place, however. As much as it stood idle and empty, the warehouse still did business of a sort. It belonged to the deSalvo crime family, and they kept it on the books as a place where they could meet without fear of being overheard by the feds. The fact that it was isolated enough to mean that the odd gunshot wouldn’t be noticed was just a bonus.
    Charlie Williams drove the silver Chrysler 300 in under the half-open roller doors and brought it to a halt, a short distance from a pair of black Crown Victorias parked under the big skylight. In the rearview mirror he could see Roker in the backseat, shifting uncomfortably, visibly sweating even though it was a chilly evening. The other man pulled at the collar of his shirt and kept shifting his jacket like it was too tight for him.
    Relax, he wanted to say. They’re not going to bring you here just to whack you. But he said nothing. He had learned the hard way that “Big Mike” Roker didn’t like it when his employees spoke out of turn—and Charlie Williams was very much a servant of the Roker household, as Big Mike and his wife liked to remind him at every opportunity.
    He turned off the engine and felt a spasm of pain from his right hand. He thought about the plastic bottle of Percocet tablets in his jacket pocket and unconsciously licked his lips. Today had been a bad day for the old wound, and he could feel the numbness in his fingers like a creeping rot. The nerve damage there had never fully healed, and he’d tried to make his peace with it. But sometimes even an action as simple as maintaining a firm grip on the steering wheel was difficult. With effort, he pushed away the thought of the temporary relief the pain medication would give him and concentrated on his surroundings.
    Ernest deSalvo had four guys standing with him. Scanning the warehouse, Charlie saw the shadow of someone else under one of the support gantries toward the rear of the building. An extra man, a spotter maybe. He suppressed a thin smile.