Free 24 Declassified: 03 - Trojan Horse by Marc Cerasini Page B

screen.”
    “Calm down. I’m not accusing you of anything.”
    “Can you isolate it?”
    “W00t!” cheered Milo “I already have.”
    Milo stroked his keyboard as he quarantined the virus in a secure file, assigned the data a PIN, then dispatched it to the archives. He kept a copy isolated in his own system, too, for analysis.
    While Milo was hunched over his computer, typing away, Jamey lifted Jack Bauer’s directive from the top of a ball of clear plastic wrap the Dell had been swathed in.
    “The virus is in one mother of a file—a Trojan horse. It’s hidden inside a movie download,” said Milo.
    “That makes sense,” said Jamey. “This computer belongs to Hugh Vetri. He’s a movie producer.”
    “Cool,” said Milo. “How did you know?”
    Jamey waved the directive under his nose. “Because I actually read this memo past page one.”
    Milo blinked. “This download. The file’s called Gates of Heaven . Isn’t that the name of a new movie?”
    “If it doesn’t star Brad Pitt or Vin Diesel, I don’t pay any attention,” said Jamey after a gulp of caffeine.
    9:18:40 A . M .PDT Route 39 Near the Morris Reservoir
    Detective Castalano popped the door and leaped out of the chopper. His feet hit the rocky ground before the helicopter’s skids touched down. Crouching under the whirling rotors, he raced across the roadway toward a cluster of California State Police cars and Parks Department vehicles.
    Castalano almost had his man—almost. The tricky part was yet to come. The roadway in front of him consisted of two narrow lanes, pitted and cracked, a faded yellow line down the middle. About two hundred yards before the roadblock, the road vanished around a sharp curve. The shoulder of the road was raised on both sides and topped with thick tangles of trees and brush. The State Troopers had chosen their spot well. It looked perfect.
    Across the road, the helicopter lifted off again, kicking up dust and blades of sere scrub grass. Castalano ran a hand through his thinning brown hair, combing it back into place as he approached the phalanx of official vehicles. A California State Policeman stepped forward to greet him.
    “Castalano? Frank Castalano? I’m Captain Lang.”
    They clasped hands. The state policeman was as broad as a linebacker and at least a head taller than the LAPD detective. He had a sunburned hide, iron-gray hair, and deep lines around his eyes. His black boots shined like mirrors, and Castalano would bet the farm the man had scared the bejesus out of more than a few California motorists over the years.
    “Can you give me an update, Captain?”
    Lang steered Castalano toward an emerald-green Parks Department Hummer. Hanging out the door, a Park Ranger in a dun-colored uniform held a large topographical map of the area around them. Another man standing over his shoulder spoke through the vehicle’s radio.
    “With the help of a helicopter pilot hovering out there somewhere, these two Rangers are tracking the Jaguar’s movements, which you can see on the chart,” Lang explained. Castalano studied the map.
    “The fugitive was wandering aimlessly for a while,” the Captain continued. “Then he managed to find the old access road that connected 39 to the Angeles Crest Highway. Using this service road, he came to this stretch of Route 39. But the road’s been closed for years, and he’s got himself bottled up. He can’t turn around and go back the way he came—it’s blocked by a hundred police cars by now. And back this way”—Lang jerked a meaty thumb over his shoulder—“road’s blocked by a landslide.”
    “What’s your plan, Captain?”
    Lang gestured toward the point on the horizon where the deserted highway vanished around the curve.
    “The fugitive can’t see the roadblock until he’s right on it. We have tire shredders spread out at the base of the curve. Another set fifty yards ahead of the first. One second after he comes around that corner he’ll be cruising on