Lockhart & Gardner law firm. Steve Owen looked up at the nameplate on the wall—yes, this was the place.
After stating his purpose at the front desk, Steve was shown into an office. After a moment, a tall woman—not exactly pretty, but radiating sharp, capable energy—walked in with elegant poise.
"Mr. Steve Owen?"
"Yes."
"I'm Diane Lockhart, one of the name partners of this firm."
"Oh, I noticed—and top billing."
Steve shook her hand and they both sat down.
"You're here about Jack Bauer's case?"
"Yes. I want your firm to represent Jack Bauer, and I'd like Will Gardner and Alicia Florrick to handle it…"
Steve laid out his request in detail, and Diane raised no objection.
"Of course. Gardner is also a name partner here. I'll go bring them in—one moment…"
Diane stepped out, then returned shortly with a man and a woman.
After everyone was seated again and done with introductions, Steve studied Will and Alicia. Aside from the no-nonsense decisiveness of elite attorneys, he couldn't read much else.
The three lawyers asked a few questions about the details. Steve told them what he could; what he couldn't was tied to confidentiality rules, and his hands were tied.
After some discussion, Will Gardner made the call on the spot: "Alright, Mr. Owen, we'll take Jack Bauer's case. Here's our initial strategy. Mr. Bauer is in a very reactive position because of the video—this is bad, and it will directly influence the jury. My suggestion is, within the bounds of what you can disclose, let the public know as much as possible about what Jack Bauer and the CTU have done for them. Try to pull some sentiment back—at least keep it from being one-sided…"
"Got it. I understand."
Leaving the firm, he hadn't driven far before he ran into a protest march. The demonstrators were waving banners against CTU's excessive force. Steve snorted and detoured away. Just like Gardner said, these ignorant citizens had no idea what CTU had taken on for them. All they could do was shout about human rights, freedom, and the right to know, as if they wanted CTU erased from the Earth right now. But when a real terror attack came, they'd do nothing but crouch on the ground and cry.
"Owen, the lead you had me check went cold…"
Driving, the naive one called.
"I'm heading to Omega now. We'll talk when I get there."
Steve hung up and pulled into Omega's parking lot.
The naive one met him at the door. "I checked all of BBC headquarters' logistics and surveillance for the past few days, and I'm pretty sure it was this person who dropped the materials."
They pulled up a camera clip: a Black man skulking to the BBC entrance, dropping a package, then bolting. The frame froze on the man's face. Unfortunately the camera was a bit blurry, and the man was bundled up tight—his features were basically indistinguishable.
Ghost added, "I tailed the video to where the guy was last seen. He went into the projects—no cameras there…"
Steve studied the frozen image. The man was obviously prepared—bundled so tight that even facial recognition wouldn't work.
Looked like he'd have to make a trip. Back when he was a cop, he'd learned that a lot of things computers couldn't do could only be solved by people—and sometimes, to get things done, you had to use certain methods.
"Everyone, change gear. You're coming out with me."
"Becky, find out which gang runs that block. Send me their boss's info."
With Ghost leading the way, members of Omega's action team piled into two vehicles and quickly reached the last place the video had recorded. Steve checked his phone: the loudest gang boss in the area was "Polar Bear" Goins.
At Goins's little building, two bruisers were smoking downstairs while the lights blazed upstairs. Out of the darkness, two hands clamped over their mouths, then—one strike each—and both men dropped.
The unconscious heavies were dragged into a dark alley. Then Steve and his people stepped from the shadows, headed upstairs, and breached the door.
Unleashing a pack of killers on two-bit thugs was overkill. Goins glowered at Steve, while every one of his men had a gun to his head.
Steve strode in, not wasting words, and tossed a photo onto the desk. "Mobilize your people. Find this man for me. Find him and you walk. Fail, and you die tonight."
Goins stared coolly at the man in front of him. The guy was clearly from the government—that much was obvious. And government types didn't scare him. "And why would I? Don't forget, this is Washington…"
Steve knew that question was coming. He tossed another photo onto the desk. Goins glanced down—it was him shaking hands with a woman. She looked familiar, but who was she?
"Don't bother guessing. Her name is Ivyr Borson, mastermind of the White House hostage incident. If you can't find the man I want, you'll be on the front page tomorrow, branded as Ivyr's remnant. Killed resisting arrest."
Steve said it lightly, but Goins broke out in a cold sweat. He recognized her now—the woman in the photo was indeed the fugitive who'd been on TV in a constant crawl not long ago.
"Is… is the photo doctored?"
"It is. And no one will ever prove it."
Steve's confidence was absolute. The shot was indeed composited, but if anyone actually pushed it, he could always print a couple of lifelike masks and reshoot. He refused to believe anyone could disprove that.
Goins was drenched now. He hesitated, then decided to fold.
These guys didn't play by the rules—and there was no shame in bending the knee to the authorities.
Goins picked up the phone and put the word out. The photo spread to every corner; the projects got a surprise census.
News came back quickly. Someone recognized the guy—and knew where he lived.
"See? Simple. Now you don't have to be a terrorist. You can go back to being your neighborhood kingpin."
Steve led his people out. Only after they'd gone a good distance did Goins think to dab his forehead with a tissue.
Steve had considered it beforehand. Since the man had gone into the projects, he was probably living there. Getting the local gang to look was the fastest way—they knew the area better than the cops ever would.
Steve's crew followed the guide to a crumbling three-story building covered in graffiti, with missing windows—hard to believe anyone lived there.
"First room on the second floor. He stays there."
The guide left. Steve nodded at the building, and Omega stacked up in a CQB formation and moved in.
The place stank, making Steve wonder if they were being played.
At the first room on the second floor, the door was ajar. Even before they crossed the threshold, a foul stench hit Steve's nose. The team traded looks. It was the smell of a corpse.
______
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