The Terrorist's Daughter
A 24 fanfic
Part 1
"She's not here," Gette heard the Peeping Tom say, and then they both turned around and spotted her.
The first thing that Gette noticed was that they were both wearing gloves, white gloves, like English butlers. If they'd been otherwise dressed like butlers, she might not have noticed, but the gloves stuck out because both men were also wearing jeans, long-sleeved T-shirts and baseball caps.
"Hey there," the taller man called out.
Gette stopped her bike in the driveway at a safe distance. "If you're looking for the Savages, they're not home."
"Actually, we're looking for Georgette Kaminsky," the shorter one said. He gave a jerk of his head to the taller man, and they both stepped off the porch, casually ambling towards her.
"Who's asking?" Gette demanded. Who else besides her mother and the Savages even knew that she was in Los Angeles? She didn't know these men and it didn't exactly look like they were delivering a package, a pizza, or even a message.
"George Kaminsky," the taller one announced. Startled, Gette caught her breath.
"Your father asked us to bring you to him," the man went on. His walk remained casual, but as soon as he got close enough, he reached out and gripped the handlebars of Gette's bike. Glaring up at him, Gette could see an ugly lesion on his cheek, spreading down onto his neck. The shorter one had a similar lesion around one eye that disappeared up under his hat. Something about those lesions, along with the mention of her father, set off Gette's mental alarms even more. Trying to act as casually as the men had done, she lifted her leg over the back wheel and stepped away from the bike.
"My father's dead," she told the men as she arranged her feet in a defensive position. "So who are you, really?"
"He's still alive, and you're in danger. You wanna be safe, you wanna see him, you come with us," the short man said.
"And you expect me to believe that?" Gette asked, trying not to let on that the man's words had already started to make her wonder.
The tall man suddenly pushed the bicycle into the hedge that separated the driveway from the neighbour's property, then grabbed her arm, pulling her towards him. The shorter man started to say something, but Gette didn't hear. Reacting just like she'd learned in tae kwon do, she kicked the taller man in the shin and managed to jerk her arm free. The short man made a grab, but she kicked out again and caught him right between the legs. As the short man doubled over, the tall man swung a punch, which Gette managed to block, though she felt the impact all the way down her arm. She let the momentum carry her into a roundhouse kick, just as she'd been practicing, and the sole of her shoe caught the tall man squarely in the side of the face. To her great surprise, he went down as bonelessly as a jellyfish, and stayed down.
"Whoa," Gette said to herself, astounded at her own handiwork. She was shaking with adrenaline, and had a brief a moment of indecision. Finally remembering to escape, she ran to the door of the house with vague thoughts of getting in and locking the door behind her. She fumbled in her bag for the key and found her cell phone instead. Dialing 911, she reached the step to the porch, then turned around to check on the men. The shorter man was showing signs of recovery, and as soon as the operator answered, Gette cried out, "Help! They're trying to kidnap me!"
The shorter man had straightened up by inches, and now he reached behind him, pulling something out from under the back of his shirt.
"He's got a gun!" Gette screeched into the phone.
"Ma'am, where are you? What's the address?" the operator asked twice, but Gette couldn't answer. All of her attention was focused on the approaching man and the gun.
"Drop the phone," the man snarled.
Holding up her hands in the universal gesture of surrender, Gette leaned sideways and dropped the cell phone into the lawn. As soon as her fingers let go, however, she spun around on the ball of her foot for another kick. She heard the gun go off at the same time that her foot connected and sent it flying. The man gave a brief shout, but Gette followed up the kick with a blow to the solar plexus, then another kick, this time to the head. The man sank down, either unconscious or too dazed to get up. Keeping him in her sights, Gette leaned down carefully and picked up the phone. The operator was still asking questions, and she responded. "I'm here ... I kicked the gun out of his hand."
"Where are you? What's your address?" the operator asked again.
"Uh ... I know it ... why can't I remember ... wait ..." Gette turned until she could see the number of the house above the door, then read it aloud. "The street is ... the street is ... wait ..."
"Try to calm down, ma'am," the operator told her. "Take a deep breath."
"I'm house-sitting here," Gette said, which reminded her of her key. She checked her bag, finding it at the very bottom, then placed it into the lock and glanced around one last time to make sure the man was still down. To her horror, he was on his knees, trying to stagger to his feet, and Gette exhaled sharply. Opening the door in the haste of panic, she let herself in, then slammed it behind her, stuck the key in from the inside, and locked it.
There was a pile of letters on the little table by the door and after staring at them for a moment, Gette remembered that the address would be written on one. Picking up the envelope on top, she laboured over the first word, then grimaced as she realized it was the name of the family and not the street.
"Ma'am, are you still there?"
"Yeah -- yeah, I'm here," Gette said, annoyed at having her concentration broken, and even more annoyed at how stupid her dyslexia made her feel. She hadn't had this much trouble reading for quite a while now. It must be the stress. Eventually, however, she sounded out the first four letters of the name of the street. It jogged her memory, and she was able to recite the entire address without having to look at the envelope again.
"Police are on their way," the operator said. "Stay on the line."
"Okay." But before she realized what she was doing, Gette had pressed the button to hang up. She stared at the phone in disbelief. "Whoops."
She started to dial again, but a sound from outside caught her attention. With the hair standing up on the back of her neck, Gette stood on tiptoe and peered out of the small window in the top of the door. She couldn't see the shorter man at first, but then he came into her line of sight, walking away from the corner of the house and tucking the gun back into the waistband of his pants. As Gette watched, he went over to where his friend was starting to stir, and helped to pull him upright. Gette tensed at the thought of a new attack, but instead, the taller man pulled a tiny cell phone from the pocket of his jeans and pressed the buttons, then held it to his ear.
Something caught their attention, however, and Gette saw them glance down the street, turn, and start walking in the opposite direction. A moment later, a black SUV pulled up right into the driveway, narrowing missing Gette's bicycle, and two men got out, coming purposefully towards the door. Gette gaped, then ducked down from the window. Was somebody else trying to kidnap her now, or were the four men working together?
The doorbell rang and Gette jumped. Without having consciously made up her mind, she began to run through the house, heading for the back door with a vague idea of climbing over the fence in the back yard and hiding on a neighbouring property, or emerging in a different street and heading for the nearest police station. But when she reached the back door, she discovered that it was locked, and the key ... where was the key? Had she dropped it, or left it in the front door? Could she still get it?
Trying to be silent, Gette turned around and tiptoed back to the front hall. Through the window, she could see the dark outline of a head, but so far, it didn't seem the men knew she was in the house. She glanced to the lock, but the key wasn't there. Getting down on her hands and knees, she crept closer, trying not to make a sound, and finally spotted it lying on the floor. She had just stretched out her hand when she heard something from inside the door. It was the sound of the lock turning -- but how? Hastily, Gette grabbed the key, but when she saw the door opening out of the corner of her eye, instinct made her turn and look.
Gette became aware of pain in her head, radiating in all directions from the left hand side of her face. There was something warm and wet running down her upper lip, and she lifted her hands dazedly to probe it. A peripheral part of her mind was screaming that the men were coming in through the half-open door and that they had guns, but she was unable to do anything except lay there and moan.
"Are you Georgette Kaminsky?" she heard one of the men demand. The haze in her head was clearing, and she used her right eye to glance up. Both men were standing over her, their arms extended full length, pointing handguns at her head. One of them, the one with lighter hair, was middle-aged, almost as old as her father. The other appeared to be only a few years older than she was, with dark hair so short that it was little more than stubble.
"Are you Georgette Kaminsky?" the older man shouted again.
"Ye-yeah," she replied shakily, and then heard herself begging, "Don't shoot."
"We're federal --" the man started, but stopped at the sound of a siren from outside.
"Son of a --" the younger man swore. "Who called the cops?"
Through the open door, Gette could see that a policecar had jumped the curb and driven right up onto the lawn, and now two black policemen were getting out, standing behind their open doors and pointing guns at the house.
"Police!" one of them shouted. "Put down your weapons and come out with your hands on your head!"
"We're federal agents!" the first man shouted. Gette watched as he lifted his hands high above his head, his gun pointing straight up, then called, "We're coming out!"
The second man put his hands up as well, and they walked out onto the porch. The first man went down on one knee and announced, "I'm putting my gun down!"
He kept his left hand up while using his right hand to carefully lay his gun on the porch, then rested both hands on his head, interlocking his fingers. As soon as he'd finished, the second man did the same. Gette stirred, trying to get away from the table and into a more comfortable position, but the first policeman called out, "Ma'am, don't move! Stay down!"
She sagged back down again, and watched as the two policemen approached cautiously.
"I'm Federal Agent Jack Bauer," the first man said, "and this is my partner, Chase Edmunds."
"You got ID?" one of the cops shouted back.
"Yes! I've got identification in my wallet, in the inside pocket of my jacket."
The lead policeman came up, holding his gun to the man's head as he reached inside the open jacket and pulled out the wallet. After scrutinizing the identification, he flipped the wallet shut and lowered his gun. "Sorry, Agent Bauer. We got a report that someone here was being kidnapped."
"Kidnapped?" The man named Bauer lowered his hands, turning to look at Gette, and the policeman asked, "Ma'am, did you make that call?"
"Yeah," Gette admitted, nodding slightly. She struggled up to her feet and came out onto the porch, trying to stop the nosebleed with her fingers. "There were two men here ... before you two came, I mean."
Retrieving his gun and his wallet, Agent Bauer stood up. "Come here, let me take a look at that."
Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he put it into Gette's fingers and guided her hand to her nostrils. "Hold that there."
"Hey, Perry, see if you can find some ice in the kitchen," the older policeman said, and his younger partner nodded, then went inside.
Gette wadded up the handkerchief a bit more and held it in place as Agent Bauer felt along the bridge of her nose. His touch brought tears to her eyes, and she flinched away.
"I don't think it's broken," he said. "We'll take you to CTU in a minute and somebody will look at it there. In the meantime, sit down and tell us about those two men."
He indicated the porch swing, and Gette lowered herself carefully to it. "They said that my father had asked them -- " she had to stop and swallow -- "to take me to him. But my father's been dead for a year."
Tears came, and Gette made the mistake of sniffing. Pain shot through her nose, bringing more tears.
"You're sure?" Agent Bauer asked.
"Sure about what?" Gette queried, confused. "That my father's dead? We had a funeral, didn't we? Or sure that these men mentioned him? Yeah, they mentioned him."
"Your father," Agent Bauer prompted. "Captain George Kaminsky, right?"
"Uh hunh."
"Did you see his body?"
"Why are you asking me this?" Gette shot him a look of disbelief. "What has that got to do with anything?"
"It could be very important," Agent Bauer said. "When your father died, did you see his body? Are you one hundred percent sure that he's dead?"
"It was a closed coffin," Gette said. She'd been one hundred percent sure at the time, but now she was starting to doubt, and the doubt brought new anguish with it. "He died in Iraq. They said -- they sent home as many pieces as they could find!"
Even though nothing had happened so far during her three days in L.A., Gette Kaminsky was still suspicious. This was the big city, after all, with a crime rate many times higher than that of the little town where she normally lived. So when she came back from the store on her bicycle and saw two men standing on the doorstep of the house that she was currently house-sitting for the owners, she slowed down and approached with caution, watching to see if they'd try to break in during broad daylight. For a moment, it appeared that they would. After one of the men had rung the bell several times, the other leaned over the porch swing to peer into the living room window.