I started the idea for this story when I was about twelve and Season Five was airing; I wrote it down in a book then forgot, but I found it under my bed recently and decided to try and develop it, though the idea is quite over-used. I decided to change the setting to make it more interesting.
Jack was restless.
He turned up the collar of his jacket to keep out the chill - it didn't work, of course. England was always cold. What he needed now was some action; he hadn't needed to chase down anyone at all since he had arrived in London eighteen months ago.
He had been tired of all the persecution in the USA. Los Angeles held too many bad memories for him... it would have to sort out the seemingly ever-present terrorists there themselves. It was down to the FBI, since CTU had been permanently disbanded.
Without work, Jack had decided the only thing for him was to get out of the country that he had strived so hard to save so many times, and had ignored his heroics in favour of jurisdiction. England had held appeal for him; he had lived there briefly while fleeing the subpoena. He had discovered that after the United Kingdom had suffered several terrorist attacks themselves, a British CTU had been established, the HQ of which were situated in the capital of London with several branches at hotspots all over the country.
Such as this one, in Liverpool, the streets of which he was walking early this morning. He had been sent here three weeks ago after an attack on John Lennon Airport, but so far there had not been any follow-up attacks. Jack had been left to trace a beat around Liverpool, looking for anything suspiscious which had yet to turn up. He had been checking in with Chloe frequently every day - she was his only link to his past here. It wasn't such a good thing, though, since all he wanted to do was forget. Kim and her little Teri were living in Santa Barbara, and he had flown over twice to visit since he had left, though stepping back onto US soil had aroused old misgivings. Chloe had moved with Morris to his native London with their own child, who was a toddling now. She had been transferred to Liverpool CTU a week ago to assist with the analysis of a chip found at the site of the airport scandal.
He sighed, watching the dark-tinted world through his aviators, which he didn't really have a use for since the sun never seemed to shine here. They allowed him to observe without being obvious. Except for times like these, when there was nothing to observe, except a few dossers. He still revelled in the sheer difference of this place to his homeland; he sometimes felt hemmed in by how small it was, yet more free because there was more sky unblocked by towering buildings, despite it's dreary colour.
He let his fingers brush his favoured SigSauer p.228 at his hip through his knee-length coat. All he needed was a hat and he could be Detective Jack. He snorted and threw away the half-used cigarette he had been smoking. He was supposed to have quit, since his health hadn't been too good after his treatment ordeal, but since when did Jack listen to anyone else?
He was about to grab his cell phone - he still called it that, despite the Brits insistence of it being a 'mobile' - and check in with Chloe just to see if there had been any progress (he didn't think there would be, but he needed to relieve this tedium) when a black Mercedes screeched around the corner and gunned past. Normally Jack wouldn't have bothered with a speeder; that was for the mainstream police to deal with. But then he caught a glimpse of the man at the wheel, and at once a mental snapshot popped into his mind. He could have sworn it was Jaspal Mekah, the perpetrator of the half-failed airport bombing. But Jaspal had been killed in the fire, identified only by dental records and eye witnesses who had survived. He mentally pulled up Mekah's file; he had memorised the basic info, knowing in his line of work it paid to know who you were dealing with. Jaspal had had a son, a twenty-year-old named Daljit.
This young man fit the bill. So, why was the son of a dead terrorist racing through Liverpool at this time of the morning? Jack leaped into his provided nondescript black van - just not the same as the black SUVS, he thought ruefully - and sped after him as the Merc high-tailed around the left corner two hundred yards ahead. As he drove Jack plugged in his cell and dialled.
"Agent O'Brian, this is the Liverpool Branch of the Counter Terrorist Unit."
"Chloe, it's me," Jack said, grunting as he swung the wheel to cut the corner by banking the pavement. His driving had been erratic anyway, but it was even more dangerous now that he was driving on, for him, the wrong side of the road. "I'm currently tailing Daljit Mekah."
"What are you - "
Chloe's words were drowned out as somewhere behind him an explosion shook the ground like an earthquake; Jack felt the tremors through the vibrations in the car. He raised hsi eyes to the rearview mirror and saw plumes of smoke billowing from a tenement building in the distance.
Jack ended the call abruptly, knowing that Chloe would have no doubt now that this was serious. She'd know what to do.
He focused again on the Merc as it squealed ahead, aware now it was being followed. On the dash, the lit up time declared it was now eight a.m.
His mouth pressed into a grim line as he acclerated rapidly. It was going to be one of those days.