24 Declassified: 06 - Chaos Theory

by John Whitman

  Adam checked his watch as the inmates filed past, joining the chow line. He stood with his back to the wall, near the double doors that led into the mess hall. His eyes scanned the room as they had four days a week, every week, for the last seven years, stopping at each guard position to make sure his guys were okay, then moving on. Lately he’d been halting his gaze on that new inmate, Bauer, watching him for trouble, but tonight Bauer was being fed in the library because of the attack.

  Mind off Bauer, Adam told himself. You got plenty of other mad dogs in this yard.

  Even as Adam thought that, Big Ferg walked by. Big Ferg had been in the Federal Holding Facility for up on a year now, waiting for his trial on weapons charges. He was a leader of the Aryan Bloc. Truth was, he didn’t seem to cause much trouble himself, and he and Adam had formed a kind of grudging respect for each other. But in a jail full of blacks and Latinos, a white supremacist was a trouble magnet, and Adam had been forced to break up a dozen fights that Big Ferg hadn’t started.

  Adam’s eyes were on Big Ferg, so he was the first to see the black inmate move toward him. He didn’t know the guy’s name—he was a new arrival. But he was as wide as a truck and nearly as tall, and he moved through the crowd at the chow line like a semi roaring down the road. He and Big Ferg were on a collision course. Adam was on the move, raising his hand in a signal to the other guards.

  Adam got there just as the black man threw his first punch. Ferg, though, was no dummy, and no big black man approached without him knowing it and getting off his heels. He ducked the punch and put an uppercut into the other man’s ribs. He might as well have hit a side of beef for all the effect it had. The black inmate slammed both hands down and Ferg dropped to one knee.

  “Break it up!” Adam roared, stepping between the two fighters, facing the truck-sized newcomer to shield Ferg. “Get the hell back!”

  He didn’t feel the first stab. He was only aware that he’d been shivved in the back when the blood seeped out, warm and then suddenly cold against his skin. He felt Big Ferg’s bulk against his back, holding him with one arm so he couldn’t spin around as the other arm pumped forward, backward, forward, backward, over and over.

  “Sorry, dude,” Ferg whispered. “Just business.”

  Goddamn, Adam Cox thought as his legs seemed to disappear beneath him.

  9:23 P.M. PST Federal Holding Facility, Los Angeles

  Jack sat at a library table closest to a wall. He didn’t like having his back to a room under normal circumstances, so in this place his caution was even more extreme. At the warden’s orders, the guards had brought food to them in the library.

  Ramirez had been brought along, too, simply because it was easier for the guards to keep track of both of them. Ramirez lifted a clump of gray, dripping food halfway to his mouth and grimaced. “I knew the food in here would be bad, but Jesus—”

  Jack wolfed his food down without tasting it. He didn’t expect to like it, but he knew he needed the nutrients while he was locked up in this place. He wasn’t sure how long he’d be here, and he needed his strength.

  “Salt,” Ramirez said. “I gotta have salt. Guard, is there any salt?” He turned around in his chair to look at the spot where the guard had been standing. There was no one there.

  “The minute you want one of those guys to do some work, they’re gone,” he muttered. He stood up, but Jack grabbed his sleeve, his face going hard and his eyes narrowing.

  “Stay here,” he ordered.

  Jack knew what was coming the minute the guards disappeared. This MS–13 gang had some connection with the guards, or some hold over them, otherwise they’d never have been able to clear out the showers the way they had. Now they’d done it in the library, too. Jack cursed himself for allowing the isolation, but then he figured it wouldn’t have mattered. In a crowd, he wouldn’t see it coming. At least here he had some warning. Jack stood up and went to the nearest bookshelf. He scanned the books—not the titles, but the sizes—finally finding a short, thick one that fit his hand nicely. He stepped out of the aisle and back to his table just as they appeared.

  The thin Latino—Adam Cox had called him Os-car—was there again, this time with three thugs to back him up. Ramirez squeaked and backed up, bumping against the chair behind him.

  “You didn’t think we was finished, did you?” Oscar said, sauntering closer. One of his thugs disappeared down one of the aisles, meaning to flank Jack.

  “Your two guys seemed finished to me,” Jack said. “You’d have been finished, too, if the guards hadn’t saved you.”

  “You gonna want those guards this time, ese,” Oscar said. “We gonna—”

  Jack threw the book at him. It wasn’t heavy enough to do much damage, but it made him flinch, giving Jack time to step forward and kick him in the groin. The kick landed hard, lifting Oscar’s feet off the ground, and the thin man doubled over with a cough. Jack grabbed him by the orange collar and shoved him at the two thugs on his left, then bolted right, down the stack of books. He didn’t like that third man hiding in the stacks, and wanted him neutralized.

  “Javie, he’s coming!” one of the other gang-bangers shouted.

  The Salvatrucha Javie jumped out from behind a corner and was surprised to see Jack already on top of him. Jack punched him in the face and drove his forehead in right behind the punch, feeling the crown of his head connect with a cheekbone, splitting it. He grabbed Javie’s collar and put a knee into his ribs. Then, stepping past him, he kicked his legs back, sweeping the gang-banger’s feet out from under him. Javie hit the ground hard. Jack raised his knee and stomped on the man’s face.

  He walked back down the aisle to the table. Oscar was still curled up on the ground. The other two were on top of Ramirez, one holding him and the other punching him in the face. They were bullies, not soldiers. They had pounced on the weakest member rather than focusing on the real threat. Their mistake.

  As soon as Jack reappeared, the puncher turned on him. He was fast, and probably tough, but not skilled. He came at Jack with a killer sneer and two big, flailing hands. Jack threw two straight punches right down the middle. He felt one of the Salvatrucha’s punches box the side of his skull, stinging but doing no damage, while both his punches hit the man in the throat. He gagged. Jack ducked low and put a left hook in the man’s liver. The man stood back for a minute, blinking as though Jack’s punch had no effect. Then his knees buckled.

  The last attacker was faster. He’d already thrown Ramirez off, and before Jack could turn he grabbed him from behind, lifted him, and slammed him onto the table. Jack felt his left shoulder go numb and hoped it wasn’t broken. The Salvatrucha tried to lift him again, but Jack dropped his weight, going heavy, then spinning around inside the man’s arms. He dug both hands into the gang-banger’s face and eyes, not just pushing but tearing at the flesh. The man gave a strangled cry and tried to push Jack away, but Jack forced the man’s chin up, then drove it backward and down, doubling the inmate over. Jack released one hand and punched him in the face.

  He paused, gasping for breath. His heart was pounding, but his senses were alert. He scanned the room, searching out additional threats. Finding none, his eyes settled on Ramirez, who was staring at him in utter astonishment.

  “Holy shit,” the man said. “Who are you?”

  “The guy you want on your side.”

  “No kidding.” Ramirez looked at the four men, two unconscious, two groaning and quivering in the middle of their own misery. “Who, what do these guys want with you?”

  “I don’t know,” Jack said truthfully. It couldn’t be that old event, could it? He’d needed some information from an MS–13 member, but the case itself had little to do with the gang, and once he’d gotten his information, Jack hadn’t touched them again. He couldn’t believe they’d hold a grudge for that, especially against someone they knew to be law enforcement. But he couldn’t think of any other reason. He certainly hadn’t attracted their attention inside the jail.

 
“You okay?” he thought to ask.

  Ramirez’s face was bloody. The punches had surely broken his nose, and his cheek was cut open. A huge mouse was already forming under his right eye, and his teeth were smeared with blood from a cut inside his mouth. “I’m not much of a fighter. And these . . .” He shook his head at the four men. “They don’t stop. I know that about them. They never forget, and now they’re not going to forget me.”

  “They weren’t after you,” Jack said, still wondering what they were after.

  “No, but now I’m part of it. Jesus! I heard a story about them once, that some gang member talked to the Feds and went into the witness protection program. They lost him for seven years. Seven years! He didn’t even testify against them, he just got out. Then one day he turned up dead, the skin peeled off his hands. They cut his throat.” He shuddered.

  “You don’t like them, but you said your boss uses them.”

  “Not my boss,” Ramirez corrected.“Just a guy I know.”

  “Right. This guy who’s got something planned for tomorrow. If MS guys like these are involved, it’s probably not going to go well.”

  Ramirez pinched his lips closed. He used his sleeve to dab the blood off his cheek and nose. “You wondering about that little thing tomorrow, huh?”

  Jack shook his head. “I have enough of my own problems. Just curious about these.” He kicked Oscar with his toe. “Hey, you,” he said. “What are you after? What am I to you?”

  Oscar looked up at him, tears in his eyes. “A dead man.”

  9:37 P.M. PST CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles

  Less than twenty minutes had elapsed since Ryan Chappelle had collapsed in the CTU conference room. Five minutes after he’d fallen, the medics were there, and ten minutes after that—ten minutes full of CPR, three applications of the defibrillator paddles, and several medications to stabilize him—a medical team moved Ryan Chappelle out of CTU and toward a waiting ambulance. A moment or two after the defibrillator had restarted his heart, Chappelle had actually opened his eyes. His eyes rolled for a moment, unfocused, and finally settled on Henderson’s angular face.

  “Don’t . . .” he mouthed. The word was barely audible.

  “Just relax, sir,” the medic said, putting a hand on his shoulder.

  Chappelle pushed the hand away weakly. “Don’t . . .” he said again, his voice a faint breath slipping out of his body, “. . . let . . .”

  Henderson leaned close, with Tony Almeida beside him.

  Chappelle shuddered. “. . . Bauer . . .” he gasped. “Don’t . . . Bauer.”

  He passed out.

  “Crashing again!” the medic yelled. He snatched up the defibrillator paddles again and shouted, “Clear!” He barely waited for the others to step back before shocking Chappelle’s heart again. Chappelle’s body convulsed, and his heart beat faintly in the portable monitor. “Okay, go!” the medic ordered.

  “Do we go with him?” Tony asked.

  Henderson nodded. “I’ll follow.”

  “What was he saying, about Bauer?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What does he think we’re going to let Jack do while he’s in jail? Don’t let him what?”

  “Delirium, probably,” Henderson guessed.

  Tony paused. “You know, no one’s been talking lately about Jack.”

  Henderson watched the medics wheel Ryan Chappelle out the front door. “This may not be the time, Tony.”

  “Yeah, but now’s when it’s come up. There’s no one here that thinks Jack Bauer really killed an innocent man in cold blood. Is there?”

  Henderson turned back toward Tony. They were opposites in appearance—Tony had a soft face with sad eyes, a sharp contrast to Henderson’s steel blue gaze. But underneath, both men were made of the same hard, dark material.

  “You’re asking if I believe it,” Henderson said. He paused for a moment.

  “You have to think about it,” Tony said disdainfully. “You and Jack, you’ve been on bad terms since Internal Affairs started looking into that missing money.”

  “That’s nothing,” Henderson said dismissively. “It’ll go nowhere. No, I’m wondering what I’ve done to make you think I’m that much of an ass. I brought Jack Bauer in here. I’ve stuck my neck out for him before. No, I don’t think he’s guilty of murder. But that guy getting rolled out on the stretcher did, and I have a feeling that a jury is going to see it that way, too.”

  9:46 P.M. PST Federal Holding Facility, Los Angeles

  The guards returned to the library, conveniently, when the fighting was done. One of them, a squishy-faced guard with an oversized lower lip, was the same guard who had disappeared just before the Salvatruchas appeared, but he was accompanied by a platoon of officers headed by an older black officer with the blasé look of a man who’d seen everything one could see inside a prison. His name tag said “Lafayette” on it.

  “Get the four-pieces,” Officer Lafayette said with a slow Louisiana drawl. “Hook these boys up and get ’em into isolation.”

  The platoon produced four-piece steel wrist and ankle cuffs, connected by chains, and began to fetter the four gang-bangers. Oscar was still doubled over and could barely walk from the pain in his groin. Jack was sure he’d ruptured something and wished the Salvatrucha a slow and unsuccessful recovery.

  “You gonna get fucked, blondie,” Oscar said as he was led away.

  “Well, you’re not gonna be doing it,” Jack said. The guards tugged Oscar out the door.

  Lafayette turned to Jack. His low-slung posture and heavy sigh told Jack he didn’t expect to get much information. “You gonna tell me what happened?”

  Jack believed the guard hoped to hear a no. “Your guy, the one with the swollen lip, took a coffee break right about the time these four showed up. They tried to kill us, but we took them down first.”

  Lafayette leaned to the side, looking past Jack at Ramirez, who was still slumped against the table. The guard looked back at Jack and chewed the inside of his mouth. “We, huh?”

  Jack decided he needed to get some help. “Look, I don’t know why these guys have come after me twice, but I’ve had enough of it. I need to speak with Officer Cox right away.”

  Lafayette shook his head. “That ain’t possible.”

  Jack insisted. “If you talk to him, he’ll explain everything, even if you have to call him back in to the office. I promise you, he’ll want to know.”

  “You ain’t gettin’ me, son, it ain’t possible. Cox took a shiv under the ribs not half an hour ago. He didn’t make it.”

  Jack felt a firm, cold pressure start in the bottom of his chest, a sense of some danger long present but only now discovered. “Then the warden. He’ll want to talk to me if you tell him my name.”

  “Can’t do that, either. Warden took sick this afternoon. He’s in the hospital.”

  The pressure built up into Jack’s lungs, tightening them, though he showed no emotion whatsoever. “Then call him there. Trust me, he’ll want to know this—”

  “He ain’t takin’ calls. What I heard, he’s had a heart attack or something.”

  The pressure reached Jack’s heart, nearly freezing it. He looked around him, and for the first time in three weeks, he felt as if he were in jail.

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24

  THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 10 P.M. AND 11 P.M. PACIFIC STANDARD TIME

  10:00 P.M. PST Bauer Residence

  Peter Jiminez knocked on the door. The woman who opened it was lean, with short-cropped hair. She was pretty in a homey sort of way, but dark circles hung heavily below her eyes.

  “Mrs. Bauer? Peter Jiminez, I worked with your husband. Sorry for the late hour. We’ve actually met twice, once right after I came on and a couple of weeks ago when—”

  “Yes, I remember, um, Peter. How are you?”

  Peter shifted a little uncomfortably. “Well, ma’am, I just, I wanted to stop by and talk to you. I ju
st can’t get my head around Jack being in jail.”

  Teri bit her lip and looked past Peter, as though expecting to see someone else there. “Come in, Peter.”

  Teri stepped back and let him enter, feeling as she did as if she was allowing the CTU agent to cross some sort of boundary. Her relationship to Jack’s work was, by nature, distant and difficult. At the moment it was also tragic.

  Peter looked as uncomfortable as she felt. He had a boyish look for a CTU agent, with a plump face and a ruler-straight part in his thick black hair. He wore a blue suit and dress shirt, but no tie. This Peter Jiminez might have been a young movie executive or a banker, but Teri knew from experience that he would have a gun slung under his arm, and probably another hidden somewhere.

  “Can I get you something?” she offered, motioning him to sit on the living room couch. She took a seat in a chair across from the table.

  “No, ma’am, thank you,” he replied. “I don’t want to trouble you. Truth is, I’m not even sure why I’m here. Do you mind if I just jump right in? Here’s the thing: when my chance came to join CTU, I jumped at it, because I wanted to work with your husband.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “Not him personally, but his reputation. CTU guys don’t talk much about their work, that’s true of a lot of agencies, of course. But word gets around. I was in Diplomatic Security Services when they started the CTU program. We did protective services—bodyguard stuff, but we don’t like using the word bodyguard. I was too young to get in, but this is where I wanted to be. So I jumped from DSS to the CIA. In the CIA, of course, I heard all kinds of stuff about what CTU was doing. I’ve got to tell you that Jack’s name came up a lot.”

  “I’m sure it did,” Teri said wryly.

  Peter laughed. “Well, there was some colorful language attached to his name sometimes. But he also had a reputation for getting the job done. So I jumped into CTU the first chance I got. Two months on the job, and now this happens.”