by John Whitman
“Excuse me,” Zapata said boldly, “are you Mark Kendall?”
The man looked at them. “Yeah. Did I have another interview set up?”
Zapata smiled and shook his head. “No, I’m not a reporter. I am a man with a proposition for you.”
Kendall stopped unwrapping his hands and looked down at Zapata. “Not sure I like the sound of that. What kind of proposition?”
“One that will probably save your daughter’s life.”
The big fighter’s eyes narrowed. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
Zapata spoke softly. “This is what I’m talking about. I want you to kill someone for me. Tomorrow night. You’re going to lose your fight, probably in the second round. When you lose, you’ll be washed up. No one is going to give you another chance. Except me. After the fight, you’ll have an opportunity to kill someone that I want dead. If you do that, I will pay for your daughter’s medical treatments, and she will live a happy and healthy life.”
Zapata delivered his proposal so quietly and casually that it took a second for Kendall’s brain to process it. And when he did, he looked around for cameras, or practical jokers giggling in a corner somewhere. When he saw nothing else that might explain this bizarre little man’s speech, he had no choice but to turn back to him. “What the fuck are you talking about?” he repeated.
“I’m completely serious,” Zapata said.
“Well, this—you little shit, who do you think you are!” Mark yelled at him.
“Calmly, sir. You are getting angry,” Zapata said. The amiable quality of his voice changed, strengthened, demanding more attention. “You’ll get even angrier in a minute. Before you attract too much attention, you need to hear me. This proposal is sincere. I have more than enough money to take care of your daughter, and your wife. You will go to prison, probably for life, but your daughter will be pain-free.”
Kendall looked around again. “This is some god-damned practical joke. You think I’d say yes to something like this? I’m not going to lose!”
“Yes, you will, probably in the second round. Which means you won’t get the big purse, and you won’t have an opportunity to fight for the championship. You probably won’t get any more fights at all.”
“Get the hell out of here!” Kendall yelled loud enough to attract attention from the fighters across the hall.
Zapata nodded. “I’m leaving. But remember, you don’t need to decide now. You don’t even need to decide before the fight. If you win, then I’m wrong and nothing matters. If you lose, then you can make your decision. You’ll have the chance to kill the man I want dead. Here. Take this.” He handed Kendall an envelope. “This will tell you everything you need.”
The anarchist wheeled around, dragging the startled Aguillar in his wake. They passed through the double doors with the security man calling behind them. “Short interview?”
“I got what I wanted,” Zapata said over his shoulder.
11:49 P.M. PST Federal Holding Facility, Los Angeles
Alarms blared in every hallway. At each corner, revolving sirens flashed. The jail was in full-scale riot. An inmate ran shrieking past Jack, pursued by three other inmates intent on exacting some kind of revenge.
“We’re gonna get killed!” Ramirez said, cowering against the wall of the corridor.
Jack grabbed him by the collar of his orange jumpsuit. “Listen. By now they’ll have set up a perimeter inside the jail. They’ll have called for outside help. We only have a few more minutes to get out before the place is sealed and they hold everyone in.”
Bauer had visited the facility often enough to interrogate prisoners. They had reached the last ring of security. Beyond this, there was only the courtyard and then freedom.
A group of inmates had reached this hallway before them. A door burst open and two prisoners appeared, dragging a guard, who struggled against them. One of the inmates raised a hand and stabbed downward with some kind of shiv, jabbing the guard in the chest.
Jack lunged forward, planting his shoulder in the inmate’s chest and throwing him backward. The other one looked at him, dumbfounded, as Jack hit him with an uppercut that doubled him over. Jack grabbed the prisoner by his stringy hair and slammed his head against the wall.
The guard, bleeding from his chest, looked at him in shock. “Th-thanks . . .”
“It’s not deep,” Jack said of the wound. “Barricade yourself until the riot team comes.” He shoved the man back into the room. “This way.”
11:54 P.M. PST Sepulveda Pass, Los Angeles
Tony was driving on the 405 Freeway over the Sepulveda Pass, which connected the San Fernando Valley to the west side of Los Angeles. There was traffic in Los Angeles, even at this hour, but it wasn’t bad—just enough to allow him to follow Bashir without being noticed. He kept his eyes on the taillights of Riduan Bashir’s vehicle about three car lengths ahead.
His phone rang. “Jamey, go.”
“He’s very accommodating,” the data analyst told him. “There’s no way he’s worried about surveillance. He’s on his cell phone and we’re tracking him. There’s nowhere he’s going to go now.”
“Good.” Tony dropped back far enough to avoid being noticed, but close enough to keep good visuals. “I’ll let you know if I lose him.”
“Probably best to keep your eyes peeled, but we can tell you where he’s going,” she replied. “He’s meeting some guys at a place called Little Java. It’s on Atlantic.”
11:56 P.M. PST Staples Center, Los Angeles
Aguillar had trouble finding his voice. “I . . . I can’t believe you just did that.”
Zapata looked disappointed. “I thought you knew me.”
Aguillar nodded, and shook his head, and nodded again, unsure how to respond. He had worked with Zapata several times before. He knew the man’s methods . . . or, really, he understood Zapata’s absolute lack of methods. But this was beyond belief. “Do you . . . will he . . . is he going to do it?”
“I think so. Of course, he doesn’t know he’s going to do it. He won’t know it until after the fight tomorrow. He probably won’t decide until right at that moment. But he’ll do it.”
“What if he wins?” Aguillar countered.
Zapata looked at him as if he were insane. Hadn’t he already said Kendall would lose?
Aguillar sighed. “You could make a fortune betting on sports.”
Zapata shrugged. “I have a fortune already.”
11:58 P.M. PST Federal Holding Facility, Los Angeles
Jack burst through the doors and into the outer courtyard of the holding facility. There was a flood of inmates rushing out of other doors from other wings, all with the same idea: safety in numbers. Gunfire crackled from above. The courtyard was surrounded by high walls, and someone had positioned snipers up there. A man next to Jack stumbled and fell.
A chain-link fence at one end of the courtyard was just now swinging shut. Whoever had been smart enough to call out the snipers had been too slow to seal the exits.
“Run!” Jack yelled. Ramirez was next to him, alternately panting and yelping at the gunfire all around him. Inmates roared and shoved, a mass of orange bodies churning toward the gate. No one had gotten out yet, and two guards were bravely trying to roll the high chain-link fence closed. Three or four layers of men stood between Jack and the exit, and they were stalled now, jammed in by the two guards. Another near Jack yelped and went down as something small and hard bounced off him and tapped Jack on the shoulder. Rubber bullets.
Grabbing Ramirez by the collar, Jack shoved his way through the crowd of men. He bladed his body when he could, and kneed, scratched, and clawed when he had to. It helped that some men were now cowering under the rain of rubber bullets from above. Jack reached the fence.
“Get back in there!” one of the two guards yelled. He jabbed his riot stick at Jack.
“Sorry,” Jack said. He grabbed the stick, pulling the guard into the half-closed fence and hitting his head on the metal f
rame. The man went down, and Jack stepped over him quickly. The other guard swung his stick. Jack ducked, then came up and punched the guard in the jaw. At the same moment something jabbed him in the side. He was sure the rubber bullet had cracked a rib.
Cursing, Jack dragged Ramirez through the fence, then kicked an inmate away and shoved it closed so no one else could escape.
“Run!” he yelled.
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 12 A.M. AND 1 A.M. PACIFIC STANDARD TIME
12:00 A.M. PST CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles
Jamey Farrell rushed into Chris Henderson’s office, her eyes wide as saucers. “You’re not going to believe what Jack Bauer just did.”
12:01 A.M. PST Little Java Café, West Los Angeles
Tony turned the corner on Atlantic and found a parking space a block away from the Little Java. He was in no hurry now. CTU had brought the full power of its surveillance to bear, and Bashir had been tracked through his cell phone, through traffic monitors, and with visuals from Tony himself.
Almeida got out of the car and walked casually past the restaurant and around the back. There was a back door that led out into the alley where the cooks and dishwashers took the trash out to the Dumpsters. Tony walked through that door into the dishwashing room, where two Hispanic men in white aprons and rubber gloves loaded gray trays of dirty dishes into the automatic dishwasher. He ignored their inquisitive looks and walked past them to the small kitchen where two men were cutting and prepping over a hot grill. They didn’t even look up.
Tony reached a swinging door with a round window in it. Looking through the window he could see most of the small restaurant, and he spotted Riduan Bashir almost immediately. The man was sitting at a corner table with two other men, both most likely Indonesian as well. Neither of the two men looked familiar, but Tony hadn’t done much work on Jemaah Islamiyah, so he wasn’t likely to recognize even its top members except by name.
He studied their body language for a few minutes. Although Bashir was doing most of the talking, it was clear that he was reporting, not dictating, and his slumped shoulders and open, expressive hands suggested that he considered himself the other man’s inferior. The third man seemed to speak only infrequently, and then in suggestive, supportive ways to the man in the middle.
Tony knew that whatever Bashir was, he wasn’t a key player. With the exception of his annual trips to Indonesia, he led a sedentary life, and he spent most of his time at home, where he made no suspicious phone calls. But this other man intrigued Tony. He wanted to know more.
A busboy in a white coat and a hairnet barged through the swinging door, which Tony had to dodge. “Hey,” Tony said, flashing his badge. “I need a coat like that. And a hairnet.”
The busboy, wanting no trouble from anyone with a badge, helped him into a white coat from the storeroom. Tony slipped the hairnet over his head and used it to pull his hair back from his forehead. There was a mirror in the employee bathroom. He looked into it and hunched his shoulders. To him, he looked like himself in a hairnet. But to a man who’d just met him and spent only a few minutes while viewing him as a figure of authority, the hunched-over busboy with the hairnet might not be familiar.
Tony walked out into the restaurant and took a tour. It was a small place, no more than ten or twelve tables, but they were all occupied. Out of the corner of his eye, Tony watched Bashir’s table. The man in the middle took a sip of tea from a small cup. They were speaking in some Malay dialect.
“Excuse me.” Tony realized a man at a small booth was talking to him. “I dropped my fork. Get me another.”
Tony bristled at the rude tone, but held his tongue. He simply nodded, and looked around. There was a bussing at the back. Taking the dirty fork, Tony walked back and saw a drawer full of clean silverware. He also saw a stack of porcelain teacups. Tony first reached into his pants pocket and retrieved a small digital recorder he carried whenever possible, and turned it on. Then he wiped the dirty fork off on his coat but picked up a clean one, then returned to the booth and laid the same fork on the table. The man there ignored him. Tony turned just as the man with Bashir took another sip of his tea, finishing it, and laying it down. Exhaling slowly, Tony walked up, set down the new teacup, and picked up the old one. He lifted the teapot off the table and filled the new cup.
“Thank you,” the man next to Bashir said without looking at him.
Tony said nothing. He walked back to the kitchen, holding the teacup delicately so as not to disturb the fingerprints he would find there.
12:19 A.M. PST CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles
There was an emergency meeting at CTU Los Angeles. It was a moment for sobriety, but Nina Myers began by saying with a shrug, “Jack Bauer escapes from prison. Does this surprise anyone?”
Chris Henderson was livid. “This is no time to be glib, Nina. Do you have any idea how bad CTU is going to look after this?”
“You sound like Chappelle,” she observed.
“How is he, by the way?” asked George Mason. There was a hint of electricity in the air when he spoke to Henderson. They were on decent terms, but both men had been considered viable candidates for the position of Director of Field Operations. The fact that Henderson currently held that post created a rivalry between them, though Mason would never admit it. While the command structure at CTU was always clear, promotions and assignments were sometimes fluid as cases sometimes took personnel out of the office for extended periods. And there had been rumors, none stated publicly, having to do with Henderson and the transfer of funds.
“Comatose,” Henderson replied. “I haven’t heard more.”
Peter Jiminez shifted impatiently. “I’m sorry to speak up, but if Jack went to the trouble of escaping, he had a good reason.”
“Yeah,” someone smirked, “he didn’t want to go to prison for the rest of his life.”
“Or he’s trying to prove his innocence,” Jiminez replied.
“Hell of a way to do it.” Henderson, standing, frowned down at Jiminez. “We need to put aside the hero worship for a minute. This could cost Jack, and cost us, and cost CTU a lot if we don’t help solve this thing. I want to put our resources into helping to find him. Some of us know Jack pretty well.”
“I’ll say,” Nina agreed.
“I want each of you to put together any notes on any cases you’ve done with Bauer. Contacts he has, informants he’s used, safe houses. Everything. Give it all to Peter.”
“I’ll take it,” Nina offered.
Henderson overruled her statement. “I want Peter. I want someone who hasn’t worked with Jack as long to go over the list. Fresh eyes.”
“Give it to me, Chris,” Mason offered. “I know Jack —”
“It’s Jiminez,” Henderson said in an I’m-the-director tone of voice. “Start putting your lists together now.”
12:22 A.M. PST Los Angeles
Jack and Ramirez were in the back room of a thrift shop. Jack had kicked in its back door, and by some miracle, as he pointed out to Ramirez, the alarm hadn’t gone off. Jack had dumped their orange jumpsuits and found pants, shirt, and shoes that fit well enough.
Sirens went by, but didn’t slow down. They seemed to have lost the police, who were more occupied with containing the several hundred inmates still trying to get out of the jail.
While Ramirez continued to look for clothes, Jack crept up to the phone at the front of the store and dialed.
12:25 A.M. PST CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles
The telephone in the middle of the conference table rang. Henderson leaned in and slapped the call button irritably. “No calls, I said.”
“I’m sorry,” said one of the receptionists who fielded general calls. “But it’s—sir, it’s Jack Bauer.”
The entire CTU team looked at one another. Only Nina Myers, who knew Jack well, seemed unsurprised.
Henderson blanched. “Okay.”
The line clicked in. “Uh, Jack?”
“Chris.” Jack’s voice came on the line “I need to speak with Chappelle.”
“He’s not available,” Henderson said. “And you need to turn yourself in.”
“Chappelle first. How is he?”
“Not well. Jack, it’s George,” Mason called out to the speaker. “Where are y—?”
Jack interrupted. “Listen, everyone. I need Chappelle. This whole thing’s been a setup and—”
The line went dead.
12:27 A.M. PST Los Angeles
Jack hung up the phone quickly as Ramirez approached him dressed in baggy jeans and a Kobe Bryant basketball jersey. “Best I could do. Who was that?”
“I tried to call some contacts I have, but I couldn’t get through,” Jack lied. “I didn’t want to hang on too long in case it was traced.” He had not wanted Ramirez overhearing what he was saying to CTU. He needed Ramirez’s cooperation, now more than ever, and the last thing he wanted was for the other man to get nervous about who was on the other end of the line.
“So this job you did before you went in,” Ramirez
asked. “You worked for the government?”
“Yes. I was an investigator. I shot someone.”
“Did he deserve it?”
Jack shrugged. “Most people do, for something or
other.”
They sat together in silence, each of them taking a moment to release the stress of the last hour. Silence was not uncomfortable for either of them. They had shared a cell for the past three weeks, and in such close quarters silence and privacy were precious.
Jack considered his next move. He could go to CTU, but the chances of anyone there helping him were slim. In their eyes he was guilty, and anyone who assisted him would be aiding and abetting a suspected felon.
Ramirez broke the silence. “Why’d you decide to break out? Your case that bad?”