by John Whitman
5:35 P.M. PST Los Angeles Department of Transportation
Darren Spitz had worked for the Department of Transportation for the better part of two decades, and he’d never seen anything like what was going on that afternoon. Los Angeles traffic was always bad, but at least it flowed. If anyone understood that, he did. He was employed by the city planner’s office, and he specialized in traffic flow patterns. The end result of his job was pretty mundane — he helped determine how long the traffic lights stayed red or green, and how those changes related to the timing of other traffic lights nearby. Not the most exciting work. But Spitz liked it.
“Traffic is a force of nature in this city,” he would say to anyone who would listen (it was not a large crowd). “You listen to the weatherman. You listen to the newsman. You’d better listen to the traffic man. Traffic has a memory, it has a rhythm all its own. It might as well be a living thing.”
At the moment, that living thing was sick. Paralyzed, in fact. Or maybe a better metaphor was that all its arteries were clogged.
Spitz sat at his computer screen, flipping from traffic camera video of various congested areas (which was all of them) and grid overlays that showed the entire network of freeways and surface streets. Most of them now flashed red, meaning they were jammed. Six different spots showed a starburst indicating a SigAlert — a major accident that caused a disruption of traffic service.
“Huh,” he said as the big picture caught his attention. It wasn’t unheard of to have six large accidents in the greater metropolitan area, but something about these six accidents intrigued him: the 405 Freeway at the Sepulveda Pass; the 101 Freeway at Cahuenga; the 10 Freeway just before the 110. You know, he thought, if you were going to jam the freeways on purpose, these would be some of the best spots to do it.
Darren Spitz called his supervisor.
5:41 P.M. PST 101 Freeway, Los Angeles
The helicopter came in low, swooping over the hoods of cars stretched on for miles. Jack saw it coming and got out of his car, leaving the keys in the ignition and the engine running.
“Hey!” yelled the driver behind him, but Jack ignored the call.
He jogged around and between the unmoving cars until he reached the edge of the freeway. There was a small park nearby and the helicopter made for it. Jack followed, and a few minutes later he ducked low beneath the propeller blades and slid into the passenger seat.
“Staples Center!” he yelled, and the chopper rose into the air.
5:47 P.M. PST Staples Center
“Game time, baby,” Chico D’Amato, the corner man, said. He tapped his fists onto the top of Jake Webb’s gloved fists. “You ready for this?”
Jake Webb had never felt so ready in his life. He’d trained hard for the last four months. He’d hit his weight exactly, and then spent the last forty-eight hours bulking up on carbs and protein, a long-standing tradition among fighters who got to weigh in a day or two prior to the actual fight. He now weighed a good seven pounds more than his officially listed weight. He felt strong and he felt fresh.
Jake knew he was at his peak. He also knew that he matched up well against both Salvatore Silva and Ben Harmon. It didn’t matter to him which one of them came away with the champion’s belt tonight. He’d come after him and he’d take it. All he had to do was get through Kendall, who didn’t look to offer him much of a problem.
“Your grandpa picked up his tickets,” Chico told him. “He’s out there. You gonna win for him?” Chico was an old hand at the fight game. He locked his eyes on Jake’s and was content with the fire he saw there.
“I’m gonna win for him,” Jake replied.
“Let me tell you what this boy’s gonna do,” Chico said. “He’s gonna fight with a lot o’ heart. You got to weather the first few minutes of the round. My guess is he’ll fight tough then. Don’t panic if he roughs you up, just stay in the pocket, keep your chin down. His ground game is good but it ain’t great, so if he takes you down just stay calm. You watch, come the end of that round, his heart’s going to go out a little bit. Doubt’s gonna creep in. That’s when you finish him.”
“That’s when I finish him,” Jake repeated like a mantra.
5:51 P.M. PST Staples Center
Zapata saw the four uniformed cops gather at the end of the corridor that led from the outer circle of shops and concession stands and into the seating area. He looked the other way and saw four more cops there. Once or twice, the police officers glanced casually up to his area, but they weren’t searching. They were checking the Chairman and then glancing away.
The anarchist felt a pang in his chest, but he did not know if it was anger or fear. Could those policemen be here for the Chairman? Zapata looked across the arena to the entry corridors over there. No police officers. No police officers anywhere except near the Fed leader.
Casually, Zapata stood up and pulled out his wallet, checking his cash as though contemplating a trip to the hot dog stand. He walked to the nearest corridor and said “Excuse me” as he slid past the police officers. These men had no idea who he was or what he looked like, but there was no doubt in Zapata’s mind that if these men had been told to come here, Agent Bauer was not far behind. Zapata went to a concession stand and bought a pair of binoculars. Then he walked around the wide circular hallway that girdled the Staples Center until he came to the far side of the arena. He climbed the outer stairs until he was up in the nosebleed seats on that side. Entering the seating area, he looked around for someone who seemed to be
sitting alone, a muscled twenty-something in a T-shirt that said “Tap Out” on it. Zapata showed the young man his ticket. “Don’t ask,” he said. “Just trade with me.”
The man in the “Tap Out” shirt looked suspiciously at him. “I find out that seat’s taken, I’m coming right back here.”
“Deal,” Zapata said. The man shrugged, took the much better ticket, and left. Zapata sat down in his new seat, as far from the Chairman as possible, and raised the binoculars to his eyes.
Agent Bauer could surround Chairman Webb with as many police officers as he wanted. It wouldn’t matter.
At that moment, the entire arena darkened and deafening music blared. The fights were under way.
23. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 6 P.M. AND 7 P.M. PACIFIC STANDARD TIME
6:00 P.M. PST Staples Center
It was not every day that a helicopter dropped out of the sky and landed on the narrow plaza on the north side of Staples Center. This chopper touched down lightly and Jack Bauer jumped out, running low under the prop wash.
A moment later he reached the entrance. A large crowd still hovered outside, composed mostly of latecomers and fight dilettantes who didn’t care about the undercard fights. Jack pushed past them, ignoring cries and complaints. At the glass doors he flashed his badge.
“Okay,” the teenage ticket taker said, waving him through. The metal detectors shrieked as Jack entered the Staples Center, but he flashed his badge again and the cop posted there let him pass.
6:07 P.M. PST Staples Center
Peter Jiminez reached the Staples Center on a motorcycle, the only mode of transportation that had any chance of maneuvering in the paralyzed city. He left the bike in a motorcycle parking spot directly across from the entrance, jogged across the street, and got himself in much the same way Jack had.
Peter’s heart was pounding. Bauer was a formidable opponent, and to hunt him would be dangerous. But Peter had one advantage: Jack had no idea that Peter was the hunter.
6:09 P.M. PST CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles
Christopher Henderson opened his office door and looked down on the bullpen with its network of analysts’ computers. What he needed to do now, he couldn’t do from his own computer terminal. He walked downstairs and passed by Jamey Farrell’s workstation. “Are you seeing that slow crawl data from server four?” he asked her.
Jamey lifted her head up from the screen. “Hmm? Oh, yeah, but it’s nothing out of the ordinary.”
Henderson looked dubious. “I’m going to check it anyway.”
“We can have the techs do it,” Jamey offered. “Or one of us.”
Henderson smiled as warmly as he could manage. “Let’s see if the old field hand can still work the fancy machines. I don’t get much of a chance to be a computer whiz.”
Henderson walked up the hallway to one of the tech rooms that housed CTU’s massive servers. At certain times of day, techs and analysts turned this room into Grand Central Station, but at the moment it was empty and quiet. Henderson opened a panel that gave him direct access to the server’s memory cards. specifically, memory cards that had to do with phone logs. If he accessed these memory cards from another terminal, the system would register his keystrokes and annotate his file with the fact that he had ordered the deletions. This way, the system would show that someone had accessed the panel, but that was Henderson’s stated goal in entering the room, and Jamey would back him up.
Henderson popped a specific memory card out of its slot, then removed a small device with a tiny screen from his jacket. In moments, wires from the device were connected to the memory card, and he was reading its information. He scrolled down until he found a data file for his own telephone, including traces of his cell phone conversations inside the building. He deleted every one of them that went to Peter Jiminez. In moments, almost every communication between the two of them had been wiped clean.
Henderson purposely left a few lines of code in the file, specifically, those related to telephone calls and mobile intercepts of his calls to Smiley Lopez. These he did not erase. He altered them so that the source appeared to be Peter’s phone instead.
Content, he replaced the memory card, closed the panel, and walked out of the tech room. “You’re right,” he told Jamey with a wave. “Nothing there.”
6:29 P.M. PST Staples Center
Mark Kendall watched the opening fight on a television screen in his room. It was a bruiser. Neither fighter had much finish, but both were tough as nails. The fight had dragged out to the third of its three five-minute rounds, and neither fighter seemed willing to give up.
A handler for Professional Reality Fighting tapped on Mark’s door and stuck his head in. “Let’s go. This one’s ending either way, and then you’re up. Oh, and good luck.”
Mark nodded. He stood and took a deep breath. This was it.
6:30 P.M. PST Staples Center
Jack Bauer had reached the section where the Chairman was sitting. After showing his ID to the police officers, he scanned the crowd. No one nearby matched his memory of Zapata. If he planned to kill Webb, he was going to do it remotely. But how? A rifle shot seemed unlikely. There were metal detectors at every entrance, and even if Zapata had bought off one person, there were both metal detectors and checkers who opened every bag.
Jack walked over to the Chairman, immediately attracting the attention of the man next to him. Jack crouched low near Webb’s seat. “Mr. Chairman, I’m Jack Bauer from the Counter Terrorist Unit!” Jack shouted over the cheers and jeers as the first fight ended. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I have reason to believe someone in this building wants to kill you. I strongly recommend you leave immediately!”
Martin Webb was startled. He checked the man’s credentials again and glanced at Johan, who nodded starkly. “Who’s trying to kill me?” he asked.
Cheers rose up for the winner of the first fight. A moment later, the crowd’s roar dwindled to a low murmur. “I’m happy to explain in a safer venue, sir,” Jack said.
Webb glanced around, as though he might find an assassin sitting in one of the seats nearby. “But there are all these police, and there’s you, and Johan,” he replied. “And I’m determined to watch my grandson.” Bauer scowled and shook his head, but Webb insisted. “Sit with us, son. This’ll be something.”
6:40 P.M. PST Staples Center
The Professional Reality Fighting shows were designed for maximum sport but also maximum showmanship. The two fighters both entered the fighting area via platforms that rose up from the basement training rooms. As they ascended, fireworks and flames shot up around them and music blared as the crowd cheered.
Mark Kendall heard none of it. He felt as though he was floating through the next few minutes as he moved down the catwalk connecting his mini-elevator to the actual cage. He was barely aware of the cheers and jeers. The referee stopped him to check his equipment and he nodded at the questions, but his mind was elsewhere. He was thinking of home. He was thinking of his daughter.
The next thing he new, he was in the cage, his bare feet gripping the canvas. Kominsky pulled off his shirt, and now he was wearing only knee-length fighting shorts. He saw his opponent across from him: Jake Webb, young, strong, and confident. He, too, wore only fighting shorts, and the muscles rippled visibly under his lean skin. Mark remembered being that young.
The ring announcer blared Mark’s name: “Introducing, in the red corner, the former PRF Heavyweight Champion, with a fighting record of 11–2, weighing in at 238 pounds, Mark ‘The Mountain’ Kendall!”
The crowd cheered. Mark raised his hand in acknowledgment.
“And introducing in the blue corner, with a fighting record of 5–0, weighing in at 239 pounds, Jake ‘The Spider’ Webb!”
Thunderous applause assaulted Mark’s ears. Well, he knew whose side the crowd was on.
The referee called them out and gave them the usual rules: no headbutts, no biting, no gouging, no strikes to the groin. Pretty much everything else was fair game. On command, Mark went back to his corner and waited. A moment later, the bell rang, the crowd roared again, and Mark walked out into the cage to save his daughter’s life.
6:50 P.M. PST Staples Center
Zapata watched Jack Bauer through the binoculars. He’d seen the agent enter and speak with Webb, then sit beside him. Bauer was scanning the crowd alertly. Zapata felt an awkward mixture of annoyance, admiration, and pity for Bauer. The agent had clearly deduced that Webb might be a target, but he had no idea where the attack would come from. Even if he were standing next to Kendall when he attacked, Zapata was sure the giant could snap Webb like a twig before Bauer could do anything about it. Suddenly Jack Bauer stood up and walked away.
6:51 P.M. PST Staples Center
Jack held the phone to his ear and, with the other hand, shut out the noise as he walked down the corridor. “What was that, Jamey? I couldn’t hear you. Lot of noise.”
“. Jiminez!” Jamey yelled. “Jiminez needs to meet with you. Something about seeing Zapata. He’s there, but downstairs, he said. All the way down. Take the stairs near the entrance.”
“Got it.”
Jack didn’t like leaving the Chairman’s side, but the truth was, he wasn’t doing much more than acting as a bullet sponge, just sitting there. Someone else could do the job as well.
Jack walked back to the entrance and saw a doorway into the stairwell. The stairs went up to the higher levels, but Jack took it down.
6:52 P.M. PST Inside the Cage
Three minutes into the fight. Kendall was drenched in sweat, but he felt good. He’d scored a couple of strong kicks to Webb’s legs. The younger fighter had rushed in twice, strong as a bull, and tried to take him down. Kendall had stopped the attempts and landed two flurries of strong punches. He was sure one of them had rocked the young man. His heart soared.
Win it for them, he thought. Kendall saw an opening and attacked, throwing a fast combination of kicks and punches. He put all his power behind the punches, trying to smash through Webb’s defenses. He ended his flurry, thinking of trying to take the fight to the ground.
Webb’s right hand came out of nowhere and connected with his nose. He felt the cartilage give way and his chin press inward against his neck. The room spun around like a top. Another punch — a left hook? he didn’t see it — caught him on the right side of his jaw. His body suddenly disconnected itself from his feet and he fell to one knee.
The bell rang for
the end of the round.
6:54 P.M. PST Staples Center Stairwell
Jack reached the bottom of the stairwell and pushed through double doors that read EMPLOYEES ONLY. Beyond was a huge storeroom the size of a football field with ceilings two stories high. There were metal shelves ten feet high on one side of the room, and on the other side were islands of storage crates covered in canvas sheets. Jack’s footsteps echoed.
“Peter?” Jack called out. He pulled out his cell phone, but got no reception. The bullet ripped through his left shoulder at the same time he heard the sound.
6:54 P.M. PST In the Cage
“Shake it off,” Kominsky was saying. That was the first thing Mark remembered after touching his knee to the ground. “You gotta fight!”
The bell rang for round two.
6:55 P.M. PST Staples Center
Zapata watched the fight through his binoculars. The first round had gone as he expected. Kendall had dominated the first half on experience and sheer emotion, but he’d worn down quickly. Webb had landed the most powerful blows of the round just before its end. Kendall had been literally saved by the bell.
Now Kendall and Webb stalked each other. Webb looked more vibrant and eager. Zapata knew it wouldn’t be long now.
6:56 P.M. PST Staples Center
Jack dragged himself behind one of the stacks of crates. His left arm was all but useless now. Jesus! Two wounds to his right arm and now it was all he had left. He raised his gun, but a voice behind him said, “You’re getting slow, Jack.”
He whirled around, but Peter Jiminez grabbed his gun and dropped a knee onto his chest. He grinned down at Bauer. “I guess it’s not so hard to kill you after all.”
6:58 P.M. PST Staples Center
Webb’s kick caught Kendall on the right side, exactly on the liver. Kendall felt the world close in around him and nausea rush up into his stomach. His knees buckled again. The next thing he knew he’d been thrown onto his back. Webb was on top of him, straddling him, pounding him with knees. Webb’s fists were smashing down on his face and skull.