24 Declassified: 06 - Chaos Theory

by John Whitman

  “Son of a bitch!” she yelled.

  “Stay with him!” Jack warned, seeing the BMW drop a little behind. But Sue Mishler was no trained driver. Jack saw that she was losing ground, the BMW’s nose now halfway down the side of the Dodge. Jack hauled himself up out of the window. The two vehicles rounded another hard curve, and Jack nearly flew off. He clutched at the windshield wiper and scrambled on to the hood. Gathering himself, he leaped across the space between the BMW and Dodge and landed heavily on the edge of the cargo bed, his face planted in the plastic wrap that covered kilos of meth.

  Jack threw himself over the side and into the cargo bed. He tried to stand up, but the Dodge swerved violently as Franko tried to throw him off. Jack half crawled up to the outside of the cab and dropped low when he saw Franko raise an arm. He heard the shots only as short, sharp claps, all but drowned out by the roar of wind and engine. Blindly, Jack raised the Glock, so close it almost touched the glass, and poured six rounds into the cab as glass shrieked and shattered. In response, the engine roared but the truck swerved. Risking a look, Jack saw Franko slumped against the steering wheel like a rag doll. But they weren’t slowing down, so his dead weight had to be resting on the accelerator.

  Through the front windshield, Jack saw the Dodge heading for the edge of a precipice.

  He scrambled up and jack-knifed his body, nearly upside down, into the cab, grabbing onto the steering wheel and swerving away from the abyss. He couldn’t reach the brake, so he steered the truck as best he could as he wormed his way inside, pushing Franko’s blood-soaked corpse out of the driver’s seat. The Russian’s dead foot came off the gas pedal and the truck began to slow. Jack shoved Franko over to the passenger side and settled in. The truck belonged to him now.

  Suddenly the dark shape of the BMW flew past him, swerved back into his lane, and started to slow down. She was a determined agent. She knew her duty. Jack liked her.

  But that wasn’t going to stop him.

  He reduced his speed for a moment, waiting until they’d cleared the precipice and were driving through a cut in the mountain with sheer walls on either side. Then he gunned his engine, lurching forward. The Dodge struck the back of the BMW to the sound of tortured metal.

  Jack caught a glimpse of Sue Mishler’s surprised, frightened face as he ran her into the side of the mountain.

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  THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 3 P.M. AND 4 P.M. PACIFIC STANDARD TIME

  3:00 P.M. PST Temescal Canyon

  “No offense, but you seem a little overconfident to me,” Kyle Risdow said.

  He and Zapata were sitting beside his backyard pool, enjoying the afternoon sunshine. Kyle was drinking a mojito and Zapata was nursing a Pacifico.

  “Because I’m relaxing here?” Zapata said, closing his eyes and lifting his face up to the sun. His shaved head exposed more skin to the sun’s UV rays, and he found that he liked it. “It’s just about planning.”

  “Not just that.Your plan itself. How do you know it’s going to work?”

  “Oh,” Zapata said, a little wearily. “It’s not complex. Have you ever done Rubik’s Cube?”

  “That puzzle thing? Can’t stand puzzles.”

  Zapata wasn’t surprised. Kyle was not a creature of intellect or, really, of ambition. He was simply a creature of money. “Let me educate you. In the cube you create corners that are like anchors. Preserve them and you finish the puzzle. Break them up, and you fail. A few sections support the whole. Remove the small piece and the whole thing falls apart.”

  “But that’s just a game,” Kyle said lazily. “Life is more dynamic, more flexible.”

  “Not really.” He drank his beer. Seeing that Kyle was unsatisfied, he continued. “This idea is not original to me. The U.S. Army, for instance. Their strategies involve understanding what they call ‘centers of gravity.’ They try to understand what is most important in a battle, in an occupation. When they fail, it is because they do not identify the right center of gravity.”

  “And you think you’ve found one that will do that will help throw this country into chaos.”

  Zapata nodded.

  3:05 P.M. PST Topanga Canyon

  Sue Mishler was unconscious, but not badly hurt. She hadn’t been wearing her seatbelt during the pursuit. The BMW’s airbag had deployed when she hit the wall and the force of it had thrown her back against

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  the driver’s seat, knocking her out. She might have a miserable case of whiplash, but her neck was fine.

  Jack jumped back into the Dodge truck and drove off with the crystal meth. He had to get to Lopez.

  3:07 P.M. PST Marina del Rey, California

  Tony Almeida stood in the center of the wide, high-ceilinged lobby of the Ritz-Carlton Hotel in Marina del Rey. The hotel was, at the moment, the most beautiful fortress Tony had ever seen.

  “Tight as a drum,” Nina said, voicing his thoughts. “If Jemaah Islamiyah is doing anything here, I don’t see how they’re going to succeed.”

  Tony had to agree. A combination of local law enforcement, the FBI, and security units from the visiting nations had established a standard three-layer security system with a wide perimeter, including emergency response vehicles, a middle field of screens and checkpoints, and a final layer at the entrances and around the individual dignitaries. All meeting and public areas had been swept several times for bombs, and every guest not registered with the Pacific Rim Forum had been (unbeknownst to them) subjected to a background check. Even if he was right, and this was the terrorist target, the conference was as guarded as it could be.

  “Why is that son of a bitch always right?” Tony muttered.

  “Who? Jack?” Nina said.

  “Yeah. Every goddamned time.”

  “No, he’s not!” Nina laughed. “Are you insane? Not even close.”

  “You don’t think—”

  “The thing about Jack isn’t that he’s always right. The thing is that he’s always eventually right. He just keeps fighting until he gets it right.” She shook her head and spoke with grudging admiration. “No, I always figured that Jack’s secret isn’t that he’s always right. It’s that he isn’t afraid to be wrong.”

  3:14 P.M. PST Temescal Canyon

  “Mao understood it,” Zapata was saying. Kyle was drowsy from the sun and alcohol, and he was nodding. Zapata noticed, but didn’t care. He was not without ego, and now and then he enjoyed fleshing out his theories. “Centers of gravity. That’s how he defeated the Nationalists in China. He understood that the goal wasn’t to win a certain piece of territory, it was to wear the enemy down. He fought and ran, fought and ran, making the enemy stretch his supply lines thin. The center of gravity wasn’t a line of battle, it was a method of fighting. Modern terrorists understand it. The center of gravity isn’t to be moral. It’s to terrify the enemy into changing his way of life. It is utterly effective.

  “The system, as it is currently run, simply doesn’t work. There is no effort at equality. There will never be equality, of course. There never has been. But there is

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  supposed to be a movement toward it. Things should get a little better. But they don’t. Seven hundred years ago an Aztec peasant was brutalized by his priest-kings. Five hundred years ago he was massacred by the Spaniards. And ten years ago he was oppressed by the aristocrats. No, it’s not working. It’s a puzzle without a solution. I’m going to break it. This country is the key. And the key to this country is its economy.”

  3:20 P.M. PST Boyle Heights

  Jack parked the truck in front of Smiley Lopez’s house. He’d crossed the east-west access of Los Angeles on Mulholland Drive, riding the spine of the Santa Monica Mountains to avoid as much traffic as possible. The Dodge’s bullet-ridden back window—not to mention the dead body crammed in the leg area of the cab—were bound to attract the attention of any policemen who saw it.

  Smiley Lopez was saunterin
g out of his house by the time Jack exited the truck. The gang leader wore a plaid shirt over his wife-beater now. His thumbs were stuck in his pockets and he walked belly first, nodding his head admiringly.

  “No shit,” he said. “You got the stuff.”

  Jack nodded. “And I brought you a present.” He opened the passenger door. Franko’s dead face stared out at them.

  “No shit,” Lopez said again. “You gotta come work for me full-time, homes.”

  Jack shook his head. “Zapata.”

  Lopez clicked his tongue. “Come inside.”

  He turned and walked up the steps with Jack close behind.

  “You know, that pendejo was one of us back in the early days. Shit, he was even one of the ones that got us thinking of going big, organizing and shit. But he didn’t stick around. He still comes around once in a while.”

  “You guys do him favors?” Jack asked. “We don’t do favors for nobody,” Lopez retorted. He opened the front door. “He pays.”

  They walked inside. Jack saw another gang-banger standing by the couch. It took him a moment to realize it was Oscar, and that Oscar was holding a gun.

  “Hey, ese.”

  3:26 P.M. PST CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles

  “How could you let that happen!” Ryan Chappelle fumed.

  Peter Jiminez blushed. “I blew it.”

  “No!” the Regional Director said sarcastically.

  “He sandbagged me. He gave up so easy, I didn’t expect any trouble—” Chappelle sneered. “You fell asleep and put this whole mission in jeopardy.” “Not to mention one of our agents,” added Christopher Henderson, hovering nearby.

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  “Is . . . is there any word?” Jiminez asked timidly.

  “No,” Henderson replied. “We can only hope for the best.”

  3:27 P.M. PST Boyle Heights

  Jack felt the pressure of the gun tucked in his waistband, but he knew he couldn’t get to it in time. Lopez was standing to his right. He’d have to go for the gang leader and hope Oscar was afraid to shoot his boss.

  “I got out, too,” Oscar said. “But no one seemed to care much about me.”

  “Funny thing, though,” Lopez added, “somebody wants you dead, and they pay for it. So I figure now that we have the tina, we just—”

  Jack lunged to his right. Oscar squeezed off one round and then, as Jack expected, he stopped as the line of fire swept across Lopez. Jack wrapped his left arm around Lopez’s neck and ducked behind him as he drew the Glock.

  “Go back to jail, Oscar,” Jack said. “I’m through just beating you up.”

  Oscar’s eyes widened and he shouted something in Spanish. Lopez replied angrily in the same language until Jack choked off the reply. “I’m counting to three,” Jack warned Oscar, who continued to point the gun at him.

  “One . . .” He fired. Oscar’s head snapped back and he fell. Before he hit the ground, Jack punched the muzzle of the Glock into Lopez’s temple and shoved him forward. The Salvatrucha stumbled and turned around to face Jack and the gun.

  “I’m done playing with you,” Jack stated. “I want Zapata.”

  “I’m not telling you sh—”

  Jack shot him in the foot. Lopez screamed and kicked his foot back in pain, falling onto his side and clutching his foot, pouring a stream of Spanish obscenities. Jack moved forward and put his knee on the Salvatrucha’s chest, pressing the gun against his cheek. “Last chance.”

  “Risdow!” Lopez said with the pistol jammed into his face. “Kyle Risdow.” Jack kept his knee down but eased the pressure off the gun. “Who is he?”

  “No fucking idea!” Lopez practically sobbed. The bullet had shattered his foot. “Zapata doesn’t tell me shit. I just heard the name once.”

  Jack smacked Lopez’s forehead. “Who hired Oscar to kill me?”

  But Lopez was too busy crying in pain. Jack patted him down to make sure he had no weapons, although the gang-banger looked too far gone to be a threat. He pulled his cell phone out.

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  3:41 P.M. PST CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles

  Ryan Chappelle took Bauer’s call. “What have you got?”

  “Kyle Risdow,” Jack said. “Run that name and tell me where to go. Also, send someone over here. I’ve got someone here who knows who’s trying to kill me.”

  Chappelle paused. Almeida and Myers were still in Marina del Rey, along with most of Henderson’s field agents. He didn’t have many choices. He put the phone back to his ear. “I’m sending Peter Jiminez.”

  A few minutes later, Jamey Farrell was watching her screen fill up with information on Kyle Risdow. There were six of them in the Los Angeles area, but Jamey began to weed them out quickly. Two of them were grandfathers. One was mentally disabled. Two others were incarcerated in Folsom and Chico, respectively. The last one lived in Temescal Canyon.

  3:46 P.M. PST Boyle Heights

  Jack couldn’t wait for Peter to arrive. He pulled Oscar’s belt off his corpse and used it to strap Lopez’s hands behind his back. He didn’t worry about the feet.

  He found two sets of keys on the coffee table next to a wide flat ashtray. He took both sets out back where two cars were parked—a 70s Cadillac and a silver Mercedes 560SL. Jack took the Mercedes and raced toward Temescal Canyon.

  3:48 P.M. PST Staples Center

  Mark Kendall moved in front of the mirror in his basement warmup room, 238 pounds of muscle bobbing and weaving, dropping down into a sprawl as an imaginary opponent rushed him. To the amateur observer, he moved like a huge, muscled cat, explosive and slick. But Mark wasn’t an amateur. He saw himself as he was: an older version of himself, a half step slower, a half thought behind.

  Kendall popped back up and pivoted, working on his footwork. As he did, the door opened and a young man walked in, then froze.

  “Oh, damn, wrong room,” the man said. Their eyes locked. It was Jake Webb, his opponent. They’d met face to face at the weigh-in yesterday, but today was different. Today was fight day.

  Webb bowed out without another word. Kendall watched him back up, and all he could think of was how young and strong the other fighter looked. He turned back to the mirror and stared at his face, with its bent nose and rough edges. He wanted to say that his skin sagged from too many punches, but he knew it wasn’t the fight he saw. It was age.

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  The envelope. The money. His daughter. These were the things he saw as he continued to punch at the mirror.

  3:54 P.M. PST Temescal Canyon

  Twice black-and-whites had rolled up behind Jack, sirens blaring, but both times they’d been waved off by calls from CTU. Breaking every law that got in his way, Jack reached Temescal Canyon in record time. He was out of the car practically before it stopped rolling. Without hesitation he walked up to the house, then swung around to the side gate, which was unlocked. He swung around and passed by the pool until he came to a set of French doors. Those doors, too, were unlocked, so Jack walked in. At just the same moment a bald man walked out of the kitchen and stared at him in surprise.

  Jack raised his gun. “Federal agent! You’re under arrest.”

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  THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 4 P.M. AND 5 P.M. PACIFIC STANDARD TIME

  4:00 P.M. PST CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles

  Seth Ludonowski didn’t like what he saw. While Jamey had been running down information on Kyle Risdow, he had been digging up data on Encep Sungkar for Tony Almeida. There was no doubt he was a bad guy, and no doubt that, given the chance, he would love to disrupt an event as important as the Pacific Rim Forum. But Jack’s cautionary comment—to suspect any information that Zapata allowed them to get—had stuck with him.

  He had pursued the connection between Sungkar and Zapata—Sungkar had gotten hold of weapons, which he then traded to Zapata for a computer virus.

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  It occurred to him that they’d assumed Sungkar had contact
ed Zapata. But since tracking Sungkar, they’d gathered a whole portfolio of data on him.

  “Jamey, am I crazy?” he asked.

  “To work here,” she muttered from her terminal.

  “No, I mean it. Will you look at this?”

  She sighed and stood up, then leaned over to his terminal. For a moment the rows of phone numbers, date lines, and names meant nothing to her. Then, as she assessed the information, her face took on the same confused look that Seth wore.

  “Well, there must be communication sources we missed. A cell phone number, a pay phone . . .”

  Seth shrugged. “Okay, but we have all these sources, all used several times. You think he was careful the first time and then not again?”

  “All we can do is guess,” Jamey admitted. “But if this is right, then Sungkar didn’t get in touch with Zapata. Zapata’s people were the ones who started negotiations with Sungkar.”

  4:02 P.M. PST Temescal Canyon

  “Name!” Jack said, grabbing the man by the shirt and pushing him to the ground. The man didn’t struggle at all, but spread his hands out in compliance.

  “R-Risdow!” he said in a quavering voice. “Kyle!”

  Jack yelled him down, scanning with his eyes and his gun. “Who else is here?”

  “No one,” the man whispered.

  Jack waited another moment, listening. His breath came short, too short for so little exertion. He hadn’t slept in longer than he could remember. Fatigue was starting to get to him. It occurred to him that he should have had the area sealed off, called for backup. Was exhaustion clouding his judgment? But no, police backup might have made too much noise. CTU didn’t have any other agents to send. He’d done the right thing.

  “Get up,” he said, hauling the man to his feet. Risdow was short, with a shaved head and green eyes. “Who are you?” “Federal agent,” Jack said again impatiently. “Where’s Zapata?”

  “Who?”

  Jack glared at him. “The last guy who made me ask twice, I shot him in the foot.”

  Risdow believed him. Jack could see it in his eyes. He watched the familiar internal struggle of the prisoner about to break. There was no question that he would break. He just had to put up a fight for a moment longer so he felt better about himself.