by John Whitman
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.
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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: “Intro
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ducing, 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, Za
pata 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
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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.
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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, pou
nding him with knees. Webb’s fists were smashing down on his face and skull.
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THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 7 P.M. AND 8 P.M. PACIFIC STANDARD TIME
7:00 P.M. PST Staples Center Basement
“What the hell—?” Jack said, wincing through the pain in his shoulder.
“That’s where you’re going,” Peter predicted. He put the gun to Jack’s head. Jack jerked his head out of the way as the round went off, sounding like a cannon right next to his ear. He bucked his hips and Peter lost his balance, flying off. Ignoring the pain in his arm, Jack rolled on top of Peter, catching the barrel of Peter’s gun in his right hand. Jack smashed his forehead down into Peter’s face.
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7:01 P.M. PST In the Cage
Mark, underneath Jake Webb, tried to cover his face with his huge forearms, but Webb’s punches were like pile drivers smashing through. He heard the crowd chanting, “Spider . . . Spider!”
Up in the stands, Zapata smiled satisfactorily. It was all going exactly as he’d predicted.
In the cage, Mark heard them chanting Webb’s nickname again, and all his thoughts came in slow motion. They were chanting for Webb . . . as though he was the one fighting for his family. They should be chanting for him. They should be chanting for that little girl back home who lived in pain, and that woman who hurt for her baby girl. They should be chanting for him because he loved them so much and all he wanted to do was save her.
And in that moment he remembered again the thing he had learned the day she was born. His strength and his power and his huge heart, they were all given to him for one reason only: to protect that little girl, to keep her safe so she could grow up in the world. That was a father’s job, that’s what a father did, sacrifice himself for his little girl. And that’s what he would do.
Mark Kendall bucked his hips up into the air so powerfully that all 239 pounds of Jake Webb went flying off. Kendall turned over and, like an avalanche, fell on Webb with elbows and knees. Webb absorbed four or five strong shots, then kicked Kendall away and stood up. The two giants squared off.
7:02 P.M. PST Staples Center Basement
Jack landed two more headbutts, turning Peter’s face into bloody pulp. Half blind, Peter reached up with his free hand and clawed at Jack’s face. With one hand on the gun and the other arm out of commission, Jack had no way to stop Peter from tearing at his face and eyes. He tucked his chin and turned away, collapsing on the gun so Peter’s arm was stuck beneath him. Then, with the gun arm trapped between the ground and his body, Jack spun and landed an elbow in Peter’s face. Jack felt Peter’s front teeth collapse into the back of his mouth.
7:03 P.M. PST In the Cage
The round had ended. Kendall staggered over to his corner. His face felt stiff and his cheeks had swollen up, obscuring his vision.
“How bad’s my face?” he asked as he sat down for a few seconds. “Don’t worry,” Kominsky said, “you weren’t handsome to begin with. Listen.”
Kendall realized he was still hearing chanting . . . but now the crowd was calling out, “Mountain! Mountain!”
“That’s for you,” Kominsky said. “Go earn it.”
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7:04 P.M. PST Staples Center Basement
It took Jack a minute to crawl to his feet. He was weak. Blackness crept in at the edges of his vision, then faded, then crept in again. He was holding Peter’s gun in his hand. Peter was lying at Jack’s feet, his face a bloody mess.
Suddenly Peter twitched, rolling for Jack’s gun, which was on the floor. Even battered, he was fast. He almost got the weapon off the ground when Jack fired three rounds into his back.
7:05 P.M. PST In the Cage
In the third and final round, Jake Webb came at Kendall hard. But Kendall didn’t feel the blows anymore. He lunged forward, catching Webb in a bear hug and lifting him off the ground. Then he slammed Jake onto the mat. The crowd cheered.
7:06 P.M. PST Staples Center
Up in the stands, Zapata watched in bewilderment. Mark Kendall was going to win the fight. He was on the verge of destroying his opponent. Zapata could not recall ever being so completely and utterly wrong before. He had miscalculated. He had not factored in some important variable. Some butterfly had flapped its wings somewhere and, chaos-like, had changed the course of his carefully laid plans.
A moment later it was over. Jake Webb, caught underneath Kendall and subjected to his vise grip, surrendered and tapped his hand to the mat. The referee jumped in, calling the fight, and Mark Kendall leaped to his feet, roaring in triumph.
Zapata fumed. He had never felt humiliation before, he had never felt embarrassment. He could not walk away from this mission. He was determined to finish. He would not be defeated by a has-been professional fighter and a stubborn government agent.
The anarchist left his seat and half walked, half ran the circuitous route to the far side of the arena. He ran to the planter near the concession stand and started to dig. Out came the package he had buried there. Inside was a short-barreled 9mm semi-automatic pistol. He had meant to use it to aid his escape if necessary. But now all he wanted was to complete his plan. He passed an exit onto the street and could have escaped, but he continued down the corridor toward his target. He was vaguely aware that he’d succumbed to pride, but he didn’t care. Unpredictability was the essence of chaos theory, and he was surely acting unpredictably.
Most of the spectators were still in the arena, cheering the next round of fighters. Zapata arrived at Webb’s section just as the Chairman was leaving, on his way to go make sure his grandson was all right.
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Ten yards away, Zapata raised the pistol and fired.
Johan, the bodyguard and driver, had seen the motion and lunged in front of his boss. Three rounds embedded themselves in his chest and he fell. Zapata aimed at the Chairman again.
A bullet tore through the side of Zapata’s neck, taking a thin strip of flesh. Zapata screamed and gagged. He saw Jack Bauer coming out of the stairwell moving unsteadily, aiming his firearm with one hand as the other hung limply at his side. The pain of the gunshot wound brought Zapata back to reality. Idiot, he thought. He dropped his weapon and ran.
Jack ran after him, pausing only to see that Chairman Webb was unhurt. People were screaming now. Inside the noisy arena no one had heard the shots, but the few spectators who were in the hallway to buy food had scattered. Jack ignored them. He wanted Zapata.
7:20 P.M. PST In the Cage
Mark Kendall listened as the announcer officially declared him the winner. He heard people around him say words like “comeback” and “championship” and “lucrative contract.” He stood there and let tears of joy stream down his face.
7: 24 P.M. PST Staples Center
Jack raced out the exit into nighttime Los Angeles illuminated by streetlights. Zapata was across the street already. Jack saw him hop onto a motorcycle and race away. Jack tucked the handgun under his useless left arm and stuck his hand in his pocket. He’d searched Peter’s body before leaving it and found the motorcycle key. Hoping his luck would hold out, he followed Zapata’s footsteps to the same parking area and saw another motorcycle. Hopping on, he started the engine. This was how Peter had gotten through traffic. And this was how Zapata had planned to escape.
By the time Jack drove onto the city streets headed for the freeway, Zapata was out of sight. He needed help. Keeping his right hand on the handlebars, Jack forced his left arm to work. Blood poured down his wrist and onto his mobile phone, but he dialed anyway.
“Jack!” It was Tony Almeida. “We just got back and heard what’s happening at the Staples Center. Are you—?”
“Get a chopper in the air!” he shouted over the rushing wind. “Zapata is trying to escape on a motorcycle.”
Jack wondered at Zapata’s escape plan. It didn’t make sense. Criminals had tried motorcycle escapes many times before in Los Angeles. N
o matter how fast they outran police cars, no matter how cleverly they used traffic congestion to block the black-andwhites, they couldn’t outrun the eye in the sky. It was stupid, and Zapata wasn’t stupid.
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Jack got on the 110 Freeway headed north. It was as bad as before, although now in the darkness the stalled freeway looked like a river of orange and red lights.
“Chopper’s up,” Tony said. “We’ve got them . . . and you. You’re behind him. We’re trying to get units rolling, but this traffic—”
“It’s his plan. He did it. We need to keep the chopper on him. Tony, there’s more. Peter Jiminez tried to kill me. I don’t know why. I had to kill him.” Jack hung up and kept riding.
7:30 P.M. PST CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles
Tony and most of CTU were on the monitors, watching a feed relayed from an LAPD helicopter. The chopper had been up in a minute and already had its spotlight shining on Zapata’s motorcycle, which zigzagged and swerved around the cars essentially parked on the freeway.
Zapata reached a spot on the 110, just before that freeway hit the 101, where a strip of greenery, trees, and a fence separated the freeway from the surface streets. Zapata slowed down and then stopped.
“Is he giving up?” Nina asked.
On the monitor, they saw Zapata dismount, walk over to the shrubbery and pull out something long and metallic. He turned and looked upward at the LAPD chopper.
“RPG!” Tony yelled.
7:34 P.M. PST 110 Freeway
Zapata paused and took a breath, then fired the rocket-propelled grenade straight up, striking the side of the helicopter. The chopper instantly transformed into a ball of flame, for a split second lighting the freeway like a miniature sun. The shocked faces of the drivers imprinted themselves on Zapata’s retina. He liked it.
The roar of the other motorcycle came on him too suddenly. He ran for his own bike, but just as he kicked it into gear, Jack Bauer roared up behind him, sacrificing the bike and himself as he rammed Zapata. The anarchist catapulted off the bike and into the dirt and grass. Bauer hit the ground hard, blacking out from the pain in his left arm. But he managed to hold on to his gun. By the time he stood, several minutes had passed.
