24 Declassified: Chaos Theory 2d-6

by John Whitman

  And what if he did? What if he failed them? Kendall put a big hand on the pocket of his track suit. The envelope was in there. Was the little man serious? And could he kill someone?

  The answer to the second question came easily. Yes, he could. For his daughter he could do anything. And he would do it if he had to, for his baby. He’d known that the minute she was born, when he held that tiny creature that had come through him and out of his wife’s body, and finally understood what all his size and strength were built for. They were built to protect that baby. And that’s what he would do now, no matter what the cost.

  Slowly Kendall removed the envelope. He opened it. The writing inside was very direct, the same way the bald man had spoken. It told him about the bank account that would be activated in his wife’s name the same day he completed his task. It told him that the account would be closed if the authorities ever found out. And it told him who to kill.

  Kendall read the name. He hadn’t heard it before, or at least he didn’t remember it. But it sounded important.

  He felt fear — more fear than a man his size ought to feel. But then he thought of his baby girl, and he steeled himself to act.

  9:58 A.M. PST Boyle Heights

  Jack parked Talia Gerwehr’s car on Seventeenth Street, looking for the address Talia had plucked from her computer. The houses here were large, but run-down. This was a de-gentrified neighborhood that forty years ago had been an upper-class enclave overlooking downtown. But three generations of gang warfare had made the houses forget their past. They were old, sagging hulks now, occupied by a mixture of hardworking families who kept to themselves and gang members with too much time on their hands.

  Jack found the house. According to the Federal anti-gang task force, it was the home of Ruben “Smiley” Lopez, suspected leader of the main L.A. branch of MS–13. It was a large, two-story Colonial-style house perched at the top of a long red brick staircase. The tumbled slope below the porch had once been landscaped, but now was nothing more than dirt and weeds. The house itself was dirty white, with several windows covered over in cardboard and tape.

  Jack climbed the stairs, not sure how to approach, when he heard a scream and a soft puff — the sound of bullets being fired through a silencer.

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

  10:00 A.M. PST Boyle Heights

  Jack pulled his weapon — the Para Ordinance.45 he’d taken from Peter Jiminez — out of his waistband and sprinted up the last few steps. He kicked the door hard, but the door held and electric shocks forked up his leg. As run-down as the house looked, the door was reinforced. Jack kicked again, hard, and this time the frame surrendered and the door swung inward.

  Jack bobbed his head inside and then out again just as he heard the soft pfft! pfft! again and two bullets thudded against the door where his head had been. He knew his kicks had alerted the gunman, whoever he was. In a different situation, Jack would have stuck his weapon around the corner and emptied a magazine into the room, but he had no idea who was there, or if Lopez was the gunman or the victim, and he needed Lopez alive. Through the open door he saw a couch in the middle of the room. He dropped low and dived forward, rolling as he hit the floor and finding cover. He felt something tug his pants leg as he rolled, but he didn’t think he’d been hit.

  The living room was big and opened up to the right of the front door, so most of its space was now behind him. To the left of the front door, now in front of him, the house opened onto what looked like a dining room. In between, and set farther into the house, was a staircase that climbed to the second floor. A hallway led to the back of the house and probably the kitchen. Jack glanced behind him to make sure his back was secure — there was nothing but another couch, a few chairs, and a fireplace. There were empty beer cans scattered on the furniture and floor, and the distinct smell of cannabis.

  He stayed low, peeking around the side of the couch, across the parlor, and into the dining room. He saw nothing, but he heard a girl’s sob. Then the girl squealed, and two people appeared in the doorway. In front was a frightened Latina wearing a short cotton nightgown, sobbing and staring at Jack in terror. Behind her, using her as a shield, was a hard-looking man in a black leather jacket, most of his white face hidden by the girl’s shoulder. He had his left hand in her hair and his right hand on a mean-looking Smith & Wesson.

  “Back off!” the man ordered in a thick Slavic accent. He moved himself and the girl toward Jack and the door.

  Jack had no idea who he was, but the man clearly mistook Jack for someone who would hesitate in that situation. Jack raised up to one knee, steadied his weapon, and fired a hair’s breadth above the girl’s shoulder. The round was meant to go right between the taker’s eyes, but it had been a long night for Jack. The bullet grazed the man’s temple, drawing an angry red line from the corner of his eye to the back of his ear.

  He was tough, whoever he was. He flinched at the bullet, then immediately shoved the girl toward Jack. Even if Jack had shot her, her momentum would have carried her into him. Jack leaned out of the way, trying to fire, but a red-hot bullet bit him on the right shoulder and he felt his gun arm go numb. His right arm again! He stumbled to the floor and lost his weapon. He saw the black-jacketed man slow and steady himself for a finishing shot.

  At that moment someone else roared and surged out of the dining room, slamming into the assassin from behind. The newcomer was a big Latino man wearing a wife-beater. But his hands were tied behind his back. He used his shoulder and momentum to ram the Slavic gunman, who stumbled forward into the couch. He spun with an elbow, catching the bound man in the temple.

  Endorphins masked the pain in Jack’s right arm, but he couldn’t move it, so he jumped up onto the couch and landed heavily on the gunman’s shoulders. He wrapped his left arm around the Slavic man’s neck and grabbed the barrel of his gun. Jack couldn’t seal a proper choke this way, but then the gunman couldn’t reverse his weapon and shoot Jack, either. At the same moment, the Latino man rose unsteadily to his feet. He kicked the man once in the stomach.

  The Slavic man clearly had had enough. He let go of his weapon, leaving it in Jack’s hand, elbowed Jack in the stomach, and dropped out of his hold. He bulled past the Latino and sprinted out the door.

  Jack paused a moment, gasping for breath. His right arm hung heavily at his side. The bullet seemed to have plowed a furrow along the width of his forearm, glancing off the bone. He forced himself to flex his fingers. He could move them, but it was going to hurt like hell in a minute. He looked up at the other man. The Latino was in his mid-twenties, red-faced and angry, still staring out the front door as if he wanted to chase down the other man.

  “Smiley Lopez?” Jack said.

  “Yeah,” the other man said. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “I think I’m the guy who just saved your ass.” Jack dropped the gun he still held, stepped off the couch and behind Lopez. His hands were tied together with flexcuffs. “You have any wire cutters?”

  Lopez said something to the girl in Spanish, and she replied. “The kitchen,” Lopez said. “The drawer by the back door.”

  Jack went into the kitchen, found the right drawer, and came back with a pair of red-handled cutters. He snipped the plastic cuffs off and gave them to Lopez, who freed his girlfriend.

  “Who was that?” Jack asked.

  “Don’t know,” Lopez said, “but when I find out, I’m gonna pay some people a visit.” Lopez casually picked up the weapon Jack had dropped and pointed it at him. “So who the fuck are you?”

  Jack ignored the threat of the weapon. His right arm was more mobile now, but it was also on fire. “I came here for information. There’s a guy I’m after, and I think you know how I can find him.”

  Lopez gave the girl an order and she scurried off to the kitchen while Lopez sat down in a chair. “Fuckin’ cop. I’m not giving you shit.”

  Jack sat down, too. “He’s not one o
f yours. In fact, he’s a guy who left MS–13.”

  “Nobody leaves.”

  “He did. Tell me where to find him, and I’ll make sure your guys at the Federal Holding Facility get out.”

  Jack wasn’t prepared for the effect this had on Lopez. The gang leader laughed, showing big white teeth and huge dimples. When he smiled, his face changed from a sneer into something oddly jolly. “You guys must be desperate. You’re the second cabron in two days to offer me a deal. What the fuck, my homies in the jail giving you too much trouble? You want to get rid of them?”

  “I want Zapata.”

  This statement had a totally different effect on Lopez. He went suddenly cold and serious. “You aren’t a cop. Not a regular cop.”

  “You’re right. But I do want Zapata. So give him up, and your boys go free.”

  Smiley Lopez studied this stranger. If he’d been raised in a different neighborhood, he might have grown up to be a lawyer or a businessman. As it was, he was a shrewd entrepreneur, but he dealt in drugs and muscle. This blond man struck him as someone to bargain with. “Maybe I could do it,” he said at last. “But not just for my homeboys. I want to get back at those pendejos.”

  “This guy who tried to kill you.”

  “Fucking Russians or Ukrainians or whatever. We’re in a war with them.”

  “You want me to go after him?”

  But this still wasn’t enough for Lopez. “More than that, ese. I know these pieces of shit are moving a whole lot of crystal meth. How about you go take it from them and bring it to me.”

  “I don’t have the time to find them—”

  “Make the time, ese. That’s the deal.”

  “I take down these Russians and bring you the crystal meth, and you’ll tell me where to find Zapata?”

  “You got it.”

  “Why should you trust me?”

  Lopez grinned. “What trust? I get the tina or I don’t. You come back, we’ll talk about Zapata.”

  Jack considered, but he had little time and less of a choice. “Deal.”

  10:39 A.M. PST Biltmore Hotel

  The Biltmore Hotel was unusual because the front of the hotel had become the back. Modern traffic needs had forced the owners to create a modern entrance in what had been the rear of the hotel. The tragedy was that the original front doors had opened onto a grand lobby with a beautiful double marble staircase leading up to a mezzanine. So that this glamorous room would not go to waste, the management had turned it into an opulent dining room.

  Martin Webb was having breakfast in that dining room with his grandson. Jake was a bigger, stronger version of Martin as a young man. In his early twenties, Jake was over six feet and solid, but not so muscular that it slowed him down. He was a good-looking kid, too, and he turned lots of heads as they walked through the lobby to the restaurant. There was a minor scuffle among the waitresses arguing over who would serve his table. Jake took it all in stride.

  Martin ordered eggs and pancakes — even in his seventies, he had a healthy appetite — while Jake ordered egg whites and fruit.

  “For a man’s man, you eat like a girl,” Martin joked.

  “One more day, Grandpa,” Jake said. “Tomorrow I’m going to stuff my face. But I can’t feel heavy today.”

  “Then you’re going to quit this stuff and go into finance like your grandpa and your dad, right?” Martin said lightly.

  Jake laughed. It was a long-running joke between them. They both knew well that Jake had neither the brain nor the temperament for financial matters. He had inherited all of his grandfather’s athletic genes and none of his financial ones. He was ready to let the joke pass, as it usually did, but his grandfather turned suddenly serious.

  “Actually, Jakey, I have to say at this moment I’m jealous of you. This life you’re leading right now, it’s a good life. Stick with it for a while. I can’t say that having a lot of responsibility is all that fun.”

  Though not a CPA, Jake was no idiot. He understood the responsibility on his grandfather’s shoulders. “You’ll find a way out of it, Grandpa. You’re the Wise Old Man of the Fed, right?”

  “Old,” Martin agreed. “And I’m what’s left of a man. But wise?” He sighed. “Well, I have to go on the TV tomorrow and sound like it, anyway. I lost sleep last night, thinking of it. Oh, hey,” he said, brightening. “I saw you. ESPN was doing some late night preview of the fighters for the Professional Reality Fighting matches tonight. They did a big story on you.”

  Jake smiled. “They like pumping up the young guys sometimes.”

  “The ones with a future,” Martin said. “I know how business works. They think they can market you.”

  “If I win tonight,” Jake agreed. “Are you going to watch on TV?”

  Martin sighed. “You know, my boy, I’m going to do one better. I’m going to come to the fights.”

  “Great! I mean, don’t feel like you have to, Grandpa, I know what’s going on—”

  Martin held up a hand to stop him. “I already made some calls. I canceled my dinner, and I got a ticket. As for tomorrow” —now he waved his hand dismissively— “I’ve been saying what I say for years. No one’s going to surprise me with a question. Tonight, I’m coming to watch my grandson.”

  Jake was genuinely excited. He loved being a professional fighter, but he had always felt a twinge of guilt that he could not follow the family path. His grandfather’s endorsement meant a lot to him. “I’m excited now. I’m definitely going to win this one for you. And you can come to the back after the fights, and meet some of the other big names.”

  “I’d be honored,” Martin said. “So who is your opponent? Does he know what he’s gotten himself into?”

  Jake laughed. “He’s a tough guy, but he’s older. A former champ named Mark Kendall.”

  16. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 11 A.M. AND 12 A.M. PACIFIC STANDARD TIME

  11:00 A.M. PST CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles

  Dan Pascal walked into CTU Headquarters like a bull slotting up for his rodeo rider — all calm and still, but tense and ready to buck. He made and received the obligatory introductions with various personnel there: George Mason, whom he recognized from last night; Chris Henderson, who looked like a no-nonsense fellow; Ryan Chappelle, who looked like a walking corpse; Tony Almeida, a good-looking fellow who stared at him out of sleepy eyes, and some others. Pascal heard himself make short, charming quips at them in his usual Louisiana style, but inside, he was seething. He was pretty goddamned tired of chasing this Jack Bauer around, and the fact that Bauer had beaten him up had not improved his mood. Once he’d recovered, Pascal had grilled Talia Gerwehr, but gotten nothing from her except the fact that her work was top secret. He had no choice but to accept her story that she thought she was helping a Federal agent. At that point, Pascal had gotten tired of playing games and gone right to the source.

  “Enough with the how-do-you-do’s,” Pascal said, sitting down on the edge of a table that creaked under his weight. “I’ve got local law enforcement and U.S. Marshals running around all over this city looking for Jack Bauer. I’ve had that sumbitch kick me in the testicles and I’ve had one of your own people smash my nice government-issue car. I need someone here to tell me what the hell’s going on, and I need it right now!”

  Pascal hadn’t actually raised his voice much, but the angry rumble from his chest, combined with his size, made him intimidating.

  Unfortunately, he was in a room full of people who did not intimidate easily. “I’m not sure we can tell you, Marshal,” Henderson said calmly. “But we are working on a case of a sensitive nature.”

  “Jack Bauer is out in the field,” Chappelle added. He’d been recovering slowly but steadily. “We expect him to be out for some time, under deep cover. He may not be able. to. contact us. for. ”

  Chappelle’s voice trailed off in astonishment, because Jack Bauer had just walked through the door.

  11:07 A.M. PST CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles


  Jack walked into CTU Headquarters tired, hungry, and wounded. He’d been shot twice in the same arm, and on top of that he’d been punched, kicked, and smashed by a car. He was ready for a little more down time.

  So he could be forgiven for feeling a moment’s dread when he walked past the astounded faces of analysts at CTU and into the conference room to find Marshal Pascal waiting for him. The big man jumped up from the table where he sat and lumbered toward Jack like an avalanche.

  Jack pulled his gun from his belt and pointed at Pascal’s barrel chest. “Stop,” he said calmly.

  All two 270 pounds of U.S. Marshal froze.

  “I’m not guilty,” Jack said simply. “And I’m sorry I kicked you. But I’m also in a bad mood, so if you take one more step I’m going to shoot you.”

  Pascal didn’t back down, but he didn’t advance, either. Finally it was George Mason who stepped between them. “Easy, boys. You were both doing your jobs. Let’s leave it at that.”

  Chappelle didn’t seem to care about the tension between the two men. He was glaring at Jack, so angry that some of the color actually returned to his face. “Bauer, what the hell are you doing back in?”

  Jack expected that. He didn’t even mind Chappelle’s irritating tone. “It was time. I need to find someone now.”

  As quickly as he could, Jack summarized the events of the last fifteen hours. It was a long story, but Jack had been called before enough special committees to know how to summarize his actions, and after four or five minutes the CTU team had a clear picture of what was going on.

  “It almost worked,” Chappelle said. “You came close.”

  “One room away,” Jack agreed. “I’ll still get him.”

  Tony Almeida had listened closely to Jack’s story. A few details still bothered him. “There are still holes, though. Why was MS–13 after you in prison? Was Zapata after you even then? Was it coincidence?”

  “Didn’t MS–13 have a grudge against you from before?” Henderson suggested.