Los Angeles, and even on a Saturday, it was packed. However, because it wasn’t a work day, there was just enough space to gather speed, which was what Pan did as he moved toward the top of the pass.
Zapata had given explicit instructions as to where he should do the job — at least a hundred yards below the Mulholland Avenue exit. So just as he drove underneath the sign that said MULHOLLAND EXIT ? MILE, Pan did his job: he gunned the engine and swerved hard into traffic, shutting his eyes tight. He heard the shrill squeal of tires, felt the jarring impact of another car before he heard the horn sound, and then his world went white as the airbag exploded outward. Vaguely he heard crash after crash after crash as the Saturday drivers on their way out of the city smashed into one another.
At almost exactly the same time over on the 101 Freeway, Pan’s friend Doogie did almost exactly the same thing.
This happened six times, on two other major freeways, and on two main surface streets in West Los Angeles. At the moment, as far as anyone knew, they were just six separate accidents on the Los Angeles freeways.
If there was anything Jack hated worse than Chappelle’s tirades, it was Chappelle being right when he went on one.
“All this goddamned work for nothing!” the Regional Director fumed. “You let him walk out the front door.”
Jack had learned long ago to face his mistakes, not to garner sympathy but in order to move beyond them toward a solution. “I’ll fix it.”
“How?”
“Still working on it.”
Jack pushed past Chappelle and into the main part of the headquarters. “Jamey! Seth!” But he had already reached them by the time they jumped to their feet.
“He’s here, he’s after something,” Jack said without a hello. “I need to know what it is. Now.” Jamey said, “We’ve already run down our list of possible targets. The Pacific Rim Forum fit all the criteria.”
“We’re missing something,” Jack said. His mind was racing. There was a pattern here, the kind of pattern Zapata would have seen. He was missing it, and that made him angry. “We have to find it.”
“Uh. ” It was Seth. “Can I go?”
Jack was startled. “What? No!”
Seth glanced from Jack to Jamey, hoping she’d be more sympathetic. She was his direct superior, but this Jack Bauer seemed to take charge of whatever situation he was in. “Um, I want to go. I’ve been here since yesterday.” Jack and Jamey continued to stare at him. “Yesterday being a whole day ago. I haven’t seen the sun.”
“We’ve got a job to do, Seth,” Jamey said. “I’ve been doing it,” the young man replied. “I have plans tonight.” Jack curled his lip. “Tell her you can go out tomorrow night.”
“It’s not that. I’m going to the fights tonight. Silva versus Harmon, baby!” he said excitedly, but he saw that they didn’t understand what he was talking about. He pleaded to Jack. “Oh, come on, you must watch mixed martial arts fights.”
Jack shook his head.
“Well, there are huge fights tonight, and I have tickets. It’s the Professional Reality Fighting championships. I really don’t want to miss it.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Jack said.
“No, I’m not. Those tickets cost me two hundred bucks.”
Jack shook his head. “Not that. The name. Did you say Professional Reality Fighting?”
22. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 5 P.M. AND 6 P.M. PACIFIC STANDARD TIME
Mark Kendall was sitting on the floor of the room that served as his waiting room and training room as his corner, Max Kominsky, wrapped his hands. Kominsky wasn’t big on pep talks, so he kept quiet while Mark brooded. He wanted to call home again, but Kominsky had drawn the line at three calls. Fight time approached.
Someone knocked on the door and then opened it. A black face with an infectious toothy grin popped in and spoke in Portuguese. Mark recognized him immediately: Salvatore Silva, the current heavyweight champion. An older face appeared beside him, square-jawed and missing several teeth. Ramon Machado, the trainer they called the kingmaker.
“He says good luck,” Machado translated.
Kendall nodded, not standing up so that Kominsky could finish his work. “Tell him I said thanks.”
More Portuguese. The big black man’s dark, gleaming eyes studied Mark over his toothy grin. “The champion says he hopes you will win. ”
“Thanks again,” Mark said.
“. because he’d rather fight you than Jake Webb!” Salvatore Silva roared with laughter and disappeared.
Mark heaved a huge sigh. “They’re all against us, Maxie,” he said.
Kominsky shrugged. “Me, I get nervous around company anyway.”
Martin Webb reached downtown Los Angeles just ahead of what looked like unbelievably bad traffic. His driver, Johan, said there were bad accidents all over the freeways, and that the traffic was snarled all across the city. They parked across the street from the Staples Center and walked to “will call,” where Jake had left tickets for them.
The big black lady behind the counter took his name and plucked the tickets out of a file box. She eyeballed Martin as she put the tickets in his hand. “You’re Martin Webb, the Fed guy.”
Martin nodded with a wink and a confidential smile. “Tonight I’m just a grandfather.”
She bobbed her head at him. “Well, you better come back as the Chairman come Monday mornin’, ’cause I’m countin’ on my stocks to help me climb outta here.” She motioned to the four beige walls of the tiny ticket office.
Martin smiled. “Ma’am, I don’t really control the stock market—”
“Oh, I know you do.” The big lady laughed, ignoring customers that were coming up behind them. “You wave your magic wand and make it all better. Enjoy the fights, ya’ll.”
The Fed Chairman nodded at her and went inside, accompanied by Johan. Jake had reserved great seats for them. They weren’t floor seats because, according to Jake, you really couldn’t see the raised cage from down there. They sat in the first row of the raised seats, with an eye-line view of the fenced cage where the fighters would meet.
“Do you ever watch these fights, Johan?” Martin asked.
Johan, who acted as the Fed Chairman’s bodyguard and driver, nodded. “Machado is going to take him apart in the first minute, I think.”
“Excuse me, excuse me!” someone said, pushing past the Fed Chairman. A man with a shaved head slipped past them and sat down a few seats away. “Oh, I’m glad I made it,” he said with a grin at Martin. “The traffic’s terrible!”
Chris Henderson was sitting in his office when the call he’d been dreading came in. “Agent Henderson, this is Anthony Becker, Internal Affairs.”
Henderson’s heart sank, but he was a professional. His voice was steady. “Internal Affairs? Don’t they give you guys weekends off?”
“We need to interview you, Agent Henderson,” Becker returned. “I think you know what it’s about.”
Henderson squeezed the handset next to his ear until his knuckles turned white.
“Actually, tomorrow is better. Better to get it over with, you know?” Agent Becker said smoothly. “Then you
