two cars were parked — a 70s Cadillac and a silver Mercedes 560SL. Jack took the Mercedes and raced toward Temescal Canyon.
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.
The envelope. The money. His daughter. These were the things he saw as he continued to punch at the mirror.
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.”
21. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 4 P.M. AND 5 P.M. PACIFIC STANDARD TIME
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.
It occurred to him that they’d assumed Sungkar had contacted 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.”
“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.
“Gone,” Risdow gasped as though he’d been holding his breath. “He said he had something important to do.”
Jack put the gun to Risdow’s head. “I’m in no mood for games.”
“Okay, okay!” Risdow squealed. His eyes went nearly crossed trying to see the gun touching his forehead.
“I know you know Zapata. I know you know what he’s up to,” Jack said, although in truth he wasn’t sure. All he really had was the word of an MS–13 gang leader. But he didn’t have much time left, so he had to push. “Tell me what his target is.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Risdow pleaded. Jack studied his face, listening carefully to his voice. There was a tension in the voice and posture of the innocent, a particular desperation caused by the fear of being misunderstood. Jack saw it in the stress on Risdow’s face and heard it in his trembling voice.
“Yes, you do,” he said anyway, leveraging the man’s fear. “You’ve worked with him before. He’s told you something.”
“Nothing!”
“Something,” Jack snapped back. “A place, a name.”
“Well. ” That was it. Risdow hesitated, but he was already broken. Interrogation subjects often hesitated right before they gave up their secrets. It made them feel better afterward. “He said something about the Pacific Rim Forum. That’s all I know!” he added when Jack started to press further.
“I guess,” the man said. “I swear I don’t know.”
He kept his eyes on Risdow while he reached for his phone.
“Look, can you let me go?” Risdow asked. “I’m not involved in this, I swear. I’m a businessman. I don’t do violence.”
Jack was about to ask him if he’d heard of conspiracy or aiding and abetting, then tell Risdow to go to hell, but he hesitated. He was on Zapata’s trail now, and it was very possible that Zapata didn’t know it. The anarchist had no reason to think MS–13 would have helped him, and in fact Smiley had tried to betray him even after Jack had gone way outside the lines to strike a deal. The last thing Jack needed now was to scare him off.
Peter Jiminez stood in Smiley Lopez’s living room and called headquarters. “Henderson? It’s me. Yes, I’m here. The guy’s dead.”
