register his keystrokes and annotate his file with the fact that he had ordered the deletions. This way, the system would show that someone had accessed the panel, but that was Henderson’s stated goal in entering the room, and Jamey would back him up.
Henderson popped a specific memory card out of its slot, then removed a small device with a tiny screen from his jacket. In moments, wires from the device were connected to the memory card, and he was reading its information. He scrolled down until he found a data file for his own telephone, including traces of his cell phone conversations inside the building. He deleted every one of them that went to Peter Jiminez. In moments, almost every communication between the two of them had been wiped clean.
Henderson purposely left a few lines of code in the file, specifically, those related to telephone calls and mobile intercepts of his calls to Smiley Lopez. These he did not erase. He altered them so that the source appeared to be Peter’s phone instead.
Content, he replaced the memory card, closed the panel, and walked out of the tech room. “You’re right,” he told Jamey with a wave. “Nothing there.”
Mark Kendall watched the opening fight on a television screen in his room. It was a bruiser. Neither fighter had much finish, but both were tough as nails. The fight had dragged out to the third of its three five-minute rounds, and neither fighter seemed willing to give up.
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.
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.”
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:
The crowd cheered. Mark raised his hand in acknowledgment.
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.
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, Zapata 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.
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.
Three minutes into the fight. Kendall was drenched in sweat, but he felt good. He’d scored a couple of 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.
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.
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.
“Shake it off,” Kominsky was saying. That was the first thing Mark remembered after touching his knee to the
