ground. “You gotta fight!”
The bell rang for round two.
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.
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.”
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, pounding him with knees. Webb’s fists were smashing down on his face and skull.
24. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 7 P.M. AND 8 P.M. PACIFIC STANDARD TIME
“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.
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.
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.
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
