by Sean Black
Rance jabbed a gloved finger at one of eight small monitors lined up under the desk. His finger traced a shadowy figure moving slowly down a corridor.
The package. On the move. And, better yet, heading toward a stairwell that would take her straight into their arms.
“Good looking out,” Point told his partner, jogging past the elevator and heading to the adjacent stairwell. He had barely pushed the door open when a shot from outside slammed through the glass frontage and took out a chunk of wall just above his head.
Rance dove behind the desk. Point pivoted fast on his heel and spread his back against the wall.
“What the hell was what?” Rance said.
“Not a what, a who,” said Point, as he saw a figure flit across from one side of the walkway to the other.
“Okay, who was that?” said Rance, barely able to contain his rage. Of all the ways to die? They always said it was the one you never even saw coming that ended it.
“That was the man himself,” said Point. “Ryan Lock.”
13
As long as Lock stayed close to the left side of the walkway, they had no shot at him. Not without moving closer to the door. Which would give him a shot at them. A trade he was prepared to make at this range.
He kept moving, staying close to the wall, and low enough that he hoped he wouldn’t be seen from the street. SWAT would be either deployed or deploying, and Lock didn’t want to contend with them in addition to the two assholes he already had to deal with.
There was still no response from Carmen’s cell phone. He didn’t even know if she was still in the building. He hoped not, but he couldn’t be sure. Not without going inside and taking a look for himself.
Moving along the walkway, he finally made it within twenty feet of the shot-out glass entrance. He couldn’t see anyone inside the lobby. But he wasn’t counting on it being empty. If the situation was reversed, he would have stayed out of sight behind the desk and used whatever camera feeds there were back there to maintain a visual. As soon as someone stepped inside, he would have popped up and taken them out before they had time to return fire. The desk provided cover, and cover, if it was good enough, provided an element of surprise.
He took a knee where he was, and looked around for another entrance. Large office buildings like this always had multiple points of entry. If for no other reason than no one wanted their high-paying tenants having to jostle with cleaners, maintenance and the rest of the great unwashed. For that very reason it also meant that these entry points tended to be more discreet than a fancy glass and marble lobby.
From his current position he was coming up with nothing. There was only one thing for it: he’d have to try another level.
The building started at the ground, which was given over to retail units that extended for three floors as something approaching a mini-mall. Access from where he was came via a set of escalators around the other side of this plaza level.
To get there he would have to cross directly in front of the open lobby. He’d be absorbing almost the same level of fire (and risk) going the roundabout way than he would going in the front.
Or he could sit tight, and hope they didn’t locate Carmen in the time it took the SWAT team to show up and flush these guys out.
He got back onto his feet, and took a very deep breath. Waiting wasn’t an option. If it came to it, today was as good a time to die as any other.
14
Here goes nothing, Lock said to himself, pushing toward the fractured front door, and drawing an immediate burst of fire from inside the reception vestibule. Pieces of concrete kicked up around him. He squeezed off two quick shots and kept moving. His vision was a blur, the ringing in his ears intense.
He saw one of the gunmen duck back down behind the desk and fired at them again. The round plowed into the wall directly behind them. That counted as a good miss in Lock’s book. In other words, he’d missed, but still given his quarry something to think about.
As he shouldered his way past the door, a stray shard of glass slashed through the upper arm of his jacket, cutting through his shirt and slicing the skin. He kept on trucking for a few more steps, then fell into a crouch and waited for the machine-pistol man to reappear.
Using a standard grip, Lock focused on the desk, his SIG out, his finger on the trigger, waiting for the first sign of movement.
It didn’t come. The gunman was staying where he was.
Or was he?
The ringing in his ears was so intense in the relative silence that he couldn’t hear any movement. He stayed crouched where he was.
He was waiting. But so was the gunman.
Lock suddenly figured out why.
He didn’t have to take a peek from behind the desk. There were monitors back there. He could sit tight and wait for him to force the situation. Then take him out when he moved. Or he could slowly adjust his position and get the drop on him. Say, by moving to the end of the desk and taking a shot from round the side while he was looking dead center.
He was good. He had to give him that much.
It was time to remove his current advantage. Looking around, Lock quickly scoped out the main lobby camera. It was mounted high on the facing wall, directly above the desk. He tilted up quickly, steadied his breathing and took the shot.
Bingo. The plastic dome protecting the camera blew apart. Now the gunman behind the desk was unsighted. It was a minor win, but a win all the same.
Lock tacked to his right, moving closer to the elevator bank and the stairwell. Ten steps and he stopped, dropping back into a crouch.
A head appeared from behind the desk. He squeezed off a single shot. Missed low, his round embedding itself in the front of the desk. The head disappeared.
Not waiting around for the guy to gather his thoughts, Lock sprinted for the elevators. They lay at a ninety-degree angle to the desk. If he reached the corner he’d finally have cover. Then it would be up to the gunman to come after him. He’d be on the move and Lock would be in a position to pick him off.
Another spray of bullets tore across the lobby as Lock made it to the elevators. The gunman had hesitated and made his move too late. Lock hit a call button. The door of the elevator car nearest to him opened. Lock stepped in, hit the button for the seventh floor, and stepped back out. If the other gunman was already up on seven, all he’d have to do was wait around for the doors to open and Lock would be easy pickings.
Lock turned and headed for the adjacent stairwell. A thin stream of blood ran from his shoulder, down his arm and onto the back of his hand. Pushing through the stairwell doors, he took a moment to catch his breath, keeping an eye out for the gunman coming after him.
He started up the first flight of stairs. Every second or so he would check back on the entrance to the stairwell he had just come through to see if he was being followed.
On the next floor, he stopped and made another call to Carmen. Still no response. Maybe she didn’t have her cell with her. Or it was on silent so she couldn’t easily be found. If you were hiding for your life, the last thing you wanted was your phone chiming with an incoming call.
He killed the call and tapped out a quick text. He gave her his location and told her to text him back with hers. Rather than wait for a reply that might not come, he pressed on, grabbing the banister, and hauling ass up the next flight of stairs.
15
Point picked up the cell phone from Carmen’s desk and scanned the text message on the screen. “Oh, ain’t that sweet? He’s coming to get you.” He held the phone up in front of Carmen’s face so she could read the message.
“You want I should write him back?”
Her hands cuffed behind her, and silver tape wrapped around her mouth, Carmen’s eyes blazed with fury. She shouted through the tape, her words muffled and indistinct.
“What was that?” Point asked. “‘Fuck you’? Now, that’s not very nice, is it? Think I’ll just leave this here,” Point continued, his gloved hands placing the cell p
hone back on her desk.
Carmen kicked out at him. He stepped back so that she missed. He raised the back of his hand and slapped her hard across the face. Her nose cracked and started to bleed. She continued to glare at him.
He picked up the cell phone again and quickly tapped out a reply. He didn’t hit send, instead laying the phone back on the desk where the message would be visible to whoever found it.
He stepped behind Carmen, closed his fingers around her cuffed wrists and pulled her arms painfully up her back.
“Let’s take the elevator, shall we?” he said, as he propelled her toward the office door and out into the corridor.
Her arms wedged painfully high, she stumbled barefoot into the outer reception area, past the coffee machine, the paper shredder, and the desks usually occupied by secretaries and interns. The normalcy of her surroundings and her familiarity with them gave what was happening an almost surreal quality. It was like being trapped in a nightmare, only with no hope of waking.
They kept moving, she and the man with the gun. They walked out into the corridor and headed for the elevators. A car was already there, the doors open. She was shoved inside, and held, facing the back.
“Hey,” said Point. “You ever been up on the roof?”
Carmen shook her head.
“Real nice view up there,” he said. “Perfect end to a romantic evening.”
He reached over and hit the button to take them to the top floor. As he waited for the doors to close, he keyed the mic button on his lapel.
“We’re good. Meet me up top.”
“Copy that,” came Rance’s reply.
16
Lock picked up Carmen’s cell phone from her desk. A draft text message was on the front screen, incomplete and unsent. He scanned it quickly before he saw the first drops of blood on the carpet. He lifted his arm, trying to work out, and hoping against hope, that it was his blood.
It wasn’t. He was no longer leaking from the shoulder.
Running back out into the corridor he looked around. No one. The place was deserted and Carmen was gone.
There was no doubt in his mind that she had left against her will. The message he’d just read told him that much.
He looked down, searching the carpet for more blood droplets. There were two, each one about three feet apart. He followed the trail. It ended at the elevators. This time he hit the button, any caution on his part discarded.
Stepping into the elevator car as soon as it arrived, he tapped the button to take him to ground level. It seemed like an eternity before the doors closed again and the elevator began its descent.
He ticked off the floors on the panel. As he neared the reception area, he slid back against the side of the car. The elevator shuddered to a halt. The doors slowly began to open.
Even with the ringing in his ears, he could hear voices and the crackle of radios.
“We got someone in an elevator.”
“Yeah, we have it covered.”
“Only shoot on my signal.”
The doors opened. He kept both arms firmly down by his sides and dropped his SIG onto the floor of the car as the area immediately outside the elevator bristled with SWAT team members in full tactical gear, their faces obscured, their weapons trained on him. He counted at least four red dots dancing around his head and chest.
This was not a situation that called for anything beyond complete compliance as they barked their instructions to him. He closed his eyes for a moment, the drone in his ears dialing up another notch as his heart sank into his boots.
Opening his eyes, he was shoved round, his arms grabbed by at least two people. Cold metal closed around his wrists. Another hand settled on his injured shoulder. He winced from the jab of pain.
He was turned round and pushed out of the elevator. A boot at the back of his knee, folded him onto the marble floor. Twisting his head round, he found himself staring into the still-open eyes of the building’s security guard, half his skull blown away.
17
“You have no idea why someone may have wished to abduct your girlfriend?”
Lock shrugged. It hurt. Any kind of movement that involved shifting the position of his shoulder hurt. And his ears were still ringing to the point that it was painful. He wanted to clean up, grab a shower and get into some fresh, preferably non-blood-stained clothes. He also really wanted to punch the detective standing in front of him. Most of all he wanted to get the hell out of there so that he could find Carmen and kill the men who had taken her.
“None.”
“Had she mentioned any threats?”
He shook his head. It was marginally less painful than a shrug, but still not great. “I already told you, no, she had not. The first I knew of any problem was when that Mustang showed up outside the restaurant this evening. The rest you know because I just told you. At least twice.”
The detective, a guy called Stanner, planted his knuckles on the table and leaned over him. It was a gesture intended to intimidate. It might have worked on someone else but trying it out on Lock was, at best, misjudged.
“We have an officer dead and one in critical condition at UCLA Medical Center. So maybe you’ll indulge me?”
Lock was done. He wasn’t going to argue. He understood what Stanner was saying. Under different circumstances he just might have indulged him. But he’d given him everything he knew.
He stood up. He wasn’t under arrest. He could leave at any time.
Stanner stepped in front of him, blocking his path to the door. Now Lock really was done. The two men stood, eyeballing each other.
Lock stepped to the side and walked past him. Normally he might have shoulder-checked him for good measure. Just so the guy got the message.
“Don’t go anywhere,” Stanner said, as Lock opened the door and walked out into the corridor.
“Come on, Stanner, you don’t really think I’m on the wrong side of this deal, do you?”
Stanner kept his poker face. They had history. He might not believe Lock was involved in any way, but he wasn’t a fan. That was fine with Lock. He wasn’t a fan of Stanner.
“I have no idea what side you’re on, Lock.”
Lock struggled to contain his anger. “Any word on the helicopter that took them off the roof?”
Now it was Stanner’s turn to be reticent. “None.”
18
The sun threatened the horizon as Lock walked out of the new LAPD headquarters building on Spring Street, less than ten blocks from Carmen’s office. Outside, a couple of news crews had set up, ready to squeeze the last juice from the pulp of the night’s events.
Lock kept his head firmly down and headed toward the purple 1966 Lincoln Continental illegally parked next to a fire hydrant. The last thing he needed was any more questions about Carmen’s kidnapping. He’d have to face the media some time, but he needed at least a day to process what had happened—and to come up with some answers of his own.
His business partner, and best friend, former US marine Tyrone ‘Ty’ Johnson, stood leaning against the driver’s door of the purple monstrosity, which came with a carbon footprint that would drive an environmentalist to experience heart palpitations.
With Lock’s Audi impounded as part of the investigation, Ty was providing transport for as long as it took Lock to get to a car-rental garage. Which, if he had any say in the matter, wouldn’t be very long. The Tymobile might have been an accurate mirror of his partner’s persona, but it didn’t exactly blend into the background.
He waved away Ty’s open-armed offer of a hug with a tap on his shoulder. “I’m joining you in the messed-up shoulder club.”
Ty had taken a bullet to his shoulder six months previously. He was still undergoing rehab and physiotherapy for the injury. “Motherfuckers,” he said, the true extent of his displeasure shielded from view behind mirrored sunglasses. “We’ll find her, Ryan. Find those assholes too.”
He looked back to the satellite trucks. The Tymobile was drawing so
me attention and it was only a matter of time before someone picked him out and came looking for a few words of comment.
“Let’s get out of here,” said Lock, walking round to the passenger side.
Ty got into the car, turned the engine over, and they took off down Spring Street at speed.
Neither spoke until they were clear of downtown and on the freeway headed back to Marina Del Rey and Lock’s rented condo. Watching the shoals of commuters slipping past them, sipping coffee from their travel mugs, rocking out to music or arguing with kids safely secured in the back of their cars, Lock had the same feeling of dislocation he’d had when he’d returned home from Afghanistan and Iraq. How could people go about their lives like this? Didn’t they know what was happening?
He knew, even as they occurred to him, how naive those questions were. To protect themselves, people had become expert at ignoring what was outside their immediate realm. Back when he was serving, he had come to envy those who had the ability to hermetically seal their lives. It wasn’t an option that had been open to him.
As they exited the 10 freeway, Ty breached the silence. “How you holding up?” he asked, the flick of his eyes obscured behind his Oakleys.
“My ears are still ringing.”
Ty and Lock didn’t go in much for heart-to-heart conversations. They happened, but they were rare. It wasn’t that they didn’t worry about each other. They did. It was more that men like them weren’t much for tear-stained shared confessionals.
“You probably got tinnitus. If it don’t go away, gimme a holler and I’ll hook you up with something to help.”
“Thanks.”
They lapsed back into silence. Lock used his phone to check for any breaking updates. In place of information there was only lots of fevered speculation, but nothing new that had any meat on the bone, regarding who had taken Carmen and why. Nor was there any word from the LAPD about suspects, beyond a couple of grainy black-and-white images of the two men with their masks on.