Lockdown rl-1

by Sean Black

  Lockdown

  ( Ryan Lock - 1 )

  Sean Black

  Sean Black. Lockdown

  (Ryan Lock — 1)

  For Jim and Lorna, whose faith never wavered, and

  in memory of my grandfather, George Robertson, who

  sacrificed so much for his country at such a young age.

  Prologue

  Nobody guards the dead. Once that occurred to Cody, the plan had come together in no time. Drive to the cemetery, dig her up, sling the coffin into the back of the truck, and disappear into the night. Easy. Apart from one tiny hitch.

  ‘Man, this ground is like concrete.’

  Cody glanced over at his companion, the moonlight splitting his face in two. ‘Quit bitching.’

  Usually he liked to work alone. But moving a body was a twoman job. No way round it.

  ‘I ain’t bitching. I’m making an observation.’

  ‘Well, observations ain’t gonna get this done.’

  ‘Neither’s digging. We’re gonna need dynamite to get this old witch out of the ground.’

  Don was right. They’d picked the worst time of the year. November on the Eastern Seaboard. A bitter winter with the wind coming off a slate grey Atlantic. Freezing the living, as well as the dead.

  Spring would have been better. The nights would still have been long, but the ground would have been softer. Thing was, though, they didn’t have a choice. Not as far as Cody was concerned.

  The way he saw it, the clock was ticking. Every day lives were being lost. Hundreds, maybe even thousands. No one really knew for sure. And these deaths weren’t peaceful. Not like the one this woman had experienced: slipping gradually away, the fiery edge of pain dulled by drugs, her loved ones around her to say goodbye.

  No, these deaths were torturous and lonely. A final spit in the face to cap a miserable existence.

  The anger he felt thinking about it rose up in him. He punched down hard on the lip of the blade with the heel of his right boot, and finally found some purchase. Frosted grass gave way to frozen top soil. He stamped down again. The blade dug in another inch. His breath clouded in the freezing night air as he sucked in oxygen and repeated the process.

  A full hour later, Don was the first to hit something solid that wasn’t earth. The two men were exhausted, but the clatter of metal meeting wood spurred them on.

  Thirty minutes after that they were loading the remains into the back of the truck. Cody made a show of dusting off his gloves as Don pulled down the rear door of the box truck they’d jacked a few hours earlier from a quiet street in Queens.

  Don opened the cab door and started to climb in. Halfway up, he stopped and turned back to Cody. ‘Well, we did it,’ he said.

  Cody smirked. ‘Are you for real, brother? That was the easy part.’

  One

  Ryan Lock peered through the floor-to-ceiling windows which fronted the reception area of the Meditech building. Outside, freezing rain was sweeping down Sixth Avenue in sheets, jamming the dozen or so animal rights protestors into a tight knot on the sidewalk opposite.

  ‘Who the hell stages a demonstration on Christmas Eve?’ the receptionist asked.

  ‘You mean apart from turkeys?’ Lock said, hunching his jacket up around his shoulders, pushing through the revolving doors and stepping out into the near-Arctic weather.

  Three months as head of security for America’s largest pharmaceutical and biotechnology company had left Lock with little patience for the animal rights people, no matter how earnest their cause.

  A fresh gust of wind stung his face. He pulled up the collar of his jacket and scanned the protestors. Front and centre was Gray Stokes, the protestors’ de facto leader. In his early fifties, with a vegan’s bony frame, Stokes stood with his customary smug expression, a loudhailer in one hand, his other hand resting on the handle of a wheelchair.

  In the chair sat Stokes’ daughter Janice, a pretty brunette in her mid-twenties, her left leg rendered useless by a rare form of progressive, terminal multiple sclerosis. The placard she held in two red-gloved hands had four words etched on it in thick black capital letters: NOT IN MY NAME.

  Lock watched as Stokes raised his loudhailer and began to harangue the half-dozen uniformed cops who were there to ensure good order. Closest to Stokes, one of the city’s finest, a portly sergeant by the name of Caffrey, made a show of eating a Big Mac, punctuating each bite with stage-whisper yum-yum noises.

  Lock registered Stokes’ reaction with interest.

  ‘Hey, pig, you ever wonder what goes into those things?’ Stokes yelled at Caffrey. ‘Maybe the ALF left some of Grandma in with the rest of the meat back at Mickey D’s.’

  Anyone who had picked up a copy of the New York Post or flicked on to a news channel during the past six weeks would have gotten the reference. The manager of a Times Square fast food joint had found the disinterred body of seventy-two-year-old Eleanor Van Straten, matriarch of the Meditech corporation, on the sidewalk outside his establishment.

  The link between Mrs Van Straten’s unscheduled appearance so soon after her funeral and the animal rights movement had been a no-brainer. The next day Lock had been invited to head up the Van Stratens’ close protection team.

  Lock watched Caffrey slipping the last of his burger back into its Styrofoam container and turned his attention back to Stokes.

  ‘So how come, if God didn’t want us to eat cows, he made them out of meat?’ Caffrey taunted.

  The comeback prompted a few snickers from the other cops, and Stokes to step out from behind the barrier and off the sidewalk.

  ‘That’s right, buddy, you keep coming,’ Caffrey yelled. ‘You can cool your heels in Rikers for a few hours. Plenty of animals there for you to hang with.’

  Lock watched as Stokes eye-balled Caffrey, calculating his next move. The protestors saw arrest as a badge of honour. Lock saw it as a good way to get the company on the news for all the wrong reasons. Speed-walking towards the barrier, Lock’s right hand dropped to the Sig 9mm tucked into his holster. The gesture didn’t go unnoticed by the protestors. Meekly, Stokes stepped back behind the barrier.

  Lock checked his watch again. Zero eight fifty. If he was running to schedule, Nicholas Van Straten, Eleanor’s widower, and the company’s new CEO, would be here shortly. Lock’s hand went up to his collar and he pressed down the talk button of his radio. ‘All mobile units from Lock.’

  Lock’s earpiece crackled with static, then cleared.

  A moment later, the voice of Lock’s second-in-command, Ty Johnson, came back, calm and in control. ‘Go ahead, Ryan.’

  ‘You got an ETA for me?’

  ‘Be with you in about two. What kind of reception we got?’

  ‘Usual sidewalk static.’

  ‘Principal wants to come in the front.’

  ‘I’ll make sure we’re clear.’

  Lock crossed back to Caffrey, who’d by this time beat a diplomatic retreat to his cruiser. He tapped on the glass and took a moment to enjoy Caffrey’s irritated expression as he cracked the window and the cold air rushed in.

  ‘We’re bringing him in the front.’

  Caffrey rolled his eyes. ‘Ain’t it bad enough that I have half a dozen officers tied down here every freakin’ morning?’

  ‘Half a billion bucks and a direct line to the mayor, not to mention the US Constitution, says he can walk in the main entrance of his own office if he so desires,’ Lock said, turning on his heel before Caffrey had a chance to respond.

  Caffrey shrugged a big deal to Lock’s back and rolled the window back up as four blocks away three blacked-out GMC Yukons fitted with B-7 grade armour and run-flats muscled their way through the morning gridlock, heavy with menace.

  Two

  Inside the le
ad Yukon, Ty Johnson checked his weapon, then the position of the other two vehicles in the side mirror. All good.

  Ty gave the signal for his driver to move over into the left-hand median and occupy a lane of oncoming traffic, which was momentarily stopped at a light. Blocking the junction allowed the other two SUVs to move up seamlessly on the inside, so Ty’s vehicle was now at the rear and he could have a clear view when the passengers got out.

  Ty popped his head out the window and glanced behind. About half a block back, which in this traffic equated to a good twenty seconds, an up-armoured, fire engine red Hummer rolled along.

  Inside the Hummer was the CA, or counter-attack team, led by Vic Brand, a former colonel in the US Marines. Ty knew that Lock had resisted their appointment. Normally a CA team was the preserve of the military in ultra-high threat environments, and Lock had felt it was overkill. However, Stafford Van Straten, heir apparent to the family empire and perpetual thorn in Lock’s side, had confused a stint in the Reserve Officer Training Corps when he was at Dartmouth with actual security expertise, and insisted on recruiting them, somehow convincing his father they’d be a useful addition to his security detail.

  Lock had no time for Stafford; neither did Ty. And they had even less time for Brand, a man who delighted in regaling the younger men in the CA team with his exploits in Iraq, many of which, Lock had told Ty, were fictitious. Ty, having checked with a few of his former Marine buddies, wasn’t so sure.

  The close protection world was full of guys like Brand, serial fantasists who confused talking the talk with walking the walk. To Ty, a good bodyguard was like Lock, the archetypal grey man who blended into the background, emerging only when a threat arose.

  The way Ty saw it, Brand blended like Marilyn Manson at a Jonas Brothers gig.

  Lock watched as the protestors on the street were cleared fifty feet further back by the cops. If one of them made a rush, Lock would have Nicholas Van Straten in the boardroom with his decaf latte and a copy of the Wall Street Journal before they made it to the front door.

  The front passenger door of the rear vehicle opened first. Lock looked on as Ty made his way round to open the front passenger side of the middle Yukon for the designated bodyguard. As the rest of the personal escort section deployed, spreading out so that they had eyes on a full three hundred and sixty degrees, the clamour from the activists rose in volume.

  ‘Murderer!’

  ‘Hey, Van Straten, how many animals you plan on killing today?’

  The bodyguard, a lean six foot two Mid-westerner by the name of Croft, opened Nicholas Van Straten’s door, and he stepped out. For a man who got death threats the way most people received junk mail, he looked remarkably composed. His four-man personal escort section had already made a closed box formation around him, ready to move him into the building. But Van Straten clearly had other ideas.

  Taking a right turn behind the Yukon, he began to walk towards the source of the obscenities emanating from across the way. Lock could feel a surge of adrenalin starting to build as Van Straten embarked on this unscheduled walkabout.

  ‘Where the hell’s Stafford?’ Nicholas Van Straten asked one of his aides, who appeared to be having difficulty keeping pace as his boss made a beeline for the protestors.

  ‘I’ve no idea, sir.’

  ‘He was supposed to be here,’ Van Straten said, with an air of disappointment that didn’t stretch as far as surprise. Evidently, he was used to his son letting him down.

  Lock watched as Van Straten confronted Stokes at the barrier. Anxiously, he keyed his mike. ‘Where the hell’s he going?’

  A second passed before Ty’s response came back. ‘To meet his public?’

  The four-man PES stayed tight around Van Straten. Croft glanced over at Lock as if to say, ‘What the hell do I do now?’

  Lock could only offer a shrug in return. This didn’t feature anywhere in the playbook, and he didn’t like it.

  ‘Sir, if you wouldn’t mind. .’ Croft’s request trailed off.

  ‘If I wouldn’t mind what?’

  Van Straten seemed to be enjoying the panic emanating from the men around him.

  A few yards back the red Hummer was drawing up. Lock could see one of Brand’s men in the front seat raising a gun, an M-16, by way of deterrent. Sighing, Lock keyed his radio again, waiting a beat to make sure that the start of his transmission wouldn’t be cut. ‘Brand from Lock. Tell that moron sitting in front of you to put the showstopper away. In case he hadn’t noticed, we’re in Midtown, not Mosul. If I see it again, he’s gonna find it doing double duty as a butt plug.’

  Lock breathed a sigh of relief as he saw the M-16 popping back below the dash.

  ‘What’s your boss doing? Get him inside that freakin’ building before we have a riot on our hands.’ Caffrey had ambled his way across the street and was talking to Lock.

  Static in Lock’s ear, then a message from Ty: ‘He wants to talk to them.’

  Lock passed it on, and Caffrey’s expression shifted from disgruntlement to apoplexy.

  By the time Van Straten had reached the barrier, Stokes was no more than five feet away. Silence descended as the taunting and threats fell away, the demonstrators thrown by the proximity of their chief hate figure. A cameraman from CNN tried to elbow his way in front of Lock.

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind stepping back please, sir,’ said Lock, trying to keep his voice even.

  ‘Screw you, dickwad.’

  Lock raised his hands, palms open in placation. ‘Sir, I’d really appreciate you moving back,’ he added, simultaneously raking the inside of his right boot all the way down the guy’s shin.

  As the camera operator hobbled a retreat, cursing under his breath, Lock turned to watch Van Straten confront Stokes at the barrier.

  ‘I thought a delegation from your group might like to meet with me this morning,’ Van Straten was saying.

  Stokes smiled. ‘You got my message, huh?’

  By now, the media had begun to cluster round. A blonde reporter, Carrie Delaney, was first to be heard above the rapid-fire burst of questions. ‘Mr Van Straten, what do you plan on discussing inside?’

  Lock caught her eye for a split-second. She made a point of looking away.

  A preppy-looking correspondent, with frat boy features and a footballer’s physique, broke in before Van Straten had a chance to answer. ‘Is this a sign that you’re giving in to the extremists?’

  Carrie shot the guy a look.Asshole. Lock noticed the guy smiling back.Right back at ya, babe.

  Van Straten held up his hands. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I’ll be happy to answer any questions you have after my meeting with Mr Stokes.’

  More bodies pressed in. A man behind Lock was pushed forward by a surge of the growing crowd. He pushed him back.

  Lock glanced around. It looked like every single assassination attempt ever witnessed, five seconds before it went off. A chaotic scrum of bodies, security caught flatfooted, then, from nowhere, someone making their move.

  Three

  As Lock stepped out of the elevator, Van Straten’s bodyguard, Croft, was stationed at the door which led into the boardroom.

  ‘Who’s inside?’

  ‘Just the old man and Stokes.’

  ‘You check on them?’

  Croft shook his head. ‘The old man didn’t want to be disturbed. Don’t worry, I made sure he sat at the top of the table before I left.’

  Lock relaxed a notch. There was a panic button fitted directly under that section. Not that he thought even Stokes would be dumb enough to try something here.

  ‘Any idea why the boss wanted a sit-down?’

  Croft shrugged. ‘Nada.’

  ‘He didn’t say anything in the car this morning?’

  ‘Not a word. Just sat in back going through his papers, same as always.’

  To be fair to Croft, Lock had found Nicholas Van Straten a tough man to read. Not that he was taciturn or impolite. Far from it, in fact. In contrast to his son
, Nicholas Van Straten always seemed to make a point of being overly polite to those who worked for him, sometimes in almost inverse proportion to their seniority in the company.

  ‘So no one knows what this is about?’

  Croft shook his head.

  Lock turned to walk back to the elevator as the door to the boardroom opened and Van Straten stepped out.

  ‘Ah, Ryan, just the man,’ Van Straten said, turning his attention to Lock.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘First of all, I owe you and the rest of your men an apology. I should have given you some warning of my plans.’

  Lock bit back his irritation. ‘That’s quite alright, sir.’

  ‘It was something of a last-minute decision to open direct discussions with Mr Stokes and his group.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Now, in ten minutes or so Mr Stokes and I will be going back outside to make a joint announcement.’

  ‘Sir, if I might make a suggestion.’

  ‘Of course. Please do.’

  ‘Perhaps if we found somewhere inside the building where you could-’

  Van Straten cut him off. ‘Already thought of that, but Missy thought it would be more visual to be out on the steps. Oh, and could you arrange for some coffee to be sent in? No milk. Mr Stokes doesn’t take milk. Something to do with cows finding the process emotionally unsettling.’

  ‘Right away, sir.’

  Van Straten stepped back inside and closed the door, leaving Lock alone with Croft.

  ‘Who the hell’s Missy?’ Lock asked.

  ‘Some gal in the public relations office. The old man put a call in to her about two minutes before you got here.’

  ‘Terrific,’ Lock said, trying hard to keep the exasperation from his voice. Now security strategy was being dictated by someone who probably thought an IED was a form of contraception.

  ‘Dude, relax,’ Croft said. ‘Looks like the war’s over.’