Deadlock (Ryan Lock 2)

by Black, Sean

  The pit bull that Chance had won from a Hell’s Angel in an all-night poker game barked a warning from its metal-framed run which ran the length of the house. She had planned to sell it on to a guy she’d met who was into dog fighting, but in the end decided to keep it, figuring it would prove a deterrent for inquisitive neighbors So far she’d been proved right. In the month she’d been renting the small whitewashed bungalow, no one had been to her front door, not even the mail man.

  She climbed into the red pick-up truck parked in the drive, tossed her briefcase on to the passenger side of the bench seat and reversed out on to the street at speed. Within ten minutes she was roaring down the on-ramp and merging with the early-morning traffic on Interstate 5 South. She kept her speed at an even sixty as she headed out of Los Angeles.

  She flicked on the radio, catching a Jimmy Buffett tune mid-chorus. Jimmy was singing a song called ‘We Are the People Our Parents Warned Us About’. It was one of Chance’s favorites

  Chance rolled down the windows either side of her as traffic ahead of her slowed to a crawl. The breeze felt good on her skin. In the lane next to her a businessman in a BMW saloon was staring at her. She raised her sunglasses and winked at him. The poor sap lost all concentration and looked up just in time to avoid rear-ending the car in front of him. Chance spotted a gap in the outside lane and zoomed into it, leaving the BMW driver in her dust.

  Men. Always thinking with their dicks.

  Leaving Orange County the traffic cleared, and she started making good time. The meeting was set for eleven o’clock and she couldn’t afford to be late.

  In the end she made it with an hour to spare, taking the off-ramp twelve miles shy of San Diego and following the directions on her GPS according to the coordinates she’d been given.

  The rendezvous point was down a dirt track at the back of a vacant lot. The track dead-ended at what looked like a disused auto repair shop. Chance parked the truck and went to take a look around.

  The building was squat and low. There were two large sliding doors. She heaved one open and stepped inside. The place smelled of motor oil and tobacco. A bench ran the length of the back wall. A stack of truck tires was piled against a barred window.

  Chance heard a vehicle approaching, its gears grinding. She ducked outside to take a look.

  A yellow rental truck parked up and a man in his late fifties sporting salt-and-pepper hair and a pair of old-school RayBan Wayfarer sunglasses hopped out of the cab. He was wearing khaki combat trousers, a white T-shirt and black boots.

  He stopped when he saw her and looked her up and down. Her outfit was definitely having the desired effect.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, flicking back a strand of blonde hair from in front of her face.

  ‘Well, if this don’t beat all,’ he said. He had more than a hint of a Southern accent. Georgia maybe. Or Mississippi.

  ‘You bring everything?’ Chance asked him.

  ‘Oh, I got everything,’ he said.

  What an asshole, thought Chance.

  ‘Can I see it?’

  ‘Sure, it’s in the back of the truck.’

  She followed him to the rear of the truck. He fiddled with a padlock then opened up doors at the back. He climbed in the back and helped her up. There were three plywood coffins there.

  ‘Nice touch,’ said Chance.

  ‘No one’s going to open one of these coming back from Iraq on a military transport plane,’ the man said.

  ‘You mind if I take a look?’ she asked him.

  ‘Go right ahead, honey.’

  She prised open the lid of the first coffin and took a look inside. She took out an M-4 assault rifle and checked it over.

  The man shifted his weight from one foot to the other. ‘It’s all here. Everything you asked for. Now, did you bring the money?’

  Chance nodded, replacing the lid. ‘You help me get this stuff loaded first?’

  ‘Sure thing. Tell you the truth, I’m glad to be getting rid of it,’ he said, rolling up his sleeves to reveal a black sun tattoo.

  They set to work moving the coffins from the back of the hire truck to her pick-up. Chance could tell that the man was surprised by her physical strength. ‘You sure you should be lifting stuff?’ he asked her.

  Chance smiled sweetly. ‘Dude, your belly’s bigger than mine. What do you think Pilgrim women did when they were pregnant? Sit home and eat bonbons?’

  He laughed and they carried on.

  As they lifted the final coffin he told her to be careful. ‘This one’s got that real special delivery.’

  Chance felt her heart quicken. ‘The pressure plates?’

  ‘Calibrated to the weight you asked for.’

  Slowly, they maneuvered the coffin from the truck and slid it along the bed of the pick-up. Then Chance covered all three coffins with a green tarpaulin.

  ‘The money’s here,’ she said, walking round to the front of the pick-up, opening the passenger-side door and grabbing the briefcase. She flipped open the two catches and held the contents up for inspection.

  The man smiled at the thick bundles of hundred-dollar bills. His tongue flicked across his lips.

  She looked past him to the rear of the truck. ‘Damn, that tarpaulin’s come loose. Could you fix it for me?’

  ‘Be my pleasure, honey,’ he said.

  She put the briefcase down on the ground and reached back into the cab of the truck, grabbing a loaded Glock 9mm. ‘You’re so sweet,’ Chance said, leveling the gun at him and firing two shots into the man’s back from less than ten feet away. He took a step, his body twisting round. Then his legs folded and he fell, face down. She closed in on him, firing two more rounds into the back of his head.

  Satisfied he was dead, she got back into the red pick-up, picked up her cell phone and called Cowboy, one of the two men she trusted most in the world. Along with his friend Trooper, Cowboy was a dedicated Aryan warrior. They had been by her side through the toughest of times, and in a world where trust was in short supply she knew they would stand by her come what may. They had proved as much when they’d helped her resolve the Prager situation.

  Cowboy answered on the first ring.

  ‘I got it,’ she said.

  ‘Any problems?’

  She stared in the side mirror at the man’s body lying flat, blood puddling out around him.

  ‘Nope,’ she said. ‘Plain sailing.’

  14

  A blue-steel light filtering through the bars of Lock and Reaper’s cell announced the dawn of a new day. Along with the other inmates in the unit, Lock and Reaper had spent the remainder of the previous day confined to their cell. Having been escorted from the yard, the three members of the Aryan Brotherhood had failed to reappear. Lock guessed they had been transferred either to another unit or solitary, and not before time.

  Regardless of the reason, and even with them gone, Lock knew there was no way he could afford to relax. The Aryan Brotherhood was a powerful organisation whose tentacles stretched out beyond their immediate membership, and its leadership wasn’t about to give up without a fight.

  Finishing up a breakfast of fluorescent pink ham, bread, butter and an apple, washed down with milk, Lock put down his meal tray and nodded towards the stack of books on the floor. ‘Mind if I take a look?’

  ‘Go right ahead. You might learn something.’

  Lock flicked past Reaper’s well-thumbed copy of Mein Kampf and settled instead on an equally dog-eared edition of Sun Tzu’s The Art of War. He held it up. ‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer?’

  Reaper looked up. ‘It wasn’t Sun Tzu who said that.’

  ‘Who was it then?’

  Reaper laid aside his food tray and hopped down from his perch. ‘Michael Corleone in The Godfather.’ He plucked the book from Lock’s hands and held it up. ‘No, what Sun Tzu said was this: “Engage people with what they expect. It settles them into predictable patterns of response, occupying their minds while you wait for the extraordinary momen
t – that which they cannot anticipate.”’

  Reaper seemed to be reciting the passage from memory.

  ‘And what does that mean?’ Lock asked him.

  Reaper hopped back up on to the top bunk with a grace that belied his age. ‘You’ll know it when you see it.’

  ‘An extraordinary moment?’

  Reaper chuckled to himself. ‘Oh, it’ll be extraordinary all right.’

  Lock felt a ripple of concern. Since he’d stepped into the cell, Reaper hadn’t come across as a man worried for his life. He also seemed to be finding great amusement in a secret only he was privy to. The more Lock thought about it, the more suspect Reaper’s testimony seemed to be. There was a game being played, but he wasn’t sure it was the game Jalicia and Coburn thought it was.

  Lock was torn from his thoughts by the sound of cell doors being opened on the ground floor of the unit.

  ‘OK, gentlemen,’ shouted Lieutenant Williams, standing with his hands on his hips, in the centre of the floor. ‘Showers. Two cells at a time. And just so you know, if there’s any more trouble in this unit, you’ll be back on lockdown.’

  Inside their cell, Reaper wagged a finger at Lock, and smirked. ‘You hear that, soldier boy?’

  Half an hour later their cell door opened and, stripped to the waist, Lock and Reaper stepped out on to the tier along with two Hispanic inmates from the cell next door. Lock signaled for Reaper to hang back but Reaper pushed past the two smaller Hispanics and made his way towards the showers, which were at the far end of the unit. Lock took his time, keeping an eye on the two Hispanics as they followed Reaper into the showers.

  Reaper soaped up and set about washing himself. Lock and the other two inmates did the same.

  Reaper closed his eyes and let the hot water cascade across his face. ‘Lock, will you stop looking at my ass.’

  The two Hispanics sniggered and traded a look, then glanced over at Lock.

  Lock stared at them. ‘What are you looking at?’

  His challenge seemed to do the trick, as they quickly looked away.

  Lock washed up as best he could with the gritty prison-issue soap, keeping an eye on the door leading into the showers. He thought about what Lieutenant Williams had just said about no one being allowed out of their cells if there was any more trouble.

  They dried off, dressed and headed back up to their cell. Twenty minutes later, once everyone in the unit had been given the opportunity to get cleaned up, the unit’s cells were opened one at a time and the general housing inmates filtered out to work within the prison or to attend class. Lock and Reaper were left to last, which was fine by Lock.

  Together, they stepped out on to an empty tier and walked down the stairs. Waiting for them at the bottom was Lieutenant Williams, who motioned them to follow him out on to the yard.

  ‘You see that?’ Williams said, pointing to the chain-link fence that encircled the yard area.

  Lock noticed that every piece of metal on the fence, every attaching link, was slashed with a dash of purple paint. The colour was starting to fade though, ravaged no doubt by the sea air and wind.

  Lieutenant Williams nodded towards a tin of paint and two brushes sitting next to the fence. ‘I want you to paint over every slash of purple that’s already there,’ he said.

  Reaper shrugged. ‘Want us to count the bricks in the unit when we’re done?’

  ‘Watch your mouth, Hays,’ Williams said, marching back towards the unit.

  Lock stared at the fence for a moment.

  ‘They mark all the pieces that someone might break off and use as a shank,’ Reaper explained. ‘If there’s no paint where there should be, it’s easier to see.’

  Of course, thought Lock, a piece of metal from the fence provided the basic material for a very deadly weapon. It took a lot less energy to drive metal into someone’s body than plastic.

  By the time lunch was called, dark patches of sweat had formed under Lock’s prison blues, and the inmates from the unit were starting to filter back from their work details and classes. First back were some of the white inmates. Phileas led this group, with Eichmann next to his boss. Behind them came a group of black inmates, Ty among them. Ty split from them, and nodded for Lock to join him. Lock rested his paintbrush on the edge of the can of purple paint and got up.

  Reaper shot him a look that was loaded with anger. ‘Where the hell are you going, Lock?’ he hissed.

  Lock noticed that Reaper wasn’t the only one looking at him as he joined Ty. The other white inmates were openly staring as Lock caught up with Ty next to the wall.

  ‘What’s up?’ Lock asked Ty.

  ‘The Aryan Brotherhood have given the contract to the Mexican Mafia, and they’ve kicked it down to the Nortenos,’ Ty whispered.

  ‘Thanks. You hear anything else, you let me know.’

  15

  ‘The Nortenos have taken over the contract on you,’ Lock said, digging his fork into a piece of mystery meat on his lunch tray.

  Reaper shrugged. ‘Figures. But we’ve got bigger problems than that.’ He slammed down his tray. ‘What were you doing back there talking to that toad on the yard? I damn told you the rules, soldier boy.’

  Lock eyed Reaper coolly. ‘Those are your rules, not mine.’

  ‘Wrong, they’re the yard’s rules,’ Reaper said. ‘To us, someone who associates with the blacks is worse than a snitch, worse than a child molester. Now, I warned you, but you had to do it your way, and now you’re going to have to deal with the fall-out.’

  ‘Your concern’s touching, but I can handle myself.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ said Reaper.

  An hour later, he and Reaper were out on the basketball court. Lock looked around at his companions. With their low brows, dumb-muscle bulk and yellowing, crank-rotten dentistry, Lock wasn’t sure this was what people meant by the term ‘master race’.

  Behind them, the black inmates, Ty among them, had taken the benches in an orderly handover. Distance was maintained between the two groups as they did so. It occurred to Lock that every group on the yard operated as its own personal escort section. If these guys hadn’t been such lousy criminals, they might have made halfway decent close-protection operatives.

  The whites had divided into two teams, Lock finding himself on the same team as Reaper but up against Phileas. Not ideal. It would have been easier to keep an eye on Reaper if he’d been up against him. The court, mid-game, would be a good place for a hit too. Lots of movement buying vital seconds before any guards on the yard or, more crucially, in the gun tower noticed anything was happening.

  At first all went well, the mid-afternoon heat ensuring that a brisk pace, with lots of baskets and fouls that bordered on common assault, quickly slowed the game to a walking pace. Lock went up against Phileas, dribbling the ball round him and catching an elbow in his abdomen for his trouble. As Lock doubled over, Phileas stole the ball and headed for the basket. Reaper stuck out a foot to trip him but Phileas feinted left and scored a deft two-pointer which sparked whoops of delight from his team-mates.

  After fifteen minutes of barely contained mayhem, Phileas, the gnarled leader of the Nazi Low Riders, called a time-out and both teams gathered under the basket to catch their breath. Reaper scraped a hand across his stubble, then grabbed the ball and was off, moving down court at a steady clip. Lock jogged after him, as did Phileas, the proper game seemingly over.

  Reaper passed the ball to Lock, then started to wander back down towards the inmates.

  Phileas caught up with Lock. ‘Come on then, soldier, let’s play a little one on one.’

  Lock bounced the ball, eyes flicking back down the court to Reaper.

  ‘Don’t worry about your cellie,’ Phileas said. ‘He can take care of himself. Believe me.’

  ‘I never doubted it.’

  Phileas lunged for the ball, but Lock shifted back, keeping it just out of his reach. Phileas narrowed his eyes and half-turned so he was focused on the group of black inmates mo
ving slowly from the benches, ready to head back into the unit.

  ‘The toad you came in with,’ Phileas said.

  Lock’s hackles rose as he heard his friend being abused for the second time that day. Under any other circumstance, Nazi Low Rider shot caller or not, the guy would be choking to death on his own tongue. ‘His name’s Tyrone.’

  Phileas shrugged. ‘You name your pets?’

  Lock tensed as Phileas dived in again, taking the basketball with the tips of his fingers, dribbling it four more steps, setting up for the shot, then stopping, both hands on the ball.

  ‘We want him dead. And we want you to do it.’

  ‘Forget it,’ Lock said, moving round so his back was to the hoop and he had a clear view all the way down the court to Reaper, and beyond to the black inmates and Ty.

  ‘Time to wet your steel, soldier,’ Phileas said as Lock watched Ty bumping fists with the other black inmates. ‘Next yard, Lock. You kill him or we kill you.’

  16

  It was early morning when Chance once again shuffled through the metal detector in the lobby of the Federal Building. This visit, she’d still worn an underwire bra but also a crop top, which emphasized the fact she was pregnant. The metal detector beeped and she was asked to stand to one side. It was a different female guard this time, which came as a relief. The woman wanded Chance with the handheld detector, which sounded as it passed over Chance’s chest and lower abdomen. Then she moved on to patting her down.

  As the female guard moved her hand over Chance’s belly, Chance winced.

  ‘You OK?’ asked the guard.

  ‘Sorry, I’m just a little tender there.’

  Chance could read the female guard’s discomfort. She finished the search by moving her hands away quickly down Chance’s legs and checking the soles of her shoes.

  ‘OK, ma’am, you have a nice day.’

  Chance slipped away towards the bank of elevators and headed up to the tenth floor. There, she walked briskly towards the disabled bathroom. She locked the door behind her, pulled off her jeans and panties, lowered the toilet seat and set about retrieving the package of cellophane-wrapped C4 explosive and detonator cap from inside her vaginal cavity. She placed the package in the sink, pulled her panties and jeans back on, and slipped off her bra. In less than ten seconds she had pulled the length of wire from her bra, which she now stuffed into her bag, taking out a newly bought cell phone as she did so.