Deadlock (Ryan Lock 2)

by Black, Sean

  Carrie stayed behind to call in reports from the scene while Lock and Ty walked back to the hotel. News of what had happened, and the fact that the President was fine, had spread through the city. People were out on the sidewalks, drawn together by a need to share their relief at a crisis averted.

  But, Lock noticed, beyond the shock imprinted on people’s faces, a sense of togetherness seemed to pervade the air. Outside a grocery store, a wizened acid casualty in his seventies embraced an equally elderly Asian man. A group of female college students sat together in a small park a few blocks shy of the hotel, lighting candles next to a picture of the President’s injured daughter. A little further towards the piers that faced the bay, a good-looking young couple, the guy black, the woman white, hugged each other as they watched a couple of fighter aircraft sweep low over the Golden Gate Bridge.

  Rather than the death, mayhem and hatred Reaper had so confidently predicted, events had served to bring the country together. When Martin Luther King was gunned down, it had plunged the country into spasms of violence. Maybe this time they had truly moved on.

  Lock and Ty wandered into the lobby of the Argonaut and took the elevator to their respective rooms. They clasped hands for a moment, then headed off in opposite directions.

  Lock opened the door into his suite and stepped into the bathroom. He stared at his reflection in the mirror. There were dark patches under his eyes and a nasty bruise on one side of his face where Chance had kicked him.

  He washed his hands and face and dried off with a towel. Then he walked into the bedroom area and lay back on the bed fully clothed. There would be time to sleep later. He had a strong feeling the game wasn’t over yet.

  73

  Coburn’s name flashed up on Carrie’s cell phone. She clicked the answer button. Behind her, activity at the hospital had slowed to a crawl as the media mopped up the last shreds of information about the failed assassination attempt on the President.

  ‘You’ve got some nerve,’ she said. Lock had told her about Coburn leaving him hanging back at the cathedral.

  ‘Where is he? I need to speak to him.’

  ‘Emergency’s over, so he’s getting some rest,’ she told him.

  ‘You’re staying at the Argonaut, right?’

  Carrie couldn’t remember either her or Lock telling anyone where they were staying. ‘What is it with you people?’ she snapped. ‘I told you, he’s resting. You can talk to him tomorrow.’

  ‘It won’t wait until then. What room’s he in?’

  Carrie hesitated. ‘Room 426,’ she said at last.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, and hung up.

  Coburn put his cell phone back into his pocket and glanced at the crowd of people packed into Capurro’s Restaurant and Bar, which sat on the opposite side of Jefferson Street from the Argonaut. With some difficulty he muscled his way over to the man nursing his beer at the bar. He ordered himself a beer and leaned in towards the man.

  ‘Room 426,’ Coburn told him.

  ‘I got it,’ said Cowboy, raising his beer bottle in salute to Coburn and tilting the dregs into his throat.

  Coburn slapped Cowboy a high five and watched as he elbowed his way towards the front door of the bar. The bartender slid Coburn his beer, and he took a big gulp. In a few minutes, Lock would be dead, and he could relax.

  74

  Cowboy tipped his hat to a well-dressed Asian couple pushing a stroller as he exited the elevator on the fourth floor and they got in. He waited for the doors to close on them, glancing across to his right at the room number guide. Then he turned right and followed the corridor for around twenty yards, counting off the numbers as he walked, before hanging another right.

  A long corridor stretched ahead of him. His boots sank deep into the blue- and gold-patterned carpet. Aside from a maid’s cleaning cart parked at the far end of the hallway, the place was deserted. Still, the cart meant that he would have to force Lock back inside before he killed him. Once he had him inside, Cowboy would crank up the volume on the TV and take care of business. Coburn had warned him to be careful, that Lock was dangerous, but Cowboy had dealt with guys like Lock before.

  Coburn finished his beer, left the bar and waited across the street from the hotel, sticking close to a group of tourists checking out T-shirts in the next-door gift shop. Once Cowboy had killed Lock and taken care of Ty, he would head upstairs and take care of Cowboy. That only left Chance, and with her in custody, he would have ample opportunity to deal with that problem.

  Coburn picked up a hat from the rack in front of him. Emblazoned across its front were the words ‘Alcatraz – Mental Ward – Outpatient’. He turned it over in his hands, then put it back on the rack, and waited.

  Standing in the corridor outside Lock’s room, Cowboy finally caught a break. The velvet bag holding that day’s newspaper was wedged in between the door and the frame of room 426. Lock must have opened the door, left the bag still swinging on the handle, and gone back into the room. As the door had closed, the bag had jammed in there, preventing the door from clicking shut.

  Cowboy pushed the door open and snuck in, making sure to close it behind him, as quietly as he could. Directly ahead of him was a bedroom. There was also a living area with a couch and a coffee table. Off to one side was a dark wooden door. It was open a few inches and Cowboy could hear the blast of a shower running. Perfect.

  He crept towards the bathroom, then stopped. He’d need more than the sound of running water to cover the noise of a gunshot. He walked slowly into the bedroom and picked up the remote control for the TV. He clicked it on, and kept the remote in his left hand. As soon as he had Lock in front of him, he’d max the volume.

  He crossed back to the bathroom door and pushed it open, his gun raised in his hand. The shower curtain was pulled over the bath. He stepped back to the doorway and snuck his left hand back round the door frame, aiming it towards the TV, clicking on the volume up button. He was all set.

  ‘Hey, Lock,’ he called out.

  There was no response other than the white noise of water blasting into the bath.

  ‘Game’s up, Lock,’ he announced, a little louder this time.

  The curtain didn’t even move. Cautiously, Cowboy dropped his right foot back and reached out with his left hand towards the shower curtain. He yanked it to one side.

  The shower was running but the bath was empty. He whipped round, expecting to see Lock standing behind him, but he was alone in the bathroom. He took a deep breath, tipped his hat back on his head and swiped the moisture that had gathered on his face from the hot blast of the shower away from his eyes.

  Then he stepped out of the bathroom.

  He was sideways on to the door leading into the room when the bullet slammed into his neck with a wet thud.

  Lock walked over and toe-poked Cowboy’s limp corpse. Behind him, Ty looked on.

  ‘Wrong room, asshole,’ Lock said. ‘I’m staying in 427.’

  ‘One down,’ said Ty.

  Lock nodded. ‘Coburn can’t be far behind.’ He stared down at Cowboy’s body, noting the tiny shamrock tattoo on his right hand. ‘Let’s get him moved.’

  Together, they dragged Cowboy into the bathroom, leaving a smear of blood on the carpet, which didn’t matter, Lock concluded. Coburn would be expecting blood, and, contrary to the white supremacists’ beliefs, one man’s blood looked the same as any other.

  With Cowboy’s body hidden from plain view, Lock handed Ty his room key card. Ty crossed the five yards to the other side of the hall to wait while Lock reset the door of room 426 with the newspaper bag. Coburn, who was surely less gullible than the dead man in the bathroom, would assume his buddy had done it.

  Lock stepped back into the room and took a seat on the couch, facing the door. If Coburn bolted, Ty would be watching from across the corridor, ready to take him down.

  Lock didn’t have long to wait. Less than five minutes later, the door was pushed open.

  ‘Lock, you OK?’ Coburn called
out, stepping inside.

  The concerned ATF agent, thought Lock bitterly.

  Coburn froze when he saw Lock, then, looking down at the carpet, he caught sight of the bloody trail leading into the bathroom. ‘Jesus H. What the hell happened here?’

  ‘I could ask you the same,’ Lock said, taking his time. ‘Don’t you knock first?’

  Coburn looked behind him. ‘Sorry. I… I thought you might be in trouble when I saw the door open.’

  Lock smiled. ‘Close it.’

  This was the moment of truth. Coburn could either close the door, step back into the room and try to front it out, or he could make an escape. Either way, Lock thought grimly, he was going to take him down.

  Carrie had called him about five minutes after he’d arrived in his room to tell him that Coburn was looking for him. Going on gut feeling, and after what had happened back at the Cathedral, she had decided to give Coburn the wrong room number.

  Coburn leaving him to hang like that had also been preying on Lock’s mind. His disquiet prompted him to make a call he’d been avoiding. He called the police department in Medford and tracked down one of the cops who’d taken the cell phone that he’d found outside Jalicia’s motel from him. With a lot of persuasion the cop confirmed that it was Jalicia’s cell phone. He told Lock something else as well.

  On the night she was abducted outside her motel the last phone call she’d received was from an agent with the ATFE. It was the same agent who was standing in front of Lock now. Through all the bad decisions, bloodshed and mayhem, he was the one constant.

  Coburn was turning towards the door. Lock felt his whole body tense.

  ‘Your buddy with the cowboy hat’s in the bathroom.’

  Coburn stopped. ‘What are you talking about?’

  He was one hell of an actor, Lock conceded that much. More of an actor than Ken Prager. Although Ken wouldn’t have stood a chance anyway, not if Coburn had let slip to Reaper and his daughter that he was an undercover ATF agent.

  ‘Go ahead,’ Lock said. ‘Close it.’

  Coburn looked puzzled. ‘Whatever you say.’

  Lock watched as Coburn grasped the handle. Then, with a sudden jerk, he made his move, throwing the door open and launching himself through it.

  75

  Lock squeezed the trigger, but rather than run, Coburn had gone to ground, and Lock’s shot went high.

  The room door began to swing shut. Lock got to his feet and ran towards it. He could hear the door on the other side of the corridor being thrown open and Ty shouting at Coburn to stop. Then there was the sound of a struggle.

  Lock stepped out into the corridor. It was a long stretch to where it turned at a right angle back towards the bank of two elevators. Coburn was running towards them.

  Ty was on the floor just outside the door, clutching his shoulder, his face contorted in pain. For a heart-stopping second Lock thought he’d been shot again, but there was no blood.

  ‘Son of a bitch hit me,’ Ty spat at Coburn’s retreating figure.

  Lock took to his heels in pursuit of Coburn, who now had a good thirty-yard start. At least, thought Lock, there was no longer any doubt as to what Coburn was, or which side he was on.

  As Coburn closed in on the end of the corridor, Lock was gaining on him. With doors either side, Lock hadn’t wanted to risk taking a shot which might take out a curious hotel guest who had opened his door to see what all the commotion was. Coburn, however, had no such qualms. He spun round on his heel and took aim.

  Lock flattened himself against a door. Coburn took the shot anyway, missing by a mile but buying himself a few more valuable seconds.

  When Lock looked up, Coburn was already rounding the turn at the end of the corridor. Lock followed him, pulling up short of the turn, aware that he could fly round the corner only to find Coburn waiting for him. Reaching the end of the corridor, he took a quick look, catching sight of Coburn’s back as he ran past the elevators, heading for the stairs.

  Driven on by adrenalin, Lock ran for the exit to the stairs. He burst through the door and, leaning over the railing, saw Coburn already on the way down. Lock stood there, tracking Coburn’s progress, waiting for the right moment, praying that Coburn wouldn’t duck back out into a corridor before he made it to the ground floor.

  Steadying his grip on his 226, Lock took aim and squeezed the trigger. The tight confines of the stairwell amplified the sound of the gunshot, leaving an echo ringing in Lock’s ears. The single blast of gunfire was accompanied by a sharp, guttural scream of pain from below as Coburn tumbled down on to the second-floor landing.

  Lock started down the stairs, taking them two at a time. He could see Coburn lying prostrate on the ground, his gun ten steps below him, safely out of reach. Blood oozed from Coburn’s right boot where Lock’s bullet had found its target.

  Coburn was rocking back and forth with the pain. Finally, he twisted his head round, staring up at Lock. ‘Prison ain’t so bad,’ he said.

  Lock took a moment to catch his breath. He looked around the stairwell. He was alone with Coburn. No CCTV or witnesses of any description. All anyone would have seen was two men, both armed and firing at each other, disappearing into the stairwell.

  ‘You think I’m going to take you in?’ Lock asked him.

  Coburn half-shrugged a ‘yes’ and clutched at his bloodied foot with both hands. ‘You’re a boy scout, Lock,’ he said. ‘Why else would you have taken that suicide mission Jalicia gave you?’

  Lock took one more step towards him. Then another. Coburn’s foot looked bad, but not bad enough to kill him. Not even close. He turned over the situation in his mind, then took a breath, the stairwell seeming to tunnel in round them. A cold breeze had picked up from somewhere. It took him back to the redwood clearing where Ken Prager had been butchered before being forced to watch the execution of his wife and child.

  The question facing Lock now wasn’t whether Coburn deserved to die. He did. The question was, could he kill a man in cold blood? Even a man such as Coburn.

  If he did, Lock would be crossing a line into a different country. And once he had crossed, there would be no return.

  He stared down at Coburn’s twisted features as he writhed in pain in front of him. He thought of Ty lying helpless on the yard back at Pelican Bay, and how Reaper and Phileas had seen Ty as less than human because of the colour of his skin.

  ‘See,’ Coburn said, pushing down his sock to get a better look at his wound and revealing a tiny bloodied shamrock on his ankle, ‘I knew you were a boy scout.’

  Lock wasn’t sure whether it was seeing the symbol of the Aryan Brotherhood hidden away on Coburn’s ankle or the smirk on his face, but he felt something in him shift at that moment. Slowly, he raised his gun so that it was aimed right between Coburn’s eyes.

  ‘I’m going to tell you what I told Reaper on that plane down from Pelican Bay,’ he said softly. ‘I’m not a cop, or a Marshal, or the FBI. I’m a private contractor, and right now I’m off the clock, working on my own time, so the only person I have to answer to is myself.’

  Coburn blinked, and his expression morphed from a look of pained amusement to genuine fear. ‘You wouldn’t,’ he said.

  Lock’s index finger closed round the trigger and he squeezed off a single round, the bullet catching Coburn square in the face. His left arm twitched in spasm, his neck snapped violently back, and then he was perfectly still.

  The sound of the gunshot reverberated around the empty stairwell, fading slowly away until all Lock could hear was a distant hum, overlaid by the sharp keen of sirens and his heart pounding in his chest.

  ‘I just did,’ he said, turning his back on the twisted corpse and starting back up the stairs.

  Epilogue

  Hand in hand, Lock and Carrie climbed the steps of Grace Cathedral and walked through the Gothic facade into the cool of the nave. The visit had been Carrie’s idea, a way of both of them finding some closure before they headed home, although Lock had been gr
ateful that she hadn’t used those words.

  The last few days had involved endless variations on the same set of questions. Lock’s answers had not changed. Gradually, and with no appetite to wash the ATF’s dirty laundry in public, the questions had fallen away to a distant echo until Lock was alone with only his own thoughts for company.

  In the body of the cathedral was a limestone labyrinth. Unlike a maze, Carrie had explained, a labyrinth had no dead ends. You followed the path to the centre, stayed there for as long as you wanted, then followed the same route back out.

  She dropped Lock’s hand from hers and stepped back.

  ‘You don’t want to walk it with me?’ he asked her.

  Carrie shook her head. ‘I’ll be over there if you need me,’ she said, nodding towards a candle-lit area off to one side.

  He watched her walk away. Calm. Composed. More precious to him than any woman he had ever known. In the days since those final moments alone with Coburn in the stairwell, she had allowed him his silences, letting him know with a look, or a hand at the small of his back, that if he needed to talk she was happy to listen, but not pressing him on it.

  She seemed to understand that for him there was no release to be found in taking another man’s life, no surge of excitement from the metallic tang of blood that filled your nostrils, no joy in pulling a trigger.

  Feeling more than a little self-conscious, Lock stepped onto the labyrinth and slowly began to follow it round. The past week had given him the time to think about the path he had chosen in life, the places it had taken him, and the things it had taught him about the best and the worst of human nature.

  Even with all that baggage, nothing had prepared him for seeing Ken Prager and his family being slaughtered. Nothing would ever erase in his mind the first sight he had had of Ty lying on the yard at Pelican Bay. Nor would he ever forget the shiver in Coburn’s eyes as he’d watched him squeeze the trigger. All of these things Lock would carry with him – perhaps for the rest of his life.