Deadlock rl-2

by Sean Black

  ‘That’s the gang they call La Eme?’

  ‘Nice to see you did some homework, Lock. Yeah, La Eme got their shit down cold.’

  ‘I thought they were tight with the Aryan Brotherhood too.’

  ‘They’re allied to whoever doesn’t draw any heat on them. Remember, out on that yard and in the unit, all that matters is that you stand with your own. Check all that black and white together bullshit at the door. Don’t matter who you are, who you roll with, or who you’re talking to. In Pelican Bay, you’re in the jungle.’

  11

  That night Lock was troubled by images of Ken Prager’s family in their final moments. Every time he shut his eyes, their terrified faces crowded in on him. Lock tried to force them out, but it was no use. As soon as he began to drift off, they were back. The look on Ken’s face was the most haunting. It was the look of a man who had sacrificed not only himself but those closest to him. A man who had been walking a tightrope, only to have it cut by some unseen hand.

  Finally, he gave up on trying to get to sleep, and lay, eyes open, staring at the barren concrete walls of the cell. He should be back at home in New York, lying next to Carrie, Angel asleep at the foot of the bed. Instead he was spending the night in an eight-foot-by-twelve-foot concrete cell with a stone-cold killer who’d already made plain the fact that Lock was an unwelcome intrusion.

  Given that sleep was proving impossible, he used the relative calm and quiet to think through what lay ahead. In some ways the task he’d been handed was simpler than other close protection jobs he’d embarked on. For one, the time frame was finite. Five days. By the time morning arrived, in a few short hours, they’d be at the start of the second day.

  The second advantage Lock possessed, if it could be called an advantage, was that he knew the threat was both clear and present. The Aryan Brotherhood would be coming after Reaper. That was a given. The only two questions that remained were when and how.

  With Reaper having insisted — idiotically, Lock thought — on being placed back in the general population, the most likely scenario would be a strike in one of the public areas. That said, Lock couldn’t categorically rule out an attack in the cell. In some ways, the confined quarters of the cell would be an ideal venue for assassination. There would be nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.

  There was also the problem of bathing to consider. In addition to the stainless-steel sink and toilet bowl bolted into the wall of each two-man cell, the unit had a communal shower area. Showering would have to be kept to a minimum. Reaper wouldn’t like it, but tough.

  Lock got up and walked to the cell door. Bars ran vertically from floor to ceiling. The building itself was two storys. They were on the upper tier. There were a dozen cells on each tier, all facing out towards a central reinforced-glass-fronted control pod. Lock could see what the prisoners referred to as the bubble cop sitting inside the pod, leafing through a magazine and eating candy, his position giving him a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree view of every single cell door.

  Looking down from behind the cell door, Lock estimated that from the top of the five-foot guard rail to the floor of the unit was maybe twenty feet. Not enough to definitely kill a man if he happened to fall over it, but enough to make sure he didn’t make court. Lock made a mental note to ensure that Reaper stayed on the inside of the walkway at all times.

  On the floor level were some blue hexagonal tables and chairs, all of which were bolted to the floor. In fact, since he had arrived, Lock hadn’t noticed any furniture or fittings in areas that would be used by the inmates which weren’t similarly secured.

  On a wall that lay parallel to the front of the cells were four pay phones, wall-mounted at equal distances from one another.

  There was a single blue reinforced door that led out of the two-story cell area and into a waiting area. On one side of the waiting area was the entry point to the block’s control pod. On the other side was another glass-fronted office. Lock had also noticed at least one single-man restraint cage. Next to that was the door that allowed entry directly on to the yard.

  Undoubtedly, the yard would be the most challenging environment, but Lock had only seen it in passing. No doubt tomorrow he’d get a better look. For now, he had to try again to get some sleep. He returned to his bunk, closed his eyes, and within minutes he was back in the lonely, blood-soaked clearing with the blazing cross at its centre as it filled with screams of abject terror.

  Lock was woken a little after six by the squeaky wheel of the metal food trolley as it rolled along the walkway outside his cell.

  ‘Chow,’ said Reaper, handing him the first of two trays passed through a slot in the door by a black prison orderly.

  ‘We eat every meal in our cells?’ Lock asked him.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ Reaper grunted, spooning some powdered egg into his mouth.

  ‘Even on the mainline?’

  Reaper put down his spoon. ‘Used to eat outside the cells in a chow hall, but so many dudes got killed that now they use the chow halls for storage.’

  Either side of them, the heavy barred doors of the cells started to clank open and inmates began to filter out. Reaper put down his tray, stood up and grabbed his towel. He was wearing loose blue cotton prison-issue pants and not much else.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Lock asked him.

  ‘Hit the showers,’ Reaper said.

  ‘Oh no you’re not,’ Lock said, putting his own tray down and sliding off his bunk.

  ‘What? You think you’re my mom?’

  ‘Mom, nursemaid, babysitter, all rolled into one, that’s me,’ said Lock. ‘Don’t you think we should see what kind of a reaction you get on the yard before you wander off to take a shower?’

  Reaper sighed. ‘You’re taking this kinda seriously, aren’t you, soldier boy?’

  ‘And so should you, if you want to stay alive.’

  While Lock finished breakfast, Reaper settled for washing himself in the sink. As he ate, Lock mulled over Reaper’s overwhelming confidence. He couldn’t decide on its source. Was it a macho veneer acquired over years spent in prison? Or did it go deeper? Did Reaper know something that either Lock or Jalicia didn’t?

  Lock took his place at the sink as an orderly came back along the tier and collected the breakfast trays.

  ‘So, what now?’ Lock asked Reaper, unsure of what kind of day lay ahead.

  ‘It’s Sunday, right?’ Reaper asked him.

  Lock had to stop and think about it. Already, the confined quarters were starting to distort his perception of time. ‘Yeah, that’s right,’ he said, pushing away the thought that Sunday mornings were usually reserved for walking Angel in Central Park with Carrie.

  ‘Then we got no work,’ said Reaper, ‘just play. And I tell you what, soldier boy,’ he went on, looking around the stark confines of their cell, ‘this sure as hell beats solitary.’

  Their cell door shuddered and began to roll open.

  ‘Yard time,’ said Reaper. ‘Let’s go meet the neighbors’

  12

  As Lock stepped out on to the yard, bright sunlight caught him unawares, and he had to put his hand up to shield his eyes from the blinding glare. The yard itself was a large grassy space divided up with benches. A walking track ran round the perimeter, and beyond that was more fencing topped with razor wire. Beyond that was another yard and another set of cell blocks which emptied out into the same sub-divided central space. The entire yard fell under the watchful eye of a guard in the gun tower, who scanned the inmates from behind mirrored sunglasses while toting a Mini-14 rifle.

  In addition to the guard high above them in the gun tower, there were cameras mounted at strategic points around the yard. There were also two guards on the yard itself, both armed with batons, tasers and large canisters of pepper spray. The yard had been constructed in such a way that, unlike some of the older prisons Lock had seen on TV, every inch of public space was open to scrutiny.

  For the first few seconds, Lock could feel the he
avy weight of the other inmates’ stares, accompanied by an ominous silence. Then it was gone, as the inmates separated into their different racial groups: the black prisoners headed for the basketball court, the Hispanics settled themselves on some benches in the far corner of the yard and the white inmates gravitated to another set of benches.

  Lock nodded towards this group. ‘Who are they?’

  Lock’s nod drew narrowed-eye stares from the white inmates.

  Reaper stepped in front of Lock and put a massive callused hand on Lock’s chest. ‘Yard etiquette 101,’ he said. ‘First rule, you never stare at someone, you never nod towards them, and you definitely never point at anyone on the yard. Unless, of course, you want to fight them.’

  ‘Point taken, but you still didn’t answer my question,’ said Lock.

  ‘We’re cool,’ said Reaper. ‘They’re NLR for the most part.’

  ‘NLR?’ Lock asked.

  ‘Nazi Low Riders.’

  ‘Not Aryan Brotherhood?’

  ‘No,’ said Reaper, stepping away from Lock and pivoting back round, his eyes sliding across the yard towards three gargantuan white inmates standing on their own next to the fence, arms folded. ‘Those three dudes over there are AB. Now, come on, soldier boy.’

  Reaper began to walk. Conversations fell away to a series of whispers. The basketball game stopped. Even though no one stared, Lock knew that they were being watched.

  Lock fell into step with Reaper. But rather than head towards his old comrades near the fence, Reaper was making for the larger group of Nazi Low Riders. Whatever the etiquette, the three Aryan Brotherhood members were now openly staring at Reaper.

  ‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’ said Lock as they got within ten feet of the group of Nazi Low Riders.

  The group parted and an older white inmate sporting a ratty mustache and a winged death skull tattoo which ran the length of his clavicle just beneath his throat stepped towards them.

  He and Reaper clasped hands and then hugged.

  ‘It’s been a while, Phileas,’ Reaper said to the man.

  ‘Too long,’ said Phileas, motioning for Reaper to take a seat on the bench next to him.

  Across the yard, the three Aryan Brotherhood members were mumbling among themselves. One of them spat at the ground.

  Lock had been right about one thing: Reaper had never intended to step back on to the mainline without a plan in place. However, he still had a job to do, and who was to say that Reaper’s apparent defection from the Aryan Brotherhood to their rivals, the Nazi Low Riders, would be the last betrayal the yard would see?

  Lock skirted around the benches so he was closer to Reaper, only to have a huge hand pushed hard into his chest. A Nazi Low Rider gang member sporting a swastika tattooed across the centre of his forehead stared down at him — no mean feat considering that Lock was six feet two inches tall.

  ‘Where you going, dawg?’ he asked.

  Lock kept his gaze as even as his voice. ‘Just watching my cellie’s back, brother.’

  ‘Well, do it somewhere else.’

  Lock stood his ground, but kept his hands down by his sides. His posture was loose and unthreatening. ‘Sorry, I can’t help you there, dawg.’

  Lock’s challenge had the desired effect. The man took a step towards him. Lock brought the palm of his right hand up hard and fast, finding the man’s throat and snapping his head back. Lock followed this up by slamming his knee into the man’s groin. The Nazi Low Rider folded like a bad hand of poker.

  One of the guards patrolling the yard started towards them, his hand on his canister of pepper spray. The guard in the gun tower swiveled his weapon in Lock’s direction.

  Lock stepped back, ready to fight some more.

  Phileas, who’d been talking to Reaper, turned to the man who’d been pole-axed by Lock. ‘Knock it off,’ he said. He tapped Reaper on the elbow. ‘Let’s take a walk.’

  He and Reaper headed off to the track that circled the yard. Lock fell in behind them.

  As he did so, the man he’d just attacked got to his feet and grudgingly put out his hand. ‘They call me Eichmann,’ he said, by way of introduction. ‘I keep an eye out for Phileas.’

  ‘Lock,’ said Lock, shaking Eichmann’s hand. ‘Come on, let’s not fall behind here.’

  ‘What the hell you talking about?’

  Reaper and Phileas were already level with the three members of the Aryan Brotherhood. If they decided to rush Reaper there would be less than twenty yards to cover. Maybe Phileas had suggested that he and Reaper take a stroll for the express purpose of getting Reaper in close enough to the hit squad.

  ‘I’m talking about the Three Stooges over there by the fence,’ said Lock, staring straight ahead.

  ‘Don’t worry about them,’ said Eichmann. ‘We got the numbers on this yard now.’

  ‘Sometimes it doesn’t come down to numbers.’

  ‘So what does it come down to?’

  ‘The element of surprise,’ said Lock, heading straight for the three members of the Aryan Brotherhood.

  Eichmann followed Lock as he zeroed in. When he was within five feet of them — a distance at which they would have to move towards him in order to strike a blow — he stopped. All three were under six feet tall, but what they lacked vertically they more than made up for in terms of sheer dumb muscle.

  Lock greeted them with a nod. ‘Gentlemen.’

  ‘What you want?’ the Aryan Brotherhood member in the middle asked him, the blood vessels in his neck bulging.

  ‘I was going to ask you pretty much the same thing,’ Lock said. ‘You keep on sneaking romantic little glances over in our direction, and it’s kind of creeping me out. If you could stop doing it, I’d appreciate it.’

  ‘Hey,’ said the one in the middle, ‘this is our yard.’

  Lock glanced over his shoulder at the dozen or so Nazi Low Riders assembled on the benches who were staring with menace at the three Aryan Brotherhood members. ‘Not any more it ain’t.’

  The Aryan Brotherhood member in the middle took a step towards Lock. Lock raised his hands, palms open, shifting his right foot back a little and keeping his eyes on the man’s hands.

  Like some kind of conjuring trick, there was a sudden flash of metal in the man’s hand, and he lunged towards Lock with the shank. But Lock managed to catch his wrist. Behind him he could hear the shouts of the guards and other inmates. The two other Aryan Brotherhood members rushed towards him, but Eichmann blocked them, taking a few solid punches for his trouble.

  Lock lowered his body to give himself some leverage, turned the man’s wrist, and snapped it with a dull crack. The blade fell from his hand, landing in the dust. Lock used his hold on the man’s broken wrist to pull him slowly down towards the ground.

  The guards were close now; Lock could smell the oxygen-suffocating odor of pepper spray. He let go, and took a couple of steps back.

  A baton crashed into his side. Then the guards rushed past him and Eichmann to deal with the three Aryan Brotherhood members, ordering them to the ground. All three finally complied, one taking a blast from a guard’s taser first.

  Lock and Eichmann rejoined the group of Nazi Low Riders as more guards arrived, herding everyone back towards the confines of the unit. Lock was worried that he would be pulled from the group, but the guards seemed more concerned with restoring order. At the main door leading back into the unit, he watched as the three Aryan Brotherhood members were hustled through a gate in the chain-link fence and out of the yard.

  Lock caught Reaper’s eye.

  ‘What was that about?’ Reaper asked him.

  ‘Something my old man taught me,’ Lock said.

  ‘And what’s that?’ Reaper said, rubbing the back of his neck with one giant shovel of a hand.

  ‘Always get your retaliation in first.’

  13

  The screen door of the rented single-story house slammed behind Chance as she emerged into the early-morning sunlight. She stoo
d there for a moment collecting her thoughts. She was dressed in an outfit guaranteed to deduct at least twenty IQ points from any heterosexual male: cut-off Daisy Duke shorts, a pink Hello Kitty T-shirt, white cotton ankle socks and a pair of black kitten-heel sandals.

  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.