by Sean Black
‘You know he’ll try to escape, don’t you?’ Marquez cautioned.
‘You seem pretty sure about that.’
‘Soon as I heard that he wanted back on the mainline, that’s what I thought. Of course, having you here kind of cramped his style. That’s probably why he asked the Nazi Low Riders to screw around with you and your buddy.’
Lock thought about this. It made sense that Reaper was behind the Nazi Low Riders’ order to attack Ty. It was a way of getting Lock and Ty out of the way, without appearing openly hostile to Jalicia.
‘Let me know when you’re going to make the transfer and I’ll ride along to make sure I deliver Reaper to the prosecutor personally,’ Lock said.
Lieutenant Williams stuck his head through the curtain. ‘Warden?’
‘What is it?’
Williams hesitated as he looked from the warden to the uncuffed Lock, who was still wearing the prison blues that identified him as an inmate.
‘Go ahead,’ Marquez said. ‘You can speak freely.’
‘Someone just blew up the Federal Building in San Francisco.’
Ty’s heart rate stayed constant on the monitor, while Lock’s jumped. ‘How bad is it?’
‘Bad,’ Williams said. ‘Half a dozen dead. Plenty more injured. They’ve hit the Federal Court building in Los Angeles too.’
‘Same people?’
Williams shrugged a ‘who knows?’. ‘Group calling itself the White Aryan Resistance Movement has claimed both.’
Marquez nodded grimly. ‘Boy, they really don’t want him testifying, do they?’
‘Can you give me a minute?’ Lock asked Marquez.
‘Take as long as you need.’
He nodded at Williams, the two men left, and Lock was finally alone with Ty.
Lock reached out and touched his partner’s hand. ‘Tyrone, listen…’
Ty’s left eye flicked open. He reached up and struggled to pull the oxygen mask to one side so he could speak. Lock helped him with it.
‘Can you not touch me and shit?’ Ty croaked. ‘Don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea.’
Lock felt relief. First that Ty was conscious, but more critically that he was giving Lock grief, which meant he had to be feeling better.
‘What the hell you doin’ here anyway?’
‘Good to see you too, Tyrone.’
‘They didn’t get you then?’
‘Excellent piece of deduction seeing as I’m sitting here with all my limbs intact.’
‘Shit. I was counting on not having to split the fee.’ He pushed himself up to a sitting position. ‘You get me some water, brother?’
Lock filled a glass from the water jug on the table next to Ty and passed it over.
‘How d’you feel?’
‘Like I been shot.’
Ty reached back to adjust the position of his pillows but winced with the pain. Lock did the honors.
‘You want me to get someone?’
‘Maybe that cute little Asian doctor,’ Ty said, lowering his voice. ‘We got a vibe going.’
‘You can’t be feeling that bad.’
‘They didn’t shoot me in the dick.’
Lock glanced down the bed, made a ‘I got bad news’ face.
‘Man, you’d better be messing with me.’
Lock stood up. ‘Just get better, Ty.’
Ty waved him back. ‘You ain’t even given me a sit rep.’
Once Ty had promised to take it easy, Lock filled him in as best he could on events since the riot on the yard.
‘Good call heading to the court with Reaper. I don’t trust that mofo one little bit. Even by convict standards, he’s a snake.’
‘The question is, what kind?’
‘Guess we’re all gonna find out when he takes that stand.’
Lock got up. ‘I gotta go.’
Ty raised a clenched hand. They bumped fists.
‘I mean it about that guy,’ Ty said. ‘Watch your back.’
24
Jalicia and Coburn took their seats in a meeting room within the 9th Circuit Court of Appeal Building in downtown San Francisco. The cell phone of Manny Lopez, the US Marshal in charge of court security, chirped. As he shrugged an apology, the cell phone of the man sitting next to him, an FBI field agent by the name of Peter Breedlove, blasted out the James Bond theme tune. Flushing, Breedlove scrambled to answer it.
He listened for a few moments, then said, ‘When?’ He covered his cell phone with one hand. ‘A bomb threat was just phoned in to the Santa Ana Federal Court building by someone claiming to be from the White Aryan Resistance Movement.’
‘They give a code word?’ Coburn asked.
Breedlove looked irritated. ‘No one heard of these guys until today.’
Jalicia, sitting at the head of the table, put a line through the Santa Ana Court building, which lay third on the list compiled by the US Marshals Service. ‘So, where do we go from here?’
Coburn cleared his throat. ‘The trial doesn’t have to stay in California, does it?’ he asked.
‘Nope,’ said the judge who’d been hearing the case. ‘As long as it’s in a state covered by the 9th Circuit. What were you thinking, Agent Coburn?’
‘Well, we can safely assume, even from early reports, that it’s the same group, and that they’re active in California. After all, California is the Aryan Brotherhood’s home turf.’
Bobby Gross, who’d insisted on being party to the discussion, loosened his tie. ‘Let’s not jump to any conclusions as to who’s responsible,’ he said.
Jalicia noticed that the vein in his neck was pulsing.
‘Oh, come on,’ said Manny Lopez. ‘Who else wants this trial stopped bad enough to bomb at least two Federal Buildings?’
Gross stood up. ‘I will not tolerate-’
‘Regardless of who’s responsible,’ Coburn said, smoothing his hands across the conference table, ‘I think everyone can agree that California’s too dangerous right now.’
There was a general murmur of agreement.
Jalicia leaned forward. ‘You have somewhere in mind?’
‘I think the more remote we go, the better. A smaller community than Los Angeles. That means if anyone shows up who’s out of place it’s going to be one hell of a lot easier to spot them.’
Breedlove, the FBI agent with the 007 fetish, nodded. ‘Makes sense to me. It’s too easy for these people to blend in at a big city court facility.’
‘Then I have just the place,’ Coburn said.
Ten minutes later, across the bay in Oakland, Chance snatched up her cell phone and heard the man on the other end of the line say, ‘It’s playing just like you said.’
Chance’s heart began to pound. Hers had been an educated guess about what would happen after the explosion. When she’d heard that six people had been killed her heart had sunk. Not because she felt bad for them — most of them were either black or Hispanic — but because she thought they might stop the trial entirely, which could set things back weeks if not months. What she’d been counting on was the bloodthirstiness of the prosecutor, and Jalicia Jones hadn’t disappointed.
‘They’re moving it?’
‘Yup.’
There was the sound of voices in the background. Chance was about to end the call when the man on the other end of the line said, ‘Be right with you.’
She could hear the man talking to someone, then he came back to the phone. She smiled at the thought they had someone right there in the belly of the beast.
‘Yeah,’ said the man. ‘They’re moving it to Medford in Oregon. Hope that works for you guys.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Chance, ‘we’ll make it work.’ She paused. ‘What about Reaper? When’s he arriving?’
‘It’s gonna be tight. They’re moving him tomorrow. Soon as I get more details, I’ll let you know.’
25
Wearing his regular civilian uniform of Nike sneakers, blue jeans from Gap and black sweater with a protective vest thr
own over the top of it, Lock stopped in front of Reaper’s cell. Lieutenant Williams and the two other guards charged with transferring Reaper to the team of US Marshals outside the prison stood behind him. The early hour had been chosen so that Reaper would leave the prison under cover of darkness and arrive at the court around daybreak. His testimony was expected to take the whole day, with cross-examination running into a second.
Lock had spent the last few hours with Ty, who was staging a strong enough recovery for his own transfer to a civilian medical facility to be scheduled for later that day. He’d also, at long last, spoken to Carrie, who’d initially chewed him out over his lack of contact, then about his stupidity in taking on the job in the first place. Given that the Aryan Brotherhood trial, courtesy of the bombings, was now national rather than just California news, she was already in the air and on the way to the new trial venue in Medford, Oregon, to cover the story for her network. He was looking forward to seeing her, but determined to remain focused on finishing the job he’d started.
Reaper was dressed and waiting for them. Offering his hands up to be cuffed, he checked out Lock’s new look with a smirk. ‘Well, don’t you scrub up nice.’
Smiling back, Lock reached through the hatch and ratcheted Reaper’s cuffs a notch tighter on his wrists. Reaper’s smirk dissolved. He pulled his hands back, walked to the back of his cell, picked up a book and returned to the door. The bubble cop in the pod that controlled access to the cells pressed a button and his cell door opened.
Reaper took a step out into the corridor. The movement of a prisoner had brought the inmates in the cells around him to the Arizona doors which fronted the cells in this section of the prison. Eyes pressed against the half-inch holes which perforated the doors in place of the more traditional bars.
Lock took the book from Reaper’s hands — The Art of War — and handed it to Williams, who flicked the pages before returning it to Reaper.
‘JPATS are usually a little light on in-flight entertainment,’ Reaper said by way of explanation.
Reaper glanced down at his legs, presumably anticipating having leg restraints put round his feet. But Lock had already advised that they forgo this particular measure during Reaper’s transfer. If there was an attempt on his life, which looked more likely than ever given the bombings, they would have to get him out of the situation. If that was the case, a protectee who couldn’t run would likely get everyone killed.
Lock put a hand on Reaper’s elbow and with a ‘Let’s go’ guided him back along the spur of cells that led into the centre of this section of the SHU. Most of the cells were occupied by white inmates, but overcrowding after the riot had ensured a sprinkling of Hispanic and black prisoners. It was like walking past the lions’ enclosure at midnight. Eyes peered, yellow and unblinking, from the depths of every cell, lips peeled back over teeth. Then came the low roar of threats designed to get the prey’s blood pumping — all the faster for it to bleed out.
Lock and Williams positioned themselves on Reaper’s left so that they stood directly between Reaper and the cell doors. Even with the doors sealed, and with no bars, it wasn’t unheard of for prisoners to use improvised darts tipped with a filed-down metal disc from a sprinkler head, dipped in their own faeces and then propelled through one of the half-inch holes in their cell door using the elastic from shorts, to take out a guard or other enemy.
A final threat was hissed low in Spanish from a nearby cell before the door at the end of the corridor clicked open and Lock led Reaper’s escort out into the hub of the SHU, then along a wide linoleum-floored corridor towards the sallyport — a confined double-doored space used to control entry to and exit from the SHU.
There, Reaper was signed out by Lieutenant Williams. Reaper then twisted his head back round and took a long look down the corridor. The gesture unsettled Lock. It was as if Reaper was saying his goodbyes, although surely he wasn’t naive enough to think that he wouldn’t be trading his cell at Pelican Bay for another somewhere else.
Paperwork completed, they moved out of the SHU and into the wide expanse of open ground known in the prison as No Man’s Land. Even at this hour, with all the inmates tucked up inside their cells, No Man’s Land was lit up like a Christmas tree. Concealed cameras must have tracked their every move because yards before they reached them the gates rolled back to allow them free passage.
Then they were moving through the three razor-wire-topped fences, the middle one charged with enough juice to kill someone on contact. A caged exit ensured safe passage into a second sallyport, where again Williams had to sign Reaper out.
Reaper rolled his neck, closing his eyes as he worked out the kinks of tension.
The gesture gnawed away at Lock. A good half of close protection work was visual awareness and reading body language. There was something off about how Reaper was acting. On the journey across the yard Reaper’s prison stroll had morphed almost seamlessly from a tight, contained prison shuffle into a languid stroll.
Lock had seen Reaper feign indifference as he strolled on the yard with Phileas, and had taken that for what it was: a show of bravado designed to dissuade a potential attacker, the strutting of an alpha male. This was different. Surrounded by tension, Reaper, who now had his nose buried in his book, seemed utterly relaxed.
26
The Marshal in charge of transferring Reaper to Oregon shook Lock’s hand, the firmness of the grip sending a jolt of pain spearing up Lock’s arm. ‘Thanks for everything, but we can take it from here,’ he said as Reaper was placed in the middle vehicle of a three-SUV convoy for the short drive from the prison to the Crescent City airport.
‘I could use the ride,’ Lock said, firmly.
‘Sure you could. But I’m not sure we can use you. Listen, we do high-value witness and high-risk prisoner transfer every single day.’
Lock met the comment with a tight smile. ‘Not like this one. If you want me to stand aside, that’s fine, but you’ll need to speak to Jalicia Jones at the US Attorney’s Office first. She’s the one who contracted with me.’
The Marshal glanced back at the waiting aircraft, and hesitated.
‘Listen, embus and debus, making sure that a specified person gets from point A to point B safely, is what I do,’ Lock said quickly. ‘I’ll leave any heroics to your guys, but it can’t hurt to have a fresh pair of eyes with you.’
Lock stepped in closer so his next words with the Marshal wouldn’t be overheard. ‘I’m not sure Reaper’s dealing from the top of the deck. And seeing as I’ve spent the best part of a week smelling the guy’s farts, wouldn’t it make sense to have me riding shotgun next to him?’
The Marshal’s gaze slid from Lock to a correctional officer in the gun tower high above them. ‘OK, but remember who’s calling the shots.’
Landing at Crescent City’s airfield may well have been stomach-churning, but take-off must have brought a whole new dimension of bowel-loosening terror to the cabin of the twin-engined Cessna. From where Lock was seated, the procedure seemed to involve gunning the twin engines to a point where the tires were almost spinning, then taking off the brakes and hurtling down the absurdly short stretch of runway before hanging Road Runner-style in mid-air as they left dry land, and praying for an up-current. Lock figured that a giant catapult would have done a similar job, but with less of a carbon footprint.
Once they were airborne, Lock’s stomach began to settle. The journey along Lakeshore Drive to the airfield had been tense. Moving location always was, whether you were escorting the President or a felon.
There was a sudden bump as the plane hit some turbulence. Lock, having secured a seat by the window with no one next to him, with Reaper across from him, stared out, but all he could see was clouds.
Up ahead, Reaper was still in high spirits. ‘Hey, Cindy-Sue,’ he called, ‘can I get a beer and some pretzels back here?’
The Marshal ignored him.
‘A blow job would be good too,’ Reaper continued.
Lock swiv
eled round in his seat so that he was facing Reaper, at the same time pulling off his right sneaker and removing one of his socks, which he balled up in his fist. He stood up, crossed the aisle and pushed Reaper back down into his seat with the palm of his left hand. As Reaper opened his mouth to protest, Lock jammed the sock into Reaper’s mouth as hard as he could, his spare hand pincering Reaper’s throat.
‘Now, are you going to sit there like a good boy or not?’
Reaper’s eyes flared with rage but he nodded. Lock pulled the sock back out.
Immediately, Reaper shouted to the Marshal at the rear of the plane, ‘Hey, he can’t do that!’
Lock leaned in closer. ‘Understand this, you piece of racist, trailer-park trash. I don’t work for the cops, or the Marshals Service, or the United States Attorney’s Office. 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 me. Now, back there was your turf. Everything from here on in is mine. I’ve kept my end of the bargain, which was to keep you breathing, and now you’re going to keep your end, without any more games or dicking anyone around. And if you don’t, you’re not going to have to worry about The Row at San Quentin because I’ll open the door of this plane and toss you out of it. You got me?’
27
Chance nudged the red pick-up truck through the gate and on to the service road, turned off the engine and waited. A few minutes later the wind started to pick up, the boughs of a stand of nearby black oaks beginning to bend as a helicopter came in to land.
She got out of the pick-up and shielded her eyes with one hand. She could just about make out Cowboy in the pilot’s seat, his face shaded by the brim of his black Stetson. Trooper with his mane of hooker-blonde hair sat next to him in the co-pilot’s seat.
As Cowboy cut the engine and they clambered from the cockpit to greet her, Chance felt a wave of relief. From now on in they’d be together. No more solo missions.
She watched as Trooper pulled out a pack of American Spirit cigarettes and fumbled in his pocket for a lighter, an expensive-looking Zippo with the number 88 engraved on the front plate — each eight standing for the eighth letter of the alphabet, the two Hs together short handing the phrase ‘Heil Hitler’.