by Sean Black
* * *
Near the end of the pier, about a hundred yards from where Lock was standing, close to Chance and Jackson, Ty began packing up his collection of fishing gear. The man next to him side-glanced him. “Never going to make much of a fisherman unless you learn to have some patience.”
Ty grabbed the last of the gear and shoved it into a bag. He snapped the rod clean in two, and shoved that in with the rest of his supplies as the fisherman stared at him, open-mouthed. He felt for the gun tucked into his waistband and headed back up the pier, his long strides eating up the ground.
He closed in on Carmen. She was rooted to the spot and staring at Lock, who was standing a short but respectful distance from Chance and Jackson. Lock would stand guard until either of them was done. That had been the promise he’d made to Jackson’s parents.
Carmen smiled when she saw Ty. He reached her, and offered her an arm. “Link my arm, we’re getting out of here,” Ty told her, throwing a deathly stare toward Chance’s two skinhead buddies, who returned the favor but stayed where they were.
“But Ryan?”
“Ryan’s going to hang out.”
Carmen stopped, forcing Ty to stop too. “That’s her son?”
The two skinheads shuffled their feet. Their hands hovered near the beltline of their long shirts.
“Yeah, that’s him. Now we need to split,” said Ty.
Carmen remained at a dead stop. “I need to make sure he’s okay.”
She was serious. Ty could see that. It was commendable. Very few people delayed walking to freedom and safety because of their concern for someone else. Ty had always gotten the superficial part of what had attracted Lock to Carmen. Now he got a glimpse of the deeper reason. They were kindred spirits. He leaned in toward her. “Ryan’s here for that.”
“I know, but—”
Ty cut in: “You see those two assholes with Chance.”
Carmen’s eyes slid over to them. “Yes.”
“They have guns. I have a gun. Ryan has a gun. The less people we have in the mix right now, the safer for everyone. We stick around and we’re not making things any better, we’re making them worse. You feel me?”
* * *
With a wave of relief, Lock watched Ty escort Carmen down the pier and toward the street. On the bench, Chance was talking with Jackson. He laughed at something she said. His reaction took Lock aback.
She reached out, took Jackson’s hand in hers, and studied his palm. Lock tensed, fearing this might be a prelude to her and the two skinheads across from them trying to take the boy and make a run for it. He shifted his attention back and forth between the men and Chance.
Ty was almost at the other end of the pier with Carmen. They walked toward where Alicia and Jim Hallis were standing.
Just beyond them there was movement as a hulking SUV with blacked-out windows stopped next to the entrance to the pier. The skinheads noticed it too. They called over to Chance.
The SUV rolled up onto the curb, and kept coming. The skinheads were getting antsy. They shifted their weight from foot to foot. Chance ignored them and continued her conversation with Jackson, who seemed oblivious to the fresh ripple of tension.
Behind the first SUV came another. This one dark blue rather than black but with the same heavily tinted windows. It parked across the entrance to the pier.
Out on the Pacific, two inflatables were cutting through the water, heading for the pier. Each carried six men. Even from this distance they looked to Lock like some kind of law enforcement. Under their lifejackets they wore black body armor, and several were sporting helmets.
* * *
Lock held up his arms, palms open to the two skinheads as he walked over to the bench. Chance looked up at him as he reached them.
“Think it might be about time to wrap this up for now,” he said, with a nod to the black SUV that was rumbling ominously in their direction.
Chance moved in to hug Jackson, tenderly kissing the top of his head. When she pulled away, Lock saw tears in her eyes. Her lip was trembling. Jackson looked embarrassed.
She and Jackson stood up. She wrapped him in a tight hug. The skinheads were heading over to her, their eyes out on stalks as the boats moved under the pier. Judging by their reaction, Lock was certain that this wasn’t their cavalry.
Finally, Chance let Jackson go. Now she was full-on sobbing, her shoulders rising and falling.
Lock motioned that he was going to take Jackson. He shouldn’t have felt anything for Chance. Not after what she had put him and, more importantly, Carmen through. But he couldn’t help himself. There was humanity in the darkness. There always was when it came to the bond between a mother and her child.
After a few more awkward seconds, Chance nodded to Lock, moving in for one last squeeze before stepping away.
“I’m going to walk you back to your folks,” Lock said to the boy.
Placing a hand gently on Jackson’s shoulder, Lock walked with him back to where his parents were standing with Ty and Carmen.
* * *
Inside the back seat of the lead SUV, which was crammed with members of the marshal’s Arrest Response Team, Petrovsky keyed his radio. “Okay, everyone, hold up until Lock clears us with the boy.”
The marshal driving brought the SUV to a gentle stop. Through the front windshield they could see Lock and Jackson less than forty yards away and closing all the time. Beyond them, Chance had been joined by her two-man escort who were growing increasingly agitated as they realized they had no easy escape route.
* * *
Tears rolling down her face, Chance watched Jackson retreat into the distance with Lock. Next to her, one guy’s face twisted into fury.
“You just gonna let that asshole Lock walk away like this?” he said, reaching down and pulling out his gun.
He brought it up, trying to center Lock in the sights. His hand was shaking. He did his best to focus. He took a breath, adjusting his footing. He readied himself to fire.
100
As the guy began to draw, Ty handed Carmen off to Jim Hallis, and took off back down the pier. The tailgate of the SUV popped open to reveal two armed marshals. One raised his weapon. Ty ignored him, and kept running.
Lock looked up as Ty cleared the SUV.
“Threat, rear!” Ty bellowed.
Grabbing the back of Jackson’s collar with his left hand, Lock spun around 180 degrees so that he and Jackson were standing back to back, Lock’s body placed between Jackson and the threat.
With his right hand, Lock drew his gun and brought it up to return fire if he had to.
* * *
As the skinhead’s finger fell to the trigger, and Lock pivoted, Chance had already reached for her knife. Her fingers closed around the handle as she drew it out, clasping it in an icepick grip, the blade pointing down from her hand.
Raising her arm, she brought the knife down in a wide slashing arc across the gun arm of the skinhead who was about to take the shot at Lock. The blade sliced diagonally from his elbow halfway down his forearm. The gun dropped, and he fell into a crouch.
He looked up at her. “What you do that for?”
“You ain’t that good a shot and that’s my son next to him.”
Lock had already scooped Jackson into his arms, taken off, and was running past the SUV, headed for cover. Behind him, Ty had taken a knee, his gun pointed, ready to squeeze off covering fire.
At the same time the SUV’s doors popped open. It started moving again, three marshals using the open doors as cover as they bore down on Chance.
* * *
Gasping for air, Lock held on tight to Jackson as he rounded the rear of the SUV. Using the hulking vehicle as cover, he slowed, and put Jackson back onto his feet. “You okay?” he asked.
The boy nodded, his face bloodless and drawn. Alicia came at them in a rush, throwing her arms around Jackson. Ty placed himself in front of them, his gun still drawn.
“Get them the hell out of here,” Lock said to his
partner.
“Why? Where are you going?” Ty asked.
“Just do it,” said Lock, turning back toward the SUV as it continued to bear down on Chance and the two skinheads.
Ty grabbed Alicia by the arm and hurried her back toward her husband and Carmen. A half-dozen patrol cars were now parked across the entrance to the pier. Ty holstered his weapon and hustled the small group toward them as a couple of uniformed officers rushed to help.
* * *
Lock put his hands up as a helmeted marshal pointed his weapon directly at him.
“Get the hell out of here,” the marshal barked.
Lock stood his ground. “Where’s Petrovsky?”
The marshal stared him. “I said, move back.”
Beyond the SUV, Lock could see the two skinheads, arms atop their heads, kneeling. Chance stood behind them, on her feet and defiant.
Several marshals barked at her to assume the position. She didn’t move. She just stood there. Then, slowly, she turned her back to them, her hands down loose by her sides, the knife lying at her feet.
At first Lock thought she was going to walk down to the end of the pier. Maybe she planned on jumping. Maybe the inflatables hadn’t been cops after all, but some of her guys, although he doubted it from the way they had come in and how they were kitted out.
The marshal was still gun-facing him, weapon drawn. Glancing over his shoulder, Lock checked that Ty was getting Jackson and his parents out of the area.
Chance stopped walking. Several marshals had run forward, a couple of them toting heavy Kevlar ballistic shields, and grabbed the two skinheads. They were swiftly cuffed, hauled to their feet and dragged back down the pier as more marshals poured in from behind Lock to fill the gap.
Chance was about twenty yards away from the closest marshal. Lock counted at least a half-dozen guns pointed at her. He looked back to the marshal with the rifle trained on him.
“Let me go speak with her. Or at least get me Petrovsky.”
The marshal ignored him.
Lock took a step to one side so that he could get a better view of Chance.
“Stay where you are,” the marshal repeated.
Lock stopped where he was. He had a feeling about what would happen next. He could only pray that he was wrong.
A few seconds ticked by. Chance didn’t move. Neither did any of the Arrest Team. They repeated their instructions. Chance paid no heed.
* * *
Chance took a deep breath, filling her lungs as full as she could. Out beyond the end of the pier, at the far edge of the Pacific horizon, the sun was starting to sink, orange giving way to a pink hue.
She closed her eyes, and conjured up the fresh image of Jackson. He was beautiful. Perfect. He would grow up into a tall, handsome, strong man.
She had given him to the world, a perfect gift. She felt a sudden swell of pride.
Opening her eyes, she smiled. She took another breath, tasting the salty air at the very back of her throat.
She didn’t have long. The men shouting at her were growing impatient. Soon they would grow tired of waiting and move in. They would place her in shackles and take her back. She would no longer be free. She would be a prisoner, an exhibit, a warning to others like her. They would punish her for their own failures.
There was only one way left to defy them. A final option. A solitary path she could take.
She took one final breath, this time letting the air release from her mouth in a rush. There was no going back.
Now.
* * *
Lock could only watch. One second Chance was standing perfectly still, facing the ocean. The next, she whirled round to face the marshals. As she spun, her right hand dropped to her side, as if she was reaching for something.
Even with the low buzz in his ears, Lock heard each and every shot as a distinct crack.
Five shots.
Three struck her chest, and one the right side of her neck. The final shot smashed into her nose.
Her slight frame lifted off the ground. Her head snapped back. She landed with a thud. She didn’t move.
Blood poured from her head and seeped from her chest. Her arms were spread wide, her legs together in a pose of martyrdom.
Lock saw Petrovsky rush toward her body, his gun drawn and pointed at her corpse. For a second it looked like he might fire a final shot but, at the last moment, he seemed to gather himself and his index finger dropped back to the trigger guard.
His throat tightening, Lock struggled to make sense of the sadness that welled inside him. Hands grasped his arms as two marshals rushed in to move him away.
He thought about shrugging them off. He didn’t. He allowed them to turn him around, and hustle him back down the pier.
As they reached the entrance, Lock lost patience. He shook them off. They told him to stay back. He complied.
Ty was standing a few feet away, talking with a couple of Manhattan Beach cops. Lock walked over to him. Ty broke away from the cops.
“Jackson?” Lock asked.
Ty seemed to grasp what Lock was asking without him having to spell it out.
“He’s gone. Didn’t see any of it,” said Ty.
Small mercies, thought Lock. No child deserved to witness what they just had. Hearing the news would be bad enough.
“I couldn’t stop her,” said Lock.
“You wanted to?” Ty asked, his expression somber.
Lock didn’t know. He was still processing it all. His reaction as he had watched Chance standing there had surprised him. “Yeah, I think I did.”
A patrol car door opened. Carmen got out. She walked toward them. Ty tapped Lock’s elbow. “Catch you later.” He wandered over to some cops.
Lock went to meet Carmen.
She put her arms out wide and they embraced. He rubbed the small of her back. She buried her face in his chest.
They stayed like that for a long time. Just the two of them. Both glad they had survived.
Epilogue
It had been over two weeks and Lock still couldn’t manage a full night’s sleep. It was a little after three in the morning, and here he was, standing over the sink in Carmen’s kitchen, her cat rubbing against his legs. He reached down and scratched behind its ears. It purred appreciatively. He scooped the animal up into his arms. It placed a paw on each of his shoulders, and rubbed it’s nose against his neck.
“Ryan.”
Carmen stood in the kitchen doorway. “Come back to bed.”
“I’ll be there in a minute,” he said, handing her the cat.
She studied him for a moment. “You did what you thought was right.”
“Yes, I did.”
She retreated back to her bedroom with the cat. Lock opened a kitchen cabinet, took out a glass and filled it with water from the faucet. He could go back to bed, but he knew that sleep would evade him.
He drank the glass of water, walked into the living room, threw on pants, sneakers, and a sweatshirt. On his way out, he looked in on Carmen. She had fallen back asleep.
Lock left a note for her in the kitchen, and headed out. He took the stairs, and less than a minute later he was sitting in his Audi.
The streets were as close to empty as they ever got in Los Angeles. He headed west towards the coast.
The night was perfect. Warm enough that he could drive with the windows open. Apart from the freeways, the city was still.
He tried to take a moment to savor the most precious gift he had: his freedom. Many people who had done what he had, taking Jackson to meet with his birth mother against his parents’ wishes, would be in jail.
His decision haunted him. He knew why he had done it. Faced with the same dilemma he would likely do it again. But that didn’t make it right.
Alicia Hallis agreed, even if her husband didn’t. She had been pushing hard for Lock to be arrested for kidnapping, among other crimes. Thankfully for Lock, the various law enforcement agencies, and more crucially, the District Attorney’s Offic
e, wanted the whole mess forgotten. Lock wasn’t the only person who had come away from the experience with his reputation tarnished. Almost no one had emerged looking good.
Shared culpability wasn’t something that offered him any comfort. He couldn’t shake the look on Alicia and Jim’s faces when he had faced them down and hauled them into his nightmare. Insomnia seemed like a minor penance for what he had done.
He was tired, and he was weary. Guilt trailed him everywhere he went. It pressed in on him like heavy air before a thunderstorm.
Watching Li Zheng’s parents bury their son hadn’t helped. He had attended the funeral, along with Carmen, and Ty. Before they had even sat down a family member had asked them to leave. They had expressed their sorrow, and complied. Both he and Ty had written separate letters to Li Zheng’s parents, expressing their regret for what had happened. They received no reply.
Like Alicia Hallis, Lock didn’t blame the parents of the young hacker for their anger or where it was aimed. To all of them, Lock must have seemed like some kind of apparition of doom. That was certainly how he had felt these past two weeks.
The only consolation he had was that Carmen had survived. Others, Ty included, had tried to convince Lock that he had saved her. Without his intervention, she would have been killed. Lock saw it differently. If she hadn’t met him in the first place, she wouldn’t have been abducted.
Deep down, Lock knew that none of his thinking took him anywhere good. It was the nature of his trade that people could be hurt as a consequence of saving others. You could draw your weapon or keep your hands in your pockets, and others would suffer either way.
He thought of the saying about good men doing nothing allowing evil to flourish. It was true back then. It was true now, maybe even more so than before.