Deadlock (Ryan Lock 2) (3 page)

‘That was a long goddamn drive,’ Ty said, massaging the back of his neck.

‘Well, let’s hope it’s worth it.’

‘Come on,’ said Ty, tapping Lock’s elbow. ‘My ride’s over there.’

Lock picked it out immediately – a 1966 Lincoln Continental that had been resprayed in a migraine-inducing purple.

Ty’s chin jutted out. ‘Go on, get it out of the way.’

‘Get what out of the way?’ Lock asked.

‘Whatever you’re going to say about my ride.’

Their respective tastes in both cars and music were a long-running source of friction between them. Ty thought Lock’s choice of both automobiles and music boring, while Lock maintained that in their job the key was to appear as inconspicuous as possible. Something they clearly weren’t about to do in a pimped-out purple Continental.

‘It’s…’ Lock searched for the right word. ‘It’s very striking.’

Lock ducked in the front passenger side as Ty walked round to the driver’s door. The interior was black and purple leopard-spot suede. The sound system was a six-speaker Bose model guaranteed to make your ears bleed even at low volume. The two additional JL woofers mounted in the back looked capable of rearranging your internal organs.

Ty popped on a pair of mirrored Aviator sunglasses, gunned the engine and pulled away from the kerb.

‘Have to say, Tyrone, we’re really blending in this vehicle. All you’re missing is a fedora with a feather, Superfly.’

Ty scowled. ‘Where’s your sense of style, brother?’

‘Must have left it back in New York.’ Lock took another look around the Lincoln’s cabin. ‘You know what? I think this is a first.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Well, I don’t think I’ve ever been in a vehicle before and actually prayed that I’d be car-jacked.’

On the way to the Federal Building where they were scheduled to meet with Jalicia, Lock brought Ty a little more up to speed with his conversation the previous evening. After a pause, Ty said, ‘Makes no sense. They have the Marshals for this kind of stuff. You sure they want us for witness protection?’

‘That’s what it sounded like.’

Ty seemed to lighten a little. ‘So, we fly ’em down to Cancun, chill out for a few weeks, then fly ’em back home and pick up a big fat cheque from Uncle Sam. I mean, how hard can it be, right?’

Lock stared out of the window as they drove along Bay Street, past a bar called the Red Jack Saloon. A knot of four or five bikers sporting Hell’s Angel patches were chatting outside, as much a part of the local scenery as cable cars and the Golden Gate Bridge. He was guessing that Ty’s optimism was misplaced. Someone with Lock’s reputation wasn’t flown across the country first-class if the job was straightforward.

4

The conference room where Lock and Ty were meeting Jalicia faced out on to Golden Gate Avenue, a busy thoroughfare in the centre of downtown San Francisco. Barely a few blocks east lay the Tenderloin, one of the city’s sleaziest areas, where junkies sprawled on the sidewalk and transvestite prostitutes openly plied their trade. Lock wondered to himself whether the proximity of the courthouse to so many dope fiends and vagrants was altogether coincidental.

Ten storys below, Lock watched a homeless man wrestle with a wonky-wheeled shopping cart. The cart lurched sharply to the left, almost careening off the edge of the kerb. The homeless man pulled it back from the edge, his bedding roll spilling on to the sidewalk. As he let go of the cart to retrieve his bedding, the cart started to move again. Some people’s lives were like that, Lock reflected. Soon as you got one thing straightened out, you set another problem in motion. Lock wondered if he was about to get a taste of the same thing.

Behind Lock, the conference room door opened and a surprisingly young African-American woman with sharp, pretty features bustled in, hand out in greeting. Lock watched with amusement as Ty, who was already seated, immediately straightened in his seat. Ty saw himself as a ladies’ man, but Lock had a feeling that Jalicia Jones wasn’t someone who would share that opinion.

‘Mr Lock, I’m glad you made it,’ she said with a rehearsed smile.

Ty loudly cleared his throat.

‘Ms Jones, this is my partner, Tyrone Johnson,’ Lock said.

‘Call me Ty,’ said Ty, with a wide grin.

A grizzled white guy in his late fifties had followed Jalicia into the room. He identified himself to Lock as Special Agent Tommy Coburn of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives. Muscular, with hair greying at the temples, and a hangdog expression, Lock would have put him down as an aging biker or an ex-con.

Coburn eyed Ty with suspicion but stuck out a hand in greeting. ‘Coburn.’

‘Hey,’ Ty said, propping his sneakers up on the conference room table and giving Coburn a wave.

Lock noticed Jalicia shoot Ty a look that suggested his charm offensive was falling flat.

‘OK, Mr Lock, Mr Johnson, here’s the 411. For the past couple of years, the Organized Crime Strike Force here in San Francisco, along with a number of other federal agencies, has been building a case against a prison gang called the Aryan Brotherhood and their associates.’ Jalicia paused for a moment. ‘I take it you’ve heard of them?’

‘Bad-ass white supremacist prison gang?’ Lock ventured. Living with a career-driven news reporter like Carrie, Lock found himself carrying a trove of usually useless information about all aspects of American life.

‘Nowadays, they don’t just operate inside prison,’ Jalicia continued. ‘As well as being linked to a number of far-right racist groups, they also control drugs, prostitution and a number of extortion rackets on the outside. You name it, they’re involved.

‘As part of our investigation we had an agent infiltrate a group on the outside who we believed were dealing in firearms and explosives on behalf of the Aryan Brotherhood,’ Coburn said. ‘When the group discovered who this agent was, and the Aryan Brotherhood got wind of it, they ordered the group to execute him and his family.’

‘We’re about to open the trial of the leadership of the Aryan Brotherhood on charges of conspiracy to commit murder in the first degree, a crime for which I’ll be seeking the death penalty,’ Jalicia added, coolly.

Lock raised his hand. ‘I’m no lawyer, but isn’t conspiracy a pretty hard charge to prove?’

Jalicia sat forward, her eyes on Lock. ‘Not when you have one of their own testifying against them.’

‘First rat off the sinking ship?’ Ty asked.

Coburn bristled noticeably. ‘We prefer the term “confidential informant”.’

‘The truth is, we had a decent case before,’ Jalicia stated. ‘This witness makes the verdict a virtual certainty.’

‘Your informant tell you who actually pulled the trigger?’ Lock asked.

‘He’s sketchy. He’s thrown us a few names, but no one we’ve been able to locate. But if his testimony drives the jury towards a guilty verdict then you can bet the leadership of the Aryan Brotherhood will cough up the killers if they think it’ll keep them from Death Row.’

Lock nodded. This made sense. An inside informant was a chink in any criminal gang’s armor When the informant sang, the united front would collapse and the gang’s leadership would turn over their killers. It was how a lot of major cases worked. Deals. Leverage. Bartering. And, ultimately, betrayal. Honor among thieves was a nice romantic construct, but it rarely stood up under the shadow of Death Row.

‘So who is this guy?’ Lock asked.

‘His name is Frank Hays, but he goes by the nickname Reaper.’

‘And where do you have this star witness of yours stowed away at the moment?’

‘The Secure Housing Unit at Pelican Bay Supermax.’

Lock spread his hands, puzzled. ‘So why do you need us? Leave him in solitary. He should be safe there, shouldn’t he?’

Jalicia glanced down at some papers. ‘He’s already spent ten years in prison, the last five of those in solitary, and now he’s saying that he’ll only testify if he’s released back into the general prison population.’

‘Tell him no,’ said Lock.

Lock caught Coburn studying him. ‘We tried that, but he’s holding firm. Won’t give us anything in court unless he’s put back on the yard. It’s a catch-22.’

‘And he knows the risks?’ Lock asked.

‘He’s an old-school con,’ said Coburn. ‘Been round the block. He seems to have convinced himself that he’s got enough juice with another white supremacist gang inside Pelican Bay that he’ll be safe.’

‘So move him out. Put him in another prison. Or a safe house,’ Ty offered.

‘Too much of a flight risk,’ Jalicia said, with the resigned air of someone who’d already been over all these options a million times. ‘And, in any case, if the Aryan Brotherhood send an assassin after him, it’ll be easier for them to get to him at a lower-level security facility. At least at Pelican Bay we can keep an eye on him.’

Lock drummed his fingers on the table as he worked through the situation. ‘If you don’t agree to put him on the yard, you lose your star witness. If you put him back with the general population, there’s a greater chance of someone taking him out before he can give his testimony. That’s your problem, isn’t it?’

Jalicia straightened in her chair. She stared directly at Lock. ‘We need some extra insurance in place to make sure nothing happens to him. Plus, like I said, he’s a flight risk. It would be good if we could have someone keeping an eye on him before he testifies for a number of reasons.’

‘You think he’s looking to escape?’ puzzled Lock.

‘We can’t rule it out,’ said Coburn.

Jalicia clasped her hands together, her eyes on Lock once more. ‘At midnight tonight, we’re obliged to reveal Reaper as our star witness to the defense Five days after that, he takes the stand at the Federal Courthouse in San Francisco. All we have to do is keep him breathing for those five days,’ she said.

‘You’re nuts,’ Lock said, getting up. ‘Move him to a safe house on the outside, like Ty said.’

Jalicia sighed. ‘There’s no way a judge will sanction that for a man with his record. Believe me, I’ve already petitioned for it twice and been laughed out of chambers both times. Another prison? We just shipped the six men he’s testifying against to the federal Supermax in Colorado, so we can’t send him there. We need him somewhere secure, and right now the most secure facility in California is Pelican Bay.’

‘So, you want me to do what? Babysit him
inside
the prison?’ Lock asked. ‘You’re out of your mind.’ He turned to Ty. ‘Can you give me a ride back to the airport?’

‘Sure thing.’

Jalicia started to object, but Lock cut her off. ‘You know, my old man has a saying: I may be stupid, but I ain’t crazy. I might have a reputation as the patron saint of lost causes, but not even I’m insane enough to take this gig.’

Jalicia caught up with Lock at the door, putting her hand on his arm as he went to open it. ‘Before you leave, there’s something I’d like you to see. Then you can make your decision.’

5

A video projector hooked up to a laptop threw the blurry DVD footage on to the wall of the darkened conference room. It took a second for the person holding the camera to find the main subject: a man being held at gunpoint in the centre of what appeared to be a clearing surrounded by giant redwood trees.

Shot over the shoulder of the person holding the shotgun, it was clear that the victim was male, but that was about all Lock could make out from the grainy-green images.

‘Hang on,’ Jalicia said, leaning over to fiddle with the laptop. A volume bar on screen rolled to maximum.

On screen, a heavily distorted voice came from close to the male hostage:
We need an answer, Kenny.

‘This is your undercover guy?’ Lock asked.

Jalicia nodded.

The ATF agent stared up at the gun, his face still obscured by the person holding the shotgun.
You know who I am
.

The voice came again, deep and metallic.
OK then, maybe this’ll refresh your memory.

‘We had the FBI do a voice analysis,’ Jalicia said. ‘The person speaking is, in actual fact, a woman, but the footage was doctored to conceal that fact.’

Next came the sound of a vehicle engine, and then the ATF agent said something that Lock didn’t quite catch. ‘Jesus, no,’ Jalicia murmured, filling in the missing audio for them. From her lack of reaction it was clear to Lock that she’d watched the footage enough times to rob the images of their shock value.

The frame adjusted suddenly, swooping over the ATF agent’s head before settling on a black van. The side panel was open, revealing a middle-aged woman and a teenage boy, both naked, gagged and restrained.

Lock froze. He could feel his teeth grinding against each other and his stomach lurching. He recognized the woman, and immediately knew who the agent was. He swiveled round and stared at Jalicia. She had the decency not to meet his gaze.

‘Ken Prager, right?’ Lock said, his voice breaking with emotion.

‘You know him?’ Ty asked, unable to conceal his surprise at Lock’s reaction.

‘I grew up with him. We were good friends. Played football together. I was there when he got married.’ Pinheads of sweat were forming on the back of Lock’s neck. ‘But then you already knew that, didn’t you?’ he said to Jalicia.

‘Ken did mention you more than once,’ Coburn said.

Jalicia ran the tip of her right index finger over the touch pad of the laptop computer. Lock tracked the cursor’s progress on screen towards the pause button.

‘No,’ Lock said. ‘I want to see it.’

‘Don’t do this to yourself, man,’ said Ty.

Lock turned to him. ‘Stay out of this, Tyrone.’

The next few minutes disintegrated into a series of bloody snapshots on screen as Ken Prager’s wife and son were dragged from the van. Prager’s son, Aaron, whom Lock had last seen as a sweet-natured, boisterous seven-year-old, was forced at gunpoint to cut the swastika from his father’s back as Prager’s wife, Janet, choked back sobs.

Lock fought the urge to vomit as bile burned the back of his throat. He dug his nails into the palms of his hands so hard that they broke the skin.

Lock had witnessed many terrible things in his life: roadside bombs that sprayed flesh into the air like so much confetti; innocent women and children needlessly mutilated; an endless parade of depravity. Sometimes he’d been able to intervene, sometimes orders from above had meant all he could do was bear witness. His training as a military close protection operator was specifically designed to force him to react but also to analyze situations as they developed. The rules of engagement were simple: if you saw something which didn’t impact on the immediate security of the person you were guarding, you noted it but did not get involved. This was different though. Very different. Although they hadn’t seen each other in years, Ken Prager had been like a brother to Lock, as Ty was to him now. Lock didn’t forge many close friendships, but when he did they were unassailable.