Deadlock (Ryan Lock 2) (9 page)

Reaper stepped towards him so that inches separated them. Lock stood his ground.

‘The deal was I got back to the mainline or I didn’t testify.’

Lock spread out his arms. ‘You’re on the mainline.’

‘I spent five years in the SHU, cooped up in a cell. No yard time. No phone calls. Nothing to do but go crazy. I ain’t doin’ it any more. So, I want you to tell me where those pieces are.’

Lock’s eyes slid to Reaper’s hands. He tensed, waiting for him to make a move. There were often pinch points with a principal, usually revolving around trivial issues such as them asking the bodyguard to carry their luggage, or to get them coffee at three in the morning. This was slightly different.

‘You think this’ll get you out of stabbing your buddy?’

Still Lock didn’t react.

Reaper blinked first, stepping back and beginning to search the cell. ‘They find them in our house and it’s bad news for you and me both.’

Lock knew Reaper was lying. The warden could have found half a kilo of coke, a keg of Bud and a Playboy Playmate in the cell and Reaper would still be heading for sunny San Francisco in less than two days’ time.

From outside the cell came the slamming of heavy reinforced steel doors and the barked orders of cops as they moved methodically through the unit. Lock was counting on them hitting this cell soon, and finding the three pieces of metal fence he’d secreted well enough to make it look like he’d made an effort to hide them, but not so well that they wouldn’t find them.

The pieces were his ticket to the warden’s office, where he was going to suggest that it was time to move Reaper out, as well as him and Ty.

‘Well, what do we have here?’

Lock stayed where he was as Reaper sucked the blood from a couple of tiny cuts on the end of his fingertips where the metal taped under the bunk had caught his hand. Then Reaper ducked his head under, and less than thirty seconds later came up with the three hasps of metal.

Shouldering past Lock, he crouched down by the cell door. There was a gap at the bottom. Less than half an inch. He waited until all the guards were inside cells and batted the metal under the door. The pieces scooted across the walkway and fell down on to the floor of the unit. If they made a sound when they landed, Lock didn’t hear it over the cacophony of orders and protests.

There was a shout, and below Lock’s cell the guards gathered round the three small pieces of chain-link. The guard who’d spotted them first glanced up, his index finger pointing at three cells on the second floor from where the metal might have been ejected. Then he shouted up to the cons gathered at those doors: ‘Smart move, assholes.’

Reaper stepped back to his bunk, his fingertips still red. He dug out a sharpened toothbrush he’d shown Lock before and handed it to Lock. ‘Take it, because believe me, you’re gonna need it.’

‘I need to speak to the warden,’ Lock said to the young floor cop who was the first to reach his cell, knowing that such a request, made in the open, where other inmates could hear, was a high-risk maneuver

‘What’s the matter? Coffee too cold? Your pillows too hard? Sheets not got a high enough thread count?’ The cop was clearly still pissed at the missing metal, which had disrupted the day’s routine. Like any other large institution, Pelican Bay was, by necessity, all about routine.

‘Just tell him, OK?’

Reaper clapped a meaty paw on to Lock’s shoulder. ‘Yard time, soldier boy. No avoiding it.’

Lock knew that all he could do now was tough it out.

When he found himself standing at the door that opened on to the yard, Lock felt as though he was standing in one of the tunnels leading into the Coliseum, a gladiator waiting to emerge blinking into the sunlight, knowing that there were only two possible outcomes: victory or death.

Out on the yard, the white inmates immediately took one set of benches in the corner furthest from the block. Lock scanned the other groups: to his left, the group of Nortenos eyed the white inmates; on the other bench were the black inmates, Ty at the centre.

‘They know something’s up,’ Lock said, stalling for time.

The eyes of every white inmate swiveled towards him.

A metal shank appeared suddenly in Phileas’s hand. Sharper than the jagged-edged toothbrush, a razor-sharp tip with barbs running all the way up it, so that it would do even more damage coming out than going in. ‘No time like the present,’ Phileas said, the inmates standing around Lock fading away like snow in the Sahara.

Only Reaper remained standing next to him. ‘What the hell you fools doin’? He walks across the yard alone, the toads’ll know something’s up for sure.’

The mist of bodies moved back in.

‘We all stay real close,’ Reaper continued. ‘Do it on the way back in.’

‘No,’ said Lock. ‘If I’m gonna do it, let me do it now.’

Ty watched as Lock broke away from the group of white inmates and headed straight for the dozen black inmates sweating it out across the yard.

‘They’re getting ready to make a move,’ Marvin muttered in his ear.

Ty could sense it too. It was like a change in air pressure. It had built all the way up to the lockdown when the metal pieces on the fence had gone missing. Their disappearance had to be down to Lock. His way of trying to contain Reaper, or make sure that no one got to him.

‘You ready?’ Marvin asked.

‘I’m good,’ Ty said, aware that his lips were barely moving.

By now, Lock was less than fifteen feet away, and he had been joined by a phalanx of white inmates. Phileas was on his left, Reaper on his right.

Ty rose. He and Marvin started towards the white inmates.

The yard fell silent. Ty could feel everyone’s eyes on him as he kept walking. The Nortenos were already moving from their bench in anticipation of what might happen, hands by their sides, relaxed, not looking to engage but readying themselves should they have to.

They were within ten feet now. A few more steps and Ty would be close enough to the white inmates to prompt a rush from them.

Ty’s eyes fixed on his target. Using a technique Lock had taught him, he began shading Phileas’s body grey, leaving only the main target areas of head and groin red. You focused on the red areas; the rest took care of themselves.

Two of the guards on the yard had stopped what they were doing and were looking up. One had his radio keyed, keeping it open.

To his right, Ty saw one of the black inmates break ranks, pushing off hard and running full pelt towards the white inmates. The next second he sensed the blur of movement that was Marvin making his move – the physical equivalent of the side of a mountain slipping into the sea. Then it was on, and they were toe to toe on the yard.

19

Ty threw the open palm of his left hand into Phileas’s face, following up by slamming the elbow of his right arm at his nose. Phileas’s torso shifted back, but his feet stayed planted. A fist flew into Ty’s chest, landing hard close to his solar plexus. The air punched out hard from his chest, but he kept fighting, throwing a knee up into Phileas’s groin. Then another. And another. Phileas groaned. His head came down, earning him another knee, this one finding his face.

Ty’s height gave him leverage and he set about using every inch of it. Blood clotted in the dust as he continued to rain in blows on the older man. Then what felt like an express train clobbered the side of his head and he was on the ground. There was no sensation of falling. One minute he was standing, the next he was looking up at the bloodied face of Phileas, smiling down at him through broken teeth, and raising a foot, which crashed hard into Ty’s nose, snapping the cartilage.

Lock had moved hard right to avoid direct engagement with Ty. Glancing back, he saw Reaper on his shoulder – for a big man who’d spent a large part of his life in a small box, he moved
fast
. The other white inmates clustered round them in a tight phalanx.

The shank was down by Lock’s side. Time to do something about that. He slowed his pace fractionally and the front of someone’s foot caught the back of his heel. He was ready for it so he didn’t fall, but he did stumble, and as he grabbed someone behind him to steady himself, the weapon tumbled from his hand.

Ahead of him, he could see Ty giving a good account of himself. Marvin was getting the worst of it from one of the Nazi Low Riders who had him pinned to the ground and was throwing punches with bowling-ball-size fists at Marvin’s head. The remainder of the black inmates were also pressing in to get some of the action. A couple rushed to Marvin and Ty’s side while the rest pivoted hard left towards Lock and his group.

On the periphery, the two guards on the yard drew their canisters of pepper spray from their hips, stepped back and let loose at the edges of the melee in a futile attempt at delaying the inevitable.

There was a flurry of limbs as the two groups clashed in a mass of roundhouse kicks and brutal punches. Lock found himself facing a black inmate about his own height but twenty pounds heavier with the word ‘Thug’ bannered in blue ink across his forehead. Lock stayed low in an effort to minimise the target area offered to his opponent, then stood and slammed his right shoulder as hard as he could into the centre of Thug’s chest. Tear gas swirled around the yard, and Lock stepped back, noticing as he did so that the mass engagement had broken into small clusters of two or three bodies.

Blood spurted in a regular pulse from the neck of a black inmate to Lock’s left as two of the Nazi Low Riders went to work, one pinning him down while the other stabbed him repeatedly in the face and body. The stabber paused and grinned at Lock before plunging his shank back into his prostrate victim.

Lock looked round for Ty, then caught another whiff of tear gas which stung his eyes and blurred his vision.

Staying low, he charged Thug, coming up hard again, this time with an elbow to his opponent’s chin. It was a clean connection, right on the button, and Thug’s legs buckled under him. Lock helped him along, sweeping the hapless black inmate to the floor by grabbing his prison blues around the collar and bringing his right leg hard into the back of Thug’s knees. Lock gave him a final kick in the head for good measure, keeping the arc of his foot low, and started to skirt round the bodies.

Amid the mayhem, he’d lost sight of Ty.

Wisps of tear gas clung low to the ground, lending a near-medieval tinge to the scene as Lock glimpsed half a dozen guards in full riot gear opening a gate into the yard and rolling on through. Wielding tasers and batons they went to work, weeding first through those inmates closest to the fence.

‘Get down on the ground now!’

‘Do not move!’

Most inmates offered only token resistance, two or three minutes of close-quarter combat having sapped the energy of all but the fittest. After taking a couple of baton strikes to their bodies to demonstrate their continuing machismo, they followed orders, rolling away from opponents and kissing the dirt, bruised fingers laced tight behind their necks.

As the guards moved in, Lock spotted Ty. Next to Ty, Marvin was lying motionless on the ground, clots of red dirt flecked on the ground around him. Ty was still going at it, giving a good account of himself, throwing palms and elbows at Phileas with alarming speed and ferocity. Phileas was backing away, his face swollen.

Lock couldn’t resist a smile as Ty grabbed Phileas by the back of his neck, using his spare hand to gouge at his eyes – a classic piece of Krav Maga, where total destruction of your opponent was prized over looking good.

‘Get down on the ground!’ the guard nearest to Ty yelled.

Do it, thought Lock. Just do it, Ty. Give it up. But Ty was too far gone, too consumed by the massive dump of adrenalin brought by combat.

Lock half-turned and caught a baton to the back of his knees. His legs folded and the ground came up to meet him. His hands pressed the dirt as he pushed himself back up, but another blow, this one to his back, sank him, just as he caught a glimpse of Ty astride Phileas, the guy barely moving.

Up in the gun tower, a lone guard surveyed the yard through the scope of his rifle. Save for one corner of the yard, all the inmates were lying face down. The riot officers moved among them, assessing who needed medical attention and who needed restraints.

To his left, though, a black inmate still had one of the whites pinned down. A riot officer blasted a cone of pepper spray in the black inmate’s direction, but the black inmate had pulled his shirt up over his face, shielding himself from the worst of it.

The guard’s finger moved to the trigger of his gun as the inmate advanced on the guard. Picking a spot behind and to the left of the inmate, he squeezed the trigger.

Lock heard the sharp crack of the shot and watched a puff of dust from the warning shot rise near Ty. He looked up towards the gun tower, but right then two members of the riot squad moved in front of him, their heavy black boots blocking his vision.

A few seconds later came the crack of a second shot, and the yard fell silent as Ty hit the ground.

20

Jalicia watched as Bobby Gross, lead defense attorney for the Aryan Brotherhood leadership, swept into the San Francisco courtroom, his entourage of a dozen other attorneys and assistants trailing in his wake. As he approached the table where she sat with her three-person prosecution team, he stopped, ran a hand through his carefully blow-dried head of hair, and pursed his lips. Jalicia suspected that he probably spent more time in front of the mirror in the morning than she did.

‘Can I help you with something, Bobby?’ Jalicia asked, fully aware of how much Gross hated being called by his first name.

He leaned in towards her. She could smell his breath. Minty fresh. ‘Tick tock. Think your boy’s gonna make it?’ Gross was all smiles, a football coach riling his opposite number before the big game.

Behind Gross, his clients, the six members of the Aryan Brotherhood leadership, were being led in by their escort of US Marshals. They seemed to be in high spirits, laughing and joking among themselves. Most of them had been in prison for over thirty years, and it showed in the motel-tan pallor of their skin. Several wore reading glasses. All were dressed in a preppy smart-casual uniform of chinos and business shirts, buttoned to the neck – all the better to hide biceps that could crack a steel-reinforced walnut, not to mention the patchwork of shamrocks, swastikas and Nazi lightning bolts inked across their torsos and arms. The only tattoo none of them could conceal was the one that identified their membership of the AB – the shamrock inked on to the third knuckle of their right hand.