Sean Black - Deadlock

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.’

Wearing his regular civilian uniform of Nike sneakers, blue jeans from Gap and black sweater with a protective vest thrown 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.