Sean Black - Deadlock

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.

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 swiveled 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?’

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’.

Cowboy hard-stared him. ‘Operation’s started. You smoke that, you make sure and bag the butt.’

Trooper flicked up the Zippo and lit his cigarette, finding a free middle finger to flip Cowboy the bird.

‘I ain’t joking,’ Cowboy said.

Trooper sucked the freshly lit cigarette into his mouth and chewed down on it — one of his many gross-out party tricks acquired during too much time spent with outlaw biker gangs.

Chance laughed. Cowboy and Trooper fought like family, worse sometimes. ‘No arguing now, boys,’ she said, giving first Cowboy and then Trooper a hug.

Cowboy took a step back and stared at her. ‘Nice job on those buildings.’

Chance felt herself blush. ‘Wasn’t nothing. This is gonna be the difficult part.’

She ushered them back over to the pick-up and spread out a recon map on the hood. It showed the airfield and surrounding area. She stabbed at a point on the map, then pointed in the direction of the stand of trees, which would obscure the helicopter from the area beyond. ‘We’ll wait in there,’ she said. ‘Now, help me get this gear unloaded. We don’t have long.’

No sooner had they dug into their respective positions and settled in to wait than a Medford Police Department cruiser appeared at the gate at the far end of the airstrip. Chance raised her M-4 to her shoulder and peered through the scope for a better look as the front passenger door of the cruiser opened and a female deputy waddled out and sprang the padlock securing the gate.