Sean Black - Deadlock

Chance guessed they were here to ensure that nothing was amiss before the Marshals team from the court arrived to collect Reaper from the aircraft. It wasn’t a big deal. They’d drive round, see nothing, wait for the Marshals transfer team to arrive, then leave. All they had to do was sit tight.

Chance took another peek through her sights. The gates were rolled open but the female patrol officer was stood stock still, staring directly to her left. Worse, she was waving to her colleague inside the vehicle. He clambered out and joined her. Chance strained to hear what was being said, but they were too far away. Whatever it was, though, it wasn’t good, because the male cop started to walk in their direction while the female patrol officer ducked her head back into the car to get on the radio.

‘Shit,’ said Chance, crawling on her side into the brush and motioning for Trooper, who was on her right, to start moving round so that he would be in a position behind the male cop if he made it this far.

Chance’s mind was racing. If he came over, he’d get shot, they’d have no alternative. And then their operation would be mortally compromised. They’d have to go for the extraction they’d originally planned, and that would make this seem like a picnic.

Once she was happy she couldn’t be seen from the road, Chance got to her feet. Her breathing was heavy and her back was killing her. She started to skirt round to her left. On the way she began to discard her cammo gear. She stripped down to bra and panties. That would work fine. She grabbed a handful of dirt and rubbed it over her face and into her hair. Then she headed back towards the service road.

One minute, Patrol Officer Michelle Hulsey was watching her partner, gun drawn, head towards the line of trees, the next, a woman appeared on the edge of the airstrip screaming her head off. The woman was semi-naked and seemed to be in some distress.

Hulsey saw her partner turn round and wave Hulsey out of the car and towards the woman. ‘See what she wants,’ he shouted.

It figured, thought Hulsey, with no little resentment. She had to be the one to deal with the hysterical female. She put her head down and walked towards the woman.

‘Ma’am, are you OK?’

‘You’ve got to help me!’ screamed the woman.

Hulsey was close enough to get a better look at her now. Something was off. Slowly, it formed in her mind what it was. The woman’s face was dirty, like she’d been dragged through the undergrowth, but the rest of her naked flesh was clean.

Hulsey’s hand slipped to the butt of her service weapon just as she heard a gunshot behind her. She spun round and saw her partner hit the ground. His legs were on the edge of the road, the rest of his body splayed on the grass. Whatever had just happened, it was going to require back-up — and fast.

She started backing up towards her cruiser, fumbling for her gun. But the woman had already pulled out a handgun, seemingly from nowhere, and was pointing it at her.

‘If you want to live, do exactly what I say.’

‘Whatever is going on here-’ Hulsey stuttered, putting her hands up slowly.

‘That doesn’t include talking, bitch.’

Two men wearing full camouflage gear, including tactical body armor, stepped from the trees carrying automatic rifles. One of them was wearing a black cowboy hat; the other had long blond hair. Matter-of-factly, they began to drag her partner back towards the trees, leaving a smear of blood on the grass.

The woman spoke again as she advanced towards her. ‘What have you called in so far?’

Hulsey’s mouth was dry. She had to will herself to form words. ‘Nothing.’

‘Good. So now we’re going to get back in that car of yours, and you’re going to get back on the radio and say that it checked out fine. And remember this. One false move and you’re dead, OK?’

Dawn nudged against the darkness, revealing curls of black clouds set low against the unforgiving frontier-industrial landscape of Medford, Oregon. Lock’s motivational talk had quietened Reaper right down, and there was no talking between the Marshals either.

Hollywood might script dramatic courtroom assassination attempts, Lock reflected now that the flight was coming to an end, but both he and everyone on board knew that their real challenge lay in the transfer between airplane and courthouse.

Lock got up from his seat and made his way over to the Marshal in charge.

‘What do you have on the ground for the transfer?’

‘Six Marshals in three separate vehicles.’

This made sense to Lock. One vehicle would have Reaper in it. One would be out in front scoping out likely trouble and clearing a path through any traffic. The third would, if they had any sense, contain a counter-attack team in case anyone was stupid enough to give them any problems.

‘The Marshals evenly split among the vehicles?’

‘No, we got three in the CA vehicle. Transfer vehicle just has a driver. We’ll make up the numbers in it when we land. Anything else you want to second-guess me on?’

Lock’s reply was cut off by the captain on the intercom. His message was brief: no weather report or thank you for flying JPATS, just a curt ‘Buckle up, we’re making our final approach in about a coupla minutes, gentlemen.’

Lock fastened his seat belt as the plane looped round to the east. From his window he could see the postcard-size airfield below. It was surrounded by dense woods. On the ground he could see three black SUVS — no doubt the transfer vehicles — rolling up towards the entrance.

Then, much further back, not even within the confines of the airfield itself, he saw a helicopter. It was small, black and, judging from the hardware mounted either side of the cockpit, very definitely military.

Then he spotted something else. A patrol car, recognisable by the lights and number painted on the roof, parked in tight to the perimeter fence. And crouched behind it two figures holding what even at this height were clearly heavy-duty assault rifles.

Lock unclipped his belt, stood up and waved the Marshal in charge over.

‘What the hell is it now?’ the Marshal said.

‘Did you order a helicopter as a back-up transfer vehicle?’

The Marshal looked at Lock like he was crazy. ‘No. Why?’

‘Because there’s one down there.’

‘Probably some black ops shit. This place gets used for all kinds of stuff.’

That didn’t explain why a helicopter was in plain sight outside the airfield.

‘What about your CA team? Where are they?’

The Marshal was clearly losing patience. ‘In their vehicle, I’d guess.’

What he’d just seen still made no sense to Lock. Again and again in his career, saving the principal’s life had come down to one simple mantra. Look out for two things: the absence of the normal or the presence of the abnormal.

‘Then who the hell are those guys?’ Lock said, pointing out the two figures crouched behind the patrol car, automatic weapons trained on the runway.

The Marshal followed the trajectory of Lock’s finger and froze. ‘I’ve no idea.’

There was a hiss of noise from the intercom, then the captain’s voice: ‘Final approach, folks. Hold on tight.’

‘Abort the landing!’ Lock bellowed as he and the Marshal raced towards the cockpit door. The Marshal made it there first but Lock pushed past him and grabbed the door handle. It wouldn’t turn. ‘Get this plane back up in the air!’ he shouted. He stepped back and took a kick at the door, but it didn’t budge. He guessed that no amount of kicking would do the job, JPATS aircraft doors having been specifically designed to resist such attempts.

‘It’s Brody,’ shouted the Marshal. ‘Let me in.’