Sean Black - Deadlock

The helicopter jolted. There was the sound of wood splintering, as if an old sailing ship were being wrenched from a weather-worn dock by the power of an angry sea. Then, rather than free-fall down, the helicopter righted itself and started slowly to descend back on to the roof.

Lock lost sight of it. He clenched his fists, torn between a desire to go back into the building and stay where he could see what was happening. He stayed put, and a few seconds later the blades of the helicopter rose again, more slowly than before. As it rose directly upwards, Lock could see people in the cabin. Three of them. The same number he’d seen when it arrived. No Reaper, then. Not unless he’d switched places with one of them, which was unlikely given that he’d been left in the cage.

The grinding gears of a truck’s engine behind him prompted Lock to turn round. An olive-green canvas-covered military transport truck was rolling down the street. Lock wondered why the hell the Marshals hadn’t handed over this whole operation to the military in the first place. Jalicia might still be here if they had. They were too proud, that was why, and it was institutional pride, which was the worst kind as far as he was concerned.

Despite the mayhem and the local cops’ best efforts, the street was still full of civilians. Their eyes were trained on the roof, on the departing helicopter. No more than twenty feet from Lock stood an overweight woman in a pink housecoat, mouth agape, her yellowing teeth a forceful rebuttal to the usual wonders of American dentistry.

‘Holy shit,’ she said.

Lock spun round, following her gaze. Up above them, the metal cage, complete with Reaper still shackled inside it, dangled twenty feet beneath the chopper, secured by the ropes tied to the helicopter’s skids. The cage inched into the night sky. The four ropes, attached at either corner of the cage, twisted in the wind, but Reaper kept rising into the storm-blackened Oregon sky.

All around, people had stopped whatever they were doing and were staring. Cops. Civilians. Everyone. Lock felt a shiver of defeat run through them as the nose of the helicopter dipped and it started to coast smoothly away from the building.

Lock shielded his eyes against the glare of the Night Sun spotlight mounted on the nose of the helicopter. He could make out Reaper, his arms still spread, Christ-like, as he ascended into the heavens.

A voice crept into Lock’s mind. Reaper’s voice, but not his words. The words belonged to Sun Tzu, the ancient Chinese general. They were the words Reaper had recited from memory back in the cell they’d shared in Pelican Bay.

Engage people with what they expect. It settles them into predictable patterns of response, occupying their minds while you wait for the extraordinary moment — that which they cannot anticipate.

Then, like a cassette machine clicking off as it runs out of tape, the voice was gone, along with Reaper and the helicopter, which had travelled far enough that it had become just another distant point of light in a sky full of dead planets.

‘The extraordinary moment,’ Lock repeated softly to himself, his hand tightening so hard round the grip of his SIG that his knuckles turned white.

The cage inched towards the ground, pieces of wooden joist and chunks of plaster still attached to its base. The wait for the chopper to land had been interminable, worse than any time spent in solitary back at Pelican Bay, where seconds could stretch like an eternity. As it made contact with the earth, it toppled over. Reaper went with it, the tightness of the shackles that held him in place saving him from further injury. If Lock hadn’t done his job so thoroughly, Reaper doubted he’d have a bone left unbroken by now. Above him he could see a couple of the ropes slacken and then fall back to earth as they were cut from the helicopter.

Reaper closed his eyes, the downdraught from the helicopter still roaring around him. Then he heard the engine being cut, and the sound of the rotors fell away. There were voices. Men’s voices.

‘Let’s get it upright.’

‘I got bolt cutters in the truck.’

‘Then go get ’em.’

‘We’re gonna need more than bolt cutters. We’re gonna need a blowtorch to get into the cage.’

Kids these days, thought Reaper. He licked his lips. ‘Blowtorch will just weld it together, boys,’ he said. ‘You’re gonna need a cutting torch. Something that runs at a ninety-degree angle. Oxyacetylene. Either that or an angle grinder — you know, like people use for cutting off wheel clamps.’

When it came to engineering technology, Reaper doubted that anyone had the edge on him. A federally mandated right to information had provided him with a wealth of material over the last ten years, plus the kind of time not even tenured academics had to hone their knowledge.

‘I got one of those in the truck,’ said one of the disembodied voices.

‘Then go get it,’ Reaper said, now firmly in charge, the alpha male.

There was the sound of boots sloshing over soaking ground and then the cage was maneuvered so that Reaper was upright.

Reaper could see her properly now. Wow, she was beautiful. A knock-out. And so strong, so commanding. He studied her face, searching out her features. Her deep grey eyes. So clear, so unswerving. Her delicate nose. Those high cheek bones which gave the rest of her face its nobility. Those who doubted that there was indeed a master race need only look at her face to have their objections quelled.

She smiled at him, that same look of shared understanding, then reached in again to touch his hand, pinching his palm between her thumb and index finger. ‘You OK?’

‘I could be on fire, but seeing you would make it all OK,’ he replied, his voice as brittle as a three-pack-a-day smoker.

‘I should have visited,’ she said.

Reaper shook his head. ‘You did what was best.’ His voice grew brittle again. ‘You did good.’

‘We’ll get you out of there real soon.’

Reaper closed his eyes in acknowledgement, and to hide the tears he felt forming. He stayed like that as the men set to work.

Using the angle grinder, they had the cage door open in no time. Once they had one hand free from the cuffs, Reaper helped them with the rest, using a borrowed comb to spring the other cuffs. Then they set to work on the leg restraints.

Half an hour later, he stepped uncertainly from his cage. Chance threw her arms round him and he scooped her up, burying his face in her blonde hair. The men looked away, then busied themselves with other things. Finally, with the softest of kisses to her forehead, Reaper put her down.

‘Let me introduce you around,’ she said, suddenly formal.

Cowboy stepped forward, snapping a salute. ‘An honor and a privilege, sir,’ he said. ‘Not many true patriots left.’

‘That was some damn impressive flying,’ Reaper said.

‘I’m only glad I could be of true service.’

Trooper shook Reaper’s hand. ‘It’s an honor, sir.’

Chance tapped his arm. ‘Come on. We gotta go.’

‘Man, she’s bossy, ain’t she?’ Reaper grinned at Cowboy.

‘You don’t know the half of it, sir.’

Reaper looked at her with pride. ‘Half a dozen more of her in the movement and we’d have cleaned all the filth out of this country by now.’

‘So where now?’ he asked as they walked towards a pick-up truck parked at the edge of the clearing they’d used to land.

‘Going to get you cleaned up. Then we have a private plane chartered tomorrow to get us out of the country.’

Reaper stopped in his tracks. ‘Say what?’

‘You don’t think we should wait? I could try and move it up. We thought they’d be checking all immediate private charters. Plus, we have a couple of loose ends to tie up.’