Sean Black - Deadlock

Lock shrugged, his mind on Reaper and the threat he posed. ‘How should I know?’

Ty stopped walking, forcing Lock to look back. ‘Will you just chill the hell out? Look around. No one’s going to be making any moves against the President with all this security. And even if they do, they got America’s Top Bodyguard in attendance.’ Ty smirked. ‘So where do you think we’re sitting?’

‘I’m sure you’ll be front and centre, right in between the President and the First Lady.’

‘Sweet. So, when’s this thing supposed to start?’

‘You make it sound like a concert.’

Ty craned his neck to check out the queue of guests in front of them. Here and there, Lock recognized a senator or some other major political figure. There were even a couple of high-profile actors and media types, presumably drawn in by the presence of the President. As people chatted excitedly, Lock wondered how many of them had ever even met Junius Holmes. The vibe was definitely not that of a funeral. Instead, the whole thing came off like the funeral was the hottest ticket in town. Lock reflected that it made for one huge upside: a rampaging gang of white supremacists making for the President was definitely going to stand out.

Leaving the crowds already gathering behind the barriers on the streets outside, Lock and Ty slowly headed up the steps of the cathedral. At the entrance, the funeral-goers were being searched. There was an airport-style metal detector and a separate X-ray machine for bags. By the way they were fumbling with belts and shoes, Lock guessed that most of this crowd flew private jets.

A sinewy brunette who was accompanying a Republican senator was in hushed conversation with a female Secret Service agent as Lock stepped up to take his turn. The machine had gone off and she was being asked to remove anything metal that she had on her person. ‘I have a piercing which can’t be removed,’ she was saying, her New York accent loud and pronounced. ‘Not here anyway.’

Ty was already through the detector and standing on the other side. ‘Come on, man,’ he said to Lock while peering towards the altar. ‘I can see a couple of good seats down the front.’

Yup, like we’re going to be allowed to sit there, thought Lock, knowing that most of the pews in that part of the cathedral would be reserved for the President and his entourage.

The detector beeped as Lock stepped through.

‘Sir, could you remove your belt?’ asked one of the agents.

Lock stepped back and, hitching up his lightweight jacket, saw that he still had his Gerber hanging from it. Stupid. He’d remembered to leave his 226 back at the hotel, but the Gerber he’d forgotten about. It was a new knife too. A gift from Carrie. An LMF II Infantry Knife with a 4.8-inch blade. Not easily missed.

Ty was still hopping up and down on the other side, watching as the New Yorker with the secret piercing and her septuagenarian date walked past him in the direction of the two seats he’d scoped out.

Lock made no attempt to hide the knife. One of the security people by the scanner had already seen it. ‘Sorry, forgot I had it on me. Can I leave it with you?’

Two agents were heading towards him now at speed. No big deal, thought Lock.

‘Sir, can you step over here?’ said one of them, ushering Lock off to one side.

The other agent picked up the knife, still in its sheath, from the plastic tray. Lock could see in his eyes that this was going to take a lot of explaining. Rather than dive in and offer up a mea culpa, he waited to take a cue from the two agents. He glanced around, hoping to spot Coburn or one of the other local guys, but there was no one he recognized apart from Ty, and he had given up waiting and was hustling to take a seat.

‘You usually bring a knife to a funeral?’ one of the agents asked as he palmed the Gerber off to his colleague.

Lock suppressed the urge to fire back with a wisecrack. Or to tell them that he had in fact, at one funeral, snapped the wrist of a suspect in a child abduction. ‘I had it on my belt, forgot it was there. Confiscate it if you like. Or give it back to me later?’

The agent who had been handed the knife had disappeared with it behind the scanner. He was running a swab over the blade.

The agent who was with Lock said nothing. Lock joined him in staying silent.

‘Could I see some identification, sir?’ the agent said at last.

Slowly, Lock dug his wallet from his pants pocket and flipped it open.

If the agent recognized the name, he showed no hint. Instead, he took the wallet and headed over to join his colleague by the scanner.

‘Stay right there,’ he said.

Lock checked his watch, feeling self-conscious as guests streamed past and the place began to fill up.

Then the two agents were back, their demeanor different. There was a tightness to their features, even more pronounced than before, and they’d been joined by a couple of San Francisco Police Department uniforms, one of whom had his hand on his gun. His partner was unclipping her cuffs.

Lock turned towards her, squaring his shoulders as she approached.

‘Sir,’ she said, ‘can you explain why the knife you’re carrying just tested positive for explosives?’

They called it living in the bubble. You couldn’t really understand it until you had experienced it. Even something as simple as going for a walk had to be cleared with the Secret Service.

Together, he and the First Lady had tried to keep things as normal as possible, especially for the kids. But no matter how hard you tried, the fact remained, when you were President, life was no longer normal.

The motorcade was whipping through the outskirts of San Francisco on the way from the airport to Grace Cathedral. He leaned towards the window, caught sight of the Golden Gate Bridge.

‘Hey, girls,’ he said to his two daughters, pointing it out.

They unbuckled their seat belts. His wife rolled her eyes.

‘Let them take a look, honey,’ he said with a smile.

Then he turned to the agent sitting next to him. ‘Can I put the window down so they can take a look?’

‘I’d really prefer if you didn’t, sir,’ the agent said.

The President let it go. He could overrule the guy, but he tried his best not to. The Secret Service people were there to protect him and his family, to lay down their own lives if they had to. Under those circumstances it didn’t seem fair to make their job any more difficult.

‘Sorry, girls.’

They sank back into their seats, and his youngest daughter stuck out her tongue at the agent.

‘Ashley!’ his wife scolded.

‘I’m sorry,’ Ashley singsonged.

The agent managed a smile. ‘That’s OK. We’re a big bunch of spoilsports, right?’

‘Worse than Dad,’ said Ashley.

‘And that’s saying something, right?’ the President joked.

It was tough on the kids, though. He tried to keep to a minimum the number of official engagements they went to, but sometimes it was the only opportunity he had to see them.

He turned to the agent. ‘How long until we get there?’

‘About twelve minutes, sir.’

‘You know,’ said the President, addressing his two daughters, ‘if you’re real good, maybe there’ll be a surprise later.’

‘Ghirardelli?’ they both asked, wide-eyed.

The Ghirardelli soda fountain on North Point Street near Fisherman’s Wharf was a San Francisco institution, famous for its chocolate and ice-cream sundaes. You could gain twenty pounds just looking at one of them.

‘Depends if you’re good.’ He nudged the agent. ‘I might even get you one too, Mike.’

‘Not sure my wife would thank you, sir,’ said the agent.

The President winked. ‘Then don’t tell her.’