Sean Black - Deadlock

‘Hey, Lock,’ he called out.

There was no response other than the white noise of water blasting into the bath.

‘Game’s up, Lock,’ he announced, a little louder this time.

The curtain didn’t even move. Cautiously, Cowboy dropped his right foot back and reached out with his left hand towards the shower curtain. He yanked it to one side.

The shower was running but the bath was empty. He whipped round, expecting to see Lock standing behind him, but he was alone in the bathroom. He took a deep breath, tipped his hat back on his head and swiped the moisture that had gathered on his face from the hot blast of the shower away from his eyes.

Then he stepped out of the bathroom.

He was sideways on to the door leading into the room when the bullet slammed into his neck with a wet thud.

Lock walked over and toe-poked Cowboy’s limp corpse. Behind him, Ty looked on.

‘Wrong room, asshole,’ Lock said. ‘I’m staying in 427.’

‘One down,’ said Ty.

Lock nodded. ‘Coburn can’t be far behind.’ He stared down at Cowboy’s body, noting the tiny shamrock tattoo on his right hand. ‘Let’s get him moved.’

Together, they dragged Cowboy into the bathroom, leaving a smear of blood on the carpet, which didn’t matter, Lock concluded. Coburn would be expecting blood, and, contrary to the white supremacists’ beliefs, one man’s blood looked the same as any other.

With Cowboy’s body hidden from plain view, Lock handed Ty his room key card. Ty crossed the five yards to the other side of the hall to wait while Lock reset the door of room 426 with the newspaper bag. Coburn, who was surely less gullible than the dead man in the bathroom, would assume his buddy had done it.

Lock stepped back into the room and took a seat on the couch, facing the door. If Coburn bolted, Ty would be watching from across the corridor, ready to take him down.

Lock didn’t have long to wait. Less than five minutes later, the door was pushed open.

‘Lock, you OK?’ Coburn called out, stepping inside.

The concerned ATF agent, thought Lock bitterly.

Coburn froze when he saw Lock, then, looking down at the carpet, he caught sight of the bloody trail leading into the bathroom. ‘Jesus H. What the hell happened here?’

‘I could ask you the same,’ Lock said, taking his time. ‘Don’t you knock first?’

Coburn looked behind him. ‘Sorry. I… I thought you might be in trouble when I saw the door open.’

Lock smiled. ‘Close it.’

This was the moment of truth. Coburn could either close the door, step back into the room and try to front it out, or he could make an escape. Either way, Lock thought grimly, he was going to take him down.

Carrie had called him about five minutes after he’d arrived in his room to tell him that Coburn was looking for him. Going on gut feeling, and after what had happened back at the Cathedral, she had decided to give Coburn the wrong room number.

Coburn leaving him to hang like that had also been preying on Lock’s mind. His disquiet prompted him to make a call he’d been avoiding. He called the police department in Medford and tracked down one of the cops who’d taken the cell phone that he’d found outside Jalicia’s motel from him. With a lot of persuasion the cop confirmed that it was Jalicia’s cell phone. He told Lock something else as well.

On the night she was abducted outside her motel the last phone call she’d received was from an agent with the ATFE. It was the same agent who was standing in front of Lock now. Through all the bad decisions, bloodshed and mayhem, he was the one constant.

Coburn was turning towards the door. Lock felt his whole body tense.

‘Your buddy with the cowboy hat’s in the bathroom.’

Coburn stopped. ‘What are you talking about?’

He was one hell of an actor, Lock conceded that much. More of an actor than Ken Prager. Although Ken wouldn’t have stood a chance anyway, not if Coburn had let slip to Reaper and his daughter that he was an undercover ATF agent.

‘Go ahead,’ Lock said. ‘Close it.’

Coburn looked puzzled. ‘Whatever you say.’

Lock watched as Coburn grasped the handle. Then, with a sudden jerk, he made his move, throwing the door open and launching himself through it.

Lock squeezed the trigger, but rather than run, Coburn had gone to ground, and Lock’s shot went high.

The room door began to swing shut. Lock got to his feet and ran towards it. He could hear the door on the other side of the corridor being thrown open and Ty shouting at Coburn to stop. Then there was the sound of a struggle.

Lock stepped out into the corridor. It was a long stretch to where it turned at a right angle back towards the bank of two elevators. Coburn was running towards them.

Ty was on the floor just outside the door, clutching his shoulder, his face contorted in pain. For a heart-stopping second Lock thought he’d been shot again, but there was no blood.

‘Son of a bitch hit me,’ Ty spat at Coburn’s retreating figure.

Lock took to his heels in pursuit of Coburn, who now had a good thirty-yard start. At least, thought Lock, there was no longer any doubt as to what Coburn was, or which side he was on.

As Coburn closed in on the end of the corridor, Lock was gaining on him. With doors either side, Lock hadn’t wanted to risk taking a shot which might take out a curious hotel guest who had opened his door to see what all the commotion was. Coburn, however, had no such qualms. He spun round on his heel and took aim.

Lock flattened himself against a door. Coburn took the shot anyway, missing by a mile but buying himself a few more valuable seconds.

When Lock looked up, Coburn was already rounding the turn at the end of the corridor. Lock followed him, pulling up short of the turn, aware that he could fly round the corner only to find Coburn waiting for him. Reaching the end of the corridor, he took a quick look, catching sight of Coburn’s back as he ran past the elevators, heading for the stairs.

Driven on by adrenalin, Lock ran for the exit to the stairs. He burst through the door and, leaning over the railing, saw Coburn already on the way down. Lock stood there, tracking Coburn’s progress, waiting for the right moment, praying that Coburn wouldn’t duck back out into a corridor before he made it to the ground floor.

Steadying his grip on his 226, Lock took aim and squeezed the trigger. The tight confines of the stairwell amplified the sound of the gunshot, leaving an echo ringing in Lock’s ears. The single blast of gunfire was accompanied by a sharp, guttural scream of pain from below as Coburn tumbled down on to the second-floor landing.

Lock started down the stairs, taking them two at a time. He could see Coburn lying prostrate on the ground, his gun ten steps below him, safely out of reach. Blood oozed from Coburn’s right boot where Lock’s bullet had found its target.

Coburn was rocking back and forth with the pain. Finally, he twisted his head round, staring up at Lock. ‘Prison ain’t so bad,’ he said.

Lock took a moment to catch his breath. He looked around the stairwell. He was alone with Coburn. No CCTV or witnesses of any description. All anyone would have seen was two men, both armed and firing at each other, disappearing into the stairwell.

‘You think I’m going to take you in?’ Lock asked him.

Coburn half-shrugged a ‘yes’ and clutched at his bloodied foot with both hands. ‘You’re a boy scout, Lock,’ he said. ‘Why else would you have taken that suicide mission Jalicia gave you?’

Lock took one more step towards him. Then another. Coburn’s foot looked bad, but not bad enough to kill him. Not even close. He turned over the situation in his mind, then took a breath, the stairwell seeming to tunnel in round them. A cold breeze had picked up from somewhere. It took him back to the redwood clearing where Ken Prager had been butchered before being forced to watch the execution of his wife and child.