Sean Black - Lockdown

‘So, in summary,’ Missy was saying, ‘I think this is, in fact, an excellent opportunity to not only build brand awareness but reposition our company as one which truly cares about the wider community.’

Holy shit. Only in corporate America could a child abduction which had already yielded one dead body be seen as a way to make a business appear warm and cuddly.

‘I’ve an idea,’ Lock said.

All eyes swivelled round to him.

‘Maybe if we get the kid back in one piece we could do a tie-in with one of our drugs. You know, like Ritalin, or something.’

No one laughed. Or looked pissed. Missy jotted something down. ‘Or perhaps set up some kind of foundation?’

‘I think you’ll find Mr Lock was being facetious,’ Nicholas Van Straten said, drily.

‘Oh,’ she said, looking at Lock like he’d just taken a leak in the corner of the room.

‘If I may?’ Stafford interjected.

‘If you must,’ said his father.

Stafford pressed the palms of his hands together in apparent supplication and paused for a moment. ‘I don’t think we have a problem here. This is a public relations snafu, nothing that’ll affect us. And certainly nothing that’ll worry our shareholders. The animal rights protestors, now that was a problem for us. But seeing as they’re out of the equation we can get back to concentrating on our bottom line.’ Stafford stood up. ‘Now, this is what I propose. .’

Lock shifted uncomfortably, his recurring headache beginning to gnaw away again at the front of his skull. As he watched Stafford drone on, his mind drifted back three months, to the first time he’d run into the man.

Lock had been supervising a sweep of the upper floors of the building, taking the newly recruited Hizzard through proper civilian search procedure of a location while the place was quiet. Even those employees desperate to avoid returning to an empty apartment, or clocking up unpaid extra hours to impress their line manager, had long gone.

Lock had left Hizzard to check one half of the floor while he did the other. Lock had one office to try. Stafford’s office. A floor down from his father’s, Stafford’s was close enough that he could feel important, but not close enough that his father had to see him all that much. The door was slightly ajar, and as Lock pushed it open he saw a woman bent double over the desk. In Stafford’s right hand was a hank of her hair; his left hand was working its way up between her thighs. The woman was doing her best to fight him off, clawing at Stafford’s face with a free hand.

‘Shut the hell up, bitch,’ Stafford growled, sharply yanking her head back.

‘You’re hurting me,’ she pleaded.

Stafford’s face moved closer to hers. ‘Bet you like it rough, don’t you?’ he whispered.

Lock had seen enough. He stepped through the door.

‘This office doesn’t need cleaning, go somewhere else,’ barked Stafford, not bothering to look behind him.

When no answer came, Stafford let go of the woman’s hair and reached down to unzip his trousers.

Covering the distance between them with six large strides, Lock stopped as Stafford glanced round. The look on Stafford’s face wasn’t shame, or guilt, or anything approximating either of those. He just looked irritated that someone would have the audacity to disobey him. Never before had Lock felt such a strong urge to wipe a look from someone’s face.

He did it with a single strike to Stafford’s face, the ridge of his elbow meeting his nose with a soft crunch. If there was one thing guaranteed to make a rapist lose wood it was a severe jolt of pain. It usually worked a hell of a lot faster than a cold shower.

The woman disentangled herself and turned round. She was breathing heavily from the struggle. She put both hands up to her face and rubbed at it, as if wishing away a nightmare. She looked to Lock to be in her early twenties, either an intern or fresh out of college.

‘Are you OK?’ Lock asked.

She nodded, struggling to pull back up her torn pantyhose. Hizzard, the new recruit, blustered into the room and froze as he took in the scene.

‘There’s a bathroom just down the hall,’ Lock said to the woman. ‘Hizzard here will take you.’

She hesitated.

‘Don’t worry, you’re safe now,’ Lock said.

‘OK.’ Her voice wavered slightly. Pulling down her skirt, she walked out, head down, avoiding eye contact with Stafford. Hizzard padded after her, careful to keep his distance.

Lock reached past Stafford for the phone. He was pleased to see a flicker of panic in Stafford’s eyes.

‘Hey, wait a minute.’

Lock pressed nine to get an outside line. He could see that Stafford was desperate to make a lunge for the handset, but too much of a coward to go for it. He cradled the phone between his shoulder and chin. ‘What you gonna tell me? Rough was how she liked it? She’d been coming on to you for weeks now? Why else would she have stayed late on a Friday night with just you and her left in the building?’ He pressed down on another nine.

‘Lock? That’s your name, right?’ Stafford said, his voice suddenly falsetto with panic.

Lock hit a one. Only one digit to go.

‘Look, man, I’m not going to make any bullshit excuses. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’ve got a problem.’

‘You do now,’ Lock said, pressing down on the final one. ‘Police department, please.’

A second passed as he was put through, Lock perched casually on the edge of the desk, enjoying Stafford’s obvious discomfort. In his gut he knew one thing for sure: this might have been the first time Stafford had been interrupted, but it sure as hell wasn’t the first time it had happened.

‘The hell with you, man,’ Stafford blurted. ‘What you saw adds up to nothing in court. It won’t even go to trial. It’s her word against mine.’

Lock replaced the handset. What Stafford had read as a scare tactic on Lock’s part was far from it. Lock had put down the phone not because he’d scared Stafford enough but because Stafford was right. A call to the police would change nothing.

He removed his Sig and levelled it at Stafford’s bloodied face. The movement was relaxed to the point of casual. ‘You like guns?’

Stafford’s face was white with shock now. ‘I was in the ROTC at college,’ he stammered.

‘Remember the first thing your firearms instructor told you? The cardinal rule?’

Stafford swallowed. ‘Never point a gun at someone unless you intend to shoot them.’

‘Very good. Ten out of ten. Now, outside.’ Lock waved Stafford over to the door.

There are lots of ways a man might think he’ll react when a gun is pointed at him. In combat, Lock had known blowhards lose control of their bladders, and cowards find a relative calm in which they could fight back. But the first surge of emotion is the same for everyone. Fear.

Stafford walked meekly to the door. In the corridor, Lock holstered his gun but made sure that Stafford was ahead of him and didn’t look back. Behind them, Hizzard stood sentry outside the ladies’ washroom.

Lock guided Stafford to the elevator. Confirmation that they were being watched came in the form of a voice from the control room in Lock’s ear.

‘We’re fine. Just taking a little night air,’ Lock replied.

They got out on the top floor. From here they could access the roof. Lock punched in a key code and pushed Stafford through the door with a shove.

Outside it was dark. High forties at best. A sensor light snapped on, throwing both men’s shadows to the very edge of the roof.

The walk appeared to have given Stafford the opportunity to compose himself a little. ‘So what now? You gonna shoot me?’ he asked.

‘No,’ replied Lock, ‘you’re going to jump.’