Sean Black - Lockdown

‘Have the police said anything about the men who broke in?’

‘They’ve asked about the people who were doing the protests down the street.’

‘That figures.’

‘Why?’ she asked.

‘Doesn’t matter. When the shooters came in, what did they say?’

‘They didn’t say anything.’

‘Nothing at all? Not even “get down” or “don’t move”?’

‘They gave us each a note.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Instructions on a piece of paper. The one they gave my father was in Korean.’

Lock felt suddenly wide awake. Ty, who had picked up a newspaper to kill time, put it back on the rack.

‘And what did it say?’

‘Just told us what to do.’

‘And the notes were definitely written out in Korean?’

‘And English. Yes.’

‘Did you tell the police this?’

‘Of course.’

‘And what did they say?’

‘Nothing. Why?’

‘Did you give them the notes?’

‘The men didn’t leave them behind.’

Lock looked at Ty, both thinking the same thing. They told her again how sorry they were to hear about her father’s passing and left.

A civilian cop wouldn’t have made the connection. To him or her it would just have been a neat trick, perhaps a way of making sure that the victim didn’t pick out an accent. But to Lock and Ty the written instructions meant something else. Something heavy.

In Iraq, when military patrols conducted raids on houses where they didn’t have access to a local interpreter, they used cards written out in all the local dialects. They relied on the fact that the Iraqi population was an educated one, and that although literacy levels were high, it wasn’t guaranteed that people could speak English. They also knew that a failure to understand instructions led to misunderstanding, and misunderstandings led to death. So the cards were brought in.

Lock felt a jolt of adrenalin. Whoever had taken over the store had been military, or ex-military.

Speed-walking along the sidewalk, they made it to the entrance of the Meditech building in under a minute. They spoke only once they’d reached the elevator.

‘Cody Parker have any service?’

‘Don’t think so.’

‘Don Stokes?’

‘Are you shitting me? With that kid’s attitude he’d last about two seconds.’

Brand was sitting behind a desk as they filtered into the makeshift ops room. Above Brand’s head a huge poster-size blowup of Josh Hulme gazed down on them.

Brand pushed back his chair, put his hands behind his head. ‘The wanderers return.’

Lock leaned over the desk so his face was inches from Brand’s. ‘Where’s Hulme?’

‘Safe.’

Lock took a step back, lifted his boot and used it to roll back Brand’s chair into the wall. ‘I said where, not how.’

‘I know what you said, Lock. But while you’ve been trawling the titty bars of the five boroughs for fresh skank, the situation’s moved on. He’s up at the Bay, if you must know.’

‘Brand, cut the shit. What’s going on?’

‘Relax, it’s all being taken care of.’

‘I’m in charge here, and you know it. When things happen, I need to be told.’

‘Correction. You were in charge.’

Brand stood up and picked up two white business envelopes from the desk. One was addressed to Lock, the other to Ty. He passed them over.

Lock ripped his open. The single line in bold upper case beneath the letterhead left no room for interpretation: NOTICE OF TERMINATION.

Stafford stood on the deck of the family’s Shinnecock Bay compound, phone in hand. Ten thousand square feet of property porn with nothing between it and Europe, save the Atlantic. New money fronting the old world.

He ended the call and turned to the two men standing behind him. One was his father, the second Richard Hulme. ‘It’s agreed,’ he said.

Richard’s shoulders slumped, gravity seeming to return to normal for him. ‘Tell me he’s OK. Tell me my son’s safe.’

‘He’s fine, Richard.’

‘So when can we-’

‘If everything goes smoothly, this’ll all be over in less than twenty-four hours.’

Richard nodded to himself, desperate to believe this, as Stafford knew he would be.

Nicholas Van Straten walked to the edge of the deck, arms still folded. ‘How much?’

‘Three million.’

Nicholas’s eyes narrowed as he stared beyond the swimming pool beneath them to the ocean. ‘A small price to pay.’

‘Especially when we have someone else picking up most of the tab,’ added Stafford.

‘Richard, would you allow me a moment with my son?’

‘Of course.’

Nicholas waited until Richard was out of sight.

‘Well done, Stafford.’

It was the first unqualified piece of praise Stafford could recall his father ever giving him. Even as a child, any compliment had always been tempered by an immediate addendum that while he’d done well it was the least that could be expected given the advantages of his birth.

He wanted to savour it. But all he felt was resentment.

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Perhaps I should have involved you earlier.’

‘Perhaps you should have.’

And then it came, the ubiquitous qualification: ‘Let’s just hope the handover goes smoothly, shall we?’

The room snapped to darkness. Josh felt his way on his hands and knees over to the TV set and pushed the power button, but nothing happened. The fear he’d pushed away over the past few days was back as a pounding in his chest, and a dryness in his mouth.

The absence of light was total. The room was so dark that he could feel his hand against his face but he couldn’t see it. He shouted for help, but no one came.

Then, maybe a minute later, maybe five minutes, he heard the door being opened. Outside the door was dark as well. Then a sharp blinding light burst on, directed at his face. He squinted into it, black shapes edged in yellow swimming in front of him. He sensed someone behind the light. Then a bag was thrown into the room, landing at his feet.

‘Merry Christmas,’ a man’s voice said.

Josh stared down at the bag.

‘Go ahead, Josh. Open it.’

He reached down and undid the zip. His hands shook. Don’t be a baby , he said to himself.

Inside were a pair of sneakers.

‘Put them on.’

He sat down on the floor and hurriedly threw them on to his feet, fumbling with the Velcro fasteners.

‘OK, now turn round so you’re facing the other way.’

He did as he was told.

‘Now, I’m going to put a hat on you. A big hat so you won’t be able to see anything. But I’m not going to hurt you. Do you understand?’

‘Yes,’ Josh said. His voice sounded strange to him. Then he remembered he hadn’t spoken in days.

He turned round and the man pulled the hat down over his face.

‘OK, do you promise not to peek?’

‘I promise.’

‘Good, because if you do, you can’t go home ever again. Do you understand me?’

‘Yes.’

‘OK, I’m going to hold your hand and show you where to go.’

Josh felt rough skin against his hand as the man led him out of the room. The air was colder, and he could hear the echo of the man’s shoes as he walked next to him. There was a click, like a door being opened. The man pushed Josh forward and then there was another click. He guessed that was the door closing again. Then the man took his hand again and they kept walking forward. Josh struggled a little to keep up, rushing every few steps to stay level. The last thing he wanted to do was make the man mad.

There was a buzz and the click of another door opening, and then an icy blast of cold air.