Sean Black - Lockdown

‘You want to try it in English?’

The same wafer of a smile. ‘You’ll work it out.’

‘Why don’t we just roll a grenade in there, frag the whole lot and let God do the sorting?’ Brand asked.

Stafford rounded on him. ‘Because twelve’s the clinical minimum for Phase One.’

‘So we find one other person,’ Brand countered.

‘And where do you suggest we do that, Colonel? Craigslist?’ Stafford pointed a finger at the blank screen. ‘Take me down there. I’ll talk to them.’

Brand snorted. ‘She doesn’t speak English, and there’s no way Lock’s dumb enough to walk out of there with us waiting for him. Don’t have time to starve them out either.’

‘Then we’ll find some other way.’

Brand shrugged as Stafford marched out of the control room. ‘Can’t wait to see that.’

‘Bring your weapon with you,’ Stafford called back as he strode ahead.

‘Firearms aren’t allowed in the accommodation block,’ Brand reminded him, grabbing his Glock and following him down the corridor.

‘Make an exception.’

‘I really don’t think it’s a good idea.’

‘They have a knife. You said so yourself.’

‘And what if they get hold of a gun?’

‘It won’t come to that.’

A few minutes later they arrived at the door of Mareta’s cell. Brand stood one side of the door, Stafford on the other.

‘Give me your weapon,’ Stafford said.

Brand unholstered the Glock, pulled back the slide to chamber a round, and handed it, handle first, to Stafford.

‘You’re not going in there, are you?’

‘No,’ said Stafford, taking the Glock and pointing it at his head of security. ‘You are.’

Brand kept cool. ‘You don’t have it in you.’

‘Had it in me when I killed Stokes,’ Stafford said. ‘That was different. Everything was set up for you. All you had to do was pull the trigger.’

The pad of Stafford’s index finger bulged as he applied pressure to the trigger. ‘Which makes it different how?’

Brand raised his hands in surrender. ‘OK, OK.’

‘Look at it this way,’ said Stafford. ‘You were always telling me how Lock was a grandstander and you were the real deal. Now’s your chance to prove it.’

‘You OK?’

Carrie hadn’t even noticed Gail Reindl getting into the elevator.

‘Fine. Why?’

‘Your hands are shaking.’

Carrie faked a smile. ‘Over-caffeinated.’

Gail seemed to search Carrie’s face. ‘Sure that’s all?’

‘Some jerk in a Hummer ran a stop sign when I was crossing the street. Almost took me out. Shook me up a little. I’ll be fine in a second.’

Gail made a whaddaya gonna do, this city’s crazy face. The doors opened and she stepped out, much to Carrie’s relief.

What else was she going to say? That it was a Hummer just like the one that had run down Gray Stokes’ wife, except this one had been black rather than red. That she didn’t think it was an accident. That someone was trying to kill her. That just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you. Ever since the movie Network got a release, complete with barking mad anchorman, the one surefire way to get canned as an anchor was to show any sign of mental instability. And Carrie hadn’t even made it there yet. No, if she was going to talk to anyone, it’d be Lock.

Carrie stopped at the water cooler. One of the producers was there filling his coffee mug.

‘You got a guest,’ he said, nodding towards her desk.

The first thing Carrie saw was the wheelchair, then Janice Stokes. Before she could censor her next thought it had already flashed into her mind. She looks like death .

Carrie sat down, shifting her chair so she was side on to Janice.

‘They’ve arrested my brother.’

‘What’s the charge?’

‘Aiding in the abduction of a minor. Lock promised us that if we helped him he’d keep us out of this. Don wouldn’t cope with being in jail.’

‘Did he do it?’

‘No. And I need to get him out of Rikers before something bad happens to him.’

‘Wouldn’t you be better off talking to a lawyer?’

‘I already did.’

‘And what did they say?’

‘That I’d have to wait until it comes to trial.’

‘Your brother could ask to be placed in protective custody.’

‘Which would make him look even more guilty.’

‘Sorry, I don’t mean to seem unkind, but what do you think I can do?’

‘I thought you might know where Ryan Lock is, for a start. I’ve tried calling him, but his cell’s switched off. Can’t get hold of his buddy Ty either.’

Carrie believed her. She’d called Lock straight after the incident with the Hummer and left a voicemail. ‘It’s not unusual for Lock to go off the radar. Believe me, I know.’

Janice paused, like she was making a decision. Then she reached down the side of her chair and pulled out a manila envelope. ‘Some friends helped me sort through my parents’ stuff. I couldn’t face it until yesterday.’ She handed the envelope to Carrie. ‘Ryan asked if my dad had something on Meditech. You know, to make them change their mind about animal testing.’

Carrie put her hand in the envelope and came out with a single sheet of paper. Printed at the top was a web link: www.uploader.tv/Meditech.

The food tray lay empty by the door, Mareta next to it, curled up in a fetal position. Knees hugged to the chest, eyes closed. Her right hand tucked under her body to conceal the knife.

Lock lay next to her, similarly stricken. His legs were stretched out so that one of them was almost touching the door. That way, even if he did doze off, he’d know when someone walked in.

It had been deathly quiet for the past hour. Then there were footsteps in the corridor directly outside. A single person, moving slowly, betrayed only by the acoustics, which seemed designed to betray the slightest sound.

The footsteps stopped. A dribble of saliva trailed from the corner of Lock’s mouth to the floor.

The door slammed into Lock’s leg. He stirred, but kept his eyes closed.

‘OK,’ he heard Brand whisper.

Two more sets of boots double-timed it down the corridor. Lock opened both eyes a fraction. Out of his left he could see Brand’s boot as he went to step over him.

Lock darted out a hand to grab Brand’s ankle. Brand struggled to keep his balance but timbered to the floor. He landed on top of Lock, his knee smashing into Lock’s left eye socket.

The knife came down in an arc, slipping down the inside of Brand’s helmet and slicing into his ear. He screamed, and wrenched at the helmet. His ear lobe flapped from the side of his head like a decked fish.

Brand drew his arm forward, towards Lock. Lock tried to grasp it at the wrist but wasn’t fast enough. Brand accelerated his arm backwards into Mareta’s face, the rear elbow strike sending her spinning back on to the bed. The shift of Brand’s weight allowed Lock to squirm out from under the heavier man.

The other two guards were almost at the door now. In a second they’d be coming through it. Then it would be a lottery as to who lived and who died. And someone was definitely going to die.

Lock pushed past Brand and threw himself at the door. Mareta lunged at Brand, the knife embedding itself in his groin protector. Mareta pulled it back out but not before catching another elbow strike to the face. One of Mareta’s front teeth flew out of her mouth, and landed on the floor.

Brand’s body armour was throwing her off. His head was covered by a Kevlar reinforced helmet. Neck and throat protector panels transitioned to the main vest. Armoured sleeves transitioned to anti-slash gloves. Below the waist, the protection was similarly complete. All the way down.