Sean Black: Lockdown

His face was puffy, especially around the eyes. His eyes were set blue amid the deathly pallor of the rest of his skin, his pupils like dots.

He took a moment to work back to how he got here. Relief. It was all there. The protestors, Van Straten’s unexpected walkabout, then Lock standing on the steps outside Meditech and the bullet. Correction: bullets. His glimpse of Carrie running for cover. More relief at recalling that. Then him taking on the threat, the young Korean storekeeper tied up, then walking up that staircase, a bang, and a sudden cut to black.

Total recall. He allowed himself a smile at that.

He filled the sink and began to splash his face with cold water, freezing mid-splash as the door opened into the main room. Pressing his back against the wall, he peered out.

In the room, a man in a blue windbreaker looked around, like the empty bed was evidence of some kind of magic trick. For a second, Lock half expected the guy to start shining his Mag light under the covers.

He stepped out of the bathroom, and the guy’s face relaxed into a smile. ‘There you are.’

‘Here I am,’ was all Lock could think to say in reply.

Overcome by a sudden wave of exhaustion, he took a step back towards the bed, and stumbled. The man put out a hand, steadying him. ‘Easy there.’

Lock waved him off, keen to get some sheets between him and his visitor. ‘Lemme guess, JTTF?’

The Joint Terrorism Task Force’s field office in Manhattan was based downtown in the Federal Plaza. Composed of members of the FBI, ATF, as well as NYPD, it was charged with dealing with all incidents of domestic terrorism in the five boroughs and beyond. The campaign against Meditech had fallen under its jurisdiction as the animal rights activists had escalated their actions. Lock had liaised with a number of suits from their office, although the man standing in front of him wasn’t one of them, as far as he could recall.

‘John Frisk. Just got transferred over.’

‘Ryan Lock.’

‘Least you can remember your name, that’s a start.’

‘So where’d they transfer you from?’

‘FBI.’

Lock sat back on the bed. Frisk pulled up a chair and sat next to him.

‘You’re a lucky guy. If you’d been hit a couple of inches either side of your plates you’d be toast.’

Lock had been sporting four plates. Two front, and two back, they slid into pouches either side of his ballistic vest to provide additional protection.

Lock smiled. ‘Maybe I should hit Vegas, while I’m still on this hot streak.’

‘Take me with you. I could use the vacation.’

Lock eased his head back on to the pillows and stared at a fixed point on the ceiling. ‘What’d they hit me with?’

‘Twelve-gauge rigged to the door,’ said Frisk.

‘Better that than the alternative, I’m guessing. You pick anyone up yet?’

‘We were hoping you could help us with that one.’

Lock chewed the side of his mouth. ‘Professionals. Both male. Both over six feet. I didn’t get much of a look beyond the back of their heels. What did the crime scene team turn up?’

‘I can’t really say.’

‘That many leads, huh?’

It was Frisk’s turn to suppress a smile. ‘I thought I was the investigator and you were the witness.’

‘Old habits die hard.’

Frisk hesitated for a moment. ‘OK, from what we can gather, as you said, it was a pro job. High-calibre sniper rifle — we’re still working on the exact type, but a fifty cal.’

‘Fifty?’

‘Yup. If they’d rigged that to the door we wouldn’t be having this conversation,’ Frisk said, super-casual.

‘Got that straight,’ said Lock. Having seen what the.50 cal had done to Stokes’ head, Lock knew that no amount of body armour would have saved him.

‘They had the escape route scoped out ahead of time, not much left behind for forensics. No shell casings anywhere to be seen, not like that would have given us much anyway. Plus the room was bleached down before they exited via the window.’

‘What about the shotgun?’ Lock asked, leaning over to reach for a glass of water perched on the locker next to his bed.

Frisk beat him to it and passed it over. ‘Looking to buy themselves a few extra seconds would be my guess.’

Lock grunted in agreement.

‘We traced it to the owner of a house out in Long Island. Place has been vacant since the summer, guy didn’t even know he’d been broken into.’

‘Did the girl make it?’

‘The girl in the wheelchair?’

Lock nodded, took a sip of water.

‘She’s down on four.’

‘She OK?’

‘Pretty shocked. Knows about as much as you do.’

‘You’ve got some great witnesses lined up by the sounds of it. What was the final count?’

‘Five dead in total.’

‘Five?’

‘Three shot, one run over, and one heart attack.’

A knock at the door. A young African American doctor in her late twenties who looked like she’d been awake about as long as Lock had been unconscious poked her head round. ‘I thought I was pretty clear that I didn’t want my patient disturbed until he was ready.’

‘It was my fault, doc,’ Lock said. ‘I was quizzing Agent Frisk, not the other way round.’

‘Well, if you have any questions, you can always talk to me.’

Lock glanced back to Frisk. ‘Never got to ask Agent Frisk what my federal prognosis was.’

‘Well, your weapon was legally held, although how the hell you got a concealed carry in the city these days beats me.’

Lock looked skywards to the ceiling. ‘Friends in high places.’

‘And your luck doesn’t end there,’ Frisk continued. ‘Seeing as you never fired a shot, there won’t be any charges. But next time, leave the cavalry charge to the cavalry, OK?’

Lock bristled. He’d been the only one taking on the threat and here was Frisk treating him like some rookie cop. ‘I’d be happy to, if they manage to show up before the final reel. Speaking of which, what’s happening to Brand?’

‘Police department are keen to go to bat on vehicular manslaughter. But the DA’s getting a lot of pressure to go for a lesser charge, or let it slide entirely.’

‘If you speak to anyone in their office you can tell them I’d be happy to step to the plate for the prosecution on that one.’

Frisk raised an eyebrow. ‘You and he not too close, huh?’

‘Different approaches, that’s all.’

‘Oh yeah, and what’s the difference?’

‘Mine’s correct,’ Lock said curtly.

‘Mr Lock really does need his rest,’ the doctor broke in. ‘I’m sure there’ll be plenty of time for you to talk to him tomorrow.’

‘What day is it anyway?’

‘Thursday,’ said Frisk.

‘Wait. I missed Christmas?’

The doctor arched an eyebrow. ‘You got the gift of life.’

Frisk smirked. ‘Sure Santa’ll catch up with you next year.’

‘OK, he really does need his rest now,’ insisted the doctor.

Frisk took the hint and eased out of the room. ‘Don’t go anywhere,’ he said from the door.

When he’d gone, Lock’s hand reached up to his head wound. He ran the tips of his fingers over it, like a kid worrying a scab on his knee.

‘Pretty good-looking scar you’ll have there,’ the doctor said, perching next to him on the bed.

‘You think it’ll make me more attractive to women?’

‘Didn’t realize that was a problem for you.’

‘I’ll take any help I can get.’

‘Mind if I take another look?’

‘Be my guest.’

He bowed his head so she could get a better view.

‘You had a pretty lucky escape.’

‘So everyone keeps saying.’

‘You suffered a slight haemorrhage. We had to drill into your skull in order to take out some fluid. There’s a risk that you might suffer some additional blackouts. Oh, and there have been cases where trauma to this particular area of the brain can result in a raised level of-’