Deadlock (Ryan Lock 2) (13 page)

‘What the hell is it now?’ the Marshal said.

‘Did you order a helicopter as a back-up transfer vehicle?’

The Marshal looked at Lock like he was crazy. ‘No. Why?’

‘Because there’s one down there.’

‘Probably some black ops shit. This place gets used for all kinds of stuff.’

That didn’t explain why a helicopter was in plain sight
outside
the airfield.

‘What about your CA team? Where are they?’

The Marshal was clearly losing patience. ‘In their vehicle, I’d guess.’

What he’d just seen still made no sense to Lock. Again and again in his career, saving the principal’s life had come down to one simple mantra. Look out for two things: the absence of the normal or the presence of the abnormal.

‘Then who the hell are those guys?’ Lock said, pointing out the two figures crouched behind the patrol car, automatic weapons trained on the runway.

The Marshal followed the trajectory of Lock’s finger and froze. ‘I’ve no idea.’

There was a hiss of noise from the intercom, then the captain’s voice: ‘Final approach, folks. Hold on tight.’

29

‘Abort the landing!’ Lock bellowed as he and the Marshal raced towards the cockpit door. The Marshal made it there first but Lock pushed past him and grabbed the door handle. It wouldn’t turn. ‘Get this plane back up in the air!’ he shouted. He stepped back and took a kick at the door, but it didn’t budge. He guessed that no amount of kicking would do the job, JPATS aircraft doors having been specifically designed to resist such attempts.

‘It’s Brody,’ shouted the Marshal. ‘Let me in.’

There was a whirr beneath them and a hard clunk as the landing gear went down.

The Marshal pounded on the door. ‘You need to get us back up in the air.’

The cabin door opened and a shaken co-pilot stood there. He had a SIG P250 in his hand, no doubt a precautionary measure in case Reaper had somehow overthrown his guard.

‘What the hell’s going on?’ he demanded.

‘We got a problem on the ground. Abort the landing,’ the Marshal barked.

Lock could see the trees below rushing in on them fast. Dead ahead, a police cruiser was making its way on to the runway. The two armed figures who’d been standing behind it were now nowhere to be seen.

‘It’s too late,’ the co-pilot replied. ‘Get back to your seats, now!’

They were almost on top of the trees; then, for a fraction of a second, they were below them. Lock and the Marshal turned round just as the plane’s wheels made contact with terra firma. The jolt sent both of them tumbling back down the aisle. Lock grabbed an arm rest to steady himself as the pilot slammed on the brakes.

Through the window next to him, Lock could see the police cruiser driving parallel to them, a female deputy at the wheel. The look of terror on her face told him everything he needed to know about the situation they’d just landed themselves in.

Chance was shouting instructions from a prone position on the rear bench seat of the police cruiser.

‘OK, now slow down.’

Hulsey took her foot off the gas. The plane sped past them, revealing the three SUV transfer-convoy vehicles five hundred yards away on the apron.

‘Now, lower the rear window.’

‘Please, don’t do this,’ Hulsey pleaded.

‘Lower the goddamn window, bitch.’

Hulsey did as she was told, her fingers trembling.

Chance grabbed the RPG launcher from the footwell and took aim at the rear SUV parked on the apron. She pulled the trigger, the recoil throwing her back on to the seat. Clawing her way back up, she watched as the SUV took a direct hit, the impact of the grenade twisting the frame and punching the SUV over on to its side.

So much for the counter-attack team, she thought.

Beyond her, Chance could see Cowboy and Trooper making their move, emerging from their positions and laying down covering fire as they made their way towards the two remaining SUVs. Rounds pinged off the vehicles. She spotted Trooper stopping to reload as Cowboy let off a three-round burst from his M-4. She smiled as Trooper finished the reload, his moves sharp and balletic, so at odds with his shambolic appearance.

The passenger door of the lead SUV opened and a Marshal appeared in full tactical gear. Trooper, lying flat on the floor in a sniper position, took aim and shot the Marshal full in the face from a hundred yards. The Marshal’s mouth caved in on itself, dragging his nose and eyes with it.

Chance grabbed a fresh RPG round from her backpack and rearmed the launcher. It took her a moment. In front, Hulsey was yammering into her radio: ‘Officer down, officer down! Back-up requested immediately!’ Chance ignored her. The pleas were already redundant; not even a factor. The Marshals on the ground and the pilot of the plane would already have communicated to the authorities in Medford and beyond that there had been a different sort of welcoming committee than the one they’d anticipated.

She finished reloading and looked at the digital timer hooked to the front of her bra. They had three more minutes.

Reassured that they were on schedule, Chance hefted the reloaded RPG launcher over her shoulder again and aimed for the lead vehicle.

She hit it dead centre. Another Marshal emerging from it took the full force of a front panel of the vehicle as it was blown from the carcass. His arms were ripped from his shoulders and arced behind his back and up into the air, landing just a few feet from her.

Chance threw the launcher back into the vehicle, opened the driver’s door and pulled Hulsey out by her hair, leaving her on the runway. Then she clambered into the driver’s seat, threw the cruiser back into drive and took off after the plane.

In the cabin, all Lock could hear was the sound of explosions on the runway behind them. The plane was slowing dramatically, and behind him the remaining Marshals were scrambling to the windows, trying to get a visual on the unfolding chaos. Better than anyone else on the plane, Lock knew there was only one objective in a situation like this: get the hell out of it.

Lock stormed the short distance back down into the cockpit and pushed past the still open door which was swinging back and forth on its hinges.

‘OK, we need to turn this thing round and get back up in the air,’ he said, assuming command.

Brody, the Marshal in charge, was standing behind him, his face pale. ‘We have armored vehicles on the ground, we can still make the transfer,’ he said, doing a bad job of trying to inject an air of authority into his voice.

‘What the hell do you think those explosions we just heard were?’ Lock demanded.

‘I’ll need clearance from air traffic control,’ said the pilot.

Lock put a hand on the pilot’s shoulder and squeezed hard, trying to snap the guy back into the real world. ‘Do you have fuel, and is there enough runway behind us if we turn round?’

The pilot looked at Lock like he’d just been asked for the square root of pi.

The co-pilot seemed to be faring slightly better. ‘We’ve got enough fuel to get up but not to go anywhere.’

‘Enough to circle for ten minutes and get back down again?’ Lock asked.

He checked the gauge. ‘Sure.’

‘And what about taking off? We got enough runway between us and those trees back there?’

‘I think so.’

‘Good.’

The pilot was still staring wall-eyed at Lock. ‘But we need clearance.’

Lock did the only thing he could under the circumstances: he opened the palm of his hand and slapped the pilot hard enough across the face to pull him back to reality. ‘Forget the clearance and do your job or we’re all going to die. Do you understand me?’

The pilot rubbed his cheek, his pupils dilating, the sting of the slap acing the shock he was already in. He nodded, and turned his attention to the controls in front of him.

Lock turned to Brody. ‘You going to second me here?’

Brody hesitated as the nose of the plane slowly swung round, giving them a head-on view of the twisted, smoldering wreckage of the SUVs. Then he squared his shoulders. ‘Let’s do it.’

Chance flicked on the lights and siren, then buried the gas pedal of the cruiser. The plane was turned towards her now, but it had come to what looked like a temporary stop. Behind her, Trooper and Cowboy had jacked the remaining Marshals Service SUV, Cowboy executing the driver on the runway as they did so. The female cop had suffered a similar fate as she’d tried to crawl her way across the debris-strewn runway.

Chance skidded to a halt next to the door side of the plane and waited. She could see men’s faces at the windows peering out. No sign of Reaper though. He’d be last out.

She started as the twin engines growled back into life, a warm tide of gasoline-air blowing her long hair from her blackened face. The whine of the engines grew more insistent, rising in pitch and volume, then the pilot slipped the brakes and it was careering down the runway.

She slammed down on the gas, one-eightied the cruiser and took off after the plane. But it was a losing proposition. Even though the aircraft wasn’t the fastest thing on three wheels, it was still more than a match for the piece-of-shit Crown Vic she was helming.

She gestured frantically at Trooper and Cowboy in the SUV, who took the hint and drove their commandeered SUV directly across the flight path, reaching the centre of the runway near to what she imagined would be the take-off point of the JPATS plane.

Lock and Brody were thrown forward again as the pilot jammed on the brakes. Lock grabbed the edge of the console and hauled himself up. They were closing in fast on an SUV parked in the middle of the runway. He braced himself as best he could for the impact that would surely come.

Chance caught up with the plane just as it came to a shuddering halt only yards from the SUV, boxing it in at the rear. Reaching for her rifle, she ran to the front of the plane. She could see the pilot, his face ashen.

She raised her M-4 and sprayed the front of the cockpit with a three-round burst. The engines whined again as the pilot slumped dead against the controls.

She felt a surge of triumph. Reaper was going nowhere.

In the cockpit, Brody and the co-pilot were also hit. The co-pilot had taken a bullet to his right thigh and Brody was bleeding from the side of his face, his body armor having spared him more serious injury. Two of Brody’s colleagues dragged them back into the main body of the aircraft while the remaining Marshal stayed close to Reaper, who hadn’t moved through the whole ordeal.

Lock reached down and relieved Brody of his weapon.

One of Brody’s colleagues stared at him. ‘What the hell are you doing?’

Lock checked the weapon. ‘Deputizing myself. From here on in, you do what I say.’

30

‘You don’t have the authority to do that,’ the Marshal said.

‘Listen, Sparky, we’re immobile and surrounded by a hostile group of heavily armed combatants. Now, I could go hide under one of the seats if you like. Or I can try to get us all out of this alive.’

Lock looked quickly out of one of the windows. At least three heavily armed individuals, including the woman. He checked his watch. They were five minutes into the contact already. No matter how gung-ho the ambushers were, they weren’t going to be able to stick around indefinitely.

Lock looked at the escort who was with Reaper and jerked his thumb in the prisoner’s direction. ‘Get him on his feet. Whatever anti-ballistic gear we have spare, put it on him.’

‘What are you gonna do?’ he asked.

‘Test a little theory I’ve been chewing over.’ Lock paused, then looked directly at Reaper. ‘It strikes me that if the people outside with all those heavy weapons wanted Reaper dead, then right about now they’d be filling the fuselage with a lot of holes. Which means they want him alive.’

‘So why does he need the body armor, then?’

‘You’ll see,’ said Lock as the Marshal hauled Reaper to his feet.

‘Got it all figured out, don’t you, Lock?’ Reaper sneered.

‘You tell me. Are they here to kill you or help you escape?’

Reaper fell silent.

‘Yup, thought as much,’ Lock said.

Chance was beginning to worry. There seemed no clear way into the aircraft. She yanked at what she thought might be a baggage hatch, but it wouldn’t budge.

They should have brought tear gas, she thought. Something to flush the Marshals and Reaper out with.

She kicked out at one of the tires, then crouched under the body of the plane and shouted up at the door, ‘You have ten seconds to hand him over. Do you understand?’

The woman’s voice was muffled by the fuselage, but the words were audible.

Reaper was having an anti-ballistic helmet screwed on to his head by one of the Marshals. It was like fitting a baby bonnet on a linebacker.

Lock crossed to the door. ‘OK, but you have to give us more than a ten-count.’

The woman’s reply was curt and to the point: ‘Ten… nine…’

The Marshal suited Reaper up as the countdown continued. When the woman hit zero there was silence. Then a volley of automatic fire burst through the undercarriage, ripping out the stuffing from one of the seats at the rear of the plane. Everyone froze.

‘So if they want him alive so much, what was that about?’ the Marshal asked.

‘It’s called playing the percentages,’ Lock said, grabbing Reaper and frogmarching him towards the door at the front of the plane. ‘OK, no more firing, I’m bringing him out,’ he shouted, jabbing a finger at one of the Marshals to open the door. ‘But you have to move back from the aircraft. Right now.’

‘We’ll pull back, you send him out.’

Lock stayed with Reaper and motioned for the two Marshals to get their weapons and move to the exit-side windows.

‘OK,’ he shouted. ‘As soon as we see you move back, I’ll send him out.’

Chance pulled the patrol car away from the plane. Every second that passed, their options were narrowing.

The door of the plane juddered open, the stairs unfolded, and there stood Reaper in all his glory. It was enough to make Chance catch her breath.

But then, as Reaper took the first step, she saw that he wasn’t alone. There was a man with him. The man produced a Glock, shoved it in Reaper’s face, and with his free hand pushed the cuffed Reaper down the rest of the stairs. At the bottom, he stopped and pressed the gun hard into Reaper’s mouth.