Deadlock (Ryan Lock 2) (18 page)

The grinding gears of a truck’s engine behind him prompted Lock to turn round. An olive-green canvas-covered military transport truck was rolling down the street. Lock wondered why the hell the Marshals hadn’t handed over this whole operation to the military in the first place. Jalicia might still be here if they had. They were too proud, that was why, and it was institutional pride, which was the worst kind as far as he was concerned.

Despite the mayhem and the local cops’ best efforts, the street was still full of civilians. Their eyes were trained on the roof, on the departing helicopter. No more than twenty feet from Lock stood an overweight woman in a pink housecoat, mouth agape, her yellowing teeth a forceful rebuttal to the usual wonders of American dentistry.

‘Holy shit,’ she said.

Lock spun round, following her gaze. Up above them, the metal cage, complete with Reaper still shackled inside it, dangled twenty feet beneath the chopper, secured by the ropes tied to the helicopter’s skids. The cage inched into the night sky. The four ropes, attached at either corner of the cage, twisted in the wind, but Reaper kept rising into the storm-blackened Oregon sky.

All around, people had stopped whatever they were doing and were staring. Cops. Civilians. Everyone. Lock felt a shiver of defeat run through them as the nose of the helicopter dipped and it started to coast smoothly away from the building.

Lock shielded his eyes against the glare of the Night Sun spotlight mounted on the nose of the helicopter. He could make out Reaper, his arms still spread, Christ-like, as he ascended into the heavens.

A voice crept into Lock’s mind. Reaper’s voice, but not his words. The words belonged to Sun Tzu, the ancient Chinese general. They were the words Reaper had recited from memory back in the cell they’d shared in Pelican Bay.

Engage people with what they expect. It settles them into predictable patterns of response, occupying their minds while you wait for the extraordinary moment – that which they cannot anticipate.

Then, like a cassette machine clicking off as it runs out of tape, the voice was gone, along with Reaper and the helicopter, which had travelled far enough that it had become just another distant point of light in a sky full of dead planets.

‘The extraordinary moment,’ Lock repeated softly to himself, his hand tightening so hard round the grip of his SIG that his knuckles turned white.

38

The cage inched towards the ground, pieces of wooden joist and chunks of plaster still attached to its base. The wait for the chopper to land had been interminable, worse than any time spent in solitary back at Pelican Bay, where seconds could stretch like an eternity. As it made contact with the earth, it toppled over. Reaper went with it, the tightness of the shackles that held him in place saving him from further injury. If Lock hadn’t done his job so thoroughly, Reaper doubted he’d have a bone left unbroken by now. Above him he could see a couple of the ropes slacken and then fall back to earth as they were cut from the helicopter.

Reaper closed his eyes, the downdraught from the helicopter still roaring around him. Then he heard the engine being cut, and the sound of the rotors fell away. There were voices. Men’s voices.

‘Let’s get it upright.’

‘I got bolt cutters in the truck.’

‘Then go get ’em.’

‘We’re gonna need more than bolt cutters. We’re gonna need a blowtorch to get into the cage.’

Kids these days, thought Reaper. He licked his lips. ‘Blowtorch will just weld it together, boys,’ he said. ‘You’re gonna need a cutting torch. Something that runs at a ninety-degree angle. Oxyacetylene. Either that or an angle grinder – you know, like people use for cutting off wheel clamps.’

When it came to engineering technology, Reaper doubted that anyone had the edge on him. A federally mandated right to information had provided him with a wealth of material over the last ten years, plus the kind of time not even tenured academics had to hone their knowledge.

‘I got one of those in the truck,’ said one of the disembodied voices.

‘Then go get it,’ Reaper said, now firmly in charge, the alpha male.

There was the sound of boots sloshing over soaking ground and then the cage was maneuvered so that Reaper was upright.

Reaper could see her properly now. Wow, she was beautiful. A knock-out. And so strong, so commanding. He studied her face, searching out her features. Her deep grey eyes. So clear, so unswerving. Her delicate nose. Those high cheek bones which gave the rest of her face its nobility. Those who doubted that there was indeed a master race need only look at her face to have their objections quelled.

She smiled at him, that same look of shared understanding, then reached in again to touch his hand, pinching his palm between her thumb and index finger. ‘You OK?’

‘I could be on fire, but seeing you would make it all OK,’ he replied, his voice as brittle as a three-pack-a-day smoker.

‘I should have visited,’ she said.

Reaper shook his head. ‘You did what was best.’ His voice grew brittle again. ‘You did good.’

‘We’ll get you out of there real soon.’

Reaper closed his eyes in acknowledgement, and to hide the tears he felt forming. He stayed like that as the men set to work.

Using the angle grinder, they had the cage door open in no time. Once they had one hand free from the cuffs, Reaper helped them with the rest, using a borrowed comb to spring the other cuffs. Then they set to work on the leg restraints.

Half an hour later, he stepped uncertainly from his cage. Chance threw her arms round him and he scooped her up, burying his face in her blonde hair. The men looked away, then busied themselves with other things. Finally, with the softest of kisses to her forehead, Reaper put her down.

‘Let me introduce you around,’ she said, suddenly formal.

Cowboy stepped forward, snapping a salute. ‘An honor and a privilege, sir,’ he said. ‘Not many true patriots left.’

‘That was some damn impressive flying,’ Reaper said.

‘I’m only glad I could be of true service.’

Trooper shook Reaper’s hand. ‘It’s an honor, sir.’

Chance tapped his arm. ‘Come on. We gotta go.’

‘Man, she’s bossy, ain’t she?’ Reaper grinned at Cowboy.

‘You don’t know the half of it, sir.’

Reaper looked at her with pride. ‘Half a dozen more of her in the movement and we’d have cleaned all the filth out of this country by now.’

‘So where now?’ he asked as they walked towards a pick-up truck parked at the edge of the clearing they’d used to land.

‘Going to get you cleaned up. Then we have a private plane chartered tomorrow to get us out of the country.’

Reaper stopped in his tracks. ‘Say what?’

‘You don’t think we should wait? I could try and move it up. We thought they’d be checking all immediate private charters. Plus, we have a couple of loose ends to tie up.’

‘And where were we gonna go? Mexico? Argentina? Some other South American shithole? Hell, no. I didn’t spend ten years down to turn my back on my country.’

‘But if we stay here—’

He put an arm round her. ‘You don’t just light the fuse and then stamp on it. And you don’t turn your back on your country in its darkest hour.’

‘But the movement isn’t strong enough yet.’

‘It was strong enough to get me out. We have an opportunity here. This should be the start, not the end.’

‘But—’

He silenced her with a look. ‘Every day our rights as Americans are getting taken from us. One by one. We got millions of our people homeless and unemployed, getting kicked out of their homes and looking for some leadership. If we don’t have the conditions for a revolution in this country now, then we’ll never have them.’

He opened the door of the pick-up truck, then glanced back at the helicopter, where Cowboy was talking to the other men.

‘You tell those men to remain on standby. I’m gonna have work for them to do.’

For the first time, he thought that she looked worried.

‘All it’s going to take is one big spark, and this country’ll go up in flames. And this time, no one will be able to stop it.’

Chance looked up at him, her dark grey eyes wide. ‘I knew you were gonna be like this.’

‘How’d you know?’ Reaper said, reaching out and putting his arm round her shoulders.

‘I’m my father’s daughter, ain’t I?’ said Chance.

Reaper smiled. ‘You sure as hell are.’

39

Chance pulled the pick-up truck into the driveway of the ranch house and waited for her father to get out the other side. He took his time doing it, peering over the top of new sunglasses at the stand of trees masking the front of the property.

‘Nice and quiet. How long you been here?’

‘Rented it last month.’

‘Landlord?’

‘It’s a woman. She spends most of her time down in Baja.’

‘Huh.’

The pit bull started barking. Reaper walked over to its run and knelt down. It came over and licked at his hand through the wire mesh. ‘I know how you feel, brother,’ he said to the dog. Then he turned back to Chance. ‘Some guard dog.’

Chance smiled. ‘Never seen him do that before.’ She turned towards the house. ‘We’ll have to go in the back way.’

He glanced at the front door. ‘You rigged it?’

She nodded. ‘There’s an old fire road about four hundred yards back. I have another truck parked back there. Keys are in the ignition.’

He smiled. ‘Man, I taught you well.’

‘Fail to prepare, prepare to fail.’

They headed round to the back of the property. Chance opened the door and they walked straight into the kitchen.

‘If you want to get some rest, there’s a bedroom through there.’

Reaper stretched out. ‘No, I spent enough of my life sleeping.’

Chance crossed to the refrigerator, reached in, came up with a six-pack of Coors and tossed it over. He caught it one-handed, ripped off a can and held it up against his forehead, just like in a commercial.

‘You know how long it’s been since I had me a cold one?’

Chance frowned, her throat tight. ‘Ten years. Three months. And fourteen days.’

Reaper studied the floor. ‘I’m sorry, Freya.’

She forced herself to perk up. Here was her father, a hero to the cause who’d sacrificed the best years of his life, and on his first day of freedom she was busting his balls.

‘You’ve got nothing to apologize for,’ she said.

‘Wasn’t a day went by that I didn’t think of you.’

Her father ripped the beer open and offered it to her.

‘I’d better not,’ she said.

‘That’s right. I forgot. You been getting sick yet?’

‘First couple of months. I’m over it now.’

Reaper sat down at the small circular kitchen table. He took a sip. ‘You have no idea how good that tastes. Listen, I ain’t been around and you’re a grown woman, but the daddy…’

Chance could feel herself flush. ‘One-night stand. He was white. That’s all you got to worry about.’

‘I wasn’t worried.’

‘Hang on there for a second.’ She walked into the living room, reappearing a moment or two later with a couple of Gap bags. ‘I got you some clothes. Everything you asked for.’ He started to empty them, laying out a selection of pants and underwear. He unfolded a couple of casual business shirts. ‘Long-sleeved. Perfect.’ It was the same uniform the members of the AB had worn to court – dress-down office casual, verging on the geeky.

‘And nothing blue,’ Chance added. ‘I figured you might be sick of blue.’

Reaper drained the last of his beer. ‘You got that right. I’m going to jump in the shower. Then I’m going to try on some of these brand-new duds.’

‘I’ll show you your room.’

In his room, the TV was on with the sound down. There was a live update from outside what was left of the Federal Building in Medford. The reporter was the blonde. It had to be that asshole Lock’s girlfriend, Carrie something.

‘Hey, turn it up.’

Chance picked up the clicker which was resting on the arm of a chair and maxed out the volume.

Onscreen, Lock’s girlfriend was talking with someone back in the studio.

‘So far, authorities are staying tight-lipped, but it’s believed that the group which last night staged the most violent and audacious jailbreak in America’s history are also the same people responsible for the death of ATF agent Kenneth Prager and two subsequent bombings of the Federal Buildings in Los Angeles and San Francisco.’

The guy in the studio cut in. ‘Let me interrupt you for a moment there, Carrie. Do the authorities have any idea who these people are?’

Lock’s girlfriend shook her head. ‘Not as yet. But they are saying that because of the tactics they deployed they believe at least some of these individuals are well equipped and highly dangerous, perhaps even former members of the military.’

Reaper clicked the mute button with relish. ‘Big bang. Helicopter. Lot of guys with guns. That’s all they’ve got.’ He hit the button again.

‘It’s now clear that what we face in the hours and days ahead will be the largest ever manhunt to take place on American soil.’

Reaper clicked off the TV. ‘With what I’ve got planned, they’re gonna have bigger problems than finding little old me.’

Chance frowned. ‘What you got in mind?’

‘A holy war,’ he said, solemnly. ‘Blood flowing through the streets. It’s gonna make ’68 look like a picnic.’

Part Two

40

The van was gone, spirited away for forensic investigation. Four pads of melted rubber from its tires marked out the rectangle where Jalicia had died. Spent shell casings and shards of broken glass lay scattered among tree limbs torn away by the storm. The building itself was still standing, though showing visible scars from the events of the previous night. Blinds dangled from glassless windows and charred, sooty tongues licked up its external walls where small fires had taken hold, discoloring the structure’s normally white facade.

The media were here too, in even greater numbers than the night before, their satellite vans, honey wagons and production trucks making up a small village across from the Federal Building. Lock could see Carrie among them, delivering a piece to camera, still awake, running on the adrenalin of the night before.