Deadlock (Ryan Lock 2) (8 page)

Reaper closed his eyes and let the hot water cascade across his face. ‘Lock, will you stop looking at my ass.’

The two Hispanics sniggered and traded a look, then glanced over at Lock.

Lock stared at them. ‘What are you looking at?’

His challenge seemed to do the trick, as they quickly looked away.

Lock washed up as best he could with the gritty prison-issue soap, keeping an eye on the door leading into the showers. He thought about what Lieutenant Williams had just said about no one being allowed out of their cells if there was any more trouble.

They dried off, dressed and headed back up to their cell. Twenty minutes later, once everyone in the unit had been given the opportunity to get cleaned up, the unit’s cells were opened one at a time and the general housing inmates filtered out to work within the prison or to attend class. Lock and Reaper were left to last, which was fine by Lock.

Together, they stepped out on to an empty tier and walked down the stairs. Waiting for them at the bottom was Lieutenant Williams, who motioned them to follow him out on to the yard.

‘You see that?’ Williams said, pointing to the chain-link fence that encircled the yard area.

Lock noticed that every piece of metal on the fence, every attaching link, was slashed with a dash of purple paint. The colour was starting to fade though, ravaged no doubt by the sea air and wind.

Lieutenant Williams nodded towards a tin of paint and two brushes sitting next to the fence. ‘I want you to paint over every slash of purple that’s already there,’ he said.

Reaper shrugged. ‘Want us to count the bricks in the unit when we’re done?’

‘Watch your mouth, Hays,’ Williams said, marching back towards the unit.

Lock stared at the fence for a moment.

‘They mark all the pieces that someone might break off and use as a shank,’ Reaper explained. ‘If there’s no paint where there should be, it’s easier to see.’

Of course, thought Lock, a piece of metal from the fence provided the basic material for a very deadly weapon. It took a lot less energy to drive metal into someone’s body than plastic.

By the time lunch was called, dark patches of sweat had formed under Lock’s prison blues, and the inmates from the unit were starting to filter back from their work details and classes. First back were some of the white inmates. Phileas led this group, with Eichmann next to his boss. Behind them came a group of black inmates, Ty among them. Ty split from them, and nodded for Lock to join him. Lock rested his paintbrush on the edge of the can of purple paint and got up.

Reaper shot him a look that was loaded with anger. ‘Where the hell are you going, Lock?’ he hissed.

Lock noticed that Reaper wasn’t the only one looking at him as he joined Ty. The other white inmates were openly staring as Lock caught up with Ty next to the wall.

‘What’s up?’ Lock asked Ty.

‘The Aryan Brotherhood have given the contract to the Mexican Mafia, and they’ve kicked it down to the Nortenos,’ Ty whispered.

‘Thanks. You hear anything else, you let me know.’

15

‘The Nortenos have taken over the contract on you,’ Lock said, digging his fork into a piece of mystery meat on his lunch tray.

Reaper shrugged. ‘Figures. But we’ve got bigger problems than that.’ He slammed down his tray. ‘What were you doing back there talking to that toad on the yard? I damn told you the rules, soldier boy.’

Lock eyed Reaper coolly. ‘Those are your rules, not mine.’

‘Wrong, they’re the yard’s rules,’ Reaper said. ‘To us, someone who associates with the blacks is worse than a snitch, worse than a child molester. Now, I warned you, but you had to do it your way, and now you’re going to have to deal with the fall-out.’

‘Your concern’s touching, but I can handle myself.’

‘We’ll see,’ said Reaper.

An hour later, he and Reaper were out on the basketball court. Lock looked around at his companions. With their low brows, dumb-muscle bulk and yellowing, crank-rotten dentistry, Lock wasn’t sure this was what people meant by the term ‘master race’.

Behind them, the black inmates, Ty among them, had taken the benches in an orderly handover. Distance was maintained between the two groups as they did so. It occurred to Lock that every group on the yard operated as its own personal escort section. If these guys hadn’t been such lousy criminals, they might have made halfway decent close-protection operatives.

The whites had divided into two teams, Lock finding himself on the same team as Reaper but up against Phileas. Not ideal. It would have been easier to keep an eye on Reaper if he’d been up against him. The court, mid-game, would be a good place for a hit too. Lots of movement buying vital seconds before any guards on the yard or, more crucially, in the gun tower noticed anything was happening.

At first all went well, the mid-afternoon heat ensuring that a brisk pace, with lots of baskets and fouls that bordered on common assault, quickly slowed the game to a walking pace. Lock went up against Phileas, dribbling the ball round him and catching an elbow in his abdomen for his trouble. As Lock doubled over, Phileas stole the ball and headed for the basket. Reaper stuck out a foot to trip him but Phileas feinted left and scored a deft two-pointer which sparked whoops of delight from his team-mates.

After fifteen minutes of barely contained mayhem, Phileas, the gnarled leader of the Nazi Low Riders, called a time-out and both teams gathered under the basket to catch their breath. Reaper scraped a hand across his stubble, then grabbed the ball and was off, moving down court at a steady clip. Lock jogged after him, as did Phileas, the proper game seemingly over.

Reaper passed the ball to Lock, then started to wander back down towards the inmates.

Phileas caught up with Lock. ‘Come on then, soldier, let’s play a little one on one.’

Lock bounced the ball, eyes flicking back down the court to Reaper.

‘Don’t worry about your cellie,’ Phileas said. ‘He can take care of himself. Believe me.’

‘I never doubted it.’

Phileas lunged for the ball, but Lock shifted back, keeping it just out of his reach. Phileas narrowed his eyes and half-turned so he was focused on the group of black inmates moving slowly from the benches, ready to head back into the unit.

‘The toad you came in with,’ Phileas said.

Lock’s hackles rose as he heard his friend being abused for the second time that day. Under any other circumstance, Nazi Low Rider shot caller or not, the guy would be choking to death on his own tongue. ‘His name’s Tyrone.’

Phileas shrugged. ‘You name your pets?’

Lock tensed as Phileas dived in again, taking the basketball with the tips of his fingers, dribbling it four more steps, setting up for the shot, then stopping, both hands on the ball.

‘We want him dead. And we want you to do it.’

‘Forget it,’ Lock said, moving round so his back was to the hoop and he had a clear view all the way down the court to Reaper, and beyond to the black inmates and Ty.

‘Time to wet your steel, soldier,’ Phileas said as Lock watched Ty bumping fists with the other black inmates. ‘Next yard, Lock. You kill him or we kill you.’

16

It was early morning when Chance once again shuffled through the metal detector in the lobby of the Federal Building. This visit, she’d still worn an underwire bra but also a crop top, which emphasized the fact she was pregnant. The metal detector beeped and she was asked to stand to one side. It was a different female guard this time, which came as a relief. The woman wanded Chance with the handheld detector, which sounded as it passed over Chance’s chest and lower abdomen. Then she moved on to patting her down.

As the female guard moved her hand over Chance’s belly, Chance winced.

‘You OK?’ asked the guard.

‘Sorry, I’m just a little tender there.’

Chance could read the female guard’s discomfort. She finished the search by moving her hands away quickly down Chance’s legs and checking the soles of her shoes.

‘OK, ma’am, you have a nice day.’

Chance slipped away towards the bank of elevators and headed up to the tenth floor. There, she walked briskly towards the disabled bathroom. She locked the door behind her, pulled off her jeans and panties, lowered the toilet seat and set about retrieving the package of cellophane-wrapped C4 explosive and detonator cap from inside her vaginal cavity. She placed the package in the sink, pulled her panties and jeans back on, and slipped off her bra. In less than ten seconds she had pulled the length of wire from her bra, which she now stuffed into her bag, taking out a newly bought cell phone as she did so.

With all the components in front of her, she set to work. In less than five minutes the IED was assembled and placed behind the toilet. She crossed to the sink and carefully washed her hands, using a brush she’d brought with her to remove any remaining residue from under her fingernails.

She left the bathroom, caught the elevator back down to the lobby and left via the revolving glass door on the opposite side of the building from which she’d entered.

A few blocks from the courthouse, Chance clambered into the cab of her red pick-up truck. Her old friend Cowboy was driving, his trademark black-velvet-brimmed Stetson pulled down low, obscuring emerald-green eyes. Next to him sat Trooper, two hundred pounds of muscle topped off by a mane of long blond hair which always reminded Chance of the actor Mickey Rourke in that movie about the down-at-heel wrestler.

Trooper put an arm round her shoulder. ‘You OK?’

‘Fine,’ Chance said, enjoying having them both near her again.

Cowboy signaled before pulling out into traffic. ‘You get it placed?’

Chance smiled across at him. ‘Sure did. Now all I have to do is make a phone call.’

17

A chilling breeze cut across the yard as Lock and Reaper set back to work marking each piece of metal in the chain-link fence with a slash of purple paint. With Phileas’s ultimatum still ringing in his ears, Lock was thankful that, like the day before, they had been released last from their cell in the unit.

Reaper dabbed a splodge of purple on to his brush. ‘Today’s the day, huh?’ he said to Lock.

‘What day’s that?’

‘Day you pop your cherry inside here.’

Lock rolled up his cuffs. ‘We’ll see.’

‘Listen, man, I’m sorry about Phileas, but you talk to a toad on the yard, this is what happens.’ Reaper ran his brush across a metal end wire secured to one of the posts. ‘And you can’t say I didn’t warn you.’

‘I’m not laying a finger on Ty.’

‘Then you’re gonna have to face the consequences, my friend,’ Reaper said, reloading his brush with paint, then sketching the outline of a man’s face in the dirt.

Lock paused for a second to study the outline, picking out a strong chin, aquiline nose and hooded eyes – the unmistakable features of the current President.

‘Didn’t think you’d be a fan of his,’ Lock said.

Reaper stopped to admire his handiwork. ‘I ain’t,’ he said sourly, ‘although he’s done great things for our movement, that’s for sure.’

Lock didn’t stop to dispute that with Reaper. Ever since the country elected its first African-American President there had been a surge in two things: gun sales and membership of white supremacist groups.

Seemingly lost in thought, Reaper dabbed a little more purple on to the end of his brush and drew a circle round the President’s head, then painted in a couple of lines to form crosshairs.

‘Nice touch,’ Lock said, grabbing the white plastic handle of the paint tin and holding it up. ‘We’re out. You want to go see if you can get us some more?’

Reaper took the tin and got to his feet. ‘Sure thing. You don’t want to come with me?’ he added sarcastically.

‘Not this time,’ Lock said, watching Reaper swagger across the yard.

As soon as Reaper was out of sight, Lock walked to the end of the fence they’d already worked on and pretended to be checking over each purple slash. At the same time he angled his body so that he had his back to the guard in the gun tower.

He hunkered down on his haunches and with his paintbrush in his left hand set about unhooking and then twisting off a piece of wire connected to the terminal post. After what seemed an eternity it came away in his hand, and he pocketed it. Then he dabbed at where the chain-link had been with his brush and set to work on another piece. By the time Reaper emerged from the unit building with more paint, Lock had managed to prise away three pieces.

He turned and walked back along the fence towards Reaper, who raised the tin of paint in salute before looking from Lock to the far end of the fence.

‘What you doing down there, soldier boy?’

‘Just making sure I hadn’t missed anything,’ Lock said. ‘If a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well, right?’

Reaper smirked and tugged at his walrus mustache ‘If you say so.’

They set back to work. Now all Lock could do was pray that one of the guards noticed the missing pieces of the fence before it was too late.

18

Shouts and curses bounced off every surface in the unit as, one by one, the inmates were taken from their cells, cuffed and ordered to lie face down on the floor. Once secured, a search team of three guards stepped into each cell and systematically tore the place apart, upturning mattresses, tearing pictures from the walls and throwing everything else on to the floor of the cell.

Up on the tier, Lock lay on his bunk, his hands clasped behind his head, and listened to the commotion with a quiet feeling of satisfaction.

Reaper’s head appeared above his. ‘Think you’re real cute, don’t you?’

Lock stared right through him. ‘No idea what you’re talking about.’

Reaper’s legs swung over the edge of the bunk, the soles of his feet directly above Lock’s chest. He pushed off with his arms and landed on the floor of the cell.

‘Where’d you hide ’em?’

‘Where’d I hide what?’

‘Those pieces from the fence you must have snuck when we were painting it.’

‘That what all this is about?’ said Lock, getting to his feet.