Deadlock

25

Wearing his regular civilian uniform of Nike sneakers, blue jeans from Gap and black sweater with a protective vest thrown over the top of it, Lock stopped in front of Reaper’s cell. Lieutenant Williams and the two other guards charged with transferring Reaper to the team of US Marshals outside the prison stood behind him. The early hour had been chosen so that Reaper would leave the prison under cover of darkness and arrive at the court around daybreak. His testimony was expected to take the whole day, with cross-examination running into a second.

Lock had spent the last few hours with Ty, who was staging a strong enough recovery for his own transfer to a civilian medical facility to be scheduled for later that day. He’d also, at long last, spoken to Carrie, who’d initially chewed him out over his lack of contact, then about his stupidity in taking on the job in the first place. Given that the Aryan Brotherhood trial, courtesy of the bombings, was now national rather than just California news, she was already in the air and on the way to the new trial venue in Medford, Oregon, to cover the story for her network. He was looking forward to seeing her, but determined to remain focused on finishing the job he’d started.

Reaper was dressed and waiting for them. Offering his hands up to be cuffed, he checked out Lock’s new look with a smirk. ‘Well, don’t you scrub up nice.’

Smiling back, Lock reached through the hatch and ratcheted Reaper’s cuffs a notch tighter on his wrists. Reaper’s smirk dissolved. He pulled his hands back, walked to the back of his cell, picked up a book and returned to the door. The bubble cop in the pod that controlled access to the cells pressed a button and his cell door opened.

Reaper took a step out into the corridor. The movement of a prisoner had brought the inmates in the cells around him to the Arizona doors which fronted the cells in this section of the prison. Eyes pressed against the half-inch holes which perforated the doors in place of the more traditional bars.

Lock took the book from Reaper’s hands — The Art of War — and handed it to Williams, who flicked the pages before returning it to Reaper.

‘JPATS are usually a little light on in-flight entertainment,’ Reaper said by way of explanation.

Reaper glanced down at his legs, presumably anticipating having leg restraints put round his feet. But Lock had already advised that they forgo this particular measure during Reaper’s transfer. If there was an attempt on his life, which looked more likely than ever given the bombings, they would have to get him out of the situation. If that was the case, a protectee who couldn’t run would likely get everyone killed.

Lock put a hand on Reaper’s elbow and with a ‘Let’s go’ guided him back along the spur of cells that led into the centre of this section of the SHU. Most of the cells were occupied by white inmates, but overcrowding after the riot had ensured a sprinkling of Hispanic and black prisoners. It was like walking past the lions’ enclosure at midnight. Eyes peered, yellow and unblinking, from the depths of every cell, lips peeled back over teeth. Then came the low roar of threats designed to get the prey’s blood pumping — all the faster for it to bleed out.

Lock and Williams positioned themselves on Reaper’s left so that they stood directly between Reaper and the cell doors. Even with the doors sealed, and with no bars, it wasn’t unheard of for prisoners to use improvised darts tipped with a filed-down metal disc from a sprinkler head, dipped in their own faeces and then propelled through one of the half-inch holes in their cell door using the elastic from shorts, to take out a guard or other enemy.

A final threat was hissed low in Spanish from a nearby cell before the door at the end of the corridor clicked open and Lock led Reaper’s escort out into the hub of the SHU, then along a wide linoleum-floored corridor towards the sallyport — a confined double-doored space used to control entry to and exit from the SHU.

There, Reaper was signed out by Lieutenant Williams. Reaper then twisted his head back round and took a long look down the corridor. The gesture unsettled Lock. It was as if Reaper was saying his goodbyes, although surely he wasn’t naive enough to think that he wouldn’t be trading his cell at Pelican Bay for another somewhere else.

Paperwork completed, they moved out of the SHU and into the wide expanse of open ground known in the prison as No Man’s Land. Even at this hour, with all the inmates tucked up inside their cells, No Man’s Land was lit up like a Christmas tree. Concealed cameras must have tracked their every move because yards before they reached them the gates rolled back to allow them free passage.

Then they were moving through the three razor-wire-topped fences, the middle one charged with enough juice to kill someone on contact. A caged exit ensured safe passage into a second sallyport, where again Williams had to sign Reaper out.

Reaper rolled his neck, closing his eyes as he worked out the kinks of tension.

The gesture gnawed away at Lock. A good half of close protection work was visual awareness and reading body language. There was something off about how Reaper was acting. On the journey across the yard Reaper’s prison stroll had morphed almost seamlessly from a tight, contained prison shuffle into a languid stroll.

Lock had seen Reaper feign indifference as he strolled on the yard with Phileas, and had taken that for what it was: a show of bravado designed to dissuade a potential attacker, the strutting of an alpha male. This was different. Surrounded by tension, Reaper, who now had his nose buried in his book, seemed utterly relaxed.