Deadlock

36

Lock moved fast. Dragging Reaper towards the door with his left hand, he unholstered his SIG Sauer 226 with his right. Carrie had kindly brought it to Medford for him, and it felt good in his hand. Solid. Reliable. Deadly. He pointed forward with it, motioning for the others to follow.

At the door, he turned to one of the younger Marshals who was toting an AR-15 semi-automatic rifle. ‘Give me your side arm.’

The Marshal hesitated.

‘Son, unless you can fire both of your weapons simultaneously, hand it over.’

The Marshal in charge shrugged a ‘go ahead’ and the younger man handed over his Glock 40 calibre. Lock took it, business end first, and palmed it off to Carrie.

‘Thanks,’ she said.

‘Hey, what about me?’ grumbled her cameraman.

‘Just because you have a dick doesn’t mean you can shoot for shit,’ Lock said, staring at him.

Carrie set about checking over the Glock with the grace and speed of a career soldier. Lock had always regarded the ability to defend yourself as a more crucial set of skills for women than men, seeing as women were more often prey than predator. Hours on the range with Carrie had transformed her from merely competent to a crack shot who regularly scored higher than Ty — much to Ty’s annoyance.

‘But-’

Lock cut the cameraman off. ‘She knows what she’s doing, so do everyone a favour and get over yourself. Tell you what, you do your shooting with that camera you’re toting. We come out of this alive, you might just snag yourself an Emmy.’

‘What about me?’ Reaper said. ‘I can shoot.’

Lock yanked on Reaper’s restraints, almost lifting the bigger man from the ground. ‘No gun for you, but I’ll give you a bullet any time you want one.’

‘So where we going?’ asked the Marshal in charge.

Lock poked at Reaper with the barrel of his gun. ‘We’re going to make sure that Elvis here ain’t going to be leaving the building.’

The SWAT team sniper posted on the roof tossed his Styrofoam cup of lukewarm coffee to one side and peered into the blinding spotlight projecting from the front of the helicopter. He readied his weapon, all the while keeping his eyes on the powerful airborne spotlight bearing down on him, God-like, from a storm-ridden night sky.

He raised his assault rifle and leaned out from behind an air-conditioning unit. Still the light kept coming, the thump of the rotor blades drowning out the chaos of noise from the street below. He sighted a point at the very centre of the glare and fired off a round. Nothing. Just the light bearing down on him without mercy, the ever-increasing roar of the blades, and the chop of the air stinging his eyes.

A moment later there was another blast of fire from the helicopter and he was blown off his feet, shrapnel pinballing around him, cutting him to ribbons.

In the helicopter, Cowboy punched the air as beneath them the sniper’s position disintegrated and a big hole opened up in the roof. He keyed his mike, which looped round the side of his face, finishing a few inches from his mouth.

‘He’s second floor, right?’

‘Roger that.’

Cowboy climbed a little, steadying the helicopter over the rooftop. Behind him, Chance, her weapon drawn, clipped on to the ropes that had been slung over the runners, swung out of the helicopter and rappelled the short distance to the roof.

Trooper followed, zip-lining at speed to join her. While he provided cover, Chance placed the first charge next to the locked door of the rooftop stairwell, and ran back.

Cowboy gained some more height. A second later the charge detonated, the shockwave buffeting the helicopter. Spinning the copter round ninety degrees, for a moment he just caught a glimpse of Chance before she disappeared into the building.

Cowboy spun the helicopter back round and let loose a fusillade of. 50-mil rounds towards a SWAT sniper position on the building opposite, which lay to his immediate right. That done, he took the helicopter down on to the roof. By the time they’d organised another effective firing position he’d be long gone.

He checked his watch. Ten minutes past midnight. At seventeen minutes past midnight he’d take off again. Anyone who wasn’t on board by then was staying behind. That was the deal.

Chance and Trooper clambered down the stairwell, a couple of the higher treads blown away by the charge she’d planted. Lights flickered overhead.

A solitary jail guard ran towards them through the dust. ‘Stop where you are!’ he shouted, with all the authority of someone used to dealing with the unarmed.

Chance raised her M-4, found his outline easily with her night sights, and dispatched him with a single round, his anti-stab vest no match for a sub-sonic CQB round. His chest opened up, his intestines spilling out over his utility belt.

Lock and Reaper had reached the one-man cage where Reaper had been spending his downtime. Thirty seconds earlier there had been another two explosions, both of which had sent plaster dust cascading down on them. One of the guards opened the door.

‘I’m going to need at least two more pairs of cuffs, and two more sets of leg restraints,’ Lock barked.

‘But he’s already double-cuffed.’

‘Just get me what I need.’ Lock turned to the cameraman. ‘You have gaffer tape on you, right?’

‘Somewhere,’ the cameraman said, digging into a bag slung over his shoulder and pulling out a thick roll of the silver insulating tape he normally used to secure cabling to the floor.

Lock took the roll and tore off a strip, cutting it away with his Gerber. He smiled at Reaper.

‘What the hell you doin’ with that?’ Reaper asked.

‘Giving you a taste of what Jalicia Jones had to endure just before your buddies out there snuffed her.’

‘Paranoid, Lock?’ Reaper sneered.

‘Why didn’t they kill you back at the airfield when they had the chance? Answer me that.’

Reaper clammed up, then another explosion rocked the building and light arms fire chattered above them. ‘You can’t leave me in here,’ he said, looking around him at the metal cage.

‘If they want you alive, they’re gonna have to work for it,’ said Lock, slapping some gaffer tape across Reaper’s mouth and setting to work securing each of Reaper’s hands to the top of the cage with the cuffs, and his feet to the bottom with the leg restraints.

Reaper kicked out at him but Lock ducked out of the way. Still, Reaper’s knee glanced against the side of his head. The Marshal in charge pulled his baton. Lock grabbed it from him and swung back with it, bringing it down hard against Reaper’s kneecap. Reaper’s scream was muffled by the tape covering his mouth, but his eyes crinkled shut and he stopped fighting.

A moment later, Lock slammed the gate shut and sealed it with a large padlock. He stepped back to admire his work. Reaper stood there, his arms splayed out from his body in a crucifix pattern.

‘You really think he’s what they want?’ Carrie asked.

‘I don’t think,’ said Lock, ‘I know. Now, let’s get the hell out before Delta Force get here.’

Dead bodies littered the corridor behind Chance and Trooper as they made their way to the secure holding area, alternating who took point, folding in front of each other at every doorway, working their way quickly but methodically towards their target. Anyone they saw, they shot, including a woman dressed in civilian clothes who had pleaded for her life on bended knee, old-school style. Chance, wishing to conserve ammunition, had cut her throat with a Bowie knife.

‘Let’s hope they ain’t moved him,’ she said to Trooper.

She peered through a mesh-reinforced glass panel in a door that led into the holding area. The door was locked but the room beyond looked empty. She placed a charge and scuttled back, her face kissing the floor as the charge detonated. A few seconds later, the door came to rest at a forty-five-degree angle on its sole remaining hinge. Chance pushed it aside and stepped into the anteroom. A desk ran the length of one wall, its end section lifted up to allow access to another door. This door was also locked.

Chance checked her watch. The digital display was set to count down from five minutes, which was the time at which she’d estimated they’d have to start moving back to the RV point on the roof. Two minutes of the five remained.

She checked the door in front of them. Judging by the hinges, it opened inwards. She flicked her M-4 on to fully automatic, hefted it to her shoulder, fell into a modified Weaver stance and let loose with a burst of gunfire aimed at the lock. Trooper stepped forward, and each gave it a kick. The door flew open and they walked into a much wider corridor. Three doors faced them. One in the middle. One to their left. One to their right.

‘Eeeny, meeny, miney, mo.’

The left. Chance nodded at it. She moved off to one side as Trooper tried the handle. It was open. They stepped in.

Reaper met her gaze. He was locked inside a steel-barred holding cage, each of his limbs double-cuffed to the bars. His mouth was covered to prevent him speaking.

On the front of the cage was an envelope secured in place with gaffer tape. Chance ripped it away with a gloved hand and tore it open. Inside was a single sheet of paper. On it, scrawled in black marker pen, was a message. Good luck getting him out of here, assholes.

It was signed Ryan Lock.