Deadlock

3

Six Weeks Later

Ryan Lock stared out across San Francisco Bay towards Alcatraz Island. The city’s trademark fog had briefly given way to a cloudless deep-blue sky, and he could make out not only the sharp outline of the infamous island but also the main prison buildings themselves, etched in chalk-white. Clusters of tourists filed past on their way to the boat that would take them out to the former residence of America’s most wanted criminals, but Lock wasn’t going on the tour with them. He was here on business. Although exactly what kind of business wasn’t yet clear.

The previous evening he had received a call at the New York apartment he shared with his girlfriend, Carrie Delaney, a TV news reporter. Unlike most calls he received of a business nature, this one came direct to his home, and the woman on the other end of the line was insistent but calm. Usually potential clients were insistent and panicked, often with very good reason.

After a career in the military, Lock now worked in high-end private security, often taking on jobs that no one else would touch. At least that was his reputation. In short, he made sure that no harm came to people whose lives were being threatened, or who faced other menaces such as blackmail, kidnap of a family member, or extortion. Outsiders might describe him as a bodyguard, or a bullet catcher, but Lock hated the macho connotations of both terms and saw himself simply as a troubleshooter.

The woman on the other end of the line had identified herself as Jalicia Jones, a Federal Prosecutor at the US Attorney’s Office in San Francisco. She’d said there was a matter of a very sensitive nature she wished to discuss with him — in person.

‘You’re going to have to do better than that,’ he’d said, using his free hand to stir the pasta sauce he was cooking for dinner.

Jalicia had given him one more detail: the job involved protection of a witness for a major federal trial.

‘Don’t you have the US Marshals Service for that sort of thing?’ he’d asked her, scooping up some of the sauce and tasting it.

‘This is a rather unique set of circumstances, Mr Lock.’

‘You can’t find someone on the west coast who provides close protection?’

‘Not of this type. It’s high-end. Super high-end.’

Lock knew that ‘high-end’ was not-so-secret code for ‘might get you killed’. He could only surmise that ‘super high-end’ was a job likely to get you killed.

‘Mr Lock, you’ll understand when we meet,’ she’d continued. ‘Your flight leaves Kennedy at six o’clock tomorrow morning. A first-class ticket will be waiting for you at the Virgin America reservations desk.’

‘And why do you think I’m going to fly the whole way across the country for a meeting about this exactly?’

There’d been silence on the other end of the line, then Jalicia said, ‘Because I’ve done my research on you.’

Lock had put the spoon down on the kitchen counter as a trickle of unease worked its way down his back. ‘What does that mean?’

But Jalicia had ignored the question, given him the flight number and hung up.

Behind him, Carrie was sitting on the sofa, working through some background material for a story she was covering. Their yellow Labrador, Angel, a rescue dog from an animal-testing unit, was lying next to her, its head resting on her lap.

‘Business?’ she’d asked, looking up.

‘Some prosecutor from the US Attorney’s Office in San Francisco. Wants me to fly out there first thing to meet with her about a witness protection gig.’

‘And are you?’

Lock had grimaced. ‘Hell, no.’

Around four in the morning, having had two hours’ sleep, Lock had rolled out of bed.

Carrie stole some more comforter from his side of the bed and said, eyes still closed, ‘You’re going, aren’t you?’

Lock sighed. ‘I guess I am.’

‘What changed your mind?’

‘If I don’t find out what’s so important that they want to hire private security from the other side of the country, it’ll drive me nuts.’

Carrie gave a sleepy laugh. ‘She wasn’t lying about doing her research on you.’

As Lock got dressed, Angel skittered around his feet, disturbed by the change in routine.

Carrie propped herself up on one elbow. ‘You taking your partner?’

‘No, Angel’s staying here.’

‘You know who I mean.’

Lock walked back to the bed and sat down. He pushed away a strand of blonde hair which had fallen over Carrie’s face, then leaned in and kissed her gently on the lips. Before the lure of climbing back into bed with Carrie properly took hold, he stood back up.

‘I’m meeting him there. He’s out visiting family in California anyway. He said he’d drive up to San Francisco from LA.’

Lock was waiting for him now — his partner, Tyrone Johnson. They’d originally hooked up out in Iraq, where Ty was serving in the United States Marine Corps and Lock, despite the fact he’d been raised in the States, was working with the British Royal Military Police specialist close protection unit. The rapport had been immediate, and when Lock eventually left the military, Ty, who was already working in high-end private security, had secured Lock his first gig with a large pharmaceutical company which had been targeted by animal rights activists.

While he waited for Ty, Lock kept his gaze steady on Alcatraz. Little wonder that no one had escaped from the place. If the freezing temperature of the water surrounding the prison didn’t get you, and if the strong bay currents didn’t sweep you out into the Pacific, then the sharks would finish you off.

Lock saw Ty before Ty saw Lock, the young African-American’s long, basketball player’s strides making short work of the ground between sidewalk and pier. Lock caught his friend’s grimace as they bumped fists.

‘That was a long goddamn drive,’ Ty said, massaging the back of his neck.

‘Well, let’s hope it’s worth it.’

‘Come on,’ said Ty, tapping Lock’s elbow. ‘My ride’s over there.’

Lock picked it out immediately — a 1966 Lincoln Continental that had been resprayed in a migraine-inducing purple.

Ty’s chin jutted out. ‘Go on, get it out of the way.’

‘Get what out of the way?’ Lock asked.

‘Whatever you’re going to say about my ride.’

Their respective tastes in both cars and music were a long-running source of friction between them. Ty thought Lock’s choice of both automobiles and music boring, while Lock maintained that in their job the key was to appear as inconspicuous as possible. Something they clearly weren’t about to do in a pimped-out purple Continental.

‘It’s…’ Lock searched for the right word. ‘It’s very striking.’

Lock ducked in the front passenger side as Ty walked round to the driver’s door. The interior was black and purple leopard-spot suede. The sound system was a six-speaker Bose model guaranteed to make your ears bleed even at low volume. The two additional JL woofers mounted in the back looked capable of rearranging your internal organs.

Ty popped on a pair of mirrored Aviator sunglasses, gunned the engine and pulled away from the kerb.

‘Have to say, Tyrone, we’re really blending in this vehicle. All you’re missing is a fedora with a feather, Superfly.’

Ty scowled. ‘Where’s your sense of style, brother?’

‘Must have left it back in New York.’ Lock took another look around the Lincoln’s cabin. ‘You know what? I think this is a first.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Well, I don’t think I’ve ever been in a vehicle before and actually prayed that I’d be car-jacked.’

On the way to the Federal Building where they were scheduled to meet with Jalicia, Lock brought Ty a little more up to speed with his conversation the previous evening. After a pause, Ty said, ‘Makes no sense. They have the Marshals for this kind of stuff. You sure they want us for witness protection?’

‘That’s what it sounded like.’

Ty seemed to lighten a little. ‘So, we fly ’em down to Cancun, chill out for a few weeks, then fly ’em back home and pick up a big fat cheque from Uncle Sam. I mean, how hard can it be, right?’

Lock stared out of the window as they drove along Bay Street, past a bar called the Red Jack Saloon. A knot of four or five bikers sporting Hell’s Angel patches were chatting outside, as much a part of the local scenery as cable cars and the Golden Gate Bridge. He was guessing that Ty’s optimism was misplaced. Someone with Lock’s reputation wasn’t flown across the country first-class if the job was straightforward.