Deadlock

66

Chance sat astride a purloined Ducati and watched the San Francisco Police Department motorcycle outriders whip past her, along the Embarcadero, followed by half a dozen other vehicles in the presidential motorcade.

She clicked on her intercom headset, which was Bluetoothed to her cell phone. ‘They just went past.’

‘How fast they moving?’ Reaper asked.

‘They’re booking it. I’d say we’ve got under three minutes until we can RV.’

‘Freya?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Just don’t move in too fast, ’kay? We need the dust settled before we hit.’

‘Got you.’

Chance hitched up the straps of her backpack full of goodies, toed up the kick-stand on the bike and slipped back down the street, away from the route the presidential convoy was taking. The plan was to run parallel, then after initial detonation move in to mop up. The objective was straightforward in terms of those inside The Beast, and she was looking forward to it.

Leave no survivors.

Lock slumped back on the bench seat of the cruiser. No amount of pleading was getting the driver to stop. ‘At least patch me through to someone who can check it out.’

The female cop eyed him in the rear-view mirror with a jaundiced look that spoke of having had to endure too many crazies. ‘Listen, buddy, the Secret Service know what they’re doing. If there was a bomb they’d have found it already. There was sniffer dogs there just this morning. I saw them.’

But the dogs, no matter how refined their sense of smell, might not have been able to detect anything apart from the overpowering whiff of fresh tar. He had to get out of the car. And fast.

As the driver turned her attention back to the road, Lock slipped his right hand into the front pocket of his jeans and pulled out the comb with his fingertips. Without looking, he felt for the final, thickest tooth of the comb, and again by feel used the tooth to press down on the pawl of the right-hand cuff, in an attempt to disengage the swing arm from the ratchet. The cuff on his right hand clicked open. He waited a second to see if the cop had noticed anything, but her eyes were fixed on the road ahead.

‘Listen,’ he said, leaning forward again, ‘I gotta pee.’

‘Hold it.’

‘I can’t. Can you at least pull over so I don’t make a mess of your back seat here?’

‘Forget it.’

It was the answer he’d been expecting. Keeping his hands low, he opened the zip of his jeans. ‘I’m sorry about this, officer, but I ain’t wetting my jeans.’

She squinted in the rear-view mirror. ‘Aw, Jesus. OK, OK, wait.’

She pulled sharply over to the kerb, and got out. As she opened the rear passenger door, Lock kept his hands low, figuring that her eyes would be everywhere but waist level or below. He guessed right.

He had a second, maybe two.

As she began to usher him to a patch of barren ground which doubled as a street-side parking lot, he hit her hard in the face just below her nose, sending her tumbling to the ground. As she fell, he was on her, freeing her service weapon from its holster. Next, he ripped her radio from her belt.

Picking her up under one shoulder, he tossed her into the still-open rear door and slammed it, then climbed in the front, jammed the cruiser back into drive and spun it round in a thick one-eighty turn that drew honks from oncoming cars as he cut directly across their paths.

He glanced back at the female cop in the back seat. She was sitting up now, trying to staunch the blood from her nose.

‘Lady, I’m sorry, but we’re short on time, so buckle up.’

She glared at him. He could hardly blame her.

Finding the switch that engaged the lights and sirens, he flicked the toggle and jammed his foot down on the accelerator, weaving through the traffic, scattering pedestrians and other vehicles behind him as he raced to the cathedral, praying he wasn’t already too late.