Deadlock

6

Clad in the standard blue uniform of a California Department of Corrections prisoner, Lock peered out of the porthole window as the twin-engine Cessna light aircraft dropped rapidly on its final approach, breaking through a low bank of coastal cloud to give him his first clear view of where he was about to spend the next five days. At first all he could see were vast tracts of redwood forest, which encircled the facility on almost three sides. To the east, the ancient trees climbed to a barren range of mountains, and to the west lay the Pacific Ocean. Then it was there below him, modern America’s answer to Alcatraz: Pelican Bay Supermax.

Nothing had prepared him for the sheer scale of the place. Two hundred and seventy-five acres in the middle of nowhere, about as far north as you could venture in California before you slipped into the state of Oregon. Even if a prisoner made it out past the plethora of electric fences, razor wire and gun towers, where would he go? Sure, there was nearby Crescent City, but that was where the guards lived with their families — hardly an ideal place to hide out.

Lock sank back in his seat and ran through the cover story Jalicia had furnished them with. A high-net-worth client in Los Angeles whom they’d been guarding had fired them on some dubious pretext and then refused to pay them. When they’d gone to collect the money, there had been an altercation with several members of his new security team, during which one of them had been killed. They had both received fifteen-year sentences for manslaughter. In the cauldron of sex, violence and celebrity that constituted Los Angeles, it would come as no surprise that a story like this had stayed broadly off-radar. By the time any prisoners got suspicious and started to ask questions of their contacts on the outside, Lock and Ty’s mission should be complete.

Coburn had also told them that a decision had been made to keep knowledge of their task within as small a circle as possible. Not even the Marshals team transporting them had been informed of their true status. The only person within the prison who had been told was the warden, Louis Marquez.

Lock sat back up and craned his neck a little further, the cuffs digging into his wrists, the chain round his midriff, which linked to his cuffs and leg restraints, biting into the side of his abdomen. Straining like this, he could glimpse the huge purpose-built buildings where the inmates lived, and where three-quarters of them were destined to die. On one side of the prison lay the gigantic X-shaped Secure Housing Unit, four arms moving out from a central spur. Beyond that, Lock could see the equally vast rectangular blocks of general housing units, with the grassy recreation yards in the middle. This was where he and Ty would be. With Reaper. And a few thousand potential assassins, all of whom had been hardened by years of incarceration.

In the most obvious way it made the challenge seem next to impossible, but in another it made it easier. When escorting a high-ranking army general through a street bazaar in Baghdad, or ushering the British Prime Minister into a hotel in Belfast, the challenge was to stay alert because you never quite knew where the threat was coming from. Or whether it would come at all. But down there, Lock could safely assume everyone to be a threat, up to and including the man whose life he was charged with guarding.

He was set for an exhausting five days. But if that’s what it took to bring to book the men who had ordered the murder of Ken Prager and his family, then so be it.

As the plane banked hard to the left, the ocean replaced his view of Pelican Bay Supermax, crests of white waves slamming into steep, perilous cliffs. Lock sank back into his seat.

The pilot’s voice crackled over the tannoy, a robotic delivery not without an undercurrent of humour. ‘Two minutes to landing, gentlemen. And I’d like to take this opportunity to thank you for flying the unfriendly skies with JPATS, America’s least favorite airline.’

A few minutes later, they ducked in low under the clouds and slammed down hard on the runway. Lock lurched forward in his seat, the huge, bear-like Marshal sitting next to him putting out a beefy arm to prevent Lock’s head from banging the seat in front. The plane taxied to the far end of the runway and juddered to a halt.

As soon as the pilot had turned off the engines, Lock was hustled towards the front of the aircraft and down the steps, Ty behind him. Raw salt air mixed with a light mist as they were led towards two separate unmarked Toyota Land Cruisers. The vehicles skirted round Crescent City itself and headed north-east along Lake Earl Drive.

Lock sat alone in the back of the rear vehicle, minutes away from one of the most dangerous prisons in North America, suddenly glad that Carrie couldn’t see him. He’d called her from Jalicia’s office, hoping to get the answering machine, but she’d picked up on the third ring. He’d kept the details of his and Ty’s task as sketchy as possible. Witness protection. A five-day job. He’d said nothing about his reason for taking it on, or what it would actually entail.

He could tell that Carrie was doing her best to sound unconcerned.

‘So your trip to San Francisco was worth it then?’ she’d asked him.

‘Guess so,’ he’d said.

Lock had made a pact with Carrie that, despite her reporter’s instincts, she wouldn’t ask for too many details about his work unless he offered them up. And this was not a situation he thought it wise to tell her too much about.

There’d been an awkward silence.

‘Ryan, are you OK?’

‘I’m fine. Why?’

‘I dunno, you sound distracted.’

‘It’s just been a long day is all.’

‘This job, do I have anything to worry about?’

‘No way. I’m gonna have Ty with me. We’ll be fine.’

‘OK then. So, see you in five days?’

‘Carrie?’

There was the trill of a cell phone in the background.

‘Other line. Gotta go. Listen, be safe, OK?’

And then she was gone, before he’d had the chance to tell her how much he was going to miss her and that he loved her. Sitting in the back of the Land Cruiser, he wondered if he’d ever get the chance to say those things. With a lurch of regret, he realised he should have said them while he’d had the chance.

Less than ten minutes later, they turned right past an unmanned guardhouse and into the Pelican Bay complex. They followed the road round to the left for a time. Finally, they stopped outside what Lock guessed was the processing area. The rear door opened and Lock stepped out. He stared up at the gun towers and electrified fences topped with strands of razor wire, his home for the next five days.

The Marshal standing next to him followed Lock’s gaze.

‘Welcome to hell, asshole.’