Deadlock

71

The door at the far end of the corridor opened and the President strode out, four Secret Service agents immediately falling into a diamond formation around him. His head was bowed in thought as he studied his speech. Six steps further along, where the corridor widened another foot, four more suited agents fell into step, filling the gaps in the diamond so that the President was almost completely obscured.

Lock, who was now sporting a suit similar to the other members of the personal escort section, took the rear point of the diamond, which gave him the best eyes-on in the narrow corridor.

He’d never had much time for the Secret Service before, disliking their whole frat-boy, shade-wearing, talking-into-their-sleeve shtick. But he had to hand it to them, when it came to walking drills they had their shit down cold.

Up ahead, a man on a gurney was being propelled towards them by a three-person medical team. The man had an oxygen mask over his mouth and his chest was shredded with shrapnel wounds. They shifted as far as they could to try and let him pass before the President raised his hand, signaling for them to stop.

‘Wait. I want to see how this guy’s doing.’

‘I think you can see how he’s doing, sir,’ Lock snapped from the back. ‘What we really need to do is keep moving.’

Yeah, he definitely wasn’t cut out for the Secret Service, Lock thought.

The President did as he was told and the medical team squeezed the wounded man past them on their right as a door on the left-hand side of the corridor opened and a woman in bloodstained medical scrubs stepped out parallel to the front member of the President’s personal escort. She had a mask pulled over her face but seemed startled because she flattened herself against the closed door to allow them past with a deferential ‘Excuse me.’

As she straightened out against the door, Lock saw the hard swell of her belly. This time there was no hesitation.

‘Threat left!’ he screamed.

As the personal escort pivoted round and the President was propelled out of the way, Chance made her move. The knife, which had been down by her side, came up in a slashing arc, cutting the throat of the agent closest to her.

From the corner of his eye, Lock saw a flash of hand as the next closest agent reached for his weapon. A gun might be handy in a knife fight, but only if you had some distance, and not when you were dealing in fractions of a second.

Lock threw himself forward at Chance as she lunged past the stricken agent and sprang towards the President, her knife held in a hammer grip. Rather than move, though, the President shrugged off his designated bodyguard and, stepping back, bent low, so that the arc of the knife caught air rather than flesh.

As Chance fell, the President punched back his elbow, catching her in the throat — hard. The knife tumbled from her hand and there was a scramble to retrieve it. Lock caught her feet, his arms wrapping her ankles as she kicked back, catching him in the face.

The President followed Chance and Lock to the floor. She landed on her face, the President on her back. The President grabbed for her wrist, levering it up, bringing her arm with it, twisting the joint and breaking it with an audible snap.

Chance gasped with pain. Her eyes closed. When she opened them, she found herself staring up at Tyrone.

‘What’s the matter?’ Ty asked her, his teeth bared, his eyes narrow with fury. ‘We all look alike to you people?’