Lockdown

Seventy-eight

Silhouetted by the spotlight from an NYPD chopper, a piece of white cloth fluttered from Lock’s hand. His other hand clasped Josh’s as he led him to the perimeter gate, one section of which was hanging from a single hinge. He counted at least two sharpshooters with scopes sighted on them. Given the recent terrorist penchant for using both themselves and, in some cases, civilians as body-borne IEDs, it was hardly surprising.

‘Josh, can you take off your jacket for me?’

‘But, it’s cold.’

‘Just for a moment.’

‘Why?’

He could see in the kid’s eyes that he wasn’t doing it without getting a reason first. ‘Because you might have a bomb under it.’

‘Don’t be silly. Little boys don’t carry bombs.’

‘Not usually, no.’

‘But sometimes?’ Josh asked him.

Lock had once seen a twelve-year-old girl with Down’s Syndrome walk up to a Marine manning a checkpoint on Route Irish in Baghdad, shake the soldier’s hand, then blow herself up.

‘Not really,’ he said, ‘but I’d still like you to.’

Josh struggled out of his jacket. Lock lifted up Josh’s top for a moment so that his stomach was visible.

‘OK, you can put it back on.’

The snipers re-sighted fractionally. He guessed they were now both on him. One head. One torso.

Lock opened his jacket and lifted his shirt, giving a full three-sixty twirl, arms spread out to his sides. The snipers stayed sighted on him.

Twenty yards from the gate, he let go his grip on Josh’s hand. ‘Go on.’

The little boy stepped forward, then turned to look at Lock.

‘I’m going back, Josh. I have to go take care of your dad, remember?’

Josh almost managed a smile before taking to his heels and rushing towards a JTTF agent in a bio-suit posted on what was left of the gate. The agent approached the boy tentatively, put his arms around him, patting him down in the process.

‘Lock!’

Lock glanced over his shoulder to see Frisk. He was waving him forward. Lock raised a thumb back towards the complex.

Frisk broke from the ranks and darted into no-man’s land. Lock moved quickly to stay between him and the buildings. A shot from the detainees at Frisk and they’d both be toast.

‘What’s going on in there?’ he said, winded after the brief sprint.

‘They wouldn’t release Hulme.’

‘How about Van Straten and Stafford?’

‘You saw them, huh?’

‘They were reported missing about a half-hour after your buddy picked them up.’

Good, Lock thought. Croft must have decided to gift Ty a proper start.

‘I gave the detainees what they want.’

‘Which was?’

‘The people responsible for this mess.’

‘You mean the Van Stratens?’

Lock nodded.

‘And what do we get?’ Frisk asked him.

‘Everyone out alive.’

‘And you believe that crazy bitch?’

‘Look, Frisk, we don’t have much of a choice right now.’

‘And while you’re here, what’s with your girlfriend showing up?’

Lock scanned the circus on the perimeter, taking in the press and emergency personnel drawn in like moths. ‘Incidentally, what are you telling the media?’

‘Non-specific security breach.’

‘That should stand up for all of two seconds.’

‘Which is why it’s important we get this resolved as soon as possible,’ Frisk said. ‘One way or another.’

‘No argument from me.’

Just before he turned back towards the building, Lock glimpsed Josh, covered in the kind of foil blanket usually handed out at the end of a marathon, being helped into the back of an ambulance by two people in bio-suits. At least he’s safe, he told himself. That had to count for something.

‘Hold up. You’re not going back in there?’ Frisk asked, screwing up his face.

Lock kept walking. He waited for Frisk to start after him. For someone to try to stop him. But no one did.