by Sean Black
As the receptionist ran, Lock looked around the lobby at the last of the stragglers. There was a knot of glamorous party girls in their twenties who had backed against a wall. He shouted across the lobby, ‘Ladies, check your bags and see if you can find me a tampon or a sanitary towel.’
They stared at him, horrified.
‘Check your purses, goddamnit,’ he repeated, raising his voice.
A willowy blonde in a black cocktail dress pulled out a pack of tampons. ‘Will these do?’
‘Perfect. Bring them here,’ he said, waving her over with his free hand.
She tottered towards him on high heels, holding a still-wrapped tampon at arm’s length between thumb and forefinger.
‘Take the wrapper off,’ Lock barked, ‘and see if you can find me some hand sanitizer.’
An Asian girl with the group piped up, ‘I have some.’
‘Good. Let me have it.’
Lock turned back to the victim. ‘Okay. I’m going to take the jacket away, and then I’m going to have to take off your shirt so I can pack the wound. I’ll be as gentle as I can but it’ll hurt.’
She looked up at him, her eyes tracing the contours of his face, like a finger running over a road map. Her pupils widened a fraction and life seemed to return to them.
Up close, he could tell that she was younger than she had first appeared. Nineteen. Maybe twenty at a push. Her skin was pale and sallow. She had small, delicate features, and bright green eyes. Her hair was a deep chestnut brown, almost auburn.
Finally she nodded. He looked at the blonde who had given him the tampon. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.
‘Ashley,’ said the blonde.
‘Okay, Ashley, I’m going to need you to hold her jacket where it is for a moment.’
‘But I … the blood … What if she, like, has something?’ Ashley protested.
Lock fixed her with the same gaze he’d used on the receptionist. ‘If we don’t do this, she is going to die right here in front of us. So, please, just do as I asked.’
She complied. He cupped his hands and the Asian girl pumped four squirts of sanitizer into them. He rubbed it in. ‘Okay, Ashley, you can move the jacket away now and give me that tampon.’
She did as she was told and Lock began to peel away the cotton shirt from the edge of the wound. It was maybe a half-inch in diameter, bad but not the worst he’d seen. It looked as if the bullet had stayed inside – better than there being an exit wound and two places to lose blood. He pulled out the blue cord of the tampon and pressed the other end into the wound. Almost immediately it began to expand as it absorbed the blood, puffing out and filling the hole in the girl’s stomach. Blood seeped from the edges of the wound but just moments before it had been pouring out.
He glanced at the desk. The receptionist had the phone at his ear. ‘They’re on their way,’ he called.
‘How long?’ Lock asked.
The receptionist went back to the phone.
Lock worked the numbers. Where had the girl been when she was shot and how long ago? Life or death would be separated by seconds rather than minutes.
‘Mr Lock?’ she said, tears welling in her eyes.
She knew his name. He tried to place her. Had he met her before? He didn’t think so, but something about her was familiar. Had she been at the concert earlier, maybe at the stage door? Over the last month he had seen some pretty elaborate stunts to grab Triple-C’s attention, not to mention that evening’s near-riot.
‘You were looking for me?’ he asked her.
Her chin fell on to her chest. ‘They tried to stop me,’ she stuttered.
‘Who? Who tried to stop you?’
‘He sent them. He wants me to stop looking for him. But I won’t.’
The hairs rose at the back of Lock’s neck. He scanned the crowd, which was slowly drifting away, their backward glances a mix of disgust and curiosity. No one stood out. No one appeared to be a threat.
‘Who?’ he asked her gently. ‘Who does?’
Her lips started to form a name but no sound came.
‘Is this person after you?’
She shook her head, the deadness settling back in her eyes. ‘You have to catch him.’
Lock’s patience was fraying. ‘Whoever you are, whatever this is about, I’m not a cop. I don’t catch people, I keep them safe.’
‘That’s why it has to be you,’ she said.
‘Why what has to be me?’ he asked.
‘The one who brings him back.’
She was talking in riddles. Every answer she gave led to more questions. ‘Bring who back?’
‘Joe tried. But they killed him.’
‘Joe? Is that the name of the man you want me to find?’
‘It’s not fair. He should be in prison for what he did.’
‘Who?’
She stared at Lock and a sudden intensity flared in her eyes, like the last burst of a candle flame before the wind snuffs it out. ‘You’re my last chance. If you don’t catch him and bring him back, they’re going to kill me.’
Lock kept the pressure on her wound as best he could. The fire was dying down. She was blinking. If he didn’t keep her conscious, he would lose her before they made it to a hospital. He had to keep her awake, and the best way of doing that was to keep her talking. ‘Listen, let’s start over, okay? Can you tell me your name?’
Her eyes focused. That was good. ‘Melissa,’ she said.
A tiny victory. ‘Okay, Melissa,’ he said. ‘I’m going to come with you to the hospital, and on the way, I want you to tell me everything. But start at the beginning. Can you do that for me, Melissa? Can you tell me your story all the way through? If you do that, and I feel I can help you, then I promise I will. Do we have a deal?’
‘Deal.’
Lock turned back to the receptionist. ‘ETA?’
The man looked at him blankly.
‘How long until they get here?’
‘They said ten minutes.’
Lock did the math. If the EMS ambulance had deployed from the hospital, that would mean at least another ten minutes. In twenty she’d be dead.
He scooped the girl into his arms and ran for the door, struggling to stay on his feet as his shoes slipped on the bloodied floor.
Three
LOCK PLACED HER in the front passenger seat as gently as he could. Even the smallest movement made her moan. He closed himself off from the sound. If she was going to live, he had to concentrate on getting her to hospital and block out everything else.
He was already one small step ahead. As part of his security preparation for Triple-C, he knew the location of the closest emergency room – at the UCLA Medical Center – as well as the fastest route there from the hotel. He gunned the engine of his car, a black Audi A6, and roared out on to Wilshire Boulevard. He cut in ahead of a slow-moving Lexus, muscling into the left-hand lane, and buried the gas pedal.
The lights at the intersection of Wilshire and Beverly Glen flicked from red to green. He blew through the junction at speed. Ahead, both lanes of traffic were at a standstill. He moved into the turn lane to go round it, then as the next rack of lights turned green, cut up the cars at the front.
A couple of drivers behind him honked their horns but he kept moving, eyes sweeping the road ahead. It was clear now. He slowed a little to make the turn on to Westwood Boulevard.
The girl shifted in her seat and groaned. ‘Stay with me, Melissa, okay?’
‘It hurts so much.’
He shifted up a gear and reached a hand over. ‘You’re doing really good.’
She grabbed at his hand and squeezed it. ‘Cesar Mendez,’ she said.
The name had come from nowhere. She was beyond pale now – even her lips had lost their color: a bad sign.
‘What was that?’ he asked.
‘Cesar Mendez. They call him Charlie,’ she said. ‘That’s who I want you to find for me. Find him and bring him back.’
Lock must have taken his eyes off
the road for a split second because the Audi’s front right wheel hit a pot-hole. The car bounced, prompting a scream from Melissa. She grabbed at Lock’s forearm, digging her nails into his flesh.
‘You do what you have to do,’ said Lock, ignoring the pain as he felt her break the skin. ‘Charlie? He shot you?’
There was no reply. He felt her grip on his arm relax and his heart flipped. He could see the hospital entrance, maybe a half-block further on the right.
He snuck another look. Her eyes were fluttering closed. He hit the button to lower the window next to her and let in some air.
‘Melissa? Can you hear me? Don’t go to sleep, okay. We’re almost there now.’
He raced towards the hospital, his eyes flicking to and from the girl. She was fighting to stay conscious.
With a screech of brakes he pulled into the no-parking zone at the main entrance. A security guard appeared from nowhere and hollered at him to move the car. He ignored the guy, got out of the car and ran around to the passenger side. He leaned in, unclipped the seat belt and struggled in the confined space to lift her out.
Oblivious to everything and everyone around him, he ran with her into the emergency-room reception area. Her eyes were closed and she had stopped breathing.
Four
WITH MELISSA IN surgery, two detectives from the LAPD’s Robbery Homicide Division swung by to take an informal witness statement from Lock. When he asked whether they would provide any form of police protection, they answered, as he had known they would, in the negative. They left, but he stayed to pace the corridor.
He checked in with Ty, sharing what little information he had. Everything at the hotel was quiet.
The hours passed and Lock waited. After years in close protection waiting was one thing he had become expert at. Eventually Melissa was moved into a private room on the fourth floor. The surgeon wouldn’t speak to him but he gleaned a little information from a nurse, who, in breach of official policy, allowed him to stand guard when he explained that the person or persons who had shot the girl might return to finish the job.
In the room, he grabbed a metal-backed folding chair from beside the bed and set it in the corner nearest to the door so that he would see anyone coming into the room before they spotted him. Someone looking to kill her most likely wouldn’t risk shooting her from the doorway, not after they had screwed up their first attempt. They’d want to be close. Pillow over the head, gun pressed in tight to dampen the sound, then squeeze the trigger. Or they’d smother her: the heart monitor would tell them when she was dead.
His shirt and trousers were caked with dried blood, he noticed. He got up and crossed to the sink mounted against the far wall. He washed his hands and face, then crossed to the bed and picked up the chart hanging from the bed rail. At the very top it had the girl’s full name – Melissa Warner – and her date of birth. The medical staff must have found some form of ID on her when they cut off her clothing.
She was lying on her side, chestnut hair fanned out over the crisp white pillow.
Melissa Warner. Charlie Mendez.
Something about the two names resonated. He had heard them before, but where? He sat down again and texted Ty with an update, then asked him to find out what he could. A few seconds later Ty was back to say he’d do some digging.
He looked across at the sleeping girl as the monitor sketched her heartbeat with a green glow. The tension in her face had slowly released as she slept but she was in the foetal position, knees pulled up to her chest. Lock had often thought that you could trace a person’s journey in the world by their sleep pattern. Little kids stretched out like starfish, open and unafraid. But that stage soon passed. If things got bad enough, you rarely slept at all, like Lock. It made his job easier. He could get by on three hours a night. But it made his life hell. He knew why he couldn’t sleep but he didn’t know the cure. He just hoped that in time it would pass.
He went back to the chair but didn’t sit down, preferring to lean against the wall. Even with his insomnia, he was worried about falling asleep. Eyes open, alert to every sound from the corridor, he stood vigil, as he had done so many times before, ready to protect the girl who had stepped from nowhere into his life.
It was a full two hours later that he saw the door handle move a fraction. Nurses had been in twice to check on Melissa but they had come straight in, as innocent people do. They pressed down the handle, opened the door and walked in.
The handle moved another fraction. Then another. Lock tensed and moved softly along the wall so that he was closer to the door.
There was a soft click as the latch cleared its slot. Lock kept inching along with his back to the wall.
The door edged open. Lock stood perfectly still as a figure stepped into the room, closing the door. It was too dark to get a clear view but the person was short, maybe five two. They wore baggy jeans, a baseball cap and an oversized jacket. A shaft of moonlight slid across the floor and he saw a long, thin steel blade in the figure’s right hand. Whoever it was walked towards the sleeping girl, the knife raised.
Five
TY SAT ALONE in the hotel room and pecked away with two long index fingers at his laptop. He ran a simple Google search for Cesar ‘Charlie’ Mendez, then another for Melissa Warner. As he read them, he wished he could blot out the unhelpful soundtrack from the next room where one of the rappers from Triple-C was involved in a prolonged but apparently intimate party with two young women from the lobby. The sounds of hotel-room sex made what was already uncomfortable reading even more so.
As he sifted through the web pages, the story fell into place. There was no great mystery as to why Melissa had sought out Lock. It was all right there on the screen. The more he read, the more worried he became. Lock was one of the few people who could help her and, worryingly for Ty, he was psychologically primed for the mission because of what had happened to him in the recent past.
While he and Ty had been protecting a young female porn star, Raven Lane, from a murderous stalker, Lock’s fiancée, Carrie, had been kidnapped. She had escaped but, in a cruel twist of Fate, had run out in front of the vehicle he and Lock had been driving as they raced to rescue her. Lock hadn’t been able to save the woman he loved, and the guilt weighed heavily on both of them. It had left Ty’s friend bereft. But under the grief lay a deep seam of anger.
Knowing this, the prospect of what Lock might do if he took on Melissa’s case made Ty feel sick, but he went on cutting the relevant sections from the news stories and blog posts, then pasting them into a single Word document. In the end, he reflected, it could have been summarized in four lines.
A crime.
A trial.
An escape.
And a whole bunch of dead bodies – with a lot more to come.
When he was finished, he checked it over, saved the document on to a memory stick and headed downstairs to get it printed out in the hotel’s business center. As he stepped out of the lobby, he saw that the blood had been cleaned from the marble floor and the couch where Lock had tended Melissa had been removed. No one could have guessed that, only a few hours ago, a girl had been bleeding to death there.
If only that was the end of it.
Six
‘LEMME GO, YOU old pervert.’
As the would-be assassin twisted around to spit in his face, Lock saw she was a teenager. He had her pinned to the floor in the corridor. The knife was already tucked away safely in his jacket. His right knee was pressed into the base of her spine, and he was holding her right hand at the wrist, ready to bend it back on itself if she didn’t stop struggling.
‘Hey,’ said Lock sharply. ‘Less of the “old”.’ He relaxed his grip a little and she drove her elbow back, catching the side of his face. He grabbed her wrist again as she tried to wriggle out from under him.
She couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred pounds but that was only making it harder for him to keep her still. He heard footsteps and looked up: a security guard was marching
down the corridor, with two patrol cops in tow. Whatever information Lock was going to get, he had a very short window in which to secure it. Direct questions were hardly likely to yield much. The kid was a hood rat, and almost certainly a gang member. LA gangs often used younger members to do their dirty work because the criminal justice system treated them with relative leniency. And if it didn’t they were expendable.
‘Who do you run with?’ Lock asked her. ‘Who’s your click?’
She smirked. ‘You like being on top of me, huh? I can feel your jimmy digging into me.’
Lock rolled up the sleeve of her jacket, and shifted his weight so he could get a look at her tattoos. The first he glimpsed was a boy’s name, Ramón – it ran in blue script from wrist to elbow. A boyfriend? A pimp? A gang leader?
‘Who’s Ramón?’ he asked her.
‘The guy who’s gonna cap your ass, bitch.’
Well, thought Lock, at least she’s stopped calling me ‘old’. He checked the other arm. That was clean. ‘What do you want with Melissa?’
There was a snarl. ‘What you think? Bitch needs some killing is all.’
‘Ramón tell you that?’
She lapsed into a sullen silence. He was going to get no more from her and they both knew it.
The security guard and the two cops were almost upon him. Lock got to his feet, and hauled her upright. He pulled down the hood of her sweatshirt to reveal a tangle of black hair, which he pushed off the nape of her neck. There, scrawled in black ink, was what he had been looking for: two words and a number – Loco Diablo 13. Loco: crazy. Diablo: the devil. 13 stood for the thirteenth letter of the alphabet, M, which stood in turn for ‘Mexican Mafia’, or La Eme.
Seven
MELISSA’S EYES WERE still closed when Ty arrived a little after eight o’clock with orange juice and bagels – the west coast equivalent of coffee and donuts. He handed Lock a small carton of juice and put the brown-paper bag on the slide-in table at the foot of the bed, along with some low-fat cream cheese and paper napkins. ‘You want to head back to the hotel and get some shut-eye?’ he asked.
