Deadlock (Ryan Lock 2)

by Black, Sean

  ‘That all depends,’ Reaper said with another wry smile.

  ‘On what?’

  ‘Let’s just say I have some new friends now, friends who think the leadership of the Aryan Brotherhood might have had its day.’

  So that was what this was all about, thought Jalicia: a power play, with Reaper testifying against his old comrades and being rewarded by the new regime.

  ‘Which “friends” are we talking about here?’ she asked. ‘The Nazi Low Riders? The Texas Circle?’

  The Nazi Low Riders and the Texas Circle were both up-and-coming white supremacist prison groups who had long envied the Aryan Brotherhood’s stranglehold on the prison system’s drug and protection trade. If Jalicia and the Federal Prosecutor’s office took the Aryan Brotherhood down, it would create enough space for one of the other prison gangs to step in and take over a trade inside and outside the country’s prisons worth tens of millions of dollars.

  Reaper looked up at the ceiling. ‘I can’t name names, but you know as well as I do that nature abhors a vacuum.’

  ‘So, you take the stand, testify against the Aryan Brotherhood, and in return I convince the prison authorities to let you back into general population.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Reaper.

  ‘But the Aryan Brotherhood would come after you.’

  ‘I’m prepared to take that risk. Plus, like I said, I have new friends looking out for me.’

  Jalicia knew that, in the normal course of things, a snitch was an automatic target on the mainline, fair game for everyone. But Reaper was different. Most prisoners would see his treachery as existing on a plane high enough that it wouldn’t be their job to intervene. In some ways it was akin to the kind of deals governments cut all the time with other nations when it served their purposes. It was realpolitik at its most base.

  ‘OK,’ she said finally. ‘We might be able to return you to general population, but only after you testify.’

  Reaper’s smile disappeared. ‘No. I go back before then or you can forget me as a witness.’

  Jalicia folded her arms. ‘Why the rush? You wait a couple of weeks, you give your testimony, we move you to the mainline – everyone’s happy.’

  Reaper leaned forward, and once again Jalicia found herself mesmerized by the blackness of his eyes. ‘You still don’t get it, do you? I’ll be safer before I testify out on the mainline. In solitary, all it takes is someone to bribe a guard, a cell door being opened at the wrong time. At least out on the yard I can see them coming.’

  Jalicia nodded slowly. Reaper was probably right. To an outsider, he might seem to be safer in solitary, but nowhere would be entirely free of risk.

  Reaper rose slowly, indicating that he was done talking. ‘So, that’s my offer. I get my move, and I’ll give you the leadership of the Aryan Brotherhood on a plate. Take it or leave it.’

  And then he was gone, shuffling with his two-guard escort through a heavy metal door, leaving Jalicia still seated.

  The deal Reaper was offering went like this: if he kept his end of the bargain, the death penalty for the six men who’d ordered Prager’s murder would be a slam-dunk, and her name would be right up there with Eliot Ness as the woman who had smashed a seemingly untouchable crime syndicate that operated from inside prison. After the trial, if the Aryan Brotherhood took their revenge on Reaper, that would be his problem.

  Those few weeks before the trial, though – that was the problem. Especially the final five days, because five days before Reaper testified Jalicia would be obligated to reveal his identity to the defense lawyers representing the gang.

  Five days. That was what it boiled down to. Keep Reaper alive for those five days after naming him and Jalicia would secure justice for Ken Prager and his family, and send a clear signal that if you ordered the execution of a federal agent, you paid with your life.

  Jalicia unclenched her hands and tried to let go of some of the tension. There had to be a way to make this work. Some way of keeping Reaper alive during the critical period while he was on the mainline and before he took the witness stand. She just had to find it.

  3

  Six Weeks Later

  Ryan Lock stared out across San Francisco Bay towards Alcatraz Island. The city’s trademark fog had briefly given way to a cloudless deep-blue sky, and he could make out not only the sharp outline of the infamous island but also the main prison buildings themselves, etched in chalk-white. Clusters of tourists filed past on their way to the boat that would take them out to the former residence of America’s most wanted criminals, but Lock wasn’t going on the tour with them. He was here on business. Although exactly what kind of business wasn’t yet clear.

  The previous evening he had received a call at the New York apartment he shared with his girlfriend, Carrie Delaney, a TV news reporter. Unlike most calls he received of a business nature, this one came direct to his home, and the woman on the other end of the line was insistent but calm. Usually potential clients were insistent and panicked, often with very good reason.

  After a career in the military, Lock now worked in high-end private security, often taking on jobs that no one else would touch. At least that was his reputation. In short, he made sure that no harm came to people whose lives were being threatened, or who faced other menaces such as blackmail, kidnap of a family member, or extortion. Outsiders might describe him as a bodyguard, or a bullet catcher, but Lock hated the macho connotations of both terms and saw himself simply as a troubleshooter.

  The woman on the other end of the line had identified herself as Jalicia Jones, a Federal Prosecutor at the US Attorney’s Office in San Francisco. She’d said there was a matter of a very sensitive nature she wished to discuss with him – in person.

  ‘You’re going to have to do better than that,’ he’d said, using his free hand to stir the pasta sauce he was cooking for dinner.

  Jalicia had given him one more detail: the job involved protection of a witness for a major federal trial.

  ‘Don’t you have the US Marshals Service for that sort of thing?’ he’d asked her, scooping up some of the sauce and tasting it.

  ‘This is a rather unique set of circumstances, Mr Lock.’

  ‘You can’t find someone on the west coast who provides close protection?’

  ‘Not of this type. It’s high-end. Super high-end.’

  Lock knew that ‘high-end’ was not-so-secret code for ‘might get you killed’. He could only surmise that ‘super high-end’ was a job likely to get you killed.

  ‘Mr Lock, you’ll understand when we meet,’ she’d continued. ‘Your flight leaves Kennedy at six o’clock tomorrow morning. A first-class ticket will be waiting for you at the Virgin America reservations desk.’

  ‘And why do you think I’m going to fly the whole way across the country for a meeting about this exactly?’

  There’d been silence on the other end of the line, then Jalicia said, ‘Because I’ve done my research on you.’

  Lock had put the spoon down on the kitchen counter as a trickle of unease worked its way down his back. ‘What does that mean?’

  But Jalicia had ignored the question, given him the flight number and hung up.

  Behind him, Carrie was sitting on the sofa, working through some background material for a story she was covering. Their yellow Labrador, Angel, a rescue dog from an animal-testing unit, was lying next to her, its head resting on her lap.

  ‘Business?’ she’d asked, looking up.

  ‘Some prosecutor from the US Attorney’s Office in San Francisco. Wants me to fly out there first thing to meet with her about a witness protection gig.’

  ‘And are you?’

  Lock had grimaced. ‘Hell, no.’

  Around four in the morning, having had two hours’ sleep, Lock had rolled out of bed.

  Carrie stole some more comforter from his side of the bed and said, eyes still closed, ‘You’re going, aren’t you?’

  Lock sighed. ‘I guess I am.’

 
‘What changed your mind?’

  ‘If I don’t find out what’s so important that they want to hire private security from the other side of the country, it’ll drive me nuts.’

  Carrie gave a sleepy laugh. ‘She wasn’t lying about doing her research on you.’

  As Lock got dressed, Angel skittered around his feet, disturbed by the change in routine.

  Carrie propped herself up on one elbow. ‘You taking your partner?’

  ‘No, Angel’s staying here.’

  ‘You know who I mean.’

  Lock walked back to the bed and sat down. He pushed away a strand of blonde hair which had fallen over Carrie’s face, then leaned in and kissed her gently on the lips. Before the lure of climbing back into bed with Carrie properly took hold, he stood back up.

  ‘I’m meeting him there. He’s out visiting family in California anyway. He said he’d drive up to San Francisco from LA.’

  Lock was waiting for him now – his partner, Tyrone Johnson. They’d originally hooked up out in Iraq, where Ty was serving in the United States Marine Corps and Lock, despite the fact he’d been raised in the States, was working with the British Royal Military Police specialist close protection unit. The rapport had been immediate, and when Lock eventually left the military, Ty, who was already working in high-end private security, had secured Lock his first gig with a large pharmaceutical company which had been targeted by animal rights activists.

  While he waited for Ty, Lock kept his gaze steady on Alcatraz. Little wonder that no one had escaped from the place. If the freezing temperature of the water surrounding the prison didn’t get you, and if the strong bay currents didn’t sweep you out into the Pacific, then the sharks would finish you off.

  Lock saw Ty before Ty saw Lock, the young African-American’s long, basketball player’s strides making short work of the ground between sidewalk and pier. Lock caught his friend’s grimace as they bumped fists.

  ‘That was a long goddamn drive,’ Ty said, massaging the back of his neck.

  ‘Well, let’s hope it’s worth it.’

  ‘Come on,’ said Ty, tapping Lock’s elbow. ‘My ride’s over there.’

  Lock picked it out immediately – a 1966 Lincoln Continental that had been resprayed in a migraine-inducing purple.

  Ty’s chin jutted out. ‘Go on, get it out of the way.’

  ‘Get what out of the way?’ Lock asked.

  ‘Whatever you’re going to say about my ride.’

  Their respective tastes in both cars and music were a long-running source of friction between them. Ty thought Lock’s choice of both automobiles and music boring, while Lock maintained that in their job the key was to appear as inconspicuous as possible. Something they clearly weren’t about to do in a pimped-out purple Continental.

  ‘It’s…’ Lock searched for the right word. ‘It’s very striking.’

  Lock ducked in the front passenger side as Ty walked round to the driver’s door. The interior was black and purple leopard-spot suede. The sound system was a six-speaker Bose model guaranteed to make your ears bleed even at low volume. The two additional JL woofers mounted in the back looked capable of rearranging your internal organs.

  Ty popped on a pair of mirrored Aviator sunglasses, gunned the engine and pulled away from the kerb.

  ‘Have to say, Tyrone, we’re really blending in this vehicle. All you’re missing is a fedora with a feather, Superfly.’

  Ty scowled. ‘Where’s your sense of style, brother?’

  ‘Must have left it back in New York.’ Lock took another look around the Lincoln’s cabin. ‘You know what? I think this is a first.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Well, I don’t think I’ve ever been in a vehicle before and actually prayed that I’d be car-jacked.’

  On the way to the Federal Building where they were scheduled to meet with Jalicia, Lock brought Ty a little more up to speed with his conversation the previous evening. After a pause, Ty said, ‘Makes no sense. They have the Marshals for this kind of stuff. You sure they want us for witness protection?’

  ‘That’s what it sounded like.’

  Ty seemed to lighten a little. ‘So, we fly ’em down to Cancun, chill out for a few weeks, then fly ’em back home and pick up a big fat cheque from Uncle Sam. I mean, how hard can it be, right?’

  Lock stared out of the window as they drove along Bay Street, past a bar called the Red Jack Saloon. A knot of four or five bikers sporting Hell’s Angel patches were chatting outside, as much a part of the local scenery as cable cars and the Golden Gate Bridge. He was guessing that Ty’s optimism was misplaced. Someone with Lock’s reputation wasn’t flown across the country first-class if the job was straightforward.

  4

  The conference room where Lock and Ty were meeting Jalicia faced out on to Golden Gate Avenue, a busy thoroughfare in the centre of downtown San Francisco. Barely a few blocks east lay the Tenderloin, one of the city’s sleaziest areas, where junkies sprawled on the sidewalk and transvestite prostitutes openly plied their trade. Lock wondered to himself whether the proximity of the courthouse to so many dope fiends and vagrants was altogether coincidental.

  Ten storys below, Lock watched a homeless man wrestle with a wonky-wheeled shopping cart. The cart lurched sharply to the left, almost careening off the edge of the kerb. The homeless man pulled it back from the edge, his bedding roll spilling on to the sidewalk. As he let go of the cart to retrieve his bedding, the cart started to move again. Some people’s lives were like that, Lock reflected. Soon as you got one thing straightened out, you set another problem in motion. Lock wondered if he was about to get a taste of the same thing.

  Behind Lock, the conference room door opened and a surprisingly young African-American woman with sharp, pretty features bustled in, hand out in greeting. Lock watched with amusement as Ty, who was already seated, immediately straightened in his seat. Ty saw himself as a ladies’ man, but Lock had a feeling that Jalicia Jones wasn’t someone who would share that opinion.

  ‘Mr Lock, I’m glad you made it,’ she said with a rehearsed smile.

  Ty loudly cleared his throat.

  ‘Ms Jones, this is my partner, Tyrone Johnson,’ Lock said.

  ‘Call me Ty,’ said Ty, with a wide grin.

  A grizzled white guy in his late fifties had followed Jalicia into the room. He identified himself to Lock as Special Agent Tommy Coburn of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives. Muscular, with hair greying at the temples, and a hangdog expression, Lock would have put him down as an aging biker or an ex-con.

  Coburn eyed Ty with suspicion but stuck out a hand in greeting. ‘Coburn.’

  ‘Hey,’ Ty said, propping his sneakers up on the conference room table and giving Coburn a wave.

  Lock noticed Jalicia shoot Ty a look that suggested his charm offensive was falling flat.

  ‘OK, Mr Lock, Mr Johnson, here’s the 411. For the past couple of years, the Organized Crime Strike Force here in San Francisco, along with a number of other federal agencies, has been building a case against a prison gang called the Aryan Brotherhood and their associates.’ Jalicia paused for a moment. ‘I take it you’ve heard of them?’

  ‘Bad-ass white supremacist prison gang?’ Lock ventured. Living with a career-driven news reporter like Carrie, Lock found himself carrying a trove of usually useless information about all aspects of American life.

  ‘Nowadays, they don’t just operate inside prison,’ Jalicia continued. ‘As well as being linked to a number of far-right racist groups, they also control drugs, prostitution and a number of extortion rackets on the outside. You name it, they’re involved.

  ‘As part of our investigation we had an agent infiltrate a group on the outside who we believed were dealing in firearms and explosives on behalf of the Aryan Brotherhood,’ Coburn said. ‘When the group discovered who this agent was, and the Aryan Brotherhood got wind of it, they ordered the group to execute him and his family.’

  ‘We
’re about to open the trial of the leadership of the Aryan Brotherhood on charges of conspiracy to commit murder in the first degree, a crime for which I’ll be seeking the death penalty,’ Jalicia added, coolly.

  Lock raised his hand. ‘I’m no lawyer, but isn’t conspiracy a pretty hard charge to prove?’

  Jalicia sat forward, her eyes on Lock. ‘Not when you have one of their own testifying against them.’

  ‘First rat off the sinking ship?’ Ty asked.

  Coburn bristled noticeably. ‘We prefer the term “confidential informant”.’

  ‘The truth is, we had a decent case before,’ Jalicia stated. ‘This witness makes the verdict a virtual certainty.’

  ‘Your informant tell you who actually pulled the trigger?’ Lock asked.

  ‘He’s sketchy. He’s thrown us a few names, but no one we’ve been able to locate. But if his testimony drives the jury towards a guilty verdict then you can bet the leadership of the Aryan Brotherhood will cough up the killers if they think it’ll keep them from Death Row.’

  Lock nodded. This made sense. An inside informant was a chink in any criminal gang’s armor When the informant sang, the united front would collapse and the gang’s leadership would turn over their killers. It was how a lot of major cases worked. Deals. Leverage. Bartering. And, ultimately, betrayal. Honor among thieves was a nice romantic construct, but it rarely stood up under the shadow of Death Row.

  ‘So who is this guy?’ Lock asked.

  ‘His name is Frank Hays, but he goes by the nickname Reaper.’

  ‘And where do you have this star witness of yours stowed away at the moment?’

  ‘The Secure Housing Unit at Pelican Bay Supermax.’

  Lock spread his hands, puzzled. ‘So why do you need us? Leave him in solitary. He should be safe there, shouldn’t he?’

  Jalicia glanced down at some papers. ‘He’s already spent ten years in prison, the last five of those in solitary, and now he’s saying that he’ll only testify if he’s released back into the general prison population.’