by Sean Black
They were heading downtown for a briefing from the LAPD. Not that Lock expected anything new. Everyone was doing their best but already the media’s focus had begun to shift incrementally away from the manhunt. It hadn’t taken much. The world’s attention span was increasingly brief.
There were still multiple sightings each day of Krank, Gretchen and the other suspect, but none of them had checked out. The only thing that would ratchet interest back up was freshly spilled blood, and that hadn’t been any. Already there was speculation that California’s most wanted had left the country, slipping across the border into Mexico. It was a nice thought, which was precisely why Lock didn’t believe it for a second.
His cell phone rang. He hit the answer button. ‘Ryan Lock.’
‘Mr Lock, it’s Bob Dersh here from Barnes College. I found something you might want to take a look at. I don’t know what it means, if anything, but I thought I’d let you know in any case.’
77
Alfonso Fry was alone in the cab of his truck, but he was more frightened now than he had been with a gun pointed at him. A gunshot would have been clean. Done right, it might have been quick too. He wouldn’t have known much about it. But this was different.
A trickle of sweat ran down his back into the crack of his ass. He wanted more than anything to reach back and scratch but he couldn’t move his right hand. It had been duct-taped to the steering wheel. He didn’t dare move his left hand either. He had been warned about what would happen if he did. The list of what he could and couldn’t do was a long one.
And to make sure that he complied, the collar was around his neck. It was grey and padded and looked like a cross between the squishy travel pillows they sold at airports and the kind of collar a vet fitted around a dog’s neck to stop it worrying at a wound and tearing out stitches.
Attached to the dash were two other devices. The first was a satellite navigation system. It showed a pre-programmed route, which, as of right now, was taking him down Pacific Coast Highway toward Santa Monica. The second was a smartphone running a Skype-type phone and video application. It relayed a live feed of Alfonso as he drove. From time to time someone would come on the line to check on him, and relay additional instructions.
There was one other piece of equipment. A clear plastic tube attached to a catheter dangled from his zipper, dead-ending in a plastic jug on the floor of his cab.
The voice came back. It was the male this time.
‘How are you, Alfonso?’ it said.
What a question, he thought. He was terrified. He was convinced he was going to die, one way or another.
‘I’m fine,’ he said. What else could he say?
‘That’s good,’ said the voice. ‘Now, I need you to slow up a little. Take your speed down to thirty-five until told otherwise. We don’t want you getting you there too early.’
‘Where am I going?’ Alfonso asked.
He got no answer. They were already gone. He looked at the phone as it blinked red, capturing his every move. The collar seemed to tighten, a noose ready to choke him to death.
78
Wearing a blonde wig, Gretchen stared wide-eyed at the two-hundred-pound truck driver, his gut spilling over his belt as he waddled back toward his rig.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked. He sipped at a Big Gulp soda. She could tell that she might have better luck if she was dressed as a hot dog. He seemed skeptical.
Her cell phone rang. She struggled to contain her anger. She picked up her pack and moved off to one side as the trucker started to get back into his cab.
At the other end of the line, Krank said: ‘What’s going on? You done yet?’
‘Last one,’ she said.
‘We’re on the clock with this,’ he said.
‘I know. So quit bugging me.’
She killed the call and hopped up next to the cab. ‘Could you give me a ride?’
The driver burped loudly. She could smell the stink of bologna and mustard on his breath wafting toward her. ‘What’s in it for me, sweet cheeks?’ he asked, staring at her breasts.
‘An experience you’ll never forget,’ said Gretchen.
79
Lock’s fingers drummed out a beat on the steering wheel of the Audi as he came to a halt on the 10 freeway a mile short of the McClure tunnel that would take them back onto PCH. He had left Ty with Tarian at the LAPD’s administration building, and decided to head back to Barnes College to speak to Bob Dersh. Tucked into its cradle, his cell phone’s navigation system chimed with a traffic alert. He threw his hands up as all around him vehicles ground to a complete halt.
His phone rang. It was Ty. ‘You seen the news?’ said Ty.
‘No, I’m in the car. Why?’
‘Some crazy shit on PCH. Truck’s blocking every lane north of the Palisades,’ said Ty. ‘LAPD just declared a major incident.’
‘For a truck wreck?’ said Lock.
‘Turn on your radio,’ said Ty. ‘Driver claims he’s being held hostage.’
‘What do you mean “claims”?’ said Lock. ‘Either he is or he isn’t.’
‘Well, that’s what he’s saying, but he’s the only person inside. Anyway, if you want to get to the college, you ain’t using PCH to get there. No one is.’
Lock spun the wheel, cutting up the person in the next lane as he bullied his way toward the exit that would take him onto Lincoln Boulevard. He’d have to work his way back around. ‘Thanks for the heads-up,’ he said to Ty.
‘You got it.’
The call ended, Lock flipped on his radio and hunted for a news channel covering the story. It didn’t take him long to find one.
80
Alfonso Fry closed his eyes. Over the course of a few hours what had begun as some kind of feverish adolescent wet dream had transformed into a nightmare. Like a dream, the points of transition had been striking in their abruptness. One moment he had been primed to have sex with a nubile nymphomaniac hitchhiker, the next he had a gun to his head. Hours later, he had been admiring the sun sinking into the ocean and pondering his own mortality, the next second the screen had blinked and he’d been instructed to turn his truck so that it was straddling the Pacific Coast Highway. Perhaps if he opened his eyes he would be back at home, lying in his bedroom in the house where he lived in Bakersfield.
He counted to three and opened his eyes. The splash of a helicopter searchlight dazzled him for a moment. He blinked to clear his vision. He wished he had kept his eyes closed. Police cars surrounded the truck. He counted off three law-enforcement agencies; Malibu Sheriff’s Department, California Highway Patrol, and LAPD.
Everywhere he looked there were cops, their guns pointed at him. A police German Shepherd strained at its leash, furiously biting the air. A couple of SWAT team officers decked out in full combat gear edged toward the back of his truck. A few hundred yards down, a solid block of gridlocked traffic stretched into the far distance.
Alfonso looked at the dash. ‘Okay, so what do you want me to do now?’ he said to the cell phone.
No one answered. The screen had gone entirely blank. He thought about trying to unpeel his hand from the steering wheel. He reached up with his free hand and felt the edge of the collar that had been strapped around his neck. The idea of escape melted away as his fingertips brushed what felt like a wire.
He closed his eyes again. This time, he prayed.
81
With Pacific Coast Highway closed a half-mile north of Sunset Boulevard, Lock turned onto 26th Street, heading for Wilshire Boulevard. From there he could pick up the 10 to the 405 and throw a big loop through the San Fernando Valley before driving down one of the canyons to the college. Reports were hitting the airwaves of a number of new wildfires sweeping Malibu. First it was three that had been burning since earlier in the day. Five minutes later the number doubled. Ten minutes after that, it tripled.
One radio report said that a spokesman for the Malibu Fire Department had confirmed
that they were already seeking assistance from nearby fire departments to cope with the unprecedented strain on their resources. The mayor of Los Angeles had scheduled a press conference for one hour’s time. No one was linking the fires to the hijacked truck, at least not officially. Lock understood the reasoning. The last thing you wanted to create in the middle of a ‘natural’ disaster was a sense of panic among the civilian population. Panic could only make things worse.
Amid the news of more wildfires, word began to filter through of a suspected second hijacked truck blocking PCH north of Trancas. The report was officially unconfirmed. What was confirmed was that southbound traffic from north of whatever was happening at that point on PCH was stopped.
As he drove, he called Ty.
‘You seeing all this?’ he asked his partner.
‘Can’t miss it, baby,’ said Ty.
‘What do you think?’ Lock asked. ‘Coincidence?’
Ty gave a deep chuckle. ‘You need to ask?’
‘Did any of the stuff we have on Charles Kim or the girl mention arson?’
‘Not that I can remember,’ said Ty.
That was what Lock had thought. Not that it meant much. Arson was a fairly rudimentary skill at the best of times, especially if you didn’t care whether you were caught or not.
Up ahead, traffic was beginning to slow. Lock moved over into the car-pool lane. Right now, he doubted whether a fine for violation of car-pool lane rules would make much difference. If his suspicions were correct about what was about to go down in Malibu, he and everyone else had bigger problems.
He buried the gas pedal, sweeping past the grinding traffic.
82
Ty paced the living room. Tarian was on the couch. He had tried to dissuade her from watching the rolling coverage unfolding live on the TV screen. She had insisted on watching it.
Tarian looked at him. ‘I’ll be fine here if you want to go.’
Lock would not be happy if he left, Ty knew. Then again, how would he live with himself if he didn’t at least try to help his partner?
‘Are you sure?’ he said to Tarian.
She nodded at the screen. ‘They’re obviously busy doing whatever they’re doing. They’re not going to be coming after me. I doubt they care about witnesses anymore.’
Tarian had a point. Ty doubted that a court room or a prison cell was factored into whatever insane plan or grab for immortality was being played out now at the college. Career criminals tried to avoid coast-to-coast news coverage. These people had done everything they could to guarantee it.
‘Okay,’ Ty said. ‘But we have to have some ground rules.’
He picked up a black canvas bag, which was lying next to the couch. ‘You buzz no one into the building. You do not open the door to anyone apart from either myself or Lock. If someone turns up you call nine-one-one and request immediate assistance.’
He unzipped the canvas bag and took out a hard black case. ‘You know how to use a handgun?’ he asked her.
Tarian nodded. He flipped open the case to reveal a .38 Special double-action revolver. ‘It’s already loaded. You use a revolver before?’
‘Couple of times. Teddy was big into his guns,’ she said, her voice catching a little on his name. ‘He used to take me to the range. He never drank when we did that so I encouraged it.’
Ty grabbed his jacket from the back of the couch. ‘Okay. You shouldn’t need it. I’ll be back with Ryan as soon as we can.’
He began to head for the door. She called after him, ‘Be careful.’
He stopped and turned. ‘We’ll be fine. Just sit tight.’
83
The rearview mirror of Ryan Lock’s Audi was a whirling rectangle of red light. A California Highway Patrol car was tucked in tight behind him. It had been there for the past half-mile, sticking tight to his rear bumper.
The trooper wasn’t giving up the pursuit. Lock had no plan to pull over. The lights and sirens on his rear bumper were a good way of clearing the path ahead. As long as no concerned citizen slowed down ahead of him, he was golden.
Lock and his highway convoy buddy were coming up on the exit. From there he could drop down into Malibu Decker Canyon. The road would take him to within less than a half-mile of Barnes College – closer if he took one of the side roads that ran across the canyons.
The latest reports coming in were of shots fired. With access from the main artery into Malibu blocked north and south, and fires that looked like arson, it didn’t take a genius.
Glancing across the three lanes of traffic that blocked him from the exit, Lock picked out his path. He accelerated and moved across, forcing a gap. The highway patrol tried to follow but Lock’s maneuver had already forced the traffic behind to concertina up.
Lock kept moving, using the lightning force of the Audi’s engine to force his way to the exit. The highway patrol car was making moves, but too late. A quick glance saw it roll past as Lock powered down the on-ramp. At the bottom, he kept moving, ignoring the filter light, and hanging an abrupt left as car horns sounded their fury all around him.
Dersh was down at the main entrance into the college, waiting for reinforcements from the Malibu Sheriff’s Department when he saw the truck. It had turned off Pacific Coast Highway and was heading straight for him. The driver was sporting a beard, and a John Deere cap. His arms gripped the wheel. Around his neck it looked like he was wearing some kind of physiotherapy support collar.
At first it didn’t look like he was going to stop. It just kept rolling, looming closer with every second that passed. Dersh glanced over to the terrified security guard who was still jockeying the booth. Dersh had spent the last two minutes trying to persuade the guard to stay where he was. Procedure demanded that no one else, other than authorized law enforcement or other emergency personnel, get past the main gate. The truck bearing down on them didn’t appear to have got the memo.
Dersh pulled his gun from his holster, and raised it. The driver raised one hand from the steering wheel. The truck slowed. Dersh stepped back, falling into a shooting stance. He needed to make sure the driver knew he wasn’t bluffing.
The truck was slowing right down. The driver was waving his hand frantically at Dersh. He seemed to be pointing back up the hill toward the college. Dersh wasn’t falling for it. He glanced back round as the big rig’s engine roared and it kept coming. Dersh took aim at the driver’s chest.
The driver was still waving at him as the bullet slammed into Dersh’s back. His body twisted with the force of impact. There was the crack of a second shot and he saw the booth guard’s face explode.
He stumbled forward. He looked down to see a huge hole in his lower torso. His guts were hanging out over his belt. There was blood everywhere. His knees gave way. The life was draining from him fast. He could hear pounding in his ears like the steady beat of waves rolling in on a beach.
One moment everything around him had been black smoke and the lick of distant flames sweeping down from the hills. Now there was only a black void. His face hit the ground. He found the energy to raise his head and see that the truck was turning. A second later, he was gone.
Inside the cab, the driver brought the truck to a halt. It was pulled straight across the entrance, blocking all four lanes. He had done what he had been asked. He had almost just been shot but he’d done it. Now what? he wondered. The cell-phone screen was blank. Not that he could make much out. He was sweating so heavily that his eyes stinging from the salt. Slowly, he raised one hand to swipe the moisture away.
The collar felt tight around him. He could see the wires poking out where it fastened. All he could do was sit tight and pray he didn’t meet the same fate of the two men outside.
84
The fire ripped down a stand of trees that ran along the edge of Solstice Canyon toward the college. A freshly chain-sawed sycamore lay across the road, temporarily blocking access from the east. On the other side, a carpet of fire swept north to south,
turning bone-dry grass and underbrush to flame. Smoke rose in thick plumes from half a dozen other sites to the east, north and south.
The whoop and wail of sirens in the far distance came close to being eclipsed by the pop and spit of the fires. A deer dove from the bushes, wild-eyed, as it searched for an escape route. It took off for a dense thicket of brush, only to reappear a moment later as fresh flames punched their way out from the route it had just taken. It stumbled uncertainly down the road, heading oceanwards, as the wind shifted, driving white-grey smoke ahead of the flames.
Beyond the sycamore, a lone figure dressed in full body armor, with a red handkerchief pulled across his mouth, sat alone on a Honda quad bike. The barrel of a Bushmaster assault rifle poked out of the top of the backpack hanging heavy from his shoulders.
His cell phone trilled a message alert. He pulled it from a pocket, read the message and put it back. He gunned the engine of the four-wheeler and turned off the road, heading for the rear chain-link of the college.
Clambering off the quad bike, he ripped at the fence with gloved hands, peeling back a section that had been cut the night before to allow direct access. He got back onto the quad bike and trundled through as quietly as the engine would allow.
Pulling his handkerchief down for a moment, Loser stared back up the hill, in awe of the raw power of the fires that blazed, ripped and skipped down the slopes behind him. He dismounted once more, took off his pack and pulled out the Bushmaster.
He put his pack back on, and began the walk down the slope toward the rear of the first student accommodation block. It had forty-six student suites. Each was a double. Ninety-two young women, minus those who were off-campus. Being generous, he calculated that would mean a minimum of eighty. Two fifty-round clips if his shooting was close to perfect and he could dispatch each victim with a single shot. Allowing for how it would really go down, he figured it was a three-clip job, maybe four.
