Deadlock rl-2

by Sean Black

  ‘But the guys go home at six.’

  ‘You and me are going to finish up this job together,’ Reaper said. ‘You don’t mind doing some overtime, do you?’

  61

  Ty held the piece of paper up to his mouth and kissed it. Then he lowered it and studied the amount. They were waiting in line at the bank to deposit the cheques that had come through for services rendered to Uncle Sam.

  ‘That’s one hell of a lot of zeros,’ Ty said.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Lock.

  Before she was killed, Jalicia must have pushed hard to make sure they got paid. Standing here now, with Reaper still on the loose, it felt like blood money.

  Ty must have caught him staring somberly at the piece of paper. ‘Man, shouldn’t you be happy?’

  ‘Why? Because I have a lot of money?’

  ‘Well, yeah.’

  Lock shifted his body so he was facing Ty. ‘Sometimes there are more important things in life than dollar bills.’

  ‘I’ll pretend I never heard you say that,’ Ty huffed, reaching over and grabbing a pen to endorse the cheque. ‘Look, I was shot and almost died for this, so, way I see it, I reckon I deserve every penny. I’m going to take that vacation I’ve been talking about. You should see if Carrie can get some more time off work, extend the romantic weekend you guys’ve been having.’

  ‘She’s busy covering the Junius Holmes funeral,’ Lock said, his eyes flicking to a TV in the corner of the bank where the ticker was announcing that the President would be in attendance.

  ‘When is it?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘Then we could fly on Friday. Listen, Ryan, you need to chill the hell out.’

  Lock squared his shoulders. ‘Not until I find Reaper.’

  Back on the TV there was footage of the President at a press conference, the rolling banner reporting that he was making a statement about events in Asia and a new terrorist outrage in Pakistan.

  Ty stepped up to the teller, a huge smile plastered over his face as he slid the deposit slip and cheque over the counter towards her. ‘Wanna come to Cancun this weekend?’ he asked her.

  ‘You are such an asshole,’ said Lock, as the teller smiled.

  ‘Hey, but at least I’m not a miserable asshole,’ Ty said, throwing the comment over his shoulder, then fixing his attention back on the teller. ‘My business partner thinks that somehow being unhappy all the time makes him deep.’

  Sighing, Lock stepped up to the next teller and slid over the money he’d received. Something was nagging at him, though, as he glanced back at the TV screen to see the President departing the podium.

  ‘OK, I’ll speak to Carrie and see if she can take some time off — after the funeral.’

  ‘That’s more like it,’ said Ty. ‘What about you, baby?’

  ‘Thanks, but I’m engaged,’ the teller said sternly.

  ‘So you got one last chance to have some real fun,’ Ty protested, before Lock dragged him away.

  They stood on the sidewalk outside the bank. It was a perfect day. Mid-seventies. No fog, just clear blue skies. On either side of them, office blocks sparkled in the late-fall sunshine.

  ‘Ty?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Reaper might not have been in that apartment, but he’s still here in the city.’

  Ty put his hand over his eyes and made a show of looking around. ‘Where?’

  Lock raised his hand to silence Ty. ‘What do you think it would take to really start a race war in this country?’

  ‘Right now? You refusing to shut the hell up.’

  ‘You kill a member of the Supreme Court, who cares, right?’ Lock said. ‘But you kill the President, our first black President… well, that’s like JFK and Martin Luther King all rolled into one.’

  Ty turned to Lock, shock etched on his face. ‘Holy shit, man, are you crazy?’ He stepped back and spread his hands. ‘Say Reaper really does want to kill the President. There’s a world of difference between wanting to do something and being able to do it.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Lock conceded. ‘But say you want to assassinate someone specific. What’s the first thing you have to know?’

  Ty shrugged an ‘I dunno’.

  ‘First you have to know where they’re going to be. And tomorrow, the President’s going to be right here, at Grace Cathedral, with his family.’

  Ty was silent as he thought it through. ‘OK,’ he said reluctantly. ‘But how are they gonna do it? You know what security’s like around the President. He carries the biggest, most advanced security detail in the world. Killing a Federal Prosecutor, that one thing. Running over some little old judge who’s already a bazillion years old, that’s something else. But taking out the President?’ He clapped Lock on the shoulder. ‘Maybe you don’t need a vacation. You’re already tripping.’

  62

  ‘Do you know how many threats against his life a President of the United States receives on a weekly basis?’ Coburn asked, kneeling down to tie an errant shoelace as Lock took in the ongoing work to the Federal Building where he had first met Jalicia.

  ‘A couple hundred?’ said Lock.

  ‘Times that by ten and you’re getting close. Now, you want to take a stab at how many threats this President gets on a weekly basis? Times that by ten. You want me to go on?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Lock. ‘This is an education.’

  Coburn sighed. ‘Ever since we got our first black President, gun ownership has gone through the roof. So have sales of ammunition. The Secret Service and other federal agencies have identified over three hundred domestic groups who would love to take a shot at him. Plots have been uncovered and thwarted to kill not only him but the First Lady and their daughters. There have also been threats to kidnap the kids and execute them. The Secret Service deal with this shit every day. What makes tomorrow so different?’

  ‘You gonna allow me the right of reply?’

  ‘Sure. But as soon as I hear the word “hunch” or “feeling” or any other guesswork bullshit, this conversation is done.’

  Lock took a breath. ‘There are threats and then there are credible threats from individuals and groups who can action them. You with me so far?’

  ‘You going to keep stating the obvious?’ Coburn asked.

  ‘Maybe someone should. Now, Reaper and the people who sprang him-’

  ‘At least one of whom is dead,’ Coburn interrupted.

  Lock gave him a ‘yeah, I kinda know that’ look before continuing. ‘This group is not only highly motivated and determined, as proved by not one but two attempts to free their de facto leader, they are also highly trained. Not to mention ingenious. They appear to have the resources required. And here’s the kicker: their leader is still at large and active.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Coburn, not exactly softening but finally seeming to listen to what Lock was trying to say.

  ‘We know Reaper is in town. And it’s a fair guess that he-’

  ‘Guess? You’re getting close to saying you have a hunch here, Lock.’

  Lock changed tack, a trick he’d picked up from Jalicia. He wished she was here with them now. ‘Why would Reaper and his buddies go to the trouble of killing Junius Holmes?’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious?’

  ‘Not to me.’

  ‘Then go back and read the files. He went up against them. This was payback.’

  ‘Not good enough, Coburn. If I’m guessing here, then so are you.’

  ‘OK. So let’s say for the sake of argument that you’re right, that Reaper is here in San Francisco lying in wait to kill the President. How’s he going to do it?’

  Lock scuffed a shoe against the sidewalk. ‘That I don’t know. But I think you should have some people there as well.’

  ‘Oh, you mean in addition to the two hundred or so Secret Service men and half of the San Francisco Police Department?’

  ‘What about the route? Where’s he coming in from?’

  ‘Listen, Lock, I’m going to be ni
ce about this, because although you’re a major pain in the ass, you’re either crazier than a crackhead or you’ve just got way bigger balls than anyone I’ve ever met. Take your money and go take that long vacation. We’ll catch up with Reaper, and the President will be just fine. We don’t need you.’

  ‘At least pass on my concerns to the Secret Service,’ Lock said, walking away.

  Coburn cupped his hands in a cone to his mouth. ‘Take that vacation, Lock. You hear me?’

  Still feeling uneasy, Lock walked back to his car, pulled out on to Golden Gate Avenue and headed east towards Grace Cathedral. Traffic was already being diverted ahead of the funeral, so he had to park five blocks away.

  Heading back towards the cathedral, he tried to approach it as Reaper would. The first thing he noticed was that all the mail boxes and trash cans had been removed. Manhole covers had been sealed. All standard practice for a presidential visit. As was the case protecting any other VIP, there were certain points where they were more vulnerable than others. Lock looked around him. The cathedral would have undergone a detailed search. Once this was completed, those who could gain access would be strictly controlled. The same went for the guest list.

  The route from the airport or the helipad that was being used might normally be a worry, but Lock reckoned that the presidential limousine removed much of that risk. Nicknamed ‘The Beast’ by the Secret Service, it was an up-armored Cadillac with run-flat tires and, if rumors were to be believed, its own air supply. A new one was usually rolled out for every inauguration, and the latest incarnation was said to weigh in at close to eight tonnes.

  All this meant that the main threat would lie between The Beast and entry to the cathedral. Given that the authorities would have taken every sniper position for themselves, that left a rush from the crowd. Or, if Reaper and his accomplices stayed true to form, a full-on armed assault.

  Lock looked around again, then crossed the street, trying to get a sense of the place from Reaper’s perspective. Where would he make his move from? What would be his best entry point?

  Standing there, he noticed a freshly laid patch of asphalt. A truck with crash barriers loaded on to the back rolled over it. Once it had passed, Lock recrossed the street to take a better look.

  Absence of the normal. Presence of the abnormal.

  In and of itself there was nothing abnormal about a patch of road having been repaired. Lock didn’t know much about road repair either. But a couple of things did stand out to him. The first was that the road surface around the newly laid area was immaculate. No cracks. No damage. Lock guessed that it could have been a pothole, but why would the city go to all the trouble of resurfacing the whole area?

  He looked back at the cathedral. The repaired area was directly parallel to the entrance. Exactly where the disembarkation point would be for the President.

  Lock kicked away at where the new surface met the kerb with his boot. He kept kicking until he had chipped away the top layer of asphalt. Underneath that layer the filler looked fresh as well. He knelt down, pulled out his Gerber knife and dug into it, as far as the blade of the knife would go.

  Nothing. He bit down on his lip. Ty, Coburn — hell, even Carrie — would tell him he was being paranoid. Of course the disembarkation point would have been freshly repaired. Just like the steps would be freshly swept. It was said that the Queen of England must think the world smells of fresh paint because everywhere she goes there’s some poor bastard twelve feet in front of her with a pot of paint. The same probably went for the President.

  Lock re sheathed his knife and stood up, feeling the warmth of the sun on his back. Across the street, people strolled through Huntington Park, enjoying the weather.

  He’d get Carrie to swing them an invite. Just in case.

  63

  Tuesday morning, eleven a.m. Snipers dotted the rooftops. A San Francisco Police Department helicopter buzzed low over Grace Cathedral. On the ground there were plenty of uniforms. The streets immediately surrounding the cathedral were closed to all but official traffic.

  At a perimeter barrier formed by half a dozen sawhorses, Lock showed his invitation along with identification, and was checked off a list. He stepped through and waited for Ty to go through the same rigmarole. Carrie had come through, as Lock knew she would, securing them seats inside the cathedral.

  ‘Where do you think we’ll be sitting, huh?’ Ty asked, excited at the prospect of seeing the first African-American President in the flesh.

  Lock shrugged, his mind on Reaper and the threat he posed. ‘How should I know?’

  Ty stopped walking, forcing Lock to look back. ‘Will you just chill the hell out? Look around. No one’s going to be making any moves against the President with all this security. And even if they do, they got America’s Top Bodyguard in attendance.’ Ty smirked. ‘So where do you think we’re sitting?’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll be front and centre, right in between the President and the First Lady.’

  ‘Sweet. So, when’s this thing supposed to start?’

  ‘You make it sound like a concert.’

  Ty craned his neck to check out the queue of guests in front of them. Here and there, Lock recognized a senator or some other major political figure. There were even a couple of high-profile actors and media types, presumably drawn in by the presence of the President. As people chatted excitedly, Lock wondered how many of them had ever even met Junius Holmes. The vibe was definitely not that of a funeral. Instead, the whole thing came off like the funeral was the hottest ticket in town. Lock reflected that it made for one huge upside: a rampaging gang of white supremacists making for the President was definitely going to stand out.

  Leaving the crowds already gathering behind the barriers on the streets outside, Lock and Ty slowly headed up the steps of the cathedral. At the entrance, the funeral-goers were being searched. There was an airport-style metal detector and a separate X-ray machine for bags. By the way they were fumbling with belts and shoes, Lock guessed that most of this crowd flew private jets.

  A sinewy brunette who was accompanying a Republican senator was in hushed conversation with a female Secret Service agent as Lock stepped up to take his turn. The machine had gone off and she was being asked to remove anything metal that she had on her person. ‘I have a piercing which can’t be removed,’ she was saying, her New York accent loud and pronounced. ‘Not here anyway.’

  Ty was already through the detector and standing on the other side. ‘Come on, man,’ he said to Lock while peering towards the altar. ‘I can see a couple of good seats down the front.’

  Yup, like we’re going to be allowed to sit there, thought Lock, knowing that most of the pews in that part of the cathedral would be reserved for the President and his entourage.

  The detector beeped as Lock stepped through.

  ‘Sir, could you remove your belt?’ asked one of the agents.

  Lock stepped back and, hitching up his lightweight jacket, saw that he still had his Gerber hanging from it. Stupid. He’d remembered to leave his 226 back at the hotel, but the Gerber he’d forgotten about. It was a new knife too. A gift from Carrie. An LMF II Infantry Knife with a 4.8-inch blade. Not easily missed.

  Ty was still hopping up and down on the other side, watching as the New Yorker with the secret piercing and her septuagenarian date walked past him in the direction of the two seats he’d scoped out.

  Lock made no attempt to hide the knife. One of the security people by the scanner had already seen it. ‘Sorry, forgot I had it on me. Can I leave it with you?’

  Two agents were heading towards him now at speed. No big deal, thought Lock.

  ‘Sir, can you step over here?’ said one of them, ushering Lock off to one side.

  The other agent picked up the knife, still in its sheath, from the plastic tray. Lock could see in his eyes that this was going to take a lot of explaining. Rather than dive in and offer up a mea culpa, he waited to take a cue from the two agents. He glanced around, hoping to
spot Coburn or one of the other local guys, but there was no one he recognized apart from Ty, and he had given up waiting and was hustling to take a seat.

  ‘You usually bring a knife to a funeral?’ one of the agents asked as he palmed the Gerber off to his colleague.

  Lock suppressed the urge to fire back with a wisecrack. Or to tell them that he had in fact, at one funeral, snapped the wrist of a suspect in a child abduction. ‘I had it on my belt, forgot it was there. Confiscate it if you like. Or give it back to me later?’

  The agent who had been handed the knife had disappeared with it behind the scanner. He was running a swab over the blade.

  The agent who was with Lock said nothing. Lock joined him in staying silent.

  ‘Could I see some identification, sir?’ the agent said at last.

  Slowly, Lock dug his wallet from his pants pocket and flipped it open.

  If the agent recognized the name, he showed no hint. Instead, he took the wallet and headed over to join his colleague by the scanner.

  ‘Stay right there,’ he said.

  Lock checked his watch, feeling self-conscious as guests streamed past and the place began to fill up.

  Then the two agents were back, their demeanor different. There was a tightness to their features, even more pronounced than before, and they’d been joined by a couple of San Francisco Police Department uniforms, one of whom had his hand on his gun. His partner was unclipping her cuffs.

  Lock turned towards her, squaring his shoulders as she approached.

  ‘Sir,’ she said, ‘can you explain why the knife you’re carrying just tested positive for explosives?’

  64

  They called it living in the bubble. You couldn’t really understand it until you had experienced it. Even something as simple as going for a walk had to be cleared with the Secret Service.

  Together, he and the First Lady had tried to keep things as normal as possible, especially for the kids. But no matter how hard you tried, the fact remained, when you were President, life was no longer normal.