Lockdown (24 page)

Another shouted exchange.

‘It’s feeding time,’ Mareta told Lock.

Sure enough, a few moments later the flap opened and a tray was shoved inside – metal, so it would be difficult to break to form a weapon. Filling the tray’s ridged compartments was what Lock imagined to be standard-issue prison food. Two slices of bread. Orange juice. Some kind of a stew with rice. A square of low-grade cooking chocolate, and a banana. Not bad. Better than economy in most airlines he’d flown.

He took a slice of bread, handed the other one to Mareta.

She pushed it away, wrinkling her nose. ‘You eat first.’

He was guessing this wasn’t a sign of hospitality on her part. ‘You’re not hungry?’

‘I don’t know what’s in it.’

‘So if it’s rat poison you’d like me to find out first?’

‘Exactly,’ she said.

Lock put the bread back down on the tray.

‘You don’t think about these things,’ Mareta observed with a sneer.

She was right. Lock hadn’t.

She picked the bread back off the tray, tore off a hunk and handed it to Lock. ‘They didn’t bring me here to poison me. But there could be something in it to make us sleep.’

‘So why do you still want me to taste it?’

‘You’ll see.’

Lock took the bread and popped it in his mouth. As he chewed tentatively, it turned sweet in his mouth. He swallowed. Took a tiny sip of orange juice to wash it down. It tasted funky. He poured the rest of the juice into the tray compartment. A gritty residue floated at the bottom. He swirled it round with one finger.

‘They could at least have sprung for some Rohypnol. Least that dissolves.’

He sat on the floor, his head resting against the cold concrete.

‘So, what’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?’ Lock asked her, the question designed to kickstart some more conversation and stave off the frustration that he could feel creeping into his bones.

‘You’re not interested.’

‘That’s where you’re wrong. I mean, I’m presuming you weren’t
born
an evil bitch who thinks it’s acceptable to brutally slaughter civilians.’

‘You want to know why I cut the head off Anya Versokovich?’

Lock shrugged.

‘I did it because . . . she was there.’

Lock was feeling tired, more likely as a result of the hectic week he’d had and the after-effects of repeated adrenalin dumps than anything surging through his bloodstream from the tiny sip of juice. ‘That’s it? That’s your big reason for beheading the Bolshoi’s prima ballerina?’

‘It’s the same reason the Russians gave me.’

‘Gave you for what?’

‘What they did to me. You want me to tell you?’

Lock laid his head back against the wall of the cell and closed his eyes. ‘Sure.’

‘You know of my dead husband?’

‘I know of his reputation.’

‘I was bathing my two children when they came. My son was four. My daughter was three. When the commander of the Russians couldn’t find my husband, he left two of his soldiers in the room with us. He didn’t want anyone to say later that he was there.’

With a grim predictability, Mareta went on. Lock kept his eyes shut. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be looking at her as she finished her story.

‘While one of the soldiers raped me, the other put a knife to my children’s throat. Forced them to watch. When the first man was finished, the other took his turn. Then they tied my hands behind my back and made me watch. They drowned my son first. And then his sister. Afterwards, I was taken downstairs to speak to the commander. My husband had killed Russians, but what had I done? So I asked him, “Why did you do this?” And he told me, “Because you were here.”’

Lock opened his eyes. Mareta’s face was set. Expressionless. Only her eyes betrayed any feeling. His voice broke a little as he spoke. ‘What happened after that?’

‘They left me, but I followed.’

‘You killed them?’

‘Every last one.’

‘So where does it end, Mareta?’

‘It doesn’t.’

‘You know there’s no way out this time.’

‘There’s always a way out,’ she said, staring off into the middle distance.

‘Always?’

‘Death is a way out.’

‘True, but what I don’t understand is how come you were always the only one to make it out before?’

‘It’s simple. The harder someone looks, the less they see.’

More riddles. ‘And what does that mean?’

‘When they look high, I stay low. They look low, I stay high.’

‘You want to try it in English?’

The same wafer of a smile. ‘You’ll work it out.’

‘Why don’t we just roll a grenade in there, frag the whole lot and let God do the sorting?’ Brand asked.

Stafford rounded on him. ‘Because twelve’s the clinical minimum for Phase One.’

‘So we find one other person,’ Brand countered.

‘And where do you suggest we do that, Colonel? Craigslist?’ Stafford pointed a finger at the blank screen. ‘Take me down there. I’ll talk to them.’

Brand snorted. ‘She doesn’t speak English, and there’s no way Lock’s dumb enough to walk out of there with us waiting for him. Don’t have time to starve them out either.’

‘Then we’ll find some other way.’

Brand shrugged as Stafford marched out of the control room. ‘Can’t wait to see that.’

‘Bring your weapon with you,’ Stafford called back as he strode ahead.

‘Firearms aren’t allowed in the accommodation block,’ Brand reminded him, grabbing his Glock and following him down the corridor.

‘Make an exception.’

‘I really don’t think it’s a good idea.’

‘They have a knife. You said so yourself.’

‘And what if they get hold of a gun?’

‘It won’t come to that.’

A few minutes later they arrived at the door of Mareta’s cell. Brand stood one side of the door, Stafford on the other.

‘Give me your weapon,’ Stafford said.

Brand unholstered the Glock, pulled back the slide to chamber a round, and handed it, handle first, to Stafford.

‘You’re not going in there, are you?’

‘No,’ said Stafford, taking the Glock and pointing it at his head of security. ‘You are.’

Brand kept cool. ‘You don’t have it in you.’

‘Had it in me when I killed Stokes,’ Stafford said. ‘That was different. Everything was set up for you. All you had to do was pull the trigger.’

The pad of Stafford’s index finger bulged as he applied pressure to the trigger. ‘Which makes it different how?’

Brand raised his hands in surrender. ‘OK, OK.’

‘Look at it this way,’ said Stafford. ‘You were always telling me how Lock was a grandstander and you were the real deal. Now’s your chance to prove it.’

‘You OK?’

Carrie hadn’t even noticed Gail Reindl getting into the elevator.

‘Fine. Why?’

‘Your hands are shaking.’

Carrie faked a smile. ‘Over-caffeinated.’

Gail seemed to search Carrie’s face. ‘Sure that’s all?’

‘Some jerk in a Hummer ran a stop sign when I was crossing the street. Almost took me out. Shook me up a little. I’ll be fine in a second.’

Gail made a
whaddaya gonna do, this city’s crazy
face. The doors opened and she stepped out, much to Carrie’s relief.

What else was she going to say? That it was a Hummer just like the one that had run down Gray Stokes’ wife, except this one had been black rather than red. That she didn’t think it was an accident. That someone was trying to kill her. That just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you. Ever since the movie
Network
got a release, complete with barking mad anchorman, the one surefire way to get canned as an anchor was to show any sign of mental instability. And Carrie hadn’t even made
it there yet. No, if she was going to talk to anyone, it’d be Lock.

Carrie stopped at the water cooler. One of the producers was there filling his coffee mug.

‘You got a guest,’ he said, nodding towards her desk.

The first thing Carrie saw was the wheelchair, then Janice Stokes. Before she could censor her next thought it had already flashed into her mind.
She looks like death
.

Carrie sat down, shifting her chair so she was side on to Janice.

‘They’ve arrested my brother.’

‘What’s the charge?’

‘Aiding in the abduction of a minor. Lock promised us that if we helped him he’d keep us out of this. Don wouldn’t cope with being in jail.’

‘Did he do it?’

‘No. And I need to get him out of Rikers before something bad happens to him.’

‘Wouldn’t you be better off talking to a lawyer?’

‘I already did.’

‘And what did they say?’

‘That I’d have to wait until it comes to trial.’

‘Your brother could ask to be placed in protective custody.’

‘Which would make him look even more guilty.’

‘Sorry, I don’t mean to seem unkind, but what do you think I can do?’

‘I thought you might know where Ryan Lock is, for a start. I’ve tried calling him, but his cell’s switched off. Can’t get hold of his buddy Ty either.’

Carrie believed her. She’d called Lock straight after the incident with the Hummer and left a voicemail. ‘It’s not unusual for Lock to go off the radar. Believe me, I know.’

Janice paused, like she was making a decision. Then she reached down the side of her chair and pulled out a manila envelope. ‘Some
friends helped me sort through my parents’ stuff. I couldn’t face it until yesterday.’ She handed the envelope to Carrie. ‘Ryan asked if my dad had something on Meditech. You know, to make them change their mind about animal testing.’

Carrie put her hand in the envelope and came out with a single sheet of paper. Printed at the top was a web link:
www.uploader.tv/Meditech
.

The food tray lay empty by the door, Mareta next to it, curled up in a fetal position. Knees hugged to the chest, eyes closed. Her right hand tucked under her body to conceal the knife.

Lock lay next to her, similarly stricken. His legs were stretched out so that one of them was almost touching the door. That way, even if he did doze off, he’d know when someone walked in.

It had been deathly quiet for the past hour. Then there were footsteps in the corridor directly outside. A single person, moving slowly, betrayed only by the acoustics, which seemed designed to betray the slightest sound.

The footsteps stopped. A dribble of saliva trailed from the corner of Lock’s mouth to the floor.

The door slammed into Lock’s leg. He stirred, but kept his eyes closed.

‘OK,’ he heard Brand whisper.

Two more sets of boots double-timed it down the corridor. Lock opened both eyes a fraction. Out of his left he could see Brand’s boot as he went to step over him.

Lock darted out a hand to grab Brand’s ankle. Brand struggled
to keep his balance but timbered to the floor. He landed on top of Lock, his knee smashing into Lock’s left eye socket.

The knife came down in an arc, slipping down the inside of Brand’s helmet and slicing into his ear. He screamed, and wrenched at the helmet. His ear lobe flapped from the side of his head like a decked fish.

Brand drew his arm forward, towards Lock. Lock tried to grasp it at the wrist but wasn’t fast enough. Brand accelerated his arm backwards into Mareta’s face, the rear elbow strike sending her spinning back on to the bed. The shift of Brand’s weight allowed Lock to squirm out from under the heavier man.

The other two guards were almost at the door now. In a second they’d be coming through it. Then it would be a lottery as to who lived and who died. And someone was definitely going to die.

Lock pushed past Brand and threw himself at the door. Mareta lunged at Brand, the knife embedding itself in his groin protector. Mareta pulled it back out but not before catching another elbow strike to the face. One of Mareta’s front teeth flew out of her mouth, and landed on the floor.

Brand’s body armour was throwing her off. His head was covered by a Kevlar reinforced helmet. Neck and throat protector panels transitioned to the main vest. Armoured sleeves transitioned to anti-slash gloves. Below the waist, the protection was similarly complete. All the way down.

Brand swung at her again. She ducked the blow and dived for his feet. His knee caught her on the side of the face, cracking her cheekbone. She jabbed the knife as hard as she could through the tongue of his right boot, piercing the soft leather and wedging the blade down and into his foot. It was Brand’s turn to scream.

The noise from the other cells was reaching critical mass. What Lock guessed were exhortations to victory, and Godly praise, made for a surreal background.

Mareta skittered around Brand’s back, her hand twisting as she kept a firm grip on the handle of the knife protruding from Brand’s foot. Then she let go and put her forearm around his neck, choking him out. This time she was too close in for his elbows to reach her.

Brand flailed as Lock struggled to be heard above the noise. The door was being forced open and his strength was draining by the second. ‘You come in, he’s dead!’ he yelled.

The pushing stopped.

Lock glanced back to where Brand stood, Mareta behind him, right forearm tourniqueting his neck, left hand up at the chin end of his helmet. Lock knew she was ready to swivel his head past the point of no return for his top cervical vertebrae as soon as the door opened.

‘Hold your positions!’ Brand shouted, in a half-strangulated voice.

‘Tell them to withdraw.’

‘You heard him. Fall back.’

Lock stayed at the door. ‘If I see
anyone
, he’s dead.’ He counted to ten and opened the door. He took a quick peek. Clear. Empty corridor all the way to the security gate at the far end, which was closed.

He stepped back inside the cell and stripped Brand of his baton, radio, taser and the pepper spray he’d never had a chance to deploy. The problem with just about every single non-fatal weapon was that cramped spaces rendered them useless. No room to swing a baton, pepper spray was non-selective, only the taser was an option, but once that was in hand it was easily taken.

Lock pressed the taser into the small of Brand’s back, finding the crack between his vest and his groin protector. Mareta released her hold, then Lock pressed the button.