Lockdown

Fifty-seven

‘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.

Fifty-eight

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