‘Sometimes it doesn’t come down to numbers.’
‘So what does it come down to?’
‘The element of surprise,’ said Lock, heading straight for the three members of the Aryan Brotherhood.
Eichmann followed Lock as he zeroed in. When he was within five feet of them — a distance at which they would have to move towards him in order to strike a blow — he stopped. All three were under six feet tall, but what they lacked vertically they more than made up for in terms of sheer dumb muscle.
Lock greeted them with a nod. ‘Gentlemen.’
‘What you want?’ the Aryan Brotherhood member in the middle asked him, the blood vessels in his neck bulging.
‘I was going to ask you pretty much the same thing,’ Lock said. ‘You keep on sneaking romantic little glances over in our direction, and it’s kind of creeping me out. If you could stop doing it, I’d appreciate it.’
‘Hey,’ said the one in the middle, ‘this is our yard.’
Lock glanced over his shoulder at the dozen or so Nazi Low Riders assembled on the benches who were staring with menace at the three Aryan Brotherhood members. ‘Not any more it ain’t.’
The Aryan Brotherhood member in the middle took a step towards Lock. Lock raised his hands, palms open, shifting his right foot back a little and keeping his eyes on the man’s hands.
Like some kind of conjuring trick, there was a sudden flash of metal in the man’s hand, and he lunged towards Lock with the shank. But Lock managed to catch his wrist. Behind him he could hear the shouts of the guards and other inmates. The two other Aryan Brotherhood members rushed towards him, but Eichmann blocked them, taking a few solid punches for his trouble.
Lock lowered his body to give himself some leverage, turned the man’s wrist, and snapped it with a dull crack. The blade fell from his hand, landing in the dust. Lock used his hold on the man’s broken wrist to pull him slowly down towards the ground.
The guards were close now; Lock could smell the oxygen-suffocating odor of pepper spray. He let go, and took a couple of steps back.
A baton crashed into his side. Then the guards rushed past him and Eichmann to deal with the three Aryan Brotherhood members, ordering them to the ground. All three finally complied, one taking a blast from a guard’s taser first.
Lock and Eichmann rejoined the group of Nazi Low Riders as more guards arrived, herding everyone back towards the confines of the unit. Lock was worried that he would be pulled from the group, but the guards seemed more concerned with restoring order. At the main door leading back into the unit, he watched as the three Aryan Brotherhood members were hustled through a gate in the chain-link fence and out of the yard.
Lock caught Reaper’s eye.
‘What was that about?’ Reaper asked him.
‘Something my old man taught me,’ Lock said.
‘And what’s that?’ Reaper said, rubbing the back of his neck with one giant shovel of a hand.
‘Always get your retaliation in first.’
13
The screen door of the rented single-story house slammed behind Chance as she emerged into the early- morning sunlight. She stood there for a moment collecting her thoughts. She was dressed in an outfit guaranteed to deduct at least twenty IQ points from any heterosexual male: cut-off Daisy Duke shorts, a pink Hello Kitty T-shirt, white cotton ankle socks and a pair of black kitten-heel sandals.
The pit bull that Chance had won from a Hell’s Angel in an all-night poker game barked a warning from its metal-framed run which ran the length of the house. She had planned to sell it on to a guy she’d met who was into dog fighting, but in the end decided to keep it, figuring it would prove a deterrent for inquisitive neighbors So far she’d been proved right. In the month she’d been renting the small whitewashed bungalow, no one had been to her front door, not even the mail man.
She climbed into the red pick-up truck parked in the drive, tossed her briefcase on to the passenger side of the bench seat and reversed out on to the street at speed. Within ten minutes she was roaring down the on-ramp and merging with the early-morning traffic on Interstate 5 South. She kept her speed at an even sixty as she headed out of Los Angeles.
She flicked on the radio, catching a Jimmy Buffett tune mid-chorus. Jimmy was singing a song called ‘We Are the People Our Parents Warned Us About’. It was one of Chance’s favorites
Chance rolled down the windows either side of her as traffic ahead of her slowed to a crawl. The breeze felt good on her skin. In the lane next to her a businessman in a BMW saloon was staring at her. She raised her sunglasses and winked at him. The poor sap lost all concentration and looked up just in time to avoid rear-ending the car in front of him. Chance spotted a gap in the outside lane and zoomed into it, leaving the BMW driver in her dust.
Men. Always thinking with their dicks.
Leaving Orange County the traffic cleared, and she started making good time. The meeting was set for eleven o’clock and she couldn’t afford to be late.
In the end she made it with an hour to spare, taking the off-ramp twelve miles shy of San Diego and following the directions on her GPS according to the coordinates she’d been given.
The rendezvous point was down a dirt track at the back of a vacant lot. The track dead-ended at what looked like a disused auto repair shop. Chance parked the truck and went to take a look around.
The building was squat and low. There were two large sliding doors. She heaved one open and stepped inside. The place smelled of motor oil and tobacco. A bench ran the length of the back wall. A stack of truck tires was piled against a barred window.
Chance heard a vehicle approaching, its gears grinding. She ducked outside to take a look.
A yellow rental truck parked up and a man in his late fifties sporting salt-and-pepper hair and a pair of old- school RayBan Wayfarer sunglasses hopped out of the cab. He was wearing khaki combat trousers, a white T-shirt and black boots.
He stopped when he saw her and looked her up and down. Her outfit was definitely having the desired effect.
‘Hi,’ she said, flicking back a strand of blonde hair from in front of her face.
‘Well, if this don’t beat all,’ he said. He had more than a hint of a Southern accent. Georgia maybe. Or Mississippi.
‘You bring everything?’ Chance asked him.
‘Oh, I got everything,’ he said.
What an asshole, thought Chance.
‘Can I see it?’
‘Sure, it’s in the back of the truck.’
She followed him to the rear of the truck. He fiddled with a padlock then opened up doors at the back. He climbed in the back and helped her up. There were three plywood coffins there.
‘Nice touch,’ said Chance.
‘No one’s going to open one of these coming back from Iraq on a military transport plane,’ the man said.
‘You mind if I take a look?’ she asked him.
‘Go right ahead, honey.’
She prised open the lid of the first coffin and took a look inside. She took out an M-4 assault rifle and checked it over.
The man shifted his weight from one foot to the other. ‘It’s all here. Everything you asked for. Now, did you bring the money?’
Chance nodded, replacing the lid. ‘You help me get this stuff loaded first?’
‘Sure thing. Tell you the truth, I’m glad to be getting rid of it,’ he said, rolling up his sleeves to reveal a black sun tattoo.
