Oblivious to everything and everyone around him, he ran with her into the emergency-room reception area. Her eyes were closed and she had stopped breathing.
Four
With Melissa in surgery, two detectives from the LAPD’s Robbery Homicide Division swung by to take an informal witness statement from Lock. When he asked whether they would provide any form of police protection, they answered, as he had known they would, in the negative. They left, but he stayed to pace the corridor.
He checked in with Ty, sharing what little information he had. Everything at the hotel was quiet.
The hours passed and Lock waited. After years in close protection it was one thing he had become expert at. If it had been an Olympic event, he would have been looking at a gold medal. Eventually Melissa was moved into a private room on the fourth floor. The surgeon wouldn’t speak to him but he gleaned a little information from a nurse, who, in breach of official policy, allowed him to stand guard when he explained that the person or persons who had shot the girl might return to finish the job.
In the room, he grabbed a metal-backed folding chair from beside the bed and set it in the corner nearest to the door so that he would see anyone coming into the room before they spotted him. Someone looking to kill her most likely wouldn’t risk shooting her from the doorway, not after they had screwed up their first attempt. They’d want to be close. Pillow over the head, gun pressed in tight to dampen the sound, then squeeze the trigger. Or they’d smother her: the heart monitor would tell them when she was dead.
His shirt and trousers were caked with dried blood, he noticed. He got up and crossed to the sink mounted against the far wall. He washed his hands and face, then crossed to the bed and picked up the chart hanging from the bed rail. At the very top it had the girl’s full name — Melissa Warner — and her date of birth. The medical staff must have found some form of ID on her when they cut off her clothing.
She was lying on her side, chestnut hair fanned out over the crisp white pillow.
Melissa Warner. Charlie Mendez.
Something about the two names resonated. He had heard them before, but where? He sat down again and texted Ty with an update, then asked him to find out what he could. A few seconds later Ty was back to say he’d do some digging.
He looked across at the sleeping girl as the monitor sketched her heartbeat with a green glow. The tension in her face had slowly released as she slept but she was in the foetal position, knees pulled up to her chest. Lock had often thought that you could trace a person’s journey in the world by their sleep pattern. Little kids stretched out like starfish, open and unafraid. But that stage soon passed. If things got bad enough, you rarely slept at all, like Lock. It made his job easier. He could get by on three hours a night. But it made his life hell. He knew why he couldn’t sleep but he didn’t know the cure. He just hoped that in time it would pass.
He went back to the chair but didn’t sit down, preferring to lean against the wall. Even with his insomnia, he was worried about falling asleep. Eyes open, alert to every sound from the corridor, he stood vigil, as he had done so many times before, ready to protect the girl who had stepped from nowhere into his life.
It was a full two hours later that he saw the door handle move a fraction. Nurses had been in twice to check on Melissa but they had come straight in, as innocent people do. They pressed down the handle, opened the door and walked in.
The handle moved another fraction. Then another. Lock tensed and moved softly along the wall so that he was closer to the door.
There was a soft click as the latch cleared its slot. Lock kept inching along with his back to the wall.
The door edged open. Lock stood perfectly still as a figure stepped into the room, closing the door. It was too dark to get a clear view but the person was short, maybe five two. They wore baggy jeans, a baseball cap and an oversized jacket. A shaft of moonlight slid across the floor and he saw a long, thin steel blade in the figure’s right hand. Whoever it was walked towards the sleeping girl, the knife raised.
Five
Ty sat alone in the hotel room and pecked away with two long index fingers at his laptop. He ran a simple Google search for Cesar ‘Charlie’ Mendez, then another for Melissa Warner. As he read them, he wished he could blot out the unhelpful soundtrack from the next room where one of the rappers from Triple-C was involved in a prolonged but apparently intimate party with two young women from the lobby. The sounds of hotel-room sex made what was already uncomfortable reading even more so.
As he sifted through the web pages, the story fell into place. There was no great mystery as to why Melissa had sought out Lock. It was all right there on the screen. The more he read, the more worried he became. Lock was one of the few people who could help her and, worryingly for Ty, he was psychologically primed for the mission because of what had happened to him in the recent past.
While he and Ty had been protecting a young female porn star, Raven Lane, from a murderous stalker, Lock’s fiancee, Carrie, had been kidnapped. She had escaped but, in a cruel twist of Fate, had run out in front of the vehicle he and Lock had been driving as they raced to rescue her. Lock hadn’t been able to save the woman he loved, and the guilt weighed heavily on both of them. It had left Ty’s friend bereft. But under the grief lay a deep seam of anger.
Knowing this, the prospect of what Lock might do if he took on Melissa’s case made Ty feel sick, but he went on cutting the relevant sections from the news stories and blog posts, then pasting them into a single Word document. In the end, he reflected, it could have been summarized in four lines.
A crime.
A trial.
An escape.
And a whole bunch of dead bodies — with a lot more to come.
When he was finished, he checked it over, saved the document on to a memory stick and headed downstairs to get it printed out in the hotel’s business centre. As he stepped out of the lobby, he saw that the blood had been cleaned from the marble floor and the couch where Lock had tended Melissa had been removed. No one could have guessed that, only a few hours ago, a girl had been bleeding to death there.
If only that was the end of it.
Six
‘Lemme go, you old pervert.’
As the would-be assassin twisted around to spit in his face, Lock saw she was a teenager. He had her pinned to the floor in the corridor. The knife was already tucked away safely in his jacket. His right knee was pressed into the base of her spine, and he was holding her right hand at the wrist, ready to bend it back on itself if she didn’t stop struggling.
‘Hey,’ said Lock sharply. ‘Less of the “old”.’ He relaxed his grip a little and she drove her elbow back, catching the side of his face. He grabbed her wrist again as she tried to wriggle out from under him.
She couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred pounds but that was only making it harder for him to keep her still. He heard footsteps and looked up: a security guard was marching down the corridor, with two patrol cops in tow. Whatever information Lock was going to get, he had a very short window in which to secure it. Direct questions were hardly likely to yield much. The kid was a hood rat, and almost certainly a gang member. LA gangs often used younger members to do their dirty work because the criminal justice system treated them with relative lenience. And if it didn’t they were expendable.
‘Who do you run with?’ Lock asked her. ‘Who’s your click?’
