Lockdown (5 page)

Lock waved him off, keen to get some sheets between him and his visitor. ‘Lemme guess, JTTF?’

The Joint Terrorism Task Force’s field office in Manhattan was
based downtown in the Federal Plaza. Composed of members of the FBI, ATF, as well as NYPD, it was charged with dealing with all incidents of domestic terrorism in the five boroughs and beyond. The campaign against Meditech had fallen under its jurisdiction as the animal rights activists had escalated their actions. Lock had liaised with a number of suits from their office, although the man standing in front of him wasn’t one of them, as far as he could recall.

‘John Frisk. Just got transferred over.’

‘Ryan Lock.’

‘Least you can remember your name, that’s a start.’

‘So where’d they transfer you from?’

‘FBI.’

Lock sat back on the bed. Frisk pulled up a chair and sat next to him.

‘You’re a lucky guy. If you’d been hit a couple of inches either side of your plates you’d be toast.’

Lock had been sporting four plates. Two front, and two back, they slid into pouches either side of his ballistic vest to provide additional protection.

Lock smiled. ‘Maybe I should hit Vegas, while I’m still on this hot streak.’

‘Take me with you. I could use the vacation.’

Lock eased his head back on to the pillows and stared at a fixed point on the ceiling. ‘What’d they hit me with?’

‘Twelve-gauge rigged to the door,’ said Frisk.

‘Better that than the alternative, I’m guessing. You pick anyone up yet?’

‘We were hoping you could help us with that one.’

Lock chewed the side of his mouth. ‘Professionals. Both male. Both over six feet. I didn’t get much of a look beyond the back of their heels. What did the crime scene team turn up?’

‘I can’t really say.’

‘That many leads, huh?’

It was Frisk’s turn to suppress a smile. ‘I thought I was the investigator and you were the witness.’

‘Old habits die hard.’

Frisk hesitated for a moment. ‘OK, from what we can gather, as you said, it was a pro job. High-calibre sniper rifle – we’re still working on the exact type, but a fifty cal.’

‘Fifty?’

‘Yup. If they’d rigged
that
to the door we wouldn’t be having this conversation,’ Frisk said, super-casual.

‘Got that straight,’ said Lock. Having seen what the .50 cal had done to Stokes’ head, Lock knew that no amount of body armour would have saved him.

‘They had the escape route scoped out ahead of time, not much left behind for forensics. No shell casings anywhere to be seen, not like that would have given us much anyway. Plus the room was bleached down before they exited via the window.’

‘What about the shotgun?’ Lock asked, leaning over to reach for a glass of water perched on the locker next to his bed.

Frisk beat him to it and passed it over. ‘Looking to buy themselves a few extra seconds would be my guess.’

Lock grunted in agreement.

‘We traced it to the owner of a house out in Long Island. Place has been vacant since the summer, guy didn’t even know he’d been broken into.’

‘Did the girl make it?’

‘The girl in the wheelchair?’

Lock nodded, took a sip of water.

‘She’s down on four.’

‘She OK?’

‘Pretty shocked. Knows about as much as you do.’

‘You’ve got some great witnesses lined up by the sounds of it. What was the final count?’

‘Five dead in total.’

‘Five?’

‘Three shot, one run over, and one heart attack.’

A knock at the door. A young African American doctor in her late twenties who looked like she’d been awake about as long as Lock had been unconscious poked her head round. ‘I thought I was pretty clear that I didn’t want my patient disturbed until he was ready.’

‘It was my fault, doc,’ Lock said. ‘I was quizzing Agent Frisk, not the other way round.’

‘Well, if you have any questions, you can always talk to me.’

Lock glanced back to Frisk. ‘Never got to ask Agent Frisk what my federal prognosis was.’

‘Well, your weapon was legally held, although how the hell you got a concealed carry in the city these days beats me.’

Lock looked skywards to the ceiling. ‘Friends in high places.’

‘And your luck doesn’t end there,’ Frisk continued. ‘Seeing as you never fired a shot, there won’t be any charges. But next time, leave the cavalry charge to the cavalry, OK?’

Lock bristled. He’d been the only one taking on the threat and here was Frisk treating him like some rookie cop. ‘I’d be happy to, if they manage to show up before the final reel. Speaking of which, what’s happening to Brand?’

‘Police department are keen to go to bat on vehicular manslaughter. But the DA’s getting a lot of pressure to go for a lesser charge, or let it slide entirely.’

‘If you speak to anyone in their office you can tell them I’d be happy to step to the plate for the prosecution on that one.’

Frisk raised an eyebrow. ‘You and he not too close, huh?’

‘Different approaches, that’s all.’

‘Oh yeah, and what’s the difference?’

‘Mine’s correct,’ Lock said curtly.

‘Mr Lock really does need his rest,’ the doctor broke in. ‘I’m sure there’ll be plenty of time for you to talk to him tomorrow.’

‘What day is it anyway?’

‘Thursday,’ said Frisk.

‘Wait. I missed Christmas?’

The doctor arched an eyebrow. ‘You got the gift of life.’

Frisk smirked. ‘Sure Santa’ll catch up with you next year.’

‘OK, he really does need his rest now,’ insisted the doctor.

Frisk took the hint and eased out of the room. ‘Don’t go anywhere,’ he said from the door.

When he’d gone, Lock’s hand reached up to his head wound. He ran the tips of his fingers over it, like a kid worrying a scab on his knee.

‘Pretty good-looking scar you’ll have there,’ the doctor said, perching next to him on the bed.

‘You think it’ll make me more attractive to women?’

‘Didn’t realize that was a problem for you.’

‘I’ll take any help I can get.’

‘Mind if I take another look?’

‘Be my guest.’

He bowed his head so she could get a better view.

‘You had a pretty lucky escape.’

‘So everyone keeps saying.’

‘You suffered a slight haemorrhage. We had to drill into your skull in order to take out some fluid. There’s a risk that you might suffer some additional blackouts. Oh, and there have been cases where trauma to this particular area of the brain can result in a raised level of—’

‘You can stop right there, doc. I think I know where you’re heading. So when can I get out of here?’

She stood up. ‘Head trauma’s a serious business. It’d be best if you stayed here for at least the next few days.’

‘Sure thing,’ he said, already planning his escape.

‘Don’t you have a home to go to?’

The doctor was back at the foot of Lock’s bed, busy looking over his chart as he lay back watching the tube. Even this early on in his convalescence he’d made a number of interesting discoveries, the most surprising being that with a sufficiently high dose of morphine daytime soap operas were damn engrossing.

‘Wouldn’t have had you pegged as a big daytime soap fan,’ she mused as Lock flicked the TV to mute, leaving a cleft-chinned Clooney wannabe to slap around an actress whose Botox-blank face ran the gamut of human emotions from A to B and back again.

‘I was waiting for the news to come on.’

‘Sure you were.’ That killer smile again.

‘Are you flirting with me, doc?’

She ignored the question, jotting down an additional note on his chart instead.

‘What are you writing?’ he asked, doing his best to peek.

She angled the chart so he couldn’t see. ‘Do not resuscitate.’

Lock laughed. It hurt.

She edged a smile herself. ‘Sorry, but I get hit on a lot, and I haven’t been home in two days.’

‘Who said I was hitting on you?’

‘You weren’t? OK, now I feel insulted. Anyway, isn’t this all a pointless discussion? You have a girlfriend.’

‘Do I?’

‘Well there’s certainly been a woman putting in a lot of calls since you were admitted. Carrie Delaney ring any bells?’

‘Lots, but unfortunately we’re just good friends.’

‘Unfortunate for you or her?’

‘Probably both.’

‘I see.’

Lock pushed himself up into a sitting position. ‘Y’know, I’d never really thought about it until now, but our jobs have quite a few things in common.’

‘Saving people’s lives?’

‘I was thinking more along the lines of unsociable hours and only getting any real attention when you screw up.’

‘What did you screw up?’ she asked him. ‘Janice Stokes wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t done what you did.’

‘And neither would I.’

She was staring at him now. ‘So why did you?’

‘This is going to sound like a line from a bad movie.’

‘I get lots of those too.’

‘I did it because it’s what I’m trained to do.’

‘So you make a habit of rescuing damsels in distress?’

Lock shook his head. ‘No, just a habit of walking through doors I shouldn’t. Listen, I didn’t even catch your name.’

‘Dr Robbins.’

‘I meant your first name.’

‘I know you did.’

Over her shoulder, Lock caught a glimpse of Carrie fronting the
headline report on the TV. Seeing her hurt worse than getting shot. She was standing outside a green-canopied apartment building, a white-gloved doorman flitting in and out of frame behind her, apparently undecided between discretion and getting his mug on the tube.

‘That your lady friend?’ Dr Robbins asked, following Lock’s gaze to the TV and reading the bottom of the screen.

‘She was. For a time anyway.’

‘Looks too classy for you.’

‘I get that a lot. Would you mind if I . . .?’

‘Go right ahead,’ said Dr Robbins, stepping out of his way.

Lock turned up the volume, catching Carrie mid-sentence.

‘. . . the FBI remaining tight-lipped about this latest twist in the Meditech massacre story which has gripped America. But so far only one fact remains clear: three days after his disappearance, seven-year-old Josh Hulme remains missing.’

The screen cut to a picture of a young white boy with thick brown hair and blue eyes, smiling self-consciously for a family portrait.

Lock moved away from Dr Robbins as she attempted to get a fresh look at the back of his head. ‘What’s this got to do with Meditech?’

‘His father works for them or something.’

Lock felt a jolt of adrenalin. He started to get out of bed, earning a reproachful look from Dr Robbins.

‘I need to make a call.’

‘Fine, but do everyone a favour.’

‘What’s that, doc?’

‘Put on a robe first. Your butt’s hanging out.’

Dressed, and with a baseball cap covering what he’d come to think of as his lobotomy patient look, Lock stepped out into the hall. He still felt a little uncertain on his feet and he remained deliberately unshaven. Looking in the mirror as he’d washed his face, he’d figured that slightly altering his appearance might be no bad thing under the circumstances. Clearly the ‘Massacre in Midtown’, as the press had dubbed it, gleefully unearthing a neat piece of alliteration among the dead, was a first shot rather than a last stand.

Finding a way to call Ty proved tricky. Lock’s cell phone was inconveniently back in the bottom drawer of his desk at Meditech and pay phones seemed to be in short supply. Dr Robbins had told him she could arrange for a phone to be brought to his room for a small charge, but he didn’t want to wait. Finally, he tracked one down on the ground floor, next to the gift shop.

Ty answered on the first buzz.

‘Where’s my fruit basket?’

‘If it ain’t Rip Van Winkle. I was wondering when you were going to surface.’

‘Sleep of the just, man.’

‘I hear you. Good to have you back.’

Lock was grateful for the relief in Ty’s voice. It was comforting to know that someone at the company gave a shit about his mortality.

‘Want to give me an update?’

‘We’re locked down tight. No further incidents. Everything seems to be cool.’

Cool?

‘And I thought I was supposed to be the one who took a blow to the head. How are things cool when one of our employee’s kids is missing?’

‘You heard about that?’

Lock held the phone away from his mouth and counted to three. Slowly.

Ty appeared to read his silence. ‘Listen, Ryan,’ he said, ‘things are a little bit more complicated than you might think. The FBI are involved, it’s being left to them to handle.’

‘So why the hell have we been paying kidnap and ransom insurance for all this time if we’re just going to hand everything over to the Feds?’

‘Richard Hulme, the father of the missing boy, resigned his position at the company two weeks ago, which means neither he nor his son are our problem any more. Sorry Ryan, I had the exact same conversation when I heard, but the word’s come down from on high. We stay out of it.’

‘But the FBI won’t pay any ransom.’

‘They’ve got their policy and we have ours.’

‘And nine times out of ten our way gets the victim home safe and sound with the only damage being a dent in some insurance company’s balance sheet and a bit of actuarial adjustment for next year’s premium.’

‘I know, man, I know.’

Right on cue, a little girl was wheeled past him, a Magic Marker-adorned plaster cast covering her leg. She smiled at Lock.

‘Listen, Ty, I’m going to get out of here, but first I have to check on something.’

‘OK, man. Hey . . .’

‘What?’

‘Be safe.’

Lock hung up and made a beeline for the gift shop. He grabbed a bunch of flowers that offered a seven-day ‘no wilt’ guarantee (Lock could relate) and a box of candy. As he paid the lady behind the counter, he glanced at the newspapers on the rack. Josh’s face stared out from every front page apart from the
New York Times
, which led on weightier matters in the Middle East: there had been a suspected biological attack on coalition troops on the border between Afghanistan and Pakistan.