Second Chance - Ryan Lock #8 Page 20

  Carmen threatened a smile, which had been the idea. To Lock’s mind, finding laughter in the dark could be a life-saver. The darkest times were often accompanied by bitter irony, which frequently came with an element of humor.

  “So what do you think is?”

  “She has a child. Or, rather, she had.”

  Lock’s face froze.

  Of course.

  As soon as Carmen said the word “child”, it all came flooding back. When he and Ty had stopped Chance in San Francisco, she had been pregnant. Being pregnant had been one of the main reasons she had managed to get away with causing as much chaos as she had. She had used it as cloak and shield.

  After San Francisco, and once the media storm had died down, Lock hadn’t given too much thought to Chance. She had been buried inside the prison system for life without parole. He remembered reading something about her having given birth, but that was about it. He’d had sporadic death threats from white supremacist and neo-Nazi groups, but he regarded them as regular people regarded junk email, and treated them in pretty much the same manner, by careful filtering.

  “He was taken from her shortly after he was born and placed for adoption,” Carmen continued.

  “How long did he stay with his mom?”

  “I’m not sure. It’s usually pretty quick in a case like that where the mother has no chance of being released. A couple of weeks, maybe.”

  For the first time Lock felt a twinge of compassion. Chance had been fostered after her father had gone to prison. To see her own son taken from her must have been heart-wrenching. “Was she allowed any kind of contact?” he asked.

  Carmen shook her head. “She tried, but no dice.”

  “And you think that was what this escape was about?”

  “I don’t know, but a son you had to give up is a pretty powerful motivator.”

  “So where is he?”

  “I don’t know,” said Carmen. “I’m pretty sure he was adopted by a family in California. But I don’t know where exactly. Mike would know. He was busy filing some kind of appeal that would have allowed her to find out.”

  “And did she?” Lock asked.

  “I’m not sure, I doubt it. But if she couldn’t get the information through the regular channels there would be other ways.”

  “Like pay someone?”

  “Or hack into the adoption records somehow,” Carmen added.

  Lock flashed back to how adept the kidnappers had been at encrypting their messages, at least until they’d slipped up. He didn’t know a lot about that world, but from what he’d seen he guessed they could do something as simple as access a sealed adoption record. Even if they couldn’t hack into the computer system, they had the contacts to find a civil servant who would be amenable to a bribe in return for the name of the family who had adopted the baby.

  Raising his cuffed hands, Lock rubbed at his chin.

  “What?” Carmen said to him.

  “This is it. This is our leverage.”

  “Her son?”

  He nodded. “We find him before they do and we’ll have something to use against her.”

  Carmen grimaced. Lock knew how it sounded. He was talking about using an innocent child as a bargaining chip. But maybe there was a way to do it that meant no one else had to get hurt.

  “You not forgetting something?” Carmen said, raising her cuffed hands.

  “A minor detail. You hang tight.”

  He walked to the door, and knocked against it with his forehead. A few moments later, a solitary shaven-headed, heavily tattooed guard opened it. Even cuffed, he would have been easy for Lock to overpower, but the others were still close by, and he didn’t want to place Carmen in further jeopardy. Not now he had the start of an idea as to how he could dig them out of the hole they were in.

  “I’m ready to go do this,” Lock told the guard. He leaned in to kiss Carmen’s cheek, aware that, if he couldn’t make his plan work, this might be the last time he’d see her.

  “Be safe,” she said to him.

  “You too.”

  He turned and walked out, leaving Carmen in the room. The guard closed the door and turned the key. Lock shuffled down the corridor, the ankle restraints hindering his movement.

  74

  After ten yards they stopped outside another locked door. The guard opened it, and motioned for Lock to step inside.

  Padre was sitting alone at a long wooden table. He got up as Lock entered, unsheathed a hunting knife, bent down and used it to sever the white plastic ankle restraints. “Take a seat,” he said to Lock.

  Lock held up his cuffed hands. “What about these?”

  “They stay on until we get to the safe house,” Padre growled.

  “We?”

  “Yeah. I’m going to be your partner for this gig.”

  At first Lock didn’t say anything. This added a whole other level of difficulty. “I’d rather work as a lone operator,” he said finally.

  Padre smirked. “I’m sure you would. But that ain’t happening. Too risky.”

  “You have Carmen as insurance.”

  “True enough, but that might not be enough to stop you doing something stupid.”

  Lock tried again: “Listen, I appreciate the help, but I’ll be more effective on my own. And, no offence, but you don’t exactly blend into the surroundings.”

  Padre’s smile grew wider. “We both know that ain’t true, or you wouldn’t have a partner. He don’t exactly blend either.”

  “That’s different. I’ve known Tyrone a long time. I know I can trust him. There’s an understanding between us. That kind of thing doesn’t happen overnight.”

  Padre seemed to give this some thought. “True.”

  “So what do you say?” Lock pressed. “Let me take care of this myself.”

  Padre sheathed his hunting knife. “How dumb do you think I am?”

  “You really want me to answer that?”

  “Funny guy.” Padre leaned in, grabbing Lock’s collar. “Case you have any ideas about backing out, or trying something, I ain’t letting you out of my sight until you’re done.”

  75

  Blindfolded and cuffed, Lock lay alone in the back of the pickup truck. He estimated they’d been driving for around forty minutes. Judging by the noise, and the start-stop nature of the journey, he estimated that the first ten had been on surface streets before they had made it onto a freeway. Now they were back on surface streets.

  The truck began to slow. Lock listened hard, but making out all but the most obvious of noises was impossible with the constant ringing in his ears. Along with everything else, it was beginning to grind away at him. He was exhausted, mentally and physically. He had to find a way to push through it. He had no other choice.

  Finally, the truck came to a stop. He heard the cab doors open and close. He counted them off. Three door slams would mean a minimum of three people riding up front, Padre and two others. He guessed the rest of the gang were still with Chance and Carmen.

  He’d spent the ride turning over in his mind what he had to do. Padre, Chance and the others might not have realized it but their threats against Carmen served only to make his life easier in some respects. Without a risk to her he might have been caught in two minds, torn by the morality of the choices he’d have to make. That was no longer the case. By threatening the woman he loved, they had only strengthened his resolve. When the time came, he would offer them the same quarter they had given him. None.

  The back of the truck opened. Hands grabbed his feet and dragged him over the truck bed and out. He struggled to stay upright. The same hands grabbed his wrists, cuffed in front of him, and guided him forward.

  “Watch the step,” Padre told him.

  Lock lifted his foot and tentatively put it down. He followed with his other foot. Padre pushed him forward.

  A dozen more steps and someone reached round and pulled down his blindfold. Lock closed his eyes, opening them slowly, allowing himself time to adjust to t
he light. In front of him was a large television screen. Behind him was a couch and two reclining chairs. Bare floorboards ran to white-painted walls. A bulb swung overhead. It looked like a crack house after a hasty clean-up. The odor of stale bodies and feces was such that Lock would have happily traded his sense of smell for his hearing.

  “Don’t worry,” said Padre. “We ain’t staying more than a night.” He clapped a hand on Lock’s shoulder. “Tomorrow’s game day, buddy.”

  “Now that we’re here, you mind taking these off?” Lock said, holding up his hands.

  “In a little while.”

  Lock couldn’t summon the energy to argue. There were other more pressing matters to deal with. Such as . . .

  “Chance has a son,” he said, framing it more as a statement than a question.

  Padre’s look of studied self-assurance evaporated. “Say what?”

  “That’s why she decided to get out. So she could go to him. I was just a bonus.”

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Padre countered, his expression at odds with his dismissal.

  “Sure you don’t,” said Lock.

  He had his answer in the way Padre’s eyes had darted from his to the floor and back again. Carmen’s hunch had been right. Lock was sure of it.

  “What’s this got to do with you, anyway? And how come you’re so interested?”

  “It doesn’t. I just like to understand what drives people. That’s all,” Lock told him.

  “All that drives us are the Fourteen Words.”

  “Chance too?”

  “Her too.”

  Padre backhanded a stream of sweat from his forehead. His eyes were wide, and not just with annoyance at Lock’s probing. He looked like he’d had a bump of something, most likely speed, on the drive over. That would make him less predictable, but also less focused.

  “Listen, can I get some water?” Lock asked. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

  “Sure,” Padre said, and stalked off.

  Through the doorway, Lock counted two others. With Padre that made three. They were all armed, or at least Lock had to assume they were. Still, three was a manageable number. Especially in such close quarters. All he needed was to have the cuffs off.

  He watched as Padre disappeared into the back of the house and one of the others wandered in to stand guard.

  Lock smiled at the guy, a scrawny mass of pimples and white power tattoos. “Nice place you have here,” he said, taking in the squalid surroundings with a sweep of his head. “Who was your decorator?”

  76

  Under the watchful gaze of United States Marshal Petrovsky, Ty picked his possessions out of the deep blue tray as a correctional officer ticked each one off against her list. As Ty lifted his SIG Sauer P229, Petrovsky leaned over the counter toward the officer.

  “That permitted?”

  With a theatrical sigh, she cranked her neck up from her paperwork. She shot Petrovsky a death stare that had no doubt been perfected over the years and now managed to convey an acidic disdain. “No. I’m releasing it to him because it’s completely illegal.”

  Petrovsky’s jaw tightened. “Just checking.”

  Ty’s smile was cut short as he lifted the next item from the tray and tried to hastily jam it into his front pocket.

  “Pack of Trojan condoms,” said the CO, making a tick against her list. She glanced up at Ty and gave him a searching look. “Magnum size. Really?”

  “Better safe than sorry,” said Ty, his massive shoulders offering a bashful shrug. He grabbed his cell phone. The CO moved down the list, her gaze floating back to Ty for a moment.

  “Apologies for breaking up this special moment, but I’m going to need a word with you before you leave,” said Petrovsky.

  “I’m listening.”

  “Good. Because what I’m about to tell you is deadly serious.”

  Stuffing his cell phone into the rear pocket of his jeans, Ty turned back to the marshal. “Go ahead.”

  “Stay out of my manhunt.”

  “That it?” Ty asked him.

  “You’re not going to interfere?”

  Ty stepped toward Petrovsky. The US marshal was tall, but Ty had several inches and at least fifty pounds of extra muscle. Petrovsky was no shrinking violet, but Ty’s aura was enough to wilt the most testosterone-fueled of men.

  “I just spent the last six hours in here on some bullshit charge that won’t even make it to court while Ryan and Carmen are out there, facing who knows what. And I’m the guy you’re warning?”

  Petrovsky’s face flushed.

  “I’ll stay out of your way, and you stay out of mine. How’s that?”

  “You’ve been warned,” said Petrovsky, doing a swift about-turn and heading for the exit as Ty scooped up the last of his belongings from the tray. The correctional officer handed him a pen and flipped the form around so that it was facing him. “Sign here.”

  Ty hastily scrawled his name, and followed the retreating Petrovsky toward the exit. Outside, Petrovsky had joined a small knot of other marshals and law-enforcement officers.

  Ty pushed his way past them and out through the gate. As he walked, he retrieved his phone, and tried to call Lock. A Hail Mary pass if ever there was one. It went to voicemail. No surprise. Ty was going to have to do this the hard way, and hope he wasn’t already too late.

  77

  Chance stalked into the room, a Glock holstered on her hip. She was carrying a TV tray loaded with sandwiches, a bag of potato chips, and a bottle of water. She placed it on a table in front of Carmen.

  “Thank you,” Carmen told her.

  Chance reached down to free Carmen’s hands. She caught her eyes drifting toward the Glock. “Don’t get any stupid ideas,” she cautioned her.

  “I won’t if you won’t,” Carmen said, trying to keep her tone light.

  From nowhere, Chance drew back her hand and delivered an open-palm slap across Carmen’s face. The force was enough to twist Carmen’s neck around thirty degrees.

  Chance put her hands on her hips. “What? You think you’re smarter than me or something?”

  Carmen didn’t respond. She wasn’t sure there was anything she could say that would pacify Chance. From having access to the woman’s prison records, she knew that her client was prone to sudden bouts of rage. Rage that, more often than not, took the form of physical violence. Even though Carmen saw Chance as a victim, she was also a perpetrator. A violent, unstable one, her white supremacist beliefs a thin justification for the darkness inside her.

  “You might be a lawyer, but you’re still a beaner,” Chance continued.

  “It’s not going to happen,” Carmen said.

  “What? What’s not going to happen?”

  “You seeing your son. Not if you go on like this. Look, let me try to help you. I can speak to the authorities. Agree to a deal that if you hand yourself in you can maybe have some kind of visitation. If he wants to see you.”

  Halfway through, Carmen realized she had made a terrible mistake. But it was already too late. The words were out there.

  Chance took a step back. Her right hand slid to the butt of the Glock. She peeled back the leather guard from the holster, and began to draw the weapon.

  “Did you tell him about my boy?” Chance asked, the gun clearing the holster.

  “Tell who?”

  “Your boyfriend. Who else?”

  “No, of course not. I’m bound by attorney-client . . .”

  Chance pressed the tip of the Glock’s barrel against Carmen’s lips. Carmen clenched her jaw, her teeth clamping together. Chance kept pushing, forcing the gun into Carmen’s mouth, her eyes wild with rage.

  “I’m going to take this gun out of your mouth in a second. And I want the truth. Lie to me and I’ll blow your head clean off.”

  Carmen began to choke as the barrel probed deeper into her mouth, pushing against her tongue and moving to the back of her throat. A second later, Chance pulled it out.
/>   “Well? Did you?”

  78

  Lock chewed slowly, then swallowed the last bite of food. He looked up at his lanky captor. “Can I get some water?”

  The man reached down for the bottle, slowly twisted the cap and raised it to Lock’s lips. Lock moved his head fractionally so that the water spilled down his chin, dribbling onto his shirt. “Damn. Sorry,” he said. “That was my fault.”

  “No problem.” The guy was studying him. Waiting for Lock to ask him to remove the cuffs. Then he would know Lock was up to something.

  “Can I have some more?”

  The guy put the bottle to Lock’s lips again. This time Lock kept his head steady. The guy tipped the bottle back a little further. Lock kept drinking. Like a man dying of thirst. He drank until the bottle was empty. The guy took it away.

  “Thanks. Guess I was thirstier than I thought,” he said, matter-of-fact.

  “You want anything more to eat?”

  Lock shook his head. “No. Feeling a little queasy to tell the truth.”

  A few more seconds passed in silence. The guy started to pick up. Lock squirmed in his seat.

  “Sorry about this, but I need to hit the head.”

  The guard sighed. “You need the john?”

  “Yeah, and quick, or I’m going to piss in my pants.”

  “Okay.”

  Lock stood. The guy followed him into the bathroom. Lock struggled to lower his zip so that he could pee. He didn’t say anything. Instead he held up his cuffed hands. “Kinda tricky. You couldn’t . . .” He was looking down at his crotch.

  “You want me to pull it out for you?”

  “I don’t want you to, no. But I can’t get it out otherwise and I don’t want to piss in my pants either, so here we are.”

  Lock made another show of trying to lower his zip and free himself, with no luck.

  The skinny guard sighed again. This wasn’t what he’d signed up for. Pulling another man’s junk so he could take a leak. He pulled a set of cuff keys from his pocket. “Don’t try anything, okay?”