They weren’t going to outrun them and even if that was a possibility it would have been a bad idea. The city was saturated with police and army units. They could turn off and hope that they weren’t followed but this was a busy main artery with lots of people around and that was good, as far as Lock was concerned. If they were going to be stopped, he wanted witnesses.
He reached down, unfastened his holster, and threw it into the back of the vehicle. Ty did the same. Glancing into the side mirror, Lock saw two more Policia Federal vehicles bearing down on them. One was an SUV, the other a pick-up truck. Both had their lights on. The pick-up tucked in behind them as the SUV moved out and pulled up alongside.
It was a textbook stop, leaving them nowhere to go. The Dodge in front slowed and Ty braked, easing their vehicle to a halt. Ty, with his upbringing in Long Beach, was well versed in being stopped by the law. He switched off the engine and kept his hands on the wheel.
The door of the Federal pick-up snapped open and the barrel of a Heckler amp; Koch UMP popped through the gap between sill and door to cover the rear of their vehicle. More doors opened. More cops emerged, all of them kitted out in black body armour. They began to move in, slowly at first, then more rapidly.
A cop faced Lock, who had his hands at shoulder level, palms open, fingers wiggling in the air to make it clear as crystal that he wasn’t carrying. The passenger door was wrenched open, and before he had a chance to step out, a gloved hand gripped his shoulder and hauled him out, forcing him face down on to the blacktop. Boots kicked at his feet, forcing his legs apart. His hands were grabbed and pulled painfully behind his back, then cinched with cuffs so tight that the metal was crushing his wrists. Hands delved into pockets, fingers jabbing against thighs and chest, before his wallet was taken, along with his cell phone and the picture he had been carrying of Charlie Mendez.
He lifted his head long enough to glimpse Ty getting the same treatment. His friend followed his lead, not saying anything and offering zero resistance. The sole of a boot squashed the back of his neck, forcing his back down on to the road. He heard their vehicle being opened, and shouts of excitement from the Federales as they went through their bags.
Pain screaming from his wrists and up into his shoulders, he was hauled to his feet and marched across to a black and white meat wagon. Two bench seats ran either side. He slumped down into one, his back to the metal panel. At least now he could get a better view of what was happening. Above, he heard chopper blades thrashing the air. The metal cage door of the wagon swung open and Ty was pushed in. He sat opposite him and flashed a smile.
‘We’re screwed, ain’t we?’ he said.
Lock took a moment to think it over. ‘Pretty much.’
The cage door was shut and two bolts slid across to secure it. The rear door slammed. The engine chugged into life and the wagon trundled forward, slowly picking up speed.
They had to brace their feet against the opposite bench to avoid being thrown on to the floor. Bouncing along in the back, Lock wondered if Brady had enjoyed a ride like this on the day he had died.
Thirty-four
Fifteen minutes later, the police wagon began to slow. Then it came to a halt. The engine died. Car doors opened and closed and excited voices were speaking in Spanish. The next few moments would give Lock some clue as to their fate. If the rear doors opened to fields or a disused warehouse, it was all over.
In the next moments that passed, he felt strangely calm. Normally he would have been going back over what he might have done differently, how he might have avoided the situation. But he found himself feeling supremely indifferent to everything. No one had forced him to come here looking for Mendez. He had done it because it was the right thing to do and because someone had to. If it ended in his death, he could accept that.
What did he have to live for anyway?
The words appeared from the ether. They felt simultaneously juvenile and right. He looked at Ty, who had closed his eyes. The man sitting across from him was his only cause for regret.
‘Hey, Ty.’
‘Whassup?’
‘I’m sorry, man.’
‘Nobody put a gun to my head. Not yet anyway. I knew what I was getting into. Felt bad for that girl too. Fuck it. If this is how I go out then so be it. I’ve lasted longer than most of my home-boys. I ain’t gonna go out crying about how life ain’t fair and shit. Hell, even if it’s over now, it’s turned out better than I thought it would. Kinda have one regret, though.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Eighth grade. Tynisha Brown offered to blow me at her grandma’s house when we were walking back from church. I turned her down because she was supposed to be dating one of my boys. Kind of wish I’d let her now. Man, she had some pair of lips. I tell you, she didn’t get ’em sucking oranges either, boy. Tynisha. Goddamn. Fine like cherry wine.’
‘Ty?’ said Lock.
‘Yeah?’
‘Do me a favour?’
‘Name it.’
‘Shut the hell up.’
‘What can I say? I talk too much when I’m nervous.’
Outside, the voices fell away to be replaced by silence. The temperature in the back of the wagon began to rise. Sweat prickled on Lock’s forehead until he could taste the salt on his lips. They sat in silence, baking in the heat and waited. If they were to be interrogated, this was probably part of it. Let them marinate for a little while and become dehydrated. Keep them quiet. Give them time to think the worst. An hour or two would be nothing to a bunch of cops sitting in an air-conditioned station house playing cards and watching TV. To two men sitting in the back of a wagon in a foreign country, uncertain of their fate, it would be an eternity. Unless, of course, they were men to whom waiting for something bad to happen was part of the fabric of their working lives.
Lock got as comfortable as he could, closed his eyes and went to sleep. Take it where you can, he figured — even if the big sleep might be just around the corner. Plus, Lock knew from experience that there was nothing more guaranteed to tee off a cop than finding a prisoner so nonchalant and unconcerned about his fate that he didn’t have the nervous energy required to keep his eyes open.
No sooner had he drifted off than the faces were appearing, floating somewhere between him and Ty. The first few he recognized. Carrie. Melissa. His mother, who had been dead a long time. Then others came, and these were the ones he found most unsettling. He could see them completely clearly, yet he had no idea who they were and why they were staring at him, silently pleading for his help. One was white but the others were Hispanic. All women. All young. All scared. Their fear and despair rolled from their eyes like vapour.
‘Ryan! Ryan!’
His name was being called. His eyes flew open. Ty had stretched out a boot to kick him in the shin. ‘Wake up, man.’
He took a moment to find his bearings. ‘What is it?’
‘You were twitching like a hound dog chasing rabbits in his sleep.’
Lock tilted his head back. ‘I was dreaming.’
A voice could be heard outside. A woman’s.
Ty called, ‘Can we get some water in here?’
There was no reply. A second later a hatch at the front of the cage opened and a bottle of water was thrown through. It bounced on to the floor.
‘We still got cuffs on,’ Ty called out, but the hatch closed with a snap of metal.
The cab door opened, and the bench under Lock shifted fractionally as someone got in and sat down. The door slammed. The engine roared back into life. There was a grinding of gears, as if the person at the wheel hadn’t driven it before. Lock looked at Ty as the wagon began to reverse, jolted to a stop and lurched forward, slowly picking up speed. Whatever was happening, wherever they were going, it wasn’t good.