The Innocent: The New Ryan Lock Novel (29 page)

In no mood to wait for directions, Lock skirted them, and ran down the side of the building, pushing past survivors who were stumbling into the freezing night air. He stepped over a dead body splayed half in and half out of an emergency exit, and ducked inside.

Ty’s cell phone vibrated in his position. He read the text from Lock and took a deep breath. He pressed his cell phone’s earpiece into his right ear, and tucked the phone into his pocket. He drew his SIG and made sure it was racked, ready to go.

Gun in hand, his feet clattered on the first of the metal steps as he began the climb to the roof space. He checked behind for Malik, relieved that his friend had followed his instruction to go back outside and help the injured. Down below, he could hear shouts as the surviving cops regrouped. With any luck, they wouldn’t get in Lock’s way.

The shooting from high above the basketball court seemed to have stopped. Ty slowed down, trying to minimize the noise of his feet on the metal treads. He had six steps to go before his head would clear the top of the ladder and he’d be exposed. Five steps from the top, he’d be able to sight and fire. He would have one shot at Daniel Svenson. If he missed, he’d be coming back down the ladder a hell of a lot faster than he’d climbed up it.

Lock opened the door, and stepped into the private box. Four ran the length of the court. Each offered the highest vantage-point of the stadium. He guessed they were used by the college to entertain trustees, donors and other VIPs. This one was at the far end and gave him a view of the steel gantry built into the roof.

He hunkered down and duck-walked to the window. His eyes adjusted to the darkness. He circled a long conference table, reached the viewing window, got down on his knees and peered out.

Midway along the gantry he could make out the man hunkered down, an assault rifle in his hands, his torso covered with a body armor vest. Lock hit the call button on his cell and waited for Ty to answer.

Ty reached down and tapped the answer icon on his cell phone’s screen. He didn’t speak. Lock’s voice filtered through his earpiece: ‘You’re clear. He’s looking down. He’ll be on your left, about twelve down the walkway from your entry point. He’s hunkered down, wearing a vest. Looks like it has plates. You’ll have to go for a head shot. I could try if I had a rifle but I’m not close enough here.’

Lock stayed on the line as Ty hauled himself up another rung of the ladder. He could feel his heart thumping hard enough to burst clean out of his chest. Adrenalin shot through his body. Ty eased his right boot onto the next tread. Three steps to go, and then it was down to the one-shot deal to end all one-shot deals.

Daniel Svenson shuffled down the walkway a few feet, staring through the scope of his rifle as the last stragglers fled the arena. A fat cop darted from behind a row of seats. Daniel swung the barrel of his rifle round, sighted and squeezed the trigger, catching the cop in the right knee. He went down, screaming like a stuck pig.

A man’s voice came from his right.

‘I’m not armed. May I come up?’

Daniel lowered the rifle and spun round as a black guy popped his head up. Daniel trained the rifle on him, and flicked the lever to the three-round-burst setting as Malik Shaw hauled himself onto the gangway.

Lock saw Malik as he surfaced from the opposite end of the gangway to Ty. ‘What the hell?’ he said, forgetting that Ty was still patched in. ‘Ty, stay where you are. Svenson’s got company up there. Just hold your position for now.’

In that instant, Lock knew that if he told Ty that Malik was up there, he would move fast to take the shot and, with the situation as delicately balanced as it was, fast could get both men killed. If someone else popped their head up from the other end of the walkway, Daniel Svenson would likely assume a trap and open up on Malik without stopping to ask questions.

‘Ty, listen, it’s a negotiator. I can’t get a good look, but it might be Levon. He’s come up the ladder at the other end. Svenson’s holding his fire so sit tight. You can take the final two rungs, but real slow, real quiet, and don’t clear the top until I tell you.’

Malik had figured out a whole long speech while was he climbing up there. Now he was facing down Daniel Svenson’s assault rifle, he wasn’t so sure.

Daniel had the rifle by his side, but it was still pointed toward Malik. ‘What do you want?’

‘You know who I am, right?’

Daniel nodded.

‘They killed my wife. My son. My little girl. You know that too?’

He gave another nod. ‘And now I killed them.’

‘That doesn’t make me feel any better,’ said Malik.

Daniel took a step toward him. ‘That’s what you came up here to tell me?’

‘You sent me that text, right?’

Daniel nodded.

‘Then you owe me way more than I owe you. Give yourself up,’ Malik told him. ‘There’s been enough killing.’

‘Get out of here,’ Daniel said to him.

Malik noticed a large canvas bag lying next to Daniel. The zip was open. From what he could see in the gloom, it didn’t look like it was full of cupcakes or a change of clothes. Malik had never seen a grenade, apart from on TV, but he guessed that that was what the green fist-sized metal balls with the spoon handles were.

Daniel took his eyes off Malik for a second as a phalanx of a half-dozen SWAT officers in full body armor and carrying anti-blast shields shuffled into the arena. ‘Okay then,’ said Daniel. ‘Stay for the show.’ He reached down to the bag and brought up one of the grenades.

Without thinking, Malik hunkered down, like he was playing defense, and pushed off, launching himself at Daniel. Daniel began to raise his rifle, but Malik was too close. The rifle dropped from his hands.

In the next half-second there was a flash of silver, and Malik took what he thought was a punch to the chest. It was like no punch he’d ever felt. It seemed to empty his lungs instantly, and a searing hot pain exploded in the center of his body, tearing its way down his left arm. He looked down to see the handle of a knife sticking out of his chest. He felt sick. He staggered back as Daniel advanced on him, reaching to his waist and coming up with a handgun. Malik tried to raise his feet to shield himself from the shot.

Everything slowed in front of him. There was a blinding flash. At first he thought it was the blaze of gunfire. Then he realized that the stadium lights had been switched back on.

A black shape rose from the space behind Daniel as his finger began to squeeze the trigger of the gun aimed at Malik. There was a loud clang as the round hit the top of the metal handrail, missing Malik by less than a foot.

Ty was on top of Daniel who was face down on the walkway. Daniel did his best to wriggle out, the gun still in his hand. Ty grabbed for his wrist, but he moved it away just in time.

Ty drew back one of his massive hands, bunching it into a fist, and slamming a punch into the back of Daniel’s head. Malik heard the dull crunch of bone as it made contact. Daniel’s grip loosened on the gun. Ty managed to prise it from his hand, peeling back his fingers one by one, breaking the first two with a snap before he would let go.

A face loomed over Malik as he lay bleeding. Ty’s partner Lock punched out his SIG, aiming at Daniel, as Ty dug a knee into his back. Malik was starting to drift. The lights around him were fading. He closed his eyes. His mouth was dry. He could feel himself letting go. The pain was receding. Kim appeared in front of him. Not as a victim but as the young woman he’d married. He was standing at the front of the church as the doors opened and she appeared on her father’s arm. She smiled at Malik as their eyes met.

More than anything, Malik wanted to be back with her. Her and the kids. If he could just allow himself to surrender, he could be. Then he heard a shout, and Kim faded.

‘Bomb!’ screamed Lock, as he saw the grenade appear in Daniel Svenson’s left hand, his fingers working frantically at the pin, easing it out.

Lock dove over Malik and grabbed for it. Daniel’s grip was tight. His fingers closed around it. His knuckles were white with the effort.

For all Lock knew the pin was no longer in contact with the rest of the device. Trying to prise the man’s fingers from it would risk Daniel losing pressure on the spoon lever that prevented the grenade exploding. There was only one option.

Lock pressed the barrel of his SIG Sauer 229 into the back of Daniel Svenson’s head at the approximate point where the bottom of his brain stem met the top of the spinal column. He pulled the trigger, firing a single round.

Daniel’s body spasmed. His fingers opened. The grenade rolled from his grasp, the spoon-shaped lever popped out. The fuse delay was four seconds. Lock swatted at the device as fast as he could, pushing it over the edge of the metal gangway to the empty court below.

Malik felt the press of a body landing on top of him. Seconds later there was a deafening bang that popped his ears, and sent fragments of metal slicing through the air around him. When he opened his eyes again, Ty was kneeling next to him. Lock was leaning over the edge of the walkway shouting for a medic.

Malik looked at Ty, who took his hand. ‘Stay with me, okay?’

Lock stood in the car park and watched Ty help two paramedics load Malik Shaw into the back of the ambulance. He was hooked up to a blood bag, but he was still somehow breathing on his own. In itself that was a miracle, given where the knife had penetrated. Lock had tried to persuade Ty to get himself checked over, but the retired marine had treated his suggestion with contempt. He had come here to help his friend, and he wasn’t quitting now.

Lock took in the chaos as more and more emergency personnel responded. A helicopter sent from St Paul was touching down in a field next to the stadium. The wind whipped up from its blades rustled the edges of the black plastic body-bags laid out in the car park.

Kelly Svenson sat in the back of a nearby patrol car. Her head was bowed, and she was sobbing. He wondered whether she was crying for her dead brother, the man he had killed, or the innocent people who had come to remember Becker and Reeves’s victims and somehow ended up as collateral damage.

Lock doubted it mattered. There was more than enough guilt, blame and misery for this town to last ten generations. His hand had developed a tremor. He had noticed it as he’d climbed back down the ladder. It was slight, barely visible, but it was there, and he hadn’t managed to throw it off. He figured it was an echo of putting a gun to the back of a man’s head and pulling the trigger.

To Lock, it had never made sense to describe an individual as evil. Becker could have been said to be evil. But that didn’t seem adequate. It was too neat. Evil was more fluid, more amorphous than that. Evil cascaded down. It worked its way outwards, corroding what it touched, taking even the innocent and twisting them back on themselves. That was what had happened with Daniel Svenson, a little boy who had grown into an adult with an uncontainable rage. Lock took no comfort from having ended his life. He had done what he needed to do to save Ty, Malik and himself.

Morality hadn’t come into the equation when it had come time for him to pull the trigger. At the end, all that remained were degrees of loss.

Lock holstered his weapon, and walked toward the small knot of FBI agents still gathered at the stadium entrance, Dennis Lee and Levon Hill among them. He was ready to give them his statement.

Long Beach, California

Five months later

His right arm still in a sling, Malik Shaw bounced the basketball three times. Ty stood under the hoop and spread his arms wide. The last splash of sunlight from a perfect California fall day was fading on the horizon.

‘This is a dumb-ass idea,’ said Ty. ‘What did the doc say to you? No strenuous exercise for another three weeks.’

Malik stopped, the ball gripped in his left hand. ‘You’re just afraid of getting your ass whopped by a guy with one good arm.’

‘Yeah, right,’ said Ty.

They had both come back to their hometown for a high school reunion that was short on men. Most of their male classmates were either dead, their lives lost to drugs or violence, or in prison. Ty had joked that they would have been better holding the reunion at one of California’s many maximum-security correctional facilities.

Malik started toward the basket. Ty stepped in front of him. Malik spun round a full 360 degrees, the quickness of his feet sending Ty sprawling to the ground. Malik stopped, drew back his good arm and sent the ball sailing toward the basket. It swooped through without touching metal. He walked back and reached down. Ty took his hand, and Malik helped him back to his feet. Breathing heavily, the two men stood in silence for a moment, watching the orange sun duck below the skyline as the day drew to a close.