Free Deadlock (Ryan Lock 2) by Sean Black Page A

buying vital seconds before any guards on the yard or, more crucially, in the gun tower noticed anything was happening.
    At first all went well, the mid-afternoon heat ensuring that a brisk pace, with lots of baskets and fouls that bordered on common assault, quickly slowed the game to a walking pace. Lock went up against Phileas, dribbling the ball round him and catching an elbow in his abdomen for his trouble. As Lock doubled over, Phileas stole the ball and headed for the basket. Reaper stuck out a foot to trip him but Phileas feinted left and scored a deft two-pointer which sparked whoops of delight from his team-mates.
    After fifteen minutes of barely contained mayhem, Phileas, the gnarled leader of the Nazi Low Riders, called a time-out and both teams gathered under the basket to catch their breath. Reaper scraped a hand across his stubble, then grabbed the ball and was off, moving down court at a steady clip. Lock jogged after him, as did Phileas, the proper game seemingly over.
    Reaper passed the ball to Lock, then started to wander back down towards the inmates.
    Phileas caught up with Lock. ‘Come on then, soldier, let’s play a little one on one.’
    Lock bounced the ball, eyes flicking back down the court to Reaper.
    ‘Don’t worry about your cellie,’ Phileas said. ‘He can take care of himself. Believe me.’
    ‘I never doubted it.’
    Phileas lunged for the ball, but Lock shifted back, keeping it just out of his reach. Phileas narrowed his eyes and half-turned so he was focused on the group of black inmates moving slowly from the benches, ready to head back into the unit.
    ‘The toad you came in with,’ Phileas said.
    Lock’s hackles rose as he heard his friend being abused for the second time that day. Under any other circumstance, Nazi Low Rider shot caller or not, the guy would be choking to death on his own tongue. ‘His name’s Tyrone.’
    Phileas shrugged. ‘You name your pets?’
    Lock tensed as Phileas dived in again, taking the basketball with the tips of his fingers, dribbling it four more steps, setting up for the shot, then stopping, both hands on the ball.
    ‘We want him dead. And we want you to do it.’
    ‘Forget it,’ Lock said, moving round so his back was to the hoop and he had a clear view all the way down the court to Reaper, and beyond to the black inmates and Ty.
    ‘Time to wet your steel, soldier,’ Phileas said as Lock watched Ty bumping fists with the other black inmates. ‘Next yard, Lock. You kill him or we kill you.’

16
    It was early morning when Chance once again shuffled through the metal detector in the lobby of the Federal Building. This visit, she’d still worn an underwire bra but also a crop top, which emphasized the fact she was pregnant. The metal detector beeped and she was asked to stand to one side. It was a different female guard this time, which came as a relief. The woman wanded Chance with the handheld detector, which sounded as it passed over Chance’s chest and lower abdomen. Then she moved on to patting her down.
    As the female guard moved her hand over Chance’s belly, Chance winced.
    ‘You OK?’ asked the guard.
    ‘Sorry, I’m just a little tender there.’
    Chance could read the female guard’s discomfort. She finished the search by moving her hands away quickly down Chance’s legs and checking the soles of her shoes.
    ‘OK, ma’am, you have a nice day.’
    Chance slipped away towards the bank of elevators and headed up to the tenth floor. There, she walked briskly towards the disabled bathroom. She locked the door behind her, pulled off her jeans and panties, lowered the toilet seat and set about retrieving the package of cellophane-wrapped C4 explosive and detonator cap from inside her vaginal cavity. She placed the package in the sink, pulled her panties and jeans back on, and slipped off her bra. In less than ten seconds she had pulled the length of wire from her bra, which she now stuffed into her bag, taking out a newly