The Lock Box, page 10
As they approached, Locke’s eyes zeroed in on Queen’s back pocket.
The edge of her phone was peeking out.
Locke bit down on her tongue to keep from running over and snatching the cell. A minute with that handset could solve everything; 911 could trace an emergency call from the cell towers or something. Even a quick text might bring the cavalry—how many abandoned warehouses this size could there be?
Still, Queen hadn’t let the phone out of her sight. The only time she’d even set the thing down was when she’d sparred with Jack.
Jack.
Locke glanced up the line. He was ladling something steamy from a pot into King’s bowl.
Could she pit Jack against Queen somehow? Create some kind of distraction to get her hands on the cell?
Locke didn’t have long to ponder it. Once King got served, Queen recoiled at whatever she saw inside the pot. She staggered around the far end of the cooking table to a small refrigerator against the wall.
As she crouched to rummage through it, Jack called over, “If you can’t handle hot pot, Queenie, it’s a good thing you dinna make it to Beijing.”
Queen shot to her full height at the remark. Although Jack turned his back to her, she looked ready to pounce on him again.
Huang’s voice rang out from the table, where he was already seated. “Queen. Come.”
Locke glanced over and saw him holding the medicine vial up again.
Queen’s eyes darted back and forth between them. Finally, she stomped over to Huang, who passed her a pill that she popped into her mouth.
“How about you, Ace? You brave enough to take a dip in my hot pot?”
Locke blinked several times. “Excuse me?”
“Sichuan hot pot.” Jack pointed a pair of tongs down into the vessel on the burner in front of him. “Traditional Chinese—you pick your meat, your veggies, and you drop ’em in here. They’re done in a flash.”
Locke peered down into the pot. Liquid the color of molten lava bubbled furiously inside. “Spicy?”
“Wee bit. If the boy kinna handle it, I’ll make him something else. But you … I’m guessing you can stand the heat.”
The look Jack gave her made Locke want to push the pot over and see how much heat he could tolerate. But she reminded herself she might need him later, without third-degree burns. She nodded down at Evan. “I’ll have whatever you can make for him. Something simple?”
“Aye.”
Moments later, Jack handed her a paper plate stacked with several grilled cheese sandwiches. Locke led Evan to the side wall and eased herself onto the floor. After giving him the most reassuring smile she could, she bit into her sandwich and watched the others.
With everyone served, Jack emerged from behind his cooking station. He beelined for Huang and squatted next to his chair. His voice rose when he asked, “Whatcha think, boss? Wèi dào rú hé?”
Huang’s expression soured. “A passable imitation.”
“Imitation. Really.” Jack wiped his hand down his face, the disappointment obvious. “They loved that recipe at the Peninsula in Hong Kong.”
“It is like your Mandarin—not bad, but obviously Cantonese. My own small village has better hot pots than this.”
Jack pinched the tip of his beard between his fingers. “You know, Sichuan Sun won a Michelin star while I ran the kitchen.”
“And yet you were relieved of your position.” Huang grunted, then shoved a wad of food into his mouth with his chopsticks.
Jack’s face paled at that.
Queen lowered her phone and turned her chair to watch.
Still chewing, Huang said, “Did you hear how many stars the restaurant won after you departed? They brought in a chef who was actually raised in Chengdu.”
Jack’s chin dropped to his chest. The muscles in one of his cheeks trembled.
Huang’s lips spread into a mocking grin as he scooped up another bite from his plate. “You should be thankful. Hong Kong has the nicest prisons in China, but they are still dangerous for laowai.”
Although Jack remained silent, Locke saw his shoulders shake beneath his baggy chef’s coat.
After a long pause, he abruptly turned to King on his opposite side. “At least you like my food, eh, big boy?”
King, who’d been immersed in the Miami Herald, slowly looked over at Jack.
“Not that I imagine a fella your size misses too many meals. I prolly coulda cooked cow shit and you’da swallowed it.”
The Giant gave Jack a look that would have flattened some buildings Locke knew.
Jack leaned down, hands on thighs. That put him at King’s eye level, just inches from the Giant’s face. “Best thing about you, even if you dinna like it, you’d never tell me.”
For such a mountain of a man, King moved in a blur. Exploding straight up off his chair, he seized Jack by the throat, lifted him like it was nothing, then slammed him down on the table.
When King reared his right hand back to throw a punch, Locke’s first thought was to applaud.
But the more her mind raced through it, she realized Jack getting his face flattened wasn’t the most positive development.
At best, it’d limit Jack’s ability to distract Queen.
At worst, King might actually kill him.
She had no idea what that would do to Huang’s plan. Or his need to hang on to Evan and her.
By the time Locke’s brain caught up with her body, she’d already bounced off the floor and dashed over to grab King’s elbow.
When the Giant glanced back and saw her holding his arm, Locke realized she was in deep, deep trouble.
CHAPTER
12
ALTHOUGH LOCKE SCRAMBLED to secure her grip, wrestling King’s elbow was like trying to tackle a normal-sized person at the waist. She was still fumbling when he lashed his arm out and flung her away.
Locke flew several feet, landing hard on the concrete.
When she looked back to the table, King was winding up again. She eyed the distance and knew immediately she couldn’t reach him before he threw the punch. She opened her mouth to yell.
Before she could, a different voice rang out.
“Stop it! Just stop—please!”
Evan had crossed over from the wall and now planted himself between her and King. From behind, she could see his shoulders heaving. His little fists clenched at his sides.
“You don’t meed to hurt anyone!” Evan yelled. “Stay away from my momma!”
As warm as his words made her feel, Locke’s stomach cinched at the thought of how they might provoke the Giant.
She scrambled up behind Evan and wrapped her arms tightly around him. With her head perched above his shoulder, she gave King a hard stare, her eyes announcing, You’ll have to go through me.
King started to turn back to Jack.
But Jack took full advantage of the distraction. He slid off the table, dragging King’s left wrist with him. Landing in a squat and spinning to the side, Jack hauled King’s massive arm up behind the Giant’s back, forcing him facedown onto the table.
“Not so mighty now, are you, big boy?”
Leaning over King’s back, Jack yelled the question directly into his ear. He even twisted King’s wrist to emphasize the point.
King’s other arm flew back behind his head and seized Jack by his ponytail.
As Jack yelped in pain, Locke could see the steel bands in King’s forearm flexing to flip Jack onto the table like a rag doll.
But another sound cut through the din this time. One Locke recognized immediately.
The metallic click-clack of a round being chambered into a semiautomatic pistol.
“Enough,” Huang said. He’d moved behind them and pointed the gun at Jack’s midsection. “Let each other go. Or I will shoot both of you.”
Neither man budged.
The deafening crack of a gunshot ripped through the air.
Locke’s heart froze at the sound. She clamped one hand over Evan’s eyes, and as the noise echoed around the concrete walls, she tried to shield his little ears with her elbows. At the same time, she searched frantically for some sign of where the bullet might have struck.
A stream of red liquid began pouring out a hole in the side of the hot pot. Steam rose off the floor as the broth splashed and spilled.
“There is only one indispensable person here,” Huang said. “And it is not either of you.”
This time, the two men released each other—Jack pushing himself away from King as King popped up off the table and whipped around to face him.
As the two men glared at each other, Huang took his finger off the trigger and raised the barrel toward the ceiling. “No more childish fighting, understand?” He turned to each of them in turn. “You all stand to make lots of money if you do not throw it away on this … foolishness.”
After a moment of silence, Huang addressed Locke specifically. “I’m glad to see you have not lost your … fighting spirit since departing the army, Ms. Locke. You will need it.”
Huang’s words sent a shudder down her spine.
He’d been calling her Locke, but if he knew about her service, that meant he knew her name, knew everything.
But how?
Personnel records like hers should have been sealed up tight. And what could he possibly have planned that was anything like Camp Taji?
Huang didn’t provide any additional clues. Instead, he marched over to King and slapped the Giant’s chest with the back of his hand. “Of everyone, I expected better from you. Perhaps you’ve forgotten where I found you, how much debt I assumed to procure your freedom. If I default, it is not me that your former employers will hunt down.”
King’s jaw clenched.
“Or perhaps you simply aren’t as intelligent as I believed. Perhaps your mind requires as much repair as that lump in your neck.”
After the way he’d tossed Jack around, Locke imagined King might pluck Huang off the ground and hurl him somewhere.
But, to Locke’s surprise, the Giant turned and stormed away toward the offices.
A few seconds later, a boom rivaling the gunshot echoed around the warehouse.
Huang didn’t react to the slamming door. He simply returned to his seat and resumed eating.
With the excitement over, Queen’s eyes dropped back to her phone, while Jack started for the corner behind his cooking table. As he crossed Locke’s line of sight, though, he glanced over at her. His face was etched with pain and fatigue, but he held her eyes for a moment, then gave her a pronounced nod.
Before she could decide how Jack’s appreciation might help, Evan spun to face her. He wasn’t crying, but his breathing was ragged. “I’m—I’m sorry …”
Locke smiled sweetly. “For what?”
“For getting … angry and … yelling, I just—”
“Oh, baby.” She pulled him into a hug. “You were so brave.”
His chin pressed on her shoulder, and he returned the squeeze. “I wasn’t gomma let them hurt you again.”
She rubbed his back and shushed him.
After another minute, Evan withdrew from the embrace. “Will we be okay?”
Locke closed her eyes and nodded. “Of course.” She pulled him in closer and whispered, “I’ll get us out of here. I’m already working on it.”
* * *
Once Huang finished eating, he shepherded Locke and Evan back to their spaces.
As they neared the play area, Locke shooed Evan ahead, then veered for her own workspace to lead Huang away from him. At the safe, she turned and found Huang had stopped at the fencing.
He raised an eyebrow. “Success? Opening the locks?”
“Working on it.”
His lips pursed. “By dinner, progress!”
With that, he marched up and into the plywood structure. Once the others joined him, Locke did another quick mental count before considering her next move.
She saw only two options now. One was the sliding metal door. Although part of her itched to run and try it, she imagined it had to be locked. And the noise still scared her. If Huang intercepted her attempting to escape, who knew what he’d do to keep her from trying again. The door seemed like her last-ditch.
Locke’s other idea was to search the offices. Queen kept her phone with her, but King or Jack might have one. Or a computer, or a gun. Something useful in those suitcases.
The question was, did she have time?
As if in response, a rapid clunk-clunk-clunk sounded, and Queen appeared at the top of the staircase. She skipped halfway down the flight, then grabbed the railing and threw herself over.
When her feet hit the concrete floor, Queen tumbled into a forward roll. One full somersault deposited her back on her feet, jogging toward the offices.
She returned a moment later, carrying what looked like a small satin clutch. When she saw Locke watching, Queen raised the bag into the air. “A girl needs her purse!”
After she disappeared inside again, Locke told herself the suitcases needed to wait. At least for a while, to ensure the crew was preoccupied.
She might as well give the Ticonderoga another shot.
Given her troubles this morning, though, she decided to change strategies. Instead of guessing blind, Locke deliberately reset the combination to 20-40-60-80-00 so she could focus on certain regions of the dial.
After getting all the combination wheels spinning, Locke brought the dial around toward 20. This time, she closed her eyes as she passed 10, trying to sense even the slightest bit of difference.
Feeling nothing, she opened her eyes and found she’d gone all the way to 25.
She’d blown right past the notch.
With a frustrated sigh, she continued around past 10 again. This time, she slowed her spin to a crawl. Closing her eyes, she continued at the new pace until …
Was that something?
It sure wasn’t much—just the tiniest little slip. Less disturbance than a mosquito made landing on your arm. An eyelash on your cheek.
Her eyes flicked open. The dial sat at 18.
She jotted that number down. Then she turned slowly again …
to 20 …
21 …
There!
She felt it again at 22—the tiniest little slip.
The wheel notch must be four digits wide. And she’d just managed to detect the bar moving against its edges.
Now she needed to see if the pattern held for the other wheels.
Knowing the next digit was 40, Locke spun back in the opposite direction. She sped along until the dial was ten digits away at 50, then slowed to a crawl.
Time to see if she could feel it.
Eyes closed, she nudged the dial forward one millimeter at a time.
There!
She sensed the slip again.
Locke opened her eyes and saw the indicator arrow pointing to 42. A beaming smile spread across her face.
Eat your heart out, Jeff Sitar.
Although she assumed the Colonial craftsmen would make things match, she methodically proceeded through the rest of the combination. Every time, the result was identical. Two digits before and after each combination number, she noticed the same, infinitesimally small change in the dial.
But she’d felt it.
After setting the final number, she turned the little handle located next to the combination dial. When it yielded, she pulled the door open for effect. A cool breeze might as well have been hiding inside the safe, as a wave of satisfaction washed over her, neutralizing the heat. She was still a long way from being able to decipher an unknown combination, but now she had something to work with.
Reward time.
Locke stood and motioned to Evan where she was going. When he returned a thumbs-up, she made like she was headed for the bathrooms.
At the matching doors, she paused and gave the plywood structure one last look.
Its walls were solid, no windows or gaps. No way for those inside to see her.
Tightening her toes, Locke took off, trying her best to keep the plastic shoes from flapping and slapping as she sprinted for the offices.
Even from a distance, the locks on the door handles looked cheap, meant to discourage lazy thieves or slow down stupid ones. When she reached the first office, though, she found the handle turned freely.
Locke slipped silently inside. Enough light poured through the plexiglass wall that she didn’t bother with the wall switch.
Spacious compared to her janitor’s closet, the office was still tiny. A suit bag on a hook covered nearly one entire wall. That, together with a thick textbook resting on an air mattress on the floor, tipped her that this must be King’s room. She hadn’t seen anyone else reading, although she wondered why he was interested in cancer.
A canvas suitcase pushed into one corner didn’t bear a name, only an address in Mississippi. Sweeping her palms through the bag, she found clothes similar to King’s outfit—athletic wear in various combinations of orange, white, and gray. Most pieces had frayed seams or bore obvious holes.
Up near the handle, her fingers brushed something hard. When she pulled it out, she discovered it was some kind of shoulder holster. Empty, no gun to go with it.
Nice to know King might be carrying.
In the next office, a long garment bag hung from a wall hook. The opaque container didn’t reveal much about the gown inside, but peekaboo plastic up top showed shimmery black fabric.
Locke ignored the dress and went straight for the suitcases underneath it. Queen had two, a rolling carry-on like King’s and a smaller chrome train case encrusted with rhinestones.
Dropping to her knees, Locke hit the sparkly bag first. Although she virtually never wore makeup, she recognized it from work around Hollywood as the kind of heavy-duty cosmetics carrier actresses and dancers preferred. The case didn’t open so much as it unfolded—the upper half split in two, revealing cantilevered trays that lifted up and out to the side.
Locke’s eyes scanned quickly over more lip glosses and eye shadows than she’d ever owned. Underneath, she found a tray filled with manicure tools. These looked like torture implements—spikes and scissors of various sizes—but Locke realized they might make perfect lockpicks. Thinking of the padlocks on the emergency doors, she selected several different sizes and wedged them into her waistband.
