Gridlock: A Ryan Lock Novel Read Online Free PDF Page A

directly underneath the house at high tide hadn’t bothered him. It was only with the arrival of the Santa Ana winds, and the way that the tides now sucked sand from the beach to expose the jagged black rocks, that he had become unsettled.
    There was some small consolation in knowing that he wasn’t alone. The dry, hot winds unsettled everything, leaving wild fires in their wake as well as giving rise to the vicious rip tides that clawed away at the sand, dragging it back into the water.
    The seasonal winds took their toll on human beings as well. Back in ’84 the howl of the Santa Anas had been pierced by the screams of the victims of Richard Ramirez, the serial killer dubbed the Night Stalker, as he carved a bloody trail across the city. This kind of nightmare manifestation made flesh was rare but still every year the winds brought a sharp, sudden spike in violent crime. Perhaps this was why the original settlers had dubbed the Santa Anas ‘the devil’s winds’.
    As the rocks continued to pound against the wood, Lock glanced over to the red digits that burned next to him. It was close to five in the morning. Too early, really, to get up but too late to stay in bed awake.
    He got up as quietly as he could, leaving Carrie lying asleep on her side, her hands folded like a pillow under her head, and their yellow Labrador, Angel, sprawled across the bottom of the bed, her jowls twitching as she chased imaginary sea monsters.
    Measuring every step with care, he walked downstairs. In the kitchen, he filled a glass with water from the faucet and took a sip.
    He opened the dishwasher, and a rush of warm, wet air filtered out. He pulled out the top rack a few inches, jamming the door open. Then he walked to the large sliding door that fronted one half of the house, pulled it open and stepped out on to the smaller of the beach house’s two decks.
    Looking over the guard rail he could see the white foam of the surf. The air out here was cold. Off to his right Big Rock, a cluster of huge rock formations, lay about thirty feet from the edge of the houses that crowded the coastline. Might as well enjoy all this while it lasts, he thought.
    He had come out to Los Angeles a few weeks ago to provide close protection security to an overly paranoid movie actress, who was having problems with an ex-boyfriend who wouldn’t accept that their relationship was over. Unusually for one of his protection gigs, Carrie had tagged along for the ride. The work had paid ridiculously well. The beach house, a second home that the star in question rarely used, had been thrown in as part of Lock’s remuneration, saving them the cost of a hotel or small apartment.
    The troublesome former boyfriend had turned out to be an Australian actor. He played tough-guy action heroes and took the method approach a little too seriously. In the end Lock had got him alone in a parking structure in Westwood and explained the difference between fiction and reality, illustrating his point by dangling the action hero over the edge of the roof while rush-hour traffic sped past five hundred feet below. The guy had taken the hint, and the movie actress had been so grateful to get him out of her life that she had offered Lock the use of the beach house for as long as he wanted. Lock had thanked her, but regular life called, at least for Carrie, and in two days’ time they were due to fly back to New York, Carrie to her job as a news reporter and Lock to whatever corporate security gig came up next.
    He went back inside the house, pulling the glass door closed behind him. On the kitchen counter his BlackBerry was vibrating. He crossed to it, picked it up, and studied the glow of the screen.
    The number was showing as unknown and, above that, the time as 04:56 hours. Out of habit, Lock answered it.
    Before he even had the phone to his ear, he could hear a woman on the other end of the line, her voice ragged and husky, as if she had only recently stopped crying.
    Lock listened