Tin Man

by Dale Brown

  Sensing the tension, he showed his retired-policeofficer

  and licensed-private-investigator identification

  , including his concealed-carry permit. "We're

  coming from Mather jetport," he explained. "I'm

  escorting Dr. Masters and General McLanahan

  home."

  The officer heard the name "McLanahan" and

  stopped at once, recognizing Patrick in the backseat

  . "Sorry to have bothered you, sir," he said, and

  nodded to his partner to stop his flashlight probe.

  "Have a good night."

  "No problem at all, officer Patrick said.

  "What's going on?"

  "Couldn't tell you, sir. Where are you folks

  headed?"

  "Old Sac. Front and L."

  "The Sarge's Place." The officer obviously recognized

  the address. "I'll call ahead and make sure

  you're not bothered again-we have checkpoints set

  up all over. Have a good evening."

  The other checkpoint they encountered did a cursory

  inspection, probably so it wouldn't seem as if

  they were exempting anyone, then, waved them

  through. Ed helped Jon into the apartment, then

  wished them good night and departed. Jon was moving

  about fairly well, but Patrick was close at hand

  to help him as he undressed and got ready for bed.

  "Jon, I am so sorry for this," Patrick said for the

  umpteenth time. "I promise you, this will never

  happen again. Never."

  "Never? As in, you're going to stop this scheme

  of yours?" Jon asked. Patrick's eyes fell to the floor.

  Jon went on: "Patrick, you know I agree one hundred

  percent with what you're feeling, with your

  hurt and pain and desire for revenge. I sure as heck

  would want a piece of that biker guy, espec4ally

  now that he's given me forty stitches and messed up

  my good looks."

  Patrick smiled at his boss, new brother, and

  friend.

  "But taking on these guys is crazy," Jon continued

  . "You have no choice but to turn just as dirty,

  as low-down, and as psychotic as the worst of those

  jerks in order to beat them. Is that what you really

  want?"

  "What I want is to destroy the punks who killed

  those cops and tried to kill Paul," Patrick said.

  "How, Patrick? We carried some fake nerve-gas

  grenades tonight, hoping we could scare our way

  out of trouble. But these guys don't scare too

  damned easy." To hear Jon Masters say even a mild

  cuss word told Patrick how upset he was. "What do

  we carry next time? A gun? I'll bet every guy in that

  bar had a gun. Do we carry bigger guns? Machine

  guns? Bazookas? What? How far do we take it?"

  Patrick chose not to answer the question. "If you

  want to help, I'll plan it so you won't have to come

  into a place or situation like that again," he said.

  "You'll be support only from now on. I don't want

  you in the line of fire."

  Jon looked bone-weary at that, as well as scared,

  but he nodded resolutely. "I'll still help you,

  Muck," he said. "I agreed to help, and I will."

  Patrick sank into a chair in the corner of the bedroom

  , rubbed his eyes, and tested his nose, cheekbones

  , and jaw for any signs of fractures. lon, I'm

  not going to hold you to that," he said. "I feel like

  I'm out of control, like I'm on a roller coaster. I

  can't control what I'm feeling. I want to lash out at

  those guys. I feel I have the power and the ability to

  do it. I don't want to sit by and watch while others

  fight my battles for me, especially the cops in this

  city that are hamstrung by politicians and bleeding

  hearts.

  "But I'm doing it wrong, dammit! I'm not afraid

  for myself. I'm like you in that airplane fuselage-I

  know the danger, but I've got to do it. But then I

  think of Wendy and young Bradley, and how my son

  would grow -up without a father ' if I died in that

  hellhole of a bar, trying to stop scum of the earth

  who can probably never be stopped." He stopped

  and buried his face in his hands. "Oh God, I don't

  know what the hell to do,"

  The ring of the doorbell startled Patrick. I ought

  to have a gun, he thought. He went to the door.

  "Who is it?" he called.

  "Mr. McLanahan? This is Captain Chandler, Sac

  PD. I'd like to speak with you." Patrick looked

  through the peephole and saw Tom Chandler holding

  his gold badge up to the lens.

  A thrill of panic ran through Patrick. Had he been

  discovered already? He opened the door and let

  Chandler inside. He had no other officers with him.

  "You're up late tonight," Chandler said.

  "We were working late, out at Mather."

  /'You and another gentleman, right? Average

  height, thin build, short hair, looks like a teenager

  ?

  "What's going on, Captain?"

  "You know what's going on, Mr. McLanahan,"

  Chandler replied angrily. "You were at the Bobby

  John Club tonight, you and some other guy. Is he

  here?" Patrick was silent. "You better answer me,

  Mr. McLanahan, because in about three seconds I'm

  ready to bring the wrath of God down around your

  ears.//

  "Yes, he's here," Patrick answered.

  "Is he hurt?"

  "Yes, but he'll be all right. We had a doctor look

  at him."

  Chandler breathed a sigh of relief. "You have any

  idea how stupid that move was, McLanahan? Do

  you? What were you two doing at that bar tonight?"

  "Trying to get answers," Patrick said. He decided

  to try his desperate-burnout-older-brother routine

  again. "I'm just trying to find the ones who hurt

  Paul. I was just there to look around, listen, try to

  learn anything I could."

  "With a gas grenade?"

  Patrick shrugged, averting his eyes. "Hey, I'm not

  into guns or pepper spray. I had to do something."

  Chandler took a step closer and pointed a finger

  at Patrick's face. "If I find out you're doing anything

  else on the streets in connection with the robbery,

  Mr. McLanahan, I will toss your ass in jail for obstruction

  and interfering with a police investigation

  ," he said. "No more, do you understand?'

  "Yes. I understand."

  "You'd better." Chandler paused for a moment,

  then said, "Listen. For what it's worth-and only

  because your brother's a fellow cop-I'm going to

  tell you this. You will not repeat this to anyone, or I

  Mfl lock you up. I wanted to let you know that two

  men who allegedly were involved in the Sacramento

  Live! shootout with the police downtown

  have been arrested. A third was found dead.//

  "That . . . that sounds like great news, Captain

  ," Patrick said. "Thanks for telling me. Do you

  expect more arrests soon?"

  "Yes," Chandler said. "We'll let you know of any

  further developments. I'm going to remind you

  again that all this is classified information. I'm telling

  you th
is as a courtesy. Don't disappoint me."

  "I understand, Captain." Chandler nodded and

  headed out the door.

  Patrick went back to the bedroom and found Jon

  asleep; the painkiller had kicked in. Back in the living

  room he got out the listening-device recorder

  eager to hear what had gone on at SID headquarters

  in the past couple of hours. The news was astounding

  . Two men had been arrested after showing up at

  a north-area clinic with broken legs and internal injuries

  , professedly from an auto accident. Both were

  German nationals and held valid work permits for

  Canada, but their injuries were not fresh and their

  story made the clinic staff uneasy enough to call the

  police. The nature of the injuries suggested they

  might have been the ones hit by Paul in the offduty

  cop's squad car during the Sacramento Live!

  shootout, and the arrests followed.

  The second part of the news was even more startling

  : Joshua Mullins had been found dead in the

  Sacramento River-shot execution-style. Patrick

  went back to the bedroom and woke up Masters.

  "Well, it looks like Mullins's dead," he told him,

  /land two of the holdup men were arrested when

  they tried to get medical treatment."

  "Mullins? The guy that nearly killed you tonight

  is dead?" Jon looked very pleased. "That sounds

  like good news to me, brother. Looks like the cops

  were on the warpath after all."

  Patrick nodded.

  "So?" Jon went on hopefully, "Does this change

  your plans now? What are you going to do?"

  "I think, brother," Patrick said with a satisfied

  smile, "that I am going to bring my wife and son

  home from the hospital, then see to it that my

  brother Paul gets all the help and care he7 needs. And

  then I'm going to get on with my life and leave the

  police work to the police. I've seen enough to know

  I'm outgunned, outclassed, and just about completely

  clueless." He got to his feet and stretched,

  relaxed and satisfied. "Good night, Jon. I'm sorry for

  what I got you into tonight."

  "Don't be, Patrick. I'll be fine."

  "I'll take care of you, and then we'll get back to

  work," Patrick said. "We've got to get Helen back,

  go schmooze the FAA and the airlines into getting

  that BERP-development deal going again, and then

  knock Hal and Gunny Wohl's eyes out with the Ultimate

  Soldier system. I can't wait to get started.

  And he went out to the sofa bed in the living

  room and slept. Despite the pain from the battering

  he had taken, Patrick slept soundly for the first time

  in many days.

  WILTON, SOUTH SACRAMENTO COUNTY,

  CALIFORNIA

  LATER THAT MORNING

  don't understand any of this," said Bennie "the

  Chef" Reynolds. "First you send two of the Major's

  men to the hospital-and then you execute another

  one? What's the sense in that?"

  Townsend smiled but did not reply. Bennie, Gregory

  Townsend, the former German soldier Bruno

  Reingruber, and several of Reingruber's men were at

  one of the Aryan Brigade's hideouts in the rural area

  of Sacramento County about thirty miles south of

  the city. The ranch house was in the center of a

  forty-acre parcel of land, surrounded by multiple

  fence lines and electronic security monitoring; police

  couldn't get within a quarter mile of the house

  in any direction without being spotted. It looked

  like a typical stucco house common in the hot, dry

  Sacramento Valley, but in reality it was a small

  fortress. The doors, hinges, and frames had been reinforced

  with steel to prevent all but a vehiclemounted

  ram from breaking, them down; booby

  traps were set up all around the ranch to warn of

  intruders; and the place had caches of weapons,

  equipment, and supplies enough for an extended

  siege or to equip a very potent strike team. Inside, it

  was more of a command center than a farmhouse.

  The kitchen had been set up as a communications

  .center, and the dining room transformed into a conference

  room.

  "It is simple, Mr. Reynolds," Townsend said.

  "Major Reingruber's men fought with courage and

  skill and were wounded in battle. As distasteful as

  it is to turn any of our men over to the enemy, civilian

  medical facilities are far superior to our field

  hospitals and it became necessary that they receive

  the care they deserve.

  "Mullins, on the other hand, disobeyed a direct

  order to stay out of establishments and areas designated

  off-limits by myself and the staff. He was especially

  ordered not to make contact with any

  Satan's Brotherhood members or frequent any of

  their so-called clubhouses. He violated all of these

  ,directives. His capture could have jeopardized our

  entire operation. There was only one penalty suitable

  for his dereliction of duty and gross insubordination-death."

  Welli that certainly followed the pattern of this

  organization, Bennie said to himself. Townsend and

  Reingruber were ruthless when it came time to discipline

  their men. Reingruber's sergeants dispensed

  .that discipline swiftly and painfully. Bennie had

  seen the German soldiers accept punishment like

  automatons, standing at attention while taking a

  blow to the stomach or a cattle-prod to the back.

  And if they failed to stay standing at attention or

  were a little slow recovering from their punishment

  , they got more of the same. Reingruber and

  sometimes Townsend himself presided over the discipline

  sessions, and always spelled out to the other

  soldiers the exact nature of the transgression for

  which the punishment was being administered. The

  converse was true too: If a soldier did well, even in a

  small way, they offered praise and congratulations

  almost to the point of effusiveness. Bennie hated to

  admit it, but it was challenging and rewarding to

  serve under these two. Their men were paid well,

  ate well, and trained and worked hard . . .

  . . . 100 bad they were murderous bastards who

  would kill any or every one of them if they felt the

  need.

  Several minutes later, a lookout reported that

  pickup trucks were on the property. The announcements

  were followed by electronic warnings picked

  up by motion and seismic sensors-and woe to any

  I sentry, Bennie knew, who didn't report an approachini

  intruder to Townsend or Reingruber before

  the sensors went off.

  "Pickup trucks. Brotherhood," a sergeant reported

  . "Five in all." Townsend and Reingruber

  nodded. A few minutes later, five Satan's Brotherhood

  members were admitted into the ranch house.

  They were thoroughly searched, manually as well

  as electronically, and a boxful's worth of weapons

  taken away from three of them. Typical Brotherhood

&nbs
p; , thought Bennie. Either the bikers actually

  thought Townsend wouldn't check them for weapons

  , or they thought that once he had found one or

  two, he'd stop looking.

  The leader of the Brotherhood, Donald Lancett,

  did not show. Bennie had warned Townsend he

  wouldn't. In his place, Lancett had sent one of the

  local chapter heads, Rancho Cordova president Joey

  "Sandman" Harrison, to represent the Brotherhood.

  If there was a right choice for this meeting, Harrison

  was not it. Sandman had been ousted as the president

  of the Oakland chapter of another outlaw motorcycle

  club, kicked out because he was so mean,

  so murderous, and spent so much time in prison. He

  hated the role of representative, envoy, or message

  boy; he hated foreigners; and he hated'anyone who

  even considered trying to move in on his very lucrative

  east Sacramento drug territory. Clearly, Lancett

  had chosen him for today's meeting in order to get

  in Townsend's face and stay there.

  . Harrison's beady eyes scanned the room. He noticed

  the big bottle of Jack Daniel's sitting on a table

  in the corner, went 'over, opened it, and took a big

  swig' ' Townsend watched him with an ironic grin.

  "Help yourself to a drink, Mr. HArrison, he said.

  Harrison belched, walked over to Townsend, and

  sent his hand down to Townsend's right hip. The

  holster he found hidden under the jacket - was

  empty. "I requested no weapons, Mr. Harrison,"

  said Townsend. "I kept my part of the bargain."

  "Good thing you did," Harrison grunted. He took

  another pull at the bottle. "So you're Townsend,

  huh? You the one who had to pull Cazaux's plug,

  right? You probably think -you're hot shit now." He

  turned to look at Bruno Reingruber. "This the fucking

  German?"

  "Major Bruno Reingruber, my deputy commander

  and senior officer." Reingruber stood at

  parade rest beside and slightly behind Townsend,

  his square jaw held high, his chest inflated. When

  he heard his name, he snapped to attention and gave

  a Nazi salute.

  "Heil fucking Hitler," Harrison said, his voice

  .filled with disgust. "You guys are pretty, real

  fuckin' pretty. You must all be pretty stupid dumbasses

  too." Then Harrison's eyes rested -on Reynolds

  . "Hey Bennie, you tell your friends that if I ever