by Dale Brown
“C’mon, Jon, let’s get out of here!” But he was frozen in place. Patrick grabbed him around the waist and half-pulled, half-dragged him outside. He felt someone clutch at him from behind, and in a fit of rage he swung back with his right hand. He connected with thin bone and tissue, and they heard the assailant yelp as he let go.
With Patrick half-carrying Jon, the two men made their way down Del Paso Boulevard to a Safeway supermarket parking lot, where a rented Dodge Durango sport-utility vehicle was waiting for them. “Okay, we can slow down now,” Patrick said, pulling Jon back.
They turned around. Half a dozen motorcycles were roaring down Del Paso Boulevard, and they saw men running down the street. “We gotta get out of here now, Patrick!”
“Calm down,” Patrick said, wiping blood from Jon’s jacket front. “Running will only attract attention now. Try to stay upright, Jon. Just a few more steps. Hang in there, brother.”
“I… I need help here, Patrick…”
“C’mon, let’s keep going. You’ll be okay.” They forced themselves to walk casually toward the car. Patrick was out of breath by now, gasping from the effort of supporting Jon and the aftereffects of the adrenaline pumping through his veins. When police cars zoomed past, the two of them stopped to watch, just like normally curious onlookers.
Patrick helped Jon into the passenger seat and examined his wound under the dome light. It was a deep cut, but it was not bubbling or pumping, which meant that it had not pierced a lung or a major blood vessel. He eased off Jon’s jacket, pressed it against his chest, used the seat-belt shoulder harness to anchor it tightly in place, then got into the driver’s seat and started the engine. They pulled out onto the street. More police cars were racing in toward Bobby John’s, and fire trucks too, but there was no sign of pursuit. They drove away from the scene, careful not to speed. They got on the Interstate 5 freeway through the downtown area, then merged onto the Highway 50 freeway heading east, away from the city.
Neither man spoke for a long time. The enormity of what happened had silenced them. Finally, Patrick said, “Thanks for getting me out of there.”
“You’re welcome, Muck,” Jon answered. “But it’s your contingency plan that did it-those wireless mikes so I could listen in and carrying those practice bomblet target markers.” Patrick pressed Jon’s hand against his chest to staunch the bleeding further. This was one contingency he hadn’t planned on.
“Man, that was a close call,” he said shakily. “Jesus, was I scared. I thought I was going to die. All I could think about was Wendy, and Bradley, and how we would die in the middle of a filthy beer-soaked barroom floor. God, Jon, I’m so sorry…”
“It’s not your fault, Muck,” Masters said. “It was a good plan.”
“But I didn’t mean for you to get hurt…”
“Hey, c’mon, Patrick. I’m not an innocent bystander or your blind, faithful sidekick. If I didn’t think I could stay safe, I wouldn’t have gone in there.”
“But you could’ve been killed…”
“Nah. They were just trying to scare us. But we don’t scare that easy, do we, General?” But Patrick could see through all the bravado that Jon was badly shaken. God, when he saw that blood spurt out of Jon’s wound… Patrick had seen death before, had even caused death before, but not at this close range, and never so personally as this.
He wasn’t going to allow him to ever go into harm’s way like that again, Patrick decided. Jonathan Colin Masters was more than one of America’s truly great scientists and engineers, he was his newfound brother. There was no way he could allow him to risk his life in Patrick’s personal vendetta.
Sky Masters, Inc. had rented office and hangar space at Sacramento-Mather Jetport when it was obvious that the McLanahans were going to be in town for a while, and they had planned that it would be their destination after the bugging operation. They took the Mather Field Road exit from eastbound Highway 50 a few minutes later and drove around the east end of Mather’s eleven-thousand-foot runway to the former Strategic Air Command alert facility, now converted into a secure research and development site. The facility still had its twelve-foot-high chain-link fences topped with barbed wire and fitted with cameras and intrusion sensors; the vehicle entrapment and inspection area; the two-story underground building, complete with offices, conference halls, and a kitchen; and the alert-aircraft parking area, now with two large jumbo-jet-sized hangars at the south and west sides. A right turn past the deserted weapon-storage area, down a long road, past the alert-crew picnic grounds, and they were at the front gate of the old B-52 bomber alert facility, where B-52 bombers and KC-135 aerial refueling tankers once sat nuclear ground alert, ready at any time to fight World War III.
Sky Masters security personnel were on duty, and one of them, Ed Montague, confronted Masters and McLanahan at the vehicle entrapment gate. “Evening, Dr Masters, General McLanahan. How’s Dr McLanahan and the new…” He stopped short when he saw Jon’s blood-soaked jacket. “My God!” He looked at Masters, whose face was as white as a ghost. “What the hell happened, sir?” He waved to the guard shack, and they admitted the Durango into the entrapment area.
“Ed, we’re going to need a first-aid kit,” Patrick said. Montague retrieved a large kit from his office, and administered first aid while the vehicle and Patrick were searched. Once inside, they brought Jon to the security office, where they spent the next twenty minutes cleaning and dressing the six-inch gash that the biker had carved in Jon’s chest.
“Want me to call the sheriff’s department, General?” Montague asked.
“No thanks, Ed,” Patrick replied as he put a clean shirt on. “But we do need that industrial-medicine doctor we hired, Dr Heinrich I think his name is, to look at Jon. Get him on the phone and get him out here, and make sure he brings a surgical kit.”
“I’m fine, Muck,” Jon protested.
“It doesn’t look too bad, but I want him to look you over anyway,” Patrick said.
“Doc’s on the way,” Montague reported a few moments later.
“Good,” Patrick said. “If he releases you, Jon, Ed will take us back to Paul’s apartment in a security vehicle. Ed, then I want you to get the Durango cleaned up and turn it back in to the rental company first thing in the morning. I want you to take care of it personally.” The security officer nodded that he understood.
They met the doctor twenty minutes later. He was needed. Heinrich, who had been hired as a consultant and to oversee safety and medical operations at the temporary Mather operations plant, put a total of forty stitches in Jon Masters’s chest, fifteen of them internal dissolving sutures. Despite plenty of local painkillers Jon passed out three times during the procedure-the first time when he saw the doctor threading the first needle. He was like a little kid at the doctor’s office, flinching at the slightest touch and muffling a cry whenever the needle pierced his skin.
Not that he didn’t have good reason. The bottle had cut about a quarter of an inch into his chest at the initial blade-impact point, piercing two inches of muscle, and then slashed another four inches of skin across to his shoulder, leaving bits of glass along the hideous gash. The doctor had to lay open the deepest part of the wound to work on it from the inside out. To Patrick, watching and at times assisting Heinrich, the wound looked so deep and so red that he swore he could see down to Jon’s lungs. Heinrich prescribed antibiotics, a mild painkiller, and bed rest for the next three days, and sent them home.
Patrick felt devastated. Even worse than the hell of watching it was the recognition that he alone was responsible for the assault.
With Montague at the wheel, they headed for Paul’s apartment downtown; it would be easier to watch over Jon there than in his hotel room. Police cruisers were all over the downtown area when they reached there half an hour later-it looked as if martial law had been imposed on the city. They were stopped at the intersection of I and Second streets. A sign read DUI Checkpoint-All Vehicles Must Stop. Two Sacramento police officers
surrounded the car.
“Good evening, folks. We’re conducting a routine check of all vehicles for compliance with underage-and impaired-driving laws,” the officer on the driver’s side said as if reading off a cue card. The other officer shined a flashlight into the two faces in the backseat, the powerful beam easily penetrating the tinted windows. “We won’t take up any more of your time than is necessary. Where are you folks coming from tonight?”
Patrick noticed that the officer who spoke to Montague didn’t stick his head right down close to his face so he could sniff for alcohol on the driver’s breath, as was usual at most DUI checkpoints Patrick had encountered. Ed Montague noticed it too. Sensing the tension, he showed his retired-police-officer 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, especially 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. “Jon, 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 will 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 this 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 off-duty 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 i
n 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, “and 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 he 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
“I 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 vehicle-mounted 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.