The Tin Man

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 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, “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.

“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.”

Well, 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,