Patrick’s skin to prevent his being burned. But he could not protect Reynolds. He covered him with his body as best he could, but when the fireball rolled over them Bennie’s clothes burst into flames, the hair on his head turned into white ash, and his skin reddened, then turned dark, then peeled like burned paper.
It was over as quickly as it began. The vegetation as far as Patrick’s eyes could see was blackened down to the earth. The ranch house and the buildings around it were gone. On the other side of Grant Line Road, over a half mile away, other buildings were on fire. The ground around him was crusty and smoldering. He did a systems check-the suit was still functioning, although the environmental system was guzzling power at a tremendous rate. He took off his helmet to help it vent excess heat.
“Nice try, flyboy.” To Patrick’s astonishment, Reynolds was still alive. “You almost got me out.”
“Try to relax. I’ll get you to a hospital as fast as I can.”
“Never been to a hospital, and I don’t intend to go now, buddy,” Reynolds said. “Damn, now I know how those salmon feel sitting in my skillet.” He looked at Patrick, his face just visible in the faint glow from the fires. “You look like a good guy, brother. I seen you before, haven’t I?”
“Don’t know,” said Patrick. “Maybe on TV-there was some stuff when my brother was in the hospital. Paul McLanahan, one of the cops who was shot by the Major. Is he part of Townsend’s organization?”
“Yeah. The Aryan Brigade, they call themselves,” Reynolds said. “Although they don’t do much Nazi shit except when there’s visitors.”
That was an interesting tidbit, thought Patrick, filing it away. “They were the ones who staged that robbery at Sacramento Live!?” he asked. “They set up those explosions around Sacramento?”
“Yeah. Townsend… what a piece of whacked-out work,” Reynolds said. “Kills two cops to steal enough money to build meth hydrogenators, then gives them away to the bikers, then blows them all up. Squandered hundreds of thousands of dollars. He tells me we can start up production again out here at the ranch, then booby-traps thousands of dollars’ more worth of chemicals. One sick motherfucker. I knew I should’ve stayed away from him.”
“Where is he now? Where can I find him?”
“Don’t know,” Reynolds gasped. He was having difficulty drawing breath by now. “Only place I ever been is right here.” He was looking at Patrick, but his eyes were focused far away. “Hey, man, I’m sorry… sorry about your brother an’ those cops,” he said weakly. “I never meant to hurt no cops. All I wanted to do was go about my business…”
It was an apology, Patrick realized; the poor guy was trying to make his confession. But Patrick felt only disgust. “I guess your business is over,” he said, then realized Reynolds had died before he could hear those words.
Minutes later, Jon Masters arrived in the Hummer. He was as excited as a kid in Disneyland. “Oh man, did you see that explosion?” he asked as Patrick climbed in, turned on the generator, and plugged in the backpack. “It looked like a mushroom cloud, just like those old photos of aboveground nuclear tests in Nevada, except it was all fire! How close were you to the blast?”
“About a hundred yards.”
“A close shave-awesome!” Jon exclaimed. “Hey, where’s your prisoner?”
“Dead,” Patrick said. “Didn’t you see his body lying there? He got burned up by the fire after the blast. But he talked before he died-he was the guy in charge of cooking drugs and building the equipment for a group called the Aryan Brigade.” Patrick filled Jon in on what he’d seen at the Wilton hideout.
“It looks to me like it must be over now,” Jon said. “With his base of operations gone, this Townsend guy must be heading for the hills.”
“I’m not sure about that. Some things that Reynolds said make me wonder. Look-he said that Townsend staged the Sacramento Live! shootout to raise money to build the meth generators. Then he gave the generators away to the gangs-and blew them all up. The deal would have been worth hundreds of thousands of dollars a month. Why would he give all that up so Reynolds could go back and start making drugs all over again? It doesn’t make sense. There’s got to be some other agenda. And Reynolds said that Townsend and his group don’t act like neo-Nazis except when there’s someone around from outside their organization. I wonder what that means.”
“It means he’s crazy,” said Jon. “Maybe he thought he’d lose control of the Brotherhood unless he killed them all. Maybe he wanted to make his mark with the cops and the gangs, you know, sort of be the
Patrick let it drop. They took Douglas Road west to the east entrance to the Mather airport, which gave them a shorter drive to the old SAC alert facility on the southeast side of the runway. The roads were completely deserted. They turned down the long access road that led to the entrapment gate. As they pulled up, Jon activated his earset cellular telephone and dialed the number for the guard shack so they could open the outer gate, but the line was busy. “Busy?” Patrick asked. “That doesn’t sound right. You’d better let me…”
There was a tap on Jon’s window. They turned in surprise. To their astonishment, there was Tom Chandler, the muzzle of his 9-millimeter automatic pressed against the glass. He made a circular sign with the gun, and Jon reluctantly rolled down the window.
“Good evening, Dr Masters,” said Chandler. “You’re out late tonight.” He looked into the backseat and saw a wiped-out Patrick McLanahan sitting by himself. He was in that Tin Man suit Chandler had last seen as he leaped away from the headquarters parking area. “And good evening, Mr McLanahan-or should I say,
“Go to hell, Chandler,” said Patrick.
“Easy, General.” Chandler gestured behind him, and several sheriff’s deputies in full SWAT assault gear emerged out of the scrub bushes and surrounded the Hummer. Simultaneously a dozen squad cars with lights flashing and sirens wailing roared down the access road toward them. “Party’s over, boys. You’re both under arrest. You have the right to remain silent.” He held up a sheaf of papers. “I have a warrant to search this facility and take you and the suit. You and the suit are considered a lethal weapon and we can use any amount of force in our discretion in the name of officer safety. We won’t hesitate to kill you if you try to resist. Dr Masters, step out of the vehicle. General McLanahan, stay right where you are.”
SWAT officers opened the doors of the Hummer and leveled H amp;K MP-5 submachine guns at Patrick. The helmet on the seat beside him was taken away. “Aim for the head only, boys,” Chandler said. “Okay, General. Do whatever you need to do to deactivate that getup and take it off.”
Patrick had no choice. He removed the gauntlets, then detached the backpack power supply. Chandler grabbed him and hauled him out of the Hummer. “Hands on the vehicle, spread-eagle.” He began to search Patrick.
“How did you find us, Chandler?” Patrick asked.
“Give me a little credit, General,” Tom Chandler said. “I may be a desk jockey, but I can still add two plus two.
“First of all, of course, you told the chief exactly what you were going to do-in the hospital after the funeral, when he barged into your brother’s room without checking with the doctors. Remember? You told the chief about what you did, the stuff you work with, the gadgets you could supply the department with. The chief probably doesn’t remember that conversation, but I do. I didn’t do anything about it, though. Even when you showed up in my office, I thought you were just an angry, frustrated relative who had a few too many beers back at the Sarge’s Place.
“But that image was so different from the guy I saw when you were getting ready to move your brother,” Chandler went on. “You looked and sounded like a guy in control. You got Paul out of the hospital right out from under our noses. That took an organization and resources and training. That’s when I knew you were much more than an angry brother and ex-bartender. I had my suspicions about you after that, but I expected you to just find a biker somewhere and shoot him with a handgun. But then I did a little checking, hit up my FBI friends, and found out about your military background-even about your stint with the Border Security Force. Now you got my
“You screwed yourself with those two attacks last week, McLanahan. My lieutenant briefs me on two specific locations that she wants surveillance set up, and a couple of days later a mysterious guy wearing some kind of lightweight body armor shows up at those very same two places and busts them up. Way too coincidental. You got my division bugged? You bribe a few dispatchers? Hell, my detectives are so pissed off these days, they might’ve
