A Time for Patriots

purchase. The company will be happy.”

“But I don’t have enough money to—”

“There you go again with the negative waves, Patrick,” Jon said with a laugh. “Always with the reasons not to do it. C’mon, it’ll be fine. I just need the account number — I won’t run anything against it. If it works, we’ll work something out moneywise. I’ll order up the parts and bring a mechanic up from Vegas, and we’ll have you flying in no time.”

* * *

Brad changed out of his flight suit and into civilian clothes, then sat by himself outdoors at a picnic table beside the hangar. My first flight as mission scanner — on an actual mission, no less — and I can’t handle being a backseater, he lamented to himself. This really sucks.

He had reserved the entire day for flying, and now he had nothing to do. He pulled out his cell phone and was going to start calling his buddies to find out what they were up to when he found Cassandra Renaldo’s business card.

Should I do it? he asked himself. She was an older woman, but she was still hot as hell. Was she just stringing him along, being a cockteaser or trying to make a fool out of him, or was she serious about wanting to see him again? He wished he knew more about women, like Ron Spivey did — he always seemed to have a different girl every week, and even when he treated them like crap, they always seemed to come back. How did guys learn how to do that?

I guess this is one way, Brad thought as he commenced dialing her number…

* * *

“Renaldo.”

“It’s me. Brad.”

Cassandra looked up at Special Agent Chastain and nodded. “Let me finish up here and go somewhere where I can talk. Hang on.” She put the call on hold.

“Who is that?” Chastain asked.

“Bradley McLanahan,” she said, smiling evilly. “I told you he’d call.”

Chastain smiled back. “Reel him in,” he said.

She took the call off hold a few moments later. “I’m so glad you called, Brad,” she said in her sweetest, most heartfelt voice. Chastain shook his head and smiled at her performance. “I’ve missed seeing you. How are you?”

“I’ve been better.”

“What’s wrong, baby?”

“It’s an… an airsickness thing. I’m okay when I’m piloting, but not so good when I’m in back.”

“Oh no,” Renaldo said. “Are you all right now?”

“Oh yes, I’m good.”

“Then when can I see you?”

There was a bit of a pause; then: “Well, I was supposed to be flying all day, but that’s been canceled…”

“I heard — someone shot at a Civil Air Patrol plane,” she said. “You mean, you were on that plane?”

“Yes.”

“My God, Brad! How awful!”

“So I’m… I’m not doing anything for the rest of the day.”

“That’s perfect,” Renaldo said, giving Chastain a wink. “You’re at the Civil Air Patrol hangar now?”

“Yes.”

“Perfect. If you walk down Powell Avenue toward the base exchange, I’ll pick you up in about ten minutes. We can go to my place. How does that sound?”

“Okay.”

“Great. I’ll see you soon, baby.” She hung up. “He’s on the line — now it’s time to start landing him,” she said to Chastain. She thought for a moment, then asked, “How bad do you want the dad?”

“Badly.” Chastain picked up the latest report from Brady’s reconnaissance of the suspected terrorist compound. “So far we’ve discovered that there are nineteen residents of the Knights’ compound who are active members of the Civil Air Patrol Battle Mountain squadron. All but two are ex-military. Eight are Iraq and Afghanistan vets, including multiple deployments; four are Desert Storm vets; and two are Vietnam vets. All have combat experience. We’re trying to obtain medical backgrounds on them, but I wouldn’t be surprised to find some PTSD cases in there, or worse. McLanahan could have his own little strike force in that CAP outfit.”

“Then I’ve got an angle on the son that could really lock him in good,” Renaldo said. “I’m going to meet up with him. I’m going to borrow a little something from our drop stash, okay?”

Chastain looked at her seriously. “I definitely see why they call you the ‘Black Widow,’ Renaldo.”

“Nothing evil, I assure you,” she said. “I’m not going to hurt him — well, maybe just a little. But if you want him, and the dad, I’ll get them for you.”

Chastain thought about it for a moment, then nodded. “Have fun,” was all he said.

“Oh, I intend to,” Renaldo said with a growing crocodile smile. “I intend to.”

Temporary Housing Area, Joint Air Base Battle Mountain

That same time

This was turning out to be a pretty sucky day, Patrick told himself as he headed to his trailer to change out of his flight suit — and it wasn’t even half over yet. Like Jon, he felt sorry for Brad. But he was acting more like a ten- year-old than an eighteen-year-old. He would have to make some phone calls to the aerospace physiology folks in the Air Force — the ones who installed an electronic heart monitor in him when he started suffering from heart arrhythmias during space flight — and find out the best way to treat Brad. But whatever the outcome, he wanted to cure the boy of whining and feeling sorry for himself whenever…

… and it was then, just before he was going to pull into his hard-baked mud driveway beside the trailer, that he noticed the front door to his trailer partly open.

That was not unusual — these were not the best-constructed trailers in the world, not by a long shot — and he or Brad could have failed to close and lock it properly. But alarm bells were going off in his head, and he had learned many years ago that ignoring those bells was extremely unwise.

Patrick activated his intraocular computer monitor and called up the security-camera images from inside his trailer. The security system’s readouts showed that the door had been opened by key just a few minutes ago. He could see a person wearing a cowboy hat, blue jeans, a white untucked shirt, and a long black-and-gray ponytail with his back to the camera, going through mail and articles on the dining-room table. The other cameras revealed no other intruders. Patrick then retrieved an object from under his Wrangler’s seat that resembled a flashlight, but was actually a launcher that would fire a wireless projectile that would act like a Taser, embedding probes into a person’s skin and incapacitating the person with a high-voltage but nonlethal shock.

He stepped quickly to the porch, skipped the steps, pushed open the door, and aimed the launcher at the intruder. “Stop right there!” he shouted.

The intruder jumped, a little cloud of mail flying from his hands, and whirled around to face him. “Patrick! You startled me!”

“Oh my God… Gia !” Patrick cried. He put down the launcher and rushed into her arms. Gia Cazzotto buried her face into his shoulder, sobbing. “You’re back, you’re finally back!”

“Oh, Patrick, I’m so sorry I left like I did,” Gia said after several long moments, “and for not keeping in touch, but… well, I wanted to get well before I came back to you.” She looked up at him, her brown eyes searching his for any signs of hostility or distrust. Her dark hair was much longer and streaked with a lot more gray than he remembered, and she looked thinner. He didn’t smell any alcohol on her breath — that was a major change right there. “Do you… want me to go, or—”

“Of course not, Gia!” Patrick said, hugging her tightly again. “I’ve been waiting for you to come home! I knew you had a key, so I never changed the lock. Sit down, sit down, for God’s sake!” He led her to the couch, sat on the ottoman before her, and took her hands in his. “Are you all right? Where have you been?”

“Southern California,” Gia said. “I went back to Palmdale to see if I could get work. But with the economy still in the tank, no one was hiring.” She lowered her eyes, then added, “Even for jobs that didn’t require a security clearance.”