pieces," Harrison snapped. His angry glare rested on
Reynolds, then Townsend, then Reingruber. "Don't
fuck with us, Townsend. You say your cookers need
certain chemicals in certain amounts and concentrations
, fine. Tell us what they are, and we'll get
them. If We need to buy from you, we will, but you
sell at cost-you're already making a shitload of
cash on this deal and you're not taking any of the
risks."
Townsend spread his hands and nodded. "Very
well. Chemicals at cost. Bennie will supply you
with all the specifications you need for the chemicals
. If you fail to follow the specifications, of
course, the risks are entirely your own."
"You just hold up your end of the bargain, limey,
and we'll take care of the rest," Harrison said.
Townsend held out a hand to seal the deal with a
handshake, but Harrison ignored him. "Have the
cookers ready to go next Friday night, and we'll call
and tell you where to go."
As Harrison and the bikers headed for the door,
L one of them glanced into the kitchen-turnedcommunications-center
, where several TV sets
were tuned to the morning news on the major
Sacramento-area stations. He stopped'in his tracks
and pointed to one of the screens. "That's him!" he
shouted. "It's him!"
"Who in bloody hell are you talking about?/1
Townsend asked.
"The guy in the bar, dammit!" the gangster said.
"The guy who said he was looking for Mullins,."
"Did he say why?" Townsend asked.
"He said he wanted to ask Mullins about the Major
," the biker said. "He said the cops were watchin'
us. He said he was the brother of one of the cops
that got shot and he wanted to kick Mullins's ass."
His face stern, Townsend turned to Harrison. "it
would seem that you have a leak in your organizatiori
, Mr. Harrison," he said. "Either you have an
informant in it, or the police targeted one of your
members for special surveillance."
"Mullins," Harrison said. "It had to be fuckin'
Mullins."
"For your sake, you had better hope it was Mullins
. I tolerate no security breaches in my organization
."
"Screw you, Townsend," Harrison said. "My
boys know if they rat on the Brotherhood, they're
dead."
"Good. Be sure it stays that way."
Gregory Townsend shook his head as he watched
the Satan's Brotherhood gangsters drive off. "Bloody
bastards," he said under his breath. "They don't deserve
this deal. They don't deserve my time one
bit."
"If you want a piece of the meth trade, Colonel,"
Bennie Reynolds said, "you gotta deal with Harrison
and Lancett. But once you got them in place,
they'll fight night and day to keep the business going
.//
"Bloody unlikely," Townsend remarked. He
turned toward-the back of the room and saw Bruno
Reingruber watching the television screens. He was
writing something down on a piece of paper. "Was
ist es, Major?"
"McLanahan," Reingruber read from the paper,
then went on in German: "The TV has identified
the police officer who wounded my men with his
car. McLanahan. He is still in the hospital, alive.
Not dead, as Sergeant Chernenkov reported. He survived
."
"And his brother was in the bar seeking revenge
on his attacker. How touching," Townsend answered
him. "Never mind him, Major. This is not
important. We concentrate on setting up delivery of
the hydrogenators."
"I lost four men in the robbery-during your robbery
," Reingruber protested. "You hired Mullins,
and he turned on us. Two of my men were killed
and two have been under arrest. It says on the TV
they are being freed from jail, but what if this McLanahan
can identify Corporal Schneider and they
arrest him again? To kill a policeman is an automatic
able. McLanahan must be killed immediately
Though Bennie did not understand German,
there was no mistaking the sense of that fierce
"sofort!" Townsend chose to ignore it. "Major, we
are not going to expend our energy and talent on
making war against one or two insignificant individuals
," he said. "Forget about McLanahan."
"Please consider my request, Herr Oberst," Reingruber
answered. "We pledged together to begin a A
reign of terror in this country not seen since Henri
Cazaux, your former commander and mentor. Let
us begin that reign of terror now. Our target Must
be McLanahan. The police officer injured two of our
soldiers. His brother dared to track us down, pursue
us, and even threaten us. We cannot be seen to tolerate
this. My men will fight to the death to avenge
their own."
Townsend considered Reingruber's proposal He
had not planned on a full frontal assault in this city.
Eventually, he knew, the police would be augmented
by stronger and stronger forces, too much
even for Reingruber's well-trained and fierce troops.
By that time, they had to have this state in a firm
grip of terror if they had any hope of surviving. But
he also knew that Reingruber was right about his
men's total commitment to vengeance.
"Very well, Major," Townsend said. "Present a
plan of action for me, including complete surveillance
and intelligence reports, and we shall see. But
this operation had better be much more than just a
killing, Major. If it does not advance our plans to
dominate this state, then it will not happen."
"Ich verstehe, Herr Oberst. Vielen Dank," Reingruber
said with a satisfied smile, clicking his heels
together and bowing his head in thanks. "You will
not be disappointed."
UC-DAVIS MEDICAL CENTER, STOCKTON
BOULEVARD AND FORTY-SECOND STREET,
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
FRIDAY, 6 MARCH 1998, 1027 PT
A police sketch artist can usually tell when the
composite drawing begins to match the witness's
recollection. The witness's eyes narrow, the lips
pinch, the body tenses, and the skin turns pale
when that critical nuance appears on the sketch. Finally
, and usually suddenly, the sketch seems to
leap to life, bringing suppressed memories to the
fore, painting images of the incident across the face
of the witness. And that was what the Sacramento
Police Department's sketch artist saw as he put the
finishing touches on the computerized composite
drawing.
"That's him," Paul McLanahan said. "That's the
guy I hit with the shotgun."
SID Captain Thomas Chandler got up from his
seat in the corner of the hospital room and took a
look at the laptop computer screen. Patrick McLanahan
came closer to take a look too, hoping that the
sketch matched one of the men he had seen in the
Bobby John Club. It did not, and he moved awayPaul
Chandler scowled at him. He didn't like McLanahan's
brother, and he disliked him even more
today. "You sure, Officer McLanahan?"
"Positive," Paul replied. "He was illuminated
perfectly in the streetlight." Chandler nodded-his
investigators had been out to the scene of the shooting
several times, and the positioning of the lights
along the K Street Mall would have made them
shine directly on the attacker.
"Any chance at all you can identify any of the
assailants you hit with your car, or the one who
shot you?" Chandler asked.
"Sorry, Captain," Paul replied. "They all had gas
masks. I might be able to estimate height and
weight, but not enough to make an arrest. A good
defense attorney could blast me off the witness
stand with ease."
"You let us worry about -the trial-let's get as
many of these creeps as possible behind bars first,"
Chandler said. He remembered that Paul McLanahan
was an attorney as well as a policeman, and he
was now thinking more like a lawyer. "But you're
absolutely positive about the guy in this sketch?"
"Yes, sir," Paul said. "Absolutely positive."
"Good," Chandler said, nodding to the sketch
artist. "We'll circulate the composite and send it to
the FBI and Interpol. We'll also bring in more mug
books for you to look at. We might get lucky." He
turned to Patrick to include him in the discussion.
"Now explain to me where you're going again?"
"A private hospital on Coronado," Patrick reit
sponded, "near San Diego ...
"I know where the hell Coronado is," Chandler
snapped. "Explain why."
"I already did," Patrick said. "My company is going
to do reconstructive surgery on Paul's left shoul-
der ...
"You mean he's going to get an artificial arm, a
prosthesis?
"Yes."
"Now explain why that can't be done in Sacramento
, where he stays under protective custody."
"Because our medical facility is standing by
ready for Paul," Patrick said. "It would take too
long, be too expensive, and not help Paul one bit for
us to move our surgical staff and facilities up here."
"You realize the danger you're placing your
brother in, don't you?" Chandler asked. "He's under
twenty-four-hour guard here."
"He'll be under careful guard down there too,"
Patrick said. "I'll see to that personally."
"The city won't pay for this surgery. Paul has to
accept all the risks involved-and that means he's
in danger of losing his survivor's benefits and medical
retirement if something goes wrong."
"I know that, Captain," Paul said.
"The city has made Paul, me, and almost every
employee of my company sign affidavits agreeing to
all that," Patrick said. "My company is accepting all
the responsibility." He paused, looking carefully at
Chandler, then asked, "What's the real reason
you're bringing all this up again, Captain? You getting
a little pressure from the chief?"
Chandler scowled again at Patrick. This was cer-
tainly not the same whining Milquetoast that had
come into his office a blubbering wreck back after
the shooting. Maybe the shooting shook this guy
up, made him get off the sauce and take some responsibility
for his family. But it was also possible
he hadn't changed, and that he was giving Paul
some bad advice by taking him out of Sacramento.
Chandler took a deep breath in resignation and said,
"It would look real bad if Paul was hurt
"Look bad for the city and the chief, you mean."
"It would look like we weren't there to protect
him," Chandler said. "The chief is already under
pressure for what these gangs have been doing in
Sacramento. If we leave Paul's safety in the hands of
a private, non-law-enforcement company and they
get to Paul, everybody loses."
"The chief gets embarrassed, the city looks badbut
Paul gets dead," Patrick said. "Don't expect me
to feel sorry for you."
"I could get a judge to order Paul to stay in protective
custody," Chandler said angrily. "It would
be for his own safety. If there was an arrest and a
trial, Paul would be a key witness, and it would be
up to the city to protect him so he could testify. We
can compel Paul to stay
"We're going to fit Paul for an artificial limbyou
think a judge is going to deny that, especially if
you haven't made an arrest yet?" Patrick asked.
"Exactly how long would you and the chief and the
city plan on denying my brother a new left arm?"
"Give me a break, Mr. McLanahan!"
"Shut up, both of you!" Paul shouted, his electronically
synthesized voice raised for the first time.
"Captain, I'll return to Sacramento any time it's
necessary to do a lineup or testify in court. I trust
my brother and his company to keep me safe until I
return."
"Well, I don't, " Chandler said. "Paul, what do
you know about this Sky Masters, Inc.? We did a
check on them. Their corporate headquarters are in
a little Podunk town in Arkansas. We can't get any
financial records off the computers. We can't verify
any income, get tax returns, or even positively verify
that the company is a real business entity. We
get no responses on our inquiries from the FBI,
the Commerce, Treasury, Labor, or Defense departments
. . ."
"Captain Chandler, the decision's been made,"
Patrick said resolutely. "If the city is going to try to
force Paul to stay, go ahead-we'll see you in front
of any judge in the state. Otherwise, we have an
ambulance waiting downstairs. What's it going to
be?"
Chandler had no option. McLanahan was right:
Chandler's office had already talked to a judge about
compelling Paul to stay, and had been denied.
"Then your decoy ambulance and the car that will
carry Paul will have motorcycle escorts to block off
the intersections. You can't say no to that."
"Not the car," Patrick insisted. "The Suburban is
armored, and we'll have armed security officers inside
."
"Those robbers had anti-tank weapons," Chandler
pointed out. "Even an armored car won't have a
chance."
"This one will," Patrick said.
"You're making a big mistake." Chandler jabbed
a finger at Patrick. "You're endangering yourself and
Paul needlessly." No response. He was still shaking
his head as he departed with the computer sketch
artist.
Soon afterward, under police guard, a heavily disguised
man in a wheelchair-with a bulletproof vest
under his hospital gown-was brought down a ser-
vice elevator to the underground parking facility
and quickly transferred to a waiting Suburban utility
vehicle. It looked ordinary, but it was armored
with Kevlar, the windows were bulletproof Lexan,
and it rode on run-flat reinforced tires. A private
ambulance was parked directly in front of the suburban
. Its lights flashing, with two California Highway
Patrol motorcycle officers escorting it front and
rear, the ambulance sped out of the parking garage
and onto Stockton Boulevard. The Suburban followed
a moment later, a Sacramento Police Department
motorcycle officer behind it.
just as the Suburban ulled onto Stockton BouleP
vard, shots rang out and tires exploded on both vehicles
. The ambulance screeched to a stop on
shredded tires. The Suburban's driver gunned his
engine to escape, but a large blue Step Van delivery
truck pulled out of a side street right in front of it,
blocking its path. Before the Suburban could pull
into reverse, four armed men, each wearing body
armor, helmets, and black combat outfits, raced out
of the Step Van. The motorcycle officers laid down
their bikes and dived for cover as the assailants
opened fire on the two vehicles. The ambulance
driver and his assistant leaped out the passengerside
door away from the gunfire and ran for their
lives.
One of the terrorists lifted a short rocket
launcher to his shoulder, shouted, "Die, McLanahan
!" and fired an anti-tank rocket into the ambulance
, which exploded in a ball of fire. Then all four
assailants ran to inspect the Suburban. They found a
driver, unconscious but alive, in the front seat-and
a headless mannequin, dressed in a hospital gown,
in the backseat. The vehicle had taken a pointblank
hit from an anti-tank rocket yet was undam-.
aged. Swearing hotly in German, all four ran off to
waiting escape vehicles nearby and disappeared.
The wheelchair was just reaching the private helicopter
waiting on the roof of the Wells Fargo
Building, several blocks west of the UC-Davis Medical
Center, when the first reports of the attack
came in. "Holy shit!" Hal Briggs shouted. "Both the
decoy ambulance and the decoy car were ambushed
!" With his .45-caliber Colt automatic in his
hands, he checked in with his security team on the
rooftop and stationed around the building, and received