"There's only about a dozen suspected labs and
possible hideouts in Wilton," Chandler said. "You
going to hit them all?"
"I was hoping you'd give me a clue."
"We don't have the foggiest idea," Chandler said.
That wasn't entirely true. But surveillance was extremely
difficult because the ranches were so big
and the houses were so far off the road. "Besides,
that's Sacramento County, not the city. You got any
targets in the city?"
"Why don't you give me a couple?" the intruder
asked.,
"Because I'm not sure I want to risk losing my
badge and my career to,help you," Chandler said. F
"Giving you information so you can go out and
commit a crime is conspiracy and aiding and abetting
. For all I know, this is some kind of elaborate
setup."
"You're a little paranoid, aren't you? I'll go out
and find my own targets. See you in the funny papers
, Chandler."
"Wait!" Chandler shouted. Shit, where were
those guys? "How can I get in contact with
you?
"Don't call me-I'll call you."
Chandler followed the guy to the side door-and
to his relief, saw headlights turning into the parking
area. His cops were finally back.
The Tin Man saw them at the same time, head- I
ing for the main entrance. Chandler noticed that the
front door had been smashed in and realized his
guys saw it too. Within seconds, three of them were
approaching it with their guns drawn. Two others
came around to the side door. Chandler raised his
weapon again. "You're surrounded, mister. Surrender
right now."
The intruder raised his hands. "I'm unarmed," he
said through the electronic mask.
That's him!" one of the officers shouted. "He's
the Tin Man! That's the guy who was at the Bobby
John Club!"
"Chandler, your officers won't be able to take
me," the Tin Man said calmly, "and if they open
fire in here or try to tackle me like they did before,
someone can get hurt. I'm asking you to call your
officers off . I won't hurt anyone if they leave me
alone."
"Captain, he's a murder suspect," one of the officers
said. "He's wanted for the murder at the
Rosalee stakeout-and he put a uniform in the hospital
too."
"I know, dammit, I know!" Chandler shouted to
his men. "But you saw what he can do. Do you
think it's realistic to think we can take him?"
The cops were silent. They got the point, recognized
they'd need a lot more help or a lot more firepower-but
they didn't want to admit it.
"Let him go," said Chandler.
"But Captain-"
"I said, let him go. We have no choice. Until we
can figure out how to shut him off, leave him
alone."
The cops stood there and listened as the Tin Man
turned to Chandler. "Thank you, Captain," he said.
"I do want to work with you, not fight you. You
need to believe I'm on your side-I'll prove it to
you. just wait. I'll be in touch."
Then Tin Man calmly walked outside. They
watched as he ran northbound across the parking
lot, leaped over the low one-story buildings, and
vanished. "Christ Almighty!" said one of the
shaken officers. "I've never seen anything like that!
Who the hell is he?"
Chandler ordered his men back inside headquarters
and had them write out statements detailing
everything they knew or had heard about the guy
they called the Tin Man. While they were at work,
he slipped back into his office. Holding his broken
letter opener in his hand, he dialed a toll-free voicemail
number. He had already checked it out; it was
a dead phone drop, a computerized voice-mail service
, paid for with cash with a PO box as the cus-
tomer's address. He dared not check further-the
Brit was bound to find out.
the digital message service. "He says he's found one
of your hideouts and he's heading your way. I think
he's heading toward Wilton, sometime soon if not
tonight. Catch him yourself if you can. And I want
my money, motherfucker."
WILTON, CALIFORNIA
LATER THAT NIGHT
Neading two-three-zero . . . area's clear . . . go,"
Jon radioed to Patrick on the secure VHF channel
. He was in the Hummer command post, a few
miles from Skywalker's target position, watching
the blip Patrick made on the screen. The terminal
in the Hummer showed a composite picture of infrared
and light-intensified surveillance images
from the reconnaissance aircraft and the satellite
tracking data Patrick was sending, and Skywalker's
live video feed was displayed on the terminal.
The Skywalker images revealed several patches
of recently disturbed ground, which could be assumed
to be land mines planted by the bad guys
around the Wilton ranch. There had been a lot of
activity there in recent days, and a variety of vehicles
moving in and out of the property-much more
activity than could be properly accounted for. The
number of individuals varied. Weapons were all
over the place, and roving patrols kept crisscrossing
the property. For a ranch that had no animals, no
crops, and no ranch or farm equipment evident, all
this was highly suspicious.
The thruster jump was a little long, but it placed
Patrick between two rings of disturbed earth. They
had no way of knowing whether he had landed far
enough away from whatever was under there to be
safe, but the farther away, the better. Patrick
scanned the area with his low-light vision sensors.
He was about five hundred yards from the house,
where all the activity now seemed to be. "Can't see
that roving patrol anymore," he radioed.
"The nearest patrol is to the east, about two hundred
yards," Jon radioed back. "You're right in between
two rows of something. You should be able to
clear the inner row with the next jump. Turn left,
head one-eight-zero, area's . . ."
Jon's report was cut off by a burst of heavy automatic
gunfire. A row of bullets ripped into the
ground a few feet from where Patrick was standing.
He hit his thrusters and leaped toward the ranch
house just before the next bullets hit. "Shit, Jon,"
Patrick radioed as he landed. "Felt like a fifty-cal
that time."
"Gunfire's coming from a ditch bearing one-fivefive
, range about seventy-five yards," Jon reported.
"The gun must be hidden in a culvert or under a
building." He couldn't see the gun or the shooter
from the Skywalker images, but the blasts looked
like bright sparkles, and the red-hot bullets were
visible as they plowed into the earth.
Patrick turned to his left and leaped. The machine
gun tried to track him in midair, so he was
able to identify the location of the nest perfectly. It
was hidden in a large culvert that ran across a ditch.
He landed right on the road over the culvert, then
started running down the road toward the house.
Seconds later, a huge explosion split the night. He
had left an explosive charge on the road over the
culvert, blowing the concrete bridge and the machine
gunners underneath it into the mud.
"Wait, Patrick!" ion radioed. "The road!
But he was too late. Before Patrick could make the
leap toward the house, he stepped on a mine planted
in the road. The explosion blew him six feet into
the air, swerving around and flopping like a rag doll
caught in a twister. He landed hard and awkwardly,
and lay there motionless.
"Patrick! Do you read me?" Silence. Jon zoomed
the Skywalker cameras in and had a clear view of
Patrick lying on the ground, still not moving. Moments
later, two jeeps headed from the house across
the meadow toward him. "Patrick! Two vehicles approaching
! Can you hear me? Patrick!" Silence. "If
you can hear me, Patrick, wake up!" Jon screamed.
"They'll be on you in thirty seconds!"
Wearing night-vision goggles, three German soldiers
dismounted when they were fifty feet from
where they thought Patrick lay and approached on
foot. At thirty feet they deactivated their imageintensifiers
so the muzzle-flash of their guns
wouldn't blind them, and fired at the intruder. Then
they reactivated their night-vision optics and advanced
on him-but no one was there.
A horn beeped behind them. They turned, found
themselves staring into the full-bright headlights of
one of the jeeps, and ripped off their goggles in pain.
One of them swore, leveled his machine pistol, and
fired at the headlights. It took almost an entire clip
to shoot them out.
"You missed me!" shouted an eerie electronic
voice. The shooter swung his submachine gun left
to track the voice.
"Nein! Nein!" came a shout-but too late. The
gunman, still blinded, opened fire across the area
where the voice had come from and cut down both
his fellow soldiers.
Patrick checked his suit's systems-running perfectly
so far, although power levels had been cut in
half after the land mine. "Down to three hours already
," he radioed.
"Thank God you're okay," Masters answered. "I
copy that. Do you want to withdraw and get a full
recharge? I can watch the area and let you know if
anyone tries to escape."
"No, let's press on," Patrick said. "I'll try to conserve
power every chance I get."
nside the ranch house, the two remaining guards
heard and saw the gunfire but could not raise their
comrades on the radio. "Patrouille zwei, berichten
!" one of them called. "What is your status?
Have you terminated the intruder? Patrol Two, report!"
"Here's one heading back," said the other lookout
. "Patrol Three is heading back!" A jeep was racing
back across the meadow, bumping through the
furrows. Then he shouted, "Wo wollen die hin?"
The jeep was headed straight for the ranch house at
top speed. "It's him! It's the intruder! Open fire!"
The guards raked the jeep with their submachine
guns. A tire exploded and the vehicle swerved momentarily
, then kept on its collision course. One of
the guards leveled an antitank rocket launcher at it.
It exploded, flipped over, and hit one of the outbuildings
near the house.
"Where is he?" There was no sign of life in the
vehicle and a quick survey of the house and grounds
showed they were clear as well. "We'd better radio
the lieutenant," said one of the guards as he removed
the spent magazine and retrieved a fresh one
from his ammo pouch. At that moment a helmeted
figure flew at them, body-tackling them like a
rocket-powered battering ram. In seconds they were
disarmed by hammering blows that felt like steel
batons, cracking fingers and wrists.
"Wo ist der Major?" the intruder demanded. "Wo
ist der Engldnder?"
"Go to hell!"
Patrick heard Jon Masters's voice through his radio
. "Hey, I've got several vehicles heading this
way, heading east on Grant Line, moving fast!
How's it coming?"
"These guys aren't talking," Patrick radioed
back. "There're a lot of weapons here, including a
rocket launcher-I'll bet they match some of those
used in the Sacramento Live! shootout. Can you
reach the sheriff's department?"
"Already called," Jon reported. "I'm going to
change position, get farther to the west away from
these newcomers. Let me know if you find anything
. I'll signal you when you'll have visitors."
Patrick secured the guards with nylon handcuffs
and began to search the ranch area. He hit pay dirt
right away. "Jon, I got something," he radioed. "The
barn is full of chemicals. Barrels of it. Ether, acetone
, thionyl chloride, phosphorous-3-iodide--oh
shit, tanks of hydrogen gas, enough to blow half the
county sky-high, You better warn the sheriff's
department to bring a HAZMAT crew out herethere's
enough poisonous stuff here to kill ten thousand
people."
"Copy," Masters responded. "On the way."
Patrick swung around at a sound off to his left.
To his astonishment a scrawny little man carrying a
nylon gym bag was running as fast as he could down
the long main driveway toward Grant Line Road.
Patrick caught up with him with a single thruster
jump.
"Jeez!" the man yelped. "Who the hell are you?"
"I'm the one who's putting you out of business,"
Patrick said, yanking away the nylon bag. "Who are
YOUVI
"Nobody!" the little man shouted. "Let me go!"
Patrick rapped him once on his bony chest, and
the guy screeched and hit the ground. "I said, who
are you?"
"You broke my chest!" the man whimpered.
"I'll break your head if you don't answer me!"
"I'm Bennie Reynolds." The man struggled to his
feet despite the pain and cried, "We've got to get out
of here! "
"What are you doing here?"
"I work here. I work for Townsend and the Aryan
Brigade. Listen, there's no time . . ."
"Townsend?" said Patrick. Christ, the pieces
were finally starting to fit together. "The British
terrorist? You mean Gregory Townsend, the weapons
dealer?"
"I told you who, asshole." The guy was sounding
panicky. "Jesus, we've got to get out of here! The
barn has been booby-trapped!"
"What?"
"Don't ask questions, stupid-just run!" Patrick
didn't hesitate. He grabbed Reynolds and hit his
thrusters. Even though the guy didn'
t weigh very
much, the leap was only seventy or eighty feet. But
it was a spectacular ride for the drug-cooker.
"Hol-ee shit!" he cackled. "Awe-some! You can
flyvi
It would take several seconds for the thrusters to
recharge. "Okay, now talk," Patrick demanded.
"Where is Townsend? Where's the Major?"
"They bugged out maybe twenty minutes ago,"
Reynolds said. "I don't know where they were
headed. You went into the barn, didn't you?"
"Yes."
"Then we're dead unless we can get at least a
mile away from here," Reynolds said. "For sure you
tripped a switch. Townsend has that barn boobytrapped
seven ways to Sunday. Hit those jets and
let's get the hell out of here!"
"Can't quite yet," Patrick said. They started
down the road as fast as Patrick could half-carry,
half-drag Reynolds. He switched over to his secure
channel: "Jon, we're on the move," he said. "I've got
one prisoner."
"Copy," Jon replied. "I'm heading toward you."
Patrick called up the GPS tracking device on
Jon's location and saw he was around a mile and a
half away. He grabbed Reynolds, turned in the direction
of the Hummer, and hit the thrusters . . .
. . . and just as he was about to touch down
from the first eighty-foot leap, a massive explosion
erupted behind them. A delayed-action bomb exploded
inside the barn, rupturing the hydrogen
tanks and sending up a huge cloud of fire.
They were lifted off the ground by the shock
wave and thrown another hundred feet. The concussion
from the blast landed them across Grant Line
Road in a shallow cow pond and covered them with
eighteen inches of muddy water, just as the whitehot
fireball rolled over them like a tsunami. The
fireball vaporized the six-acre pond, turning it into a
blackened hole-but as the water vaporized it
sucked away enough of the heat from the fireball to
keep the two of them from instantaneous incineration
.
Then the suit's environmental system kicked in,
and-barely-kept enough of the residual heat away
from 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