Patrick smiled at his boss, new brother, and friend.
“But taking on these guys is crazy,” Jon continued. “You have no choice but to turn just as dirty, as low-down, and as psychotic as the worst of those jerks in order to beat them. Is that what you really want?”
“What I want is to destroy the punks who killed those cops and tried to kill Paul,” Patrick said.
“How, Patrick? We carried some fake nerve-gas grenades tonight, hoping we could scare our way out of trouble. But these guys don’t scare too damned easy.” To hear Jon Masters say even a mild cuss word told Patrick how upset he was. “What do we carry next time? A gun? I’ll bet every guy in that bar had a gun. Do we carry bigger guns? Machine guns? Bazookas? What? How far do we take it?”
Patrick chose not to answer the question. “If you want to help, I’ll plan it so you won’t have to come into a place or situation like that again,” he said. “You’ll be support only from now on. I don’t want you in the line of fire.”
Jon looked bone-weary at that, as well as scared, but he nodded resolutely. “I’ll still help you, Muck,” he said. “I agreed to help, and I will.”
Patrick sank into a chair in the corner of the bedroom, rubbed his eyes, and tested his nose, cheekbones, and jaw for any signs of fractures. “Jon, I’m not going to hold you to that,” he said. “I feel like I’m out of control, like I’m on a roller coaster. I can’t control what I’m feeling. I want to lash out at those guys. I feel I have the power and the ability to do it. I don’t want to sit by and watch while others fight my battles for me, especially the cops in 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?”