“It was a knife attack,” Patrick replied. “I was struggling with this guy who looked like a commando, complete with face mask, combat harness, the works. He pulled a knife. I grabbed his arm, but I couldn’t stop him, he was too strong. The blade touched the suit and just went right on through. Power levels dropped off sharply after that, but the system remained intact. But I also discovered that the cops could wrestle with me and win. Any slow action and the suit couldn’t activate. I barely got out of there without being handcuffed.”
“It must be the nature of the BERP process,” Jon surmised. “We never tested the system with a soft or slowly penetrating force, only a sharp impact. The same characteristic of the suit that allows you to move freely means that a slowly penetrating force won’t activate the electro-reactive collimation.”
“So a bomb blast won’t kill me,” Patrick said, “but a knitting needle pushed in slowly will go through my heart with ease?”
“We should be able to fix that,” Jon said, cringing at the image. “We might be able to have you selectively harden sections of the suit. What about the power levels?”
“Dropped way down after the cut in the suit,” Patrick said again, “especially after being hit repeatedly.”
“Hit?”
“Hit… as in shot,” Patrick said.
Jon’s gulp was audible. “How many times were you shot, Patrick?”
Patrick took a moment to count. “About a dozen times in the space of six minutes. Plus I got hit by a baseball bat a couple of times and bitten by a pit bull-I nearly killed it too.” He said all this so matter-of-factly, Jon noticed, that he could have been a piece of stone relating what had happened.
“So we need to bump up the power reserves a bit, and reprogram the power-monitoring logarithms,” Masters said. “We still haven’t cured those discharges inside the suit, have we?” No reply. “Patrick, are you sure you’re okay?”
Patrick’s tone changed a bit as he went on: “You know what I did, Jon? When I planted that charge by the door, I didn’t take cover. I just stood there and let it rip. It was almost as if I was thinking, If this bomb kills me, fine. If I survive, fine, I’ll do this mission. I survived. I don’t know why I did that. Maybe I thought it was like a test or something, a validation, proof that what I was doing was the right thing.” Patrick was quiet for a long moment, but Jon could actually feel the tension, the rage building in the backseat. “Those sonofabitches,” Patrick went on in a low, angry voice. “They kill, they terrorize, they poison others, they abuse their children-I want to kill every last one of them!”
Then he added, “I got some information on where the Major might be hiding. There was a German-speaking commando already inside that house when I arrived. I think he was there to take out the surviving Satan’s Brotherhood members. Another biker gave me information on a hideout in Wilton. I want to go there. Tonight. Right now.”
“Patrick, you can’t and you know it,” Jon said. “The reason we were successful today is because we did pretty good intelligence work and planning. We don’t have another target planned right now. You have some initial intel on a potential target. Fine. Let’s build on that. But now is not the time to do it. Your suit is damaged, it’s not taking a charge, and there are cops and National Guard troops everywhere. The only reason we haven’t been bothered so far is because there are already so many Hummers on the streets right now that we blend in.”
Patrick thought for a long moment. “You’re right,” he said at last. “And we’ve got to get the cops involved in this too. I realize I’m fighting the cops even more than I’m fighting the bad guys. That’s no good. Let’s get the suit fixed, and then we’ll plan our next move.”
Special Investigations Division Headquarters,
Bercut Drive, Sacramento, California
a short time later
“What in the hell is going on?” Arthur Barona thundered as he strode into Tom Chandler’s office at Special Investigations Division headquarters. His suit was rumpled; he had clearly dressed in a hurry. Chandler was on the phone, trying to listen to the information being passed to him and to the bellowing chief of police at the same time. “I just got tossed out of bed by the damned mayor himself,” Barona went on. “He’s been getting calls about a rogue Narcotics cop killing civilians and busting up people’s homes and businesses? I want answers, and I want them now!” He stormed out of the office to the conference room across the hall.
Chandler put the phone down and went to join Barona. “That was Deputy Chief Ohrman, Chief,” he said. “He’s ordered Homicide to take over the investigation.”
“What in hell is going on?” Barona repeated. “Reports of an officer in body armor and full riot gear blowing up somebody’s home, killing the occupant and nearly killing a youngster? Another cop in riot gear breaking into the Bobby John Club, nearly killing three patrons? Cops not trying to apprehend the suspect as he flees on foot?…”
“That’s inaccurate information, Chief,” Chandler said. He started from the beginning, detailing the two incidents of the strange invader in body armor who appeared to be rushing around the city in a Hummer going after drug dealers and biker-gang members. “That’s all we know right now,” he ended.
“What about this Hummer?”
“A witness reported the suspect getting into a Hummer on Arden Way shortly after the Bobby John Club incident.”
“Arden? That’s several blocks from Del Paso Boulevard.”
“The guy moves fast,” Chandler said. “He’s got some kind of jet thing in his boots that lets him jump…”
“Or there’s more than one of them,” the chief said. “It’s not any of your men, is it?”
“I’ve started a telephone recall of the entire division and ordered Property to do a full inventory of our property rooms,” Chandler replied. “I don’t think it’s any of my men, but I’m going to do a full accounting just in case. Every man has to account for his whereabouts tonight. But I can tell you, it’s not any of them.”
“What about you?” Barona asked. “Where have you been tonight?”
“At home with my wife, Chief,” Chandler replied irritably. That wasn’t entirely accurate-until about eleven-thirty, he was with a woman friend up near Folsom Lake. But his wife would vouch for him if anyone bothered to check. She was accustomed to putting up with his antics. “Yeah, DC Ohrman thinks I was the guy, as if I’ve got nothing better to do these days than to run around in tights busting heads. That’s bullshit. I was home.”
“All right, Tom, all right,” Barona said. “What else? What about the witnesses?”
“Witnesses and officers on the scene describe an individual, probably male, five eight or five nine, medium build, wearing what appeared to be a dark gray tight-fitting outfit similar to a wetsuit, stiff but flexible; a strange high-tech-looking helmet that altered and amplified the suspect’s voice; and a thin backpack, similar in size and shape to a sport-jumping parachute but thinner,” Chandler answered, checking his notes. He paused, then added, “Our officers at both the Del Paso Heights and Elder Creek scenes report that the outfit worn by the suspect was probably some sort of new lightweight body armor. Several officers reported discharging their weapons at the suspect and hitting him, but the suspect appeared unhurt or only slightly injured.”
The chief asked something, but Chandler’s mind had drifted off momentarily. High-tech, high-tech… it reminded him of a conversation he’d had with someone not too long ago. Who was it? Chandler couldn’t remember…
“Chandler! What about weapons?”
Chandler shook himself from his reverie. “No weapons reported, Chief, except my surveillance officers said the suspect planted a satchel charge at the door of a known meth house in the Rosalee section of Elder Creek that was under surveillance at the time.”