by Dale Brown
home as possible. When Paul was closer to being
discharged from the hospital, they'd move into a
short-term executive apartment, and once he was
on his feet, they would go home to San Diego.
The third bedroom, Paul's office, had been converted
too-into a command center. That was
where Patrick found Jon Masters when he arrived
back from the meeting with Chandler. "How's it
sound, Jon?" Patrick asked.
"Loud and dear," Masters replied. "Good job.
Where did you plant them?"
"Captain's office, break room, bathroom, and
conference room," Patrick replied.
"Good. Listen."
Jon hit a button on a tape recorder on the desk,
and they heard Tom Chandler's voice, a little
scratchy but clear enough, talking on the phone to
his wife: "I'm on my way now, hon. I was going to
be home twenty minutes ago, but the brother of
that rookie cop that was hurt in the shootout? He
showed up in the parking lot ... yeah, that's the
guy, the one on TV. Big tough guy on TV, right? He
demands information, and then when I tell him
where to stick it, he starts blubbering all over me.
What a baby. I think he was drinking too. So I sat
him down and held his hand for a few minutes.
Then he almost blows lunch in my office. I finally
told him to go home and sleep it off. So I'm on my
way home ... okay ... great ... sure, I'll pick
it up on my way back. See you in a few, hon. Bye."
And the line went dead.
"I caught another few minutes of Chandler making
basketball and Super Bowl bets with a bookiethat
information might come in handy someday,"
Jon added. "Kinda dumb, making bets on an office
phone that's probably being monitored, but I guess
you don't need to be a genius to be a police cap-
tain." He shut off the tape recorder, rewound the
tape, then set it to auto, which would automatically
record any conversations picked up by the electr6nic
eavesdroppers. "You should be an actor,
Muck," Jon remarked with a smile.
"I thought I was going to barf after swishing that
whiskey in my mouth," Patrick said. "What's the
range of this system?"
"Only a couple of miles," Masters said. "We're at
the extreme range limit now. I want to put up a
relay on a nearby building-the one adjacent to his
would be the best, but it can be anywhere within a
half mile of the bugs. The relay will increase the
range to about ten miles. Then we can pick up the
transmissions from anywhere. Maybe we can
launch a NIRTSat constellation and get the taps
downloaded to us anywhere on the continent."
"I don't think we'll need to do that," Patrick said
with a wry smile. He knew Jon Masters's appetite
for technological overkill; he'd do it with the least
bit of encouragement. "Will they be able to detect
the bugs?"
"They might," Jon admitted. "They're voiceactuated
, which means they don't activate unless
there's sound in the room. Most times when security
teams sweep a room for bugs, they try not to
make any noise, so the bugs should be undetectable,
but they do carry a very low power level all the time
in standby mode so there's still a chance a bug
sweeper might detect it. The bugs store information
in packets, then microburst the packets out in irregular
intervals to try to confuse a passive detection
system. So it'll be harder to detect the bugs when
they transmit too."
Masters paused, then added, "But it's usually not
bug detectors that find the bugs, Patrick. Most
times it's just plain ol'. good counterintelligence
work. Someone will eventually realize information
is getting out. A local PD might not have sophisticated
detection or backtracing gear, but all they
need to do is plant false information to try to ferret
out a snooper. Once you start using the information
you get, your days of bugging offices will be numbered
. They'll just swoop down on you one day and
it'll all be over. Might be hours, might be days."
But Patrick wasn't listening. "Thanks, Jon," he
said. "I'll start monitoring the taps, and I'll talk to
you after we get some worthwhile information.
Once we find out who the enemy is, we'll plan our
next move."
Masters nodded. Patrick McLanahan always
knew what he was doing. "Wendy called while you
were out," he said. "They're going to keep her in
the hospital for another few days to be safe. They'll
discharge her on the thirtieth."
"Good," Patrick responded.
Jon was startled. 'Good'?"
"That'll give us more time to come up with a
plan," Patrick said. "I want to move before the police
do. I want first shot at these dirtbags."
"Are you trying to hide this from Wendy?" Jon
asked incredulously. "You're not going to tell her
what you're doing?"
"Not now," Patrick said. "Not right away. I want
to formulate a plan of action before I tell her. I'm
hoping they'll catch the terrorists before too long,
and if I tell Wendy about this, it'll upset her for no
reason." Jon shook his head at this backward logic,
but decided not to argue the point. "I'm off to
Mercy San Juan. I'll be back later."
He knows what he's doing, Jon Masters told himself
for the third or fourth time that evening. It's
Patrick McLanahan. He always has a plan. He always
knows what he's doing. Always
SPECIAL INVESTIGATIONS DIVISION
HEADQUARTERS,
BERCUT DRIVE, SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
MONDAY, 29 DECEMBER 1997, 0925 PT
N
ere's what we have so far, Chief," Captain Tom
Chandler began. He was giving an update briefing
to the chief of police, Arthur Barona, as well as
to the deputy chief of investigations and the deputy
chief of operations of the city of Sacramento. "It's
not much:
"The private security company for the Sacramento
Live! complex has still not heard from one of
the guards who was on duty the night of the
shootout, Joshua Mullins. He's being sought as a
material witness, but we're looking at him as an
accomplice to the robbery. Mullins is ex-Oakland
PD, resigned while under suspension. Lived in an
apartment downtown, but the place was cleared
out. He has some ties to local biker gangs, so we did
some interviews in some of his hangouts. No one's
seen him."
"I want him," Barona said. "Send out his description
on the wire to all state agencies. He's probably
headed back to the Bay Area."
"Already out," Chandler said. "We're setting up
surveillance on local biker bars-the Bobby John
Club, Sutter Walk, Posties, a few others, as much as
manpower allows. Sacramento County is cooperating
with us in setting up su
rveillance on biker bars
in the county, and we're working with Yolo, Sutter,
Alameda, San Francisco, and Placer County DA's to
gather intelligence on biker bars in their jurisdictions
.
"Our informants are giving us information on a
guy that Mullins may have been in contact with
who goes by the name of the Major. No information
yet on who he is, where he comes from, what he's
up to, or why he might have wanted Mullins. The
sergeant in charge at the Sacramento Live! shootout
says he thinks he might have heard one of the
gunmen shouting in German or some other language
after being hit, so we might be looking at a
foreign terrorist group. I've been in contact with the
FBI and Interpol, but we don't have much to go on
except their outfits, weapons, and MO. All of the
gunmen hit during the shootout were carried off."
Chandler stopped. Barona looked at him in surprise
. "That's it, Chandler? That's all you have?"
"'Fraid so, Chief."
"Tom, that's completely unacceptable," Barona
said angrily. "It's been over a week and we haven't
got an arrest in sight. We need to get some action
going on this case or the city's going to eat all of our
lunches for us. Now get me some arrests." The
chief stormed out of the conference room.
Chandler ran his fingers through his hair in exasperation
. "Anything else I can frustrate you gents
with today?" he asked.
"We know you're stretched to the limit, Tom,"
said one of the deputy chiefs. "Put everybody you
got on finding this Mullins guy. We'll see about
tossing some uniforms your way to ease the workload
. What do you have in mind?"
"I've already wasted the next two months/ overtime
budget," Chandler said. "Any more and I trash
the entire next quarter's budget almost before it
starts. I've got enough manpower for round-the-r
Walk
clocks at just two places. Posties and Sutte
are private clubs; Bobby John's is public. Mullins's
more likely to turn up at one of the private clubs."
"Then put your surveillance units there," the
deputy chief said. "Then as soon as you can, get
someone on the Bobby John Club too. We'll send
out a notice to watch sergeants to circulate Mullins's
description to their patrols. But if he has any
brains at all, he's long gone out of this town. We'll
try to juggle some money around for overtime, but
don't count on it. Do the best you can, Tom."
o the best you can/ he says," Patrick McLanahan
mused as the recording fell silent. "How can hez
Every one of those cops in the entire division is 9
ready working twelve-hour shifts."
"Yeah. We've heard talk about that 'Major' guy
before. He's starting to sound like the mastermind
of that robbery."
"Sure does," Patrick agreed. He paused for a moment
, then added: "We need to bug the Bobby John
Club. No telling how long it'll take for SID to start
up surveillance there."
"Sounds good to me," Masters said. "You know
anything about the place?"
"Just enough to stay away from it," Patrick replied
. "Having a drink or shooting pool with the
bikers at the Bobby John Club used to be the cool
thing to do in high school, but I never went. They
certainly were never any competition for the Sarge's
Place's business."
"Well, Chandler said it was a public bar," Jon
pointed out. "I suppose you have as much right as
anyone to go in there. if there's a million motorcycles
parked out front, we'll just go in another time."
BOBBY JOHN CLUB, DEL PASO BOULEVARD,
NORTH SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
TUESDAY, 30 DECEMBER 1997, 0127 PT
Bobby John's had been around a long time in the
Del Paso Heights neighborhood of Sacramento.
Several big Harleys were parked out front. The wind
had kicked up, and it felt raw and blustery, heightening
the sudden sense of dread Patrick felt as he
opened the door and stepped inside, four surveillance
bugs tucked away and ready to go.
Although his family had run a bar for years, Patrick
never liked going into them-especially strange
bars, in lousy parts of town, at night, and alone.
Even when it's dark outside, there's always a time
after walking into a bar when your eyes aren't adjusted
to the gloom within. Patrick felt vulnerable:
Everyone inside could see him,'but he couldn't see
thern--or danger coming. Tables and people were
shadows. He felt on display, naked, a stranger invading
unknown territory-it was like walking into a
cave knowing there were bears lurking inside. He
could run headlong into the guy he was looking for
and never recognize him.
Patrick decided to withstand the heads turning
toward him, the stares, and the muffled comments,
and just wait in the doorway until his eyes adapted.
If his target tried to leave, at least he'd have a
chance to intercept him. Standing there, he realized
that to the hostile watchers he must look like some
kind of Wild West gunfighter, but there was no
other solution.
As his eyes adjusted, the details of the place grew
clearer. It was small and narrow. The bar stretched
almost the entire length of the wall to the right.
Two pool tables dominated the room to the left,
with a few tables and chairs scattered around. At
the far side of the bar, a dark hallway led to the back
of the building. Patrick could hear loud voices from
back there-more patrons, he guessed. A biker was
leaning against the hallway wall; he appeared to be
guarding a private room. Patrick saw a shaft of light
briefly illuminate the hallway and guessed there
was a back door at the end leading to the alleyway
in the rear.
The walls were covered with posters of naked
biker women, motorcycles, and other typical barroom
art, plus some not very typical stuff: a collection
of Confederate States, Third Reich, neo-Nazi,
White Power, and Ku Klux Klan flags and posters.
Patrick even recognized several national flags, including
Russia, the Afrikaner flag of South Africa,
the flags of the old East Germany, the Ukraine, and
Belarus. No doubt about the theme of this place.
just plant the bugs and get'the hell out, Patrick
told himself. One at the bar-it should be able to
pick up male voices for ten to twenty feet in all
directions--one at a pool table, one in the bathroom
, and one in the meeting room in back if he
could get there.
There was no place open at the bar, so Patrick
stood at the waitresses' pickup station. The bartender
ignored him. He could make out the faces in
the bar now. Some glared at him with undisguised
hostility. To his surprise, a few others seemed to be
loo
king at him with fear, as if he might be a cop
coming to arrest them or a leg-breaker coming to
collect a debt. Most paid no attention. It was dim
enough for no one to notice as he attached the first
listening device under the edge of the counter.
But his luck didn't last for long. The huge,.fat,
bearded biker on the stool nearest him looked up
from his beer. "Hey, sweet cheeks, the faggot bar's
down the street," he growled drunkenly. Patrick ignored
him, enraging the biker. He reached out and
gave Patrick a shove hard enough to push him back
a few feet. "I said, the faggot bar's down the street,
rump ranger. Hit the fucking road." Patrick decided
he'd better move to a table back behind the pool
tables, but the biker looked as if he wasn't going to
let him go.
"Hey, Rod, knock it off," the bartender ordered.
He put another beer in front of the guy, who
promptly forgot about McLanahan. The bartender
scowled at Patrick. "This ain't no tourist stop,
sport," he said. "What do you want?"
"Use your at room?"
"The john's only for paying customers."
"I'll take a beer."
"Five dollars."
"Five?"
"You just bought Rod there a beer too."
Patrick put a five on the bar. "Where's your bathroom
?"
"Coffee shop two blocks down," the bartender
snapped. "Now get the fuck out."
Patrick tried to keep his voice steady. He had
dealt with a few badasses at the Shamrock Pub,
mostly college kids after a few too many or lowlifes
trying to pick a fight with a cop. He'd thought he
could handle this one. Nevertheless, he was already
starting to feel events spinning out of control, and
he had been here only a few moments. "I'll take
that beer and then hit the road," Patrick said.
The bartender reached down to the cooler behind
the bar, pulled out a bottle of beer, and put it on the
bar. But before Patrick could take it, a gloved hand
reached past him and picked it up. Patrick turned
and saw a guy not much taller than he was, with
long brown hair, a beard, a leather jacket, and dark,
dead-looking eyes, standing right beside him. Another
biker, this one with a shaved head and a
goatee, had crossed behind the guy and was standing
to Patrick's right.
"Who are you, asshole?" the first guy asked, taking
