by Dale Brown
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
SATURDAY, 21 MARCH 1998, 0145 PT
The night air was fairly warm for this time of year,
a first taste of the mild springtime evening temperatures
that were right around the corner. The
back door to the Bobby John Club, on the alley between
Del Paso Boulevard and Anne Street, was
open, and the bouncer assigned to the door had been
told to move his bar stool out into the alley.
The bouncer saw the figure coming down the alleyway
from about a block away. It was a guy wearing
a full set of leathers, carrying his motorcycle
helmet. He had on a plain dark watch cap, so the
bouncer couldn't see much else of his face.
Neither could the police surveillance team
parked on Anne Street, across the alley from the
rear entrance to the club. The police had installed a
surveillance camera on a light post across Del Paso
Boulevard to cover the front of the club, but still
had to use a two-man surveillance van to cover the
rear. Cameras snapped as the newcomer came up to
the door, and the surveillance crew adjusted the
big-ear" directional microphone to hear the conv"ersation
better.
"Where's your ride?" the bouncer asked as the
guy approached.
'Broke down, back on Calvados Street," the
stranger replied. "Gonna use the phone."
As the stranger started to walk through the door,
the bouncer stuck out a finger and placed it against
the guy's chest in a clear order to stop. "I seen you
around before, sport?"
"Sure. I been around."
The bouncer noticed that the leather jacket was
fairly new and hardly worn. It certainly didn't look
like it had been worn by anyone riding a motorcycle
during a wet, sloppy Sacramento winter-it didn't
even smell worn, in fact it smelled crisp and new,
right off the rack-and here were no colors or logos
on it. It looked like the guy could've picked up the A
jacket at the mall earlier in the day. He wasn't wearing
leather chaps or pants either, but some kind of
dark gray coveralls. "You flying any colors, bro?"
'No.
"Then use the phone at the Safeway back where
you came from. Club's closed."
"Phone's broke."
"Ours is broke too. Hit the fucking road."
The stranger turned as if he was going to leave,
then stopped and turned back to the bouncer.
"Okay," he said, "my motorcycle didn't break
down. In fact, I don't have a motorcycle. Never rode
one in my life."
"Like I give a shit. Beat it."
"The actual truth is this," the stranger said. "I'm
going to ask you some questions about Joshua Mul-
lins." He saw the sudden tenseness in the bouncer's
face. "Good. You know who I'm talking about."
"Fuck off, bozo."
"Mullins was Brotherhood," the stranger went
on. "He was also part of a holdup gang that did the
Sacramento Live! shootout . . ."
The bouncer could move fast for a guy his size.
He shoved the stranger away from the door, then
reached inside the doorway for a piece of galvanized
steel pipe used to bar the rear entrance when it was
shut. The stranger flew backward, landing hard on
his back and side, though from his dazed expression
it looked more as if he'd hit his head. "You're trespassing
, buster," the bouncer yelled. "You get lost,
or you get hurt."
That guy's gotta be a 5150," one of the officers in
the police surveillance van said with a chuckle as
they listened to the interchange. A 5150 was the
radio code for a mental patient. Recent events
around Sacramento had brought out a lot of weirdos
who thought they could clean up the town all by
themselves. "Or probably another stupid cop
wanna-be."
"He's gonna get his head smashed in if he doesn't
ran like hell," his partner said. "Think we should
call a Patrol unit before this guy gets hurt--or
dead?"
"Yeah. Better get a black-and-white heading this
way," said the other cop. "We can always Code-ten
him if the 5150 beats feet." He got on his portable
radio and called Central Dispatch, requesting that a
Patrol unit swing by and shine its spotlight down
the alley. "It'll take a few minutes to get here," the
cop said. "That'll be enough time to give the 5150 a
good healthy scare-hopefully."
"If the bouncer starts beating on him, we'll have
to do something."
"Relax and wait for the Patrol unit."
The other cop lowered his binoculars, his mind
racing. "Intel did speculate that Mullins was one of
the guys that did that robbery, right? He was the
one they found dead a few days later, right?"
"I think so."
"Did that ever come out in the papers?"
"About Mullins? Yeah. He was a security guard
or watchman at Sacramento Live!, one of the missing
guards."
"Yeah, but did it ever come out that he was a
Satan's Brotherhood member, or that he might have
been involved in the robbery?"
"Yeah, sure . . . at least I think so," the other
cop said, not much interested in the subject.
"I don't think it did," his partner said.
"So?//
"So if it didn't come out in the papers, then how
could this guy know that Mullins was Brotherhood
and involved in the heist? Not many cops know
about that, only guys in Intelligence or Gangs. How
could a buff know?"
"How the hell should I know?" his partner said
irritably. "Just take the pictures, okay? I got enough
to think about.,,
T
he stranger got himself up to a kneeling position,
his chest heaving as if he was having difficulty
breathing. "Here's the deal," he said. "You tell me
I
everything I want to know about Mullins and 90
away. If you don't, I'll break your head, and then I'll
go inside, break some more heads, and destroy the
place."
"Listen, shithead, you got one more chance," the
bouncer said. "Get up and get your fat ass outta
here or I'll bend this pipe around your fucking
head."
The stranger got up, retrieved his helmet, and
took a couple paces right toward the bouncer. "Last
chance for you," he said. "Mullins was working for
a guy called the Major. The word is that Mullins
met the Major or one of his men here about a week
before the robbery. Tell me about him. Who was he?
Did he have a German accent? What did he look
like?"
"Not as bad as you're gonna look, asshole," the
bouncer said-and swung the pipe. He faked a head
shot, brought the pipe back, and swung it at the side
of the stranger's left knee. The blow would've put a
two-inch dent in the side of a car. He' gaped as the
pipe ricocheted off the guy's leg as if he'd hit a concrete
Post.
What did he say about Germans?" the second surveillance
officer asked. "Did he say 'the Major'
was a German?"
"Yeah-I heard about the Major but that never
got in the papers either. And I never heard about no
tie-in between him and any Germans. What makes
him think the Major was . . . Ohhh, shit, he hit
him, right in the fucking knees! Better get that Patrol
unit over here fast. Looks like the bouncer just
tried to break that turkey's knees."
"They're on their . . ." Both cops stopped to
watch. The guy was still standing after being
clubbed in the knees. No set of biker leathers would
protect him against a shot like that. "He must've
missed, trying to scare him? . . ."
"He hit 'im," the first officer said, sounding unsure
whether or not he saw what he saw. "That pipe
didn't faze him. He must be wearing full body armor
, but it sure doesn't look like it."
His partner put down his light-intensifying binoculars
. "I'm going over there and talk to this guy,"
he said.
"You what? You'll blow our surveillance,
man . . .
"The guy knew about the Major, and he knew
about the meeting here between him and Mullins,"
the second cop said, rolling open the sliding door of
the van. "He knows a lot more than any civilian
should know. If he's a cop, then he's trying to pull
some kind of off-duty or vigilante shakedown thing,
and we gotta stop him before he sets this city on
fire. Besides, I want to figure out how he can take a
hit from a steel pipe and keep on standing. Tell the
black-and-white I'm 940."
The second blow was sheer rage. It was hard, fast,
and overhead, aimed right at the head. Patrick
McLanahan deflected it with ease with his left arm,
cracking the pipe. The surge of electricity from the
arm to the rest of his body mixed with the surge of
energy he had felt from the blow to his leg, and the
two power waves seemed to meet right at his heart,
sending an explosive stream of energy through the
rest of his body.
Patrick screamed through a wicked-looking
smile. They hadn't fixed the problem with the energy
surge through the suit but he didn't care. in
fact, he was glad. It was like a drug-and he was
hooked on it.
It all happened as if in slow motion. The bouncer
stared at Patrick as though he were a swamp monster
, then grasped the pipe in both hands and tried a
major-league home-run swing at his head. Patrick
never let it happen. He simply stepped forward and
drove his right fist into the bouncer,s chest.
The guy was wearing a bulletproof vest, which
attenuated some of the impact and probably saved
his life. His sternum and left rib cage shattered, collapsing
his left lung. Blood spurted from his mouth
and nose and he crumpled to the ground. Patrick
was close enough to be showered with blood, but
instead of sickening him, it further fueled his anger
and thirst for . . .
. . . for what? Patrick wasn't sure what he
wanted: revenge, information? No, just to take out
his frustration and bitterness on whoever was inside
. To hurt someone. To make them afraid, the
way he and his family were afraid. He was going
to . . .
"Stop! Police!" Patrick turned. A plainclothes
man with a badge on a chain around his neck was
galloping across the alleyway from Anne Street. His
right hand was behind his back, probably hiding a
gun. He held up his gold detective's badge. "Hold it
right there! I want to talk to you."
Patrick tossed away the watch cap and 'put on his
helmet. The instant the final component of the suit
was In place and activated, he, felt the extra surge of
energy course through his body. He had bypassed
the safety system that deactivated the suit when the
helmet was removed, which allowed him to take it
off but still be protected by the rest of the system.
Now that he had put it back on, and the environmental
system was fully functional and data was
streaming in on his heads-up display and headphones
, he felt utterly alive, utterly powerful.
"Take the helmet off now!" the detective ordered
. Patrick stood there, unmoving. The cop's gun
came up. "I said, take off the helmet, then put your
hands on top of your head and turn around!"
"I'm unarmed," Patrick answered, his voice now
electronically amplified through the helmet.
"Do it, buster. Helmet off, hands on top of your
head. Now!" To his surprise, the guy simply turned
around and headed inside the rear door of the Bobby
John Club.
He bolstered his gun-the guy was unarmed, and
he couldn't shoot an unarmed man, especially in
the back. If he had killed the bouncer, he was a murder
suspect and could legally be detained by any
means necessary, including shooting him-but if
the guy didn't have a weapon it would still be hard
to justify using deadly force. "Jesus, Dave, get over
here and give me a hand," the cop said to his partner
, who was listening on the directional mike.
"Better call in a 245 and possible 187, get some
backup, and roll an ambulance-I think the bastard
killed the bouncer."
As Patrick came into the hallway, a biker appeared
from the kitchen area, rushing him. Patrick
solidified his entire left arm and straight-armed him
in ' the face; it was as if the biker had run headlong
into a steel girder. The door Patrick was looking for,
the one that was closed and guarded the last time he
was here, was on the right, locked. He stepped back
into the kitchen and ran at the door, using his
shoulders as a battering ram. The door splintered
and came off its flimsy hinges.
Two bikers were inside, with several partially
dressed girls. Patrick recognized one of them as the
same guy who had confronted him with the broken
beer bottle, the same one who cut Jon Masters-and
the one who knew about Mullins and the Major.
One girl was kneeling between his legs; the others
scurried around the room at Patrick's entrance,
grabbing for their clothes. Several lines of a white
powder, crank or cocaine, were laid out on a serving
tray on the table.
"Who the fuck are you?" the biker shouted.
-"I want the Major," Patrick said, his voice eene
through the helmet. "Tell me where the Major is
and I'll let you live tonight."
The biker reached over to where his pants were
on the floor beside his chair and pulled out a
9-millimeter Glock. "I never killed anyone while
getting a blow job before," he said with a laugh. He
yanked the woman's head back into his crotch,
smiled, and pulled the trigger. At the same moment,
the other b
iker pulled a shotgun from out of the
corner of the room and fired. Patrick tumbled over
backward, crashing into the opposite corner.
The first biker grinned as the invader hit the
floor. "Damn, that felt good, " he said, firing another
round into him just for good measure. He yanked
the woman off his cock by the hair and shoved her
aside. "Get dressed, bitch-the cops are going to be
swarming over this place any minute. Clean up that
coke and take the tray into the kitchen and get it in
the sink. It was self-defense. All you bitches remember
that. The guy busted in here and threatened
to . . ."
"Holy shit!" the- other biker yelled. They all
turned in horror to see the helmeted invader picking
himself off the floor. There was not a single hole
in him. A shotgun blast from less than twenty feet
away should've put a hole the size of a softball in
his chest.
"I want the Major!" Patrick said again. The girls
grabbed whatever clothes they could and fled,
screaming, from this . . . apparition. The second
biker racked the action on his shotgun and fired
again, but he was shaking so hard from the sight of
this guy still standing, walking, and talking, that he
missed from fifteen feet away. He dropped the shotgun
and ran.
"Hey, asshole!" the other biker screamed futilely
, "get back here and nail this guy!" He swore,
aimed, and fired his Glock. The invader reeled, hit
right in the chest-but this time he did not go
down. Another shot and another, from ten feet
away and less. Still standing. It was clear he had
been hit, because he stopped in his tracks and
howled, as if ready to collapse from pain or shock,
but then he straightened up and kept right on coming
.
Patrick grabbed the biker by the right wrist, then
chopped his forearm with his hand. There was the
sound of bone snapping, and the Glock dropped to
the floor. Then he lashed out with his right hand,
hitting the biker square on the left collarbone. Bone
snapped again, and the biker sank to his knees,
scre ming like a child. "I want the Major," said Pata
rick "Tell me where he is or I'll kill you."
"I don't know where he is, man, I swear
Patrick's hand jerked out again, breaking the
other collarbone. "Next, I'm going to break your
sternum," Patrick said, jabbing a finger into the
