by Dale Brown
"You want her, you take her!" the woman yelled.
"She does nothing but cry and throw up all day anyway
! just get the hell out!" She moved in closer to
take another swat at him, and Patrick swung his left
shoulder and hit her square in the face. She bounced
off him as if she had been hit by a truck, screamed,
scrambled to her feet clutching a bloody broken
nose, and retreated back into the bedroom.
Patrick carried the unconscious child to the hving
room. He found some clothes piled in a corner
and tucked them around the frail little body as best'
he could. Her breathing seemed normal, thank
God-maybe it was fright that had knocked her out
and she wasn't going into shock. He hunted for pillows
to cradle her head . . .
"Sacramento Police Department! Freeze!" Patrick
turned around. TWo guys in jeans, sneakers,
and jackets stood in the shattered doorway, aimmg
automatics at him.
"Do as he says, mister," said another voice. Two
more cops, these in uniform, were taking cover behind
the door leading to the kitchen.
Patrick faced them, hands along his side but
palms facing outward to show they were empty.
"The child's hurt," he said. "I've called an ambulance
. Someone get a first-aid kit."
"I said, stand still and get your hands up where I
can see them," the first cop ordered.
"I'm unarmed. I'm trying to help this child. She
was caught in the explosion . . ."
"Turn around, face the wall, with your hands up
and your feet spread. Do it! Now!"
Patrick felt as if he was in a daze. He turned and
faced the wall. Despite his anger at the guys like
Chandler and Barona, obeying the police was in his
blood. He'd been taught from childhood to cooperate
with them, do everything they told him. They
were doing an important job. They were there to
help the innocent . . .
"One dead over here," one of the uniformed cops
called out, waving a flashlight. He must have found
the dead biker in the kitchen. "Multiple gunshots
and knife wounds."
One of the plainclothes cops saw the blood on
Patrick's body. "Did you kill him?" he asked.
"No," Patrick replied. "There was a man here before
me, a guy that looked like a soldier or cornmando
, speaking German. There's a woman in the
back bedroom too. I don't know how many more are
back there."
"We'll check it out." The two uniformed officers
headed toward the bedrooms with guns drawn, and
the first plainclothes cop asked, "Did you plant a
bomb in that doorway to blow that door open?"
"Yes."
"You're under arrest. You have the right to remain
silent."
"You had this place under surveillance," Patrick
said angrily. "Why didn't you raid it? Why were you
just sitting out there?"
"How do you know we had it under surveillance?
Patrick looked at the cops. "You saw a drug deal
go down right in front of you, and you
"Face the wafl!" the cop yelled, pushing Patrick's
helmeted head hard against the wall.
"That's him!" they heard. It was the woman, her
nose still bleedin being led out of the back room,
handcuffed and with a blanket over her shoulders.
"That's the cop that beat me up and tried to rape
me! When I fought back, he took my daughter and
said he was going to kill her!"
When she reached the living room, she caught
sight of the man lying on the kitchen floor. She
screamed. "Oh God, that's my husband! He killed
my husband! That murdering bastard, he killed my
man!"
"Don't worry, lady," said one of the uniformed
officers. "We've got him. He's under arrest."
I One of the cops grabbed Patrick's left wrist and
,twisted it down and back. Patrick tried to fight
back, and realized that, like the knife attack, the
BERP suit couldn't resist a gradual application of
force. As long as the force wasn't sharp or powerful,
it would not activate.
"Relax your arm, pal," the cop ordered. "Don't
resist or we might have to hurt you." Another cop
pushed his fingers under Patrick's jaw, pressing the
nerve. The sharp pain made him see stars. Another
tried unsuccessfully to kick the backs of his knees
to get him down, which would give them more leverage
. He realized they were easily overpowering
him, and in a moment they'd have the handcuffs on
him.
"Don't touch me," Patrick said, fighting to keep
his voice steady and his emotions under control. "I
don't want to hurt you. I'll come along peacefully,
but don't try to hurt me."
"Then stop resisting and put your hands behind
your back," an officer ordered.
"You don't need handcuffs on me!" Patrick
shouted. "I'll come along peacefully. Let me loose!"
They almost had him--one man was on each arm,
and he was tiring quickly.
"That's not how it works, buddy. The handcuffs
are for our protection. We'll take 'em off as soon as
we're sure you'll cooperate with us. They won't be
on long, and they won't hurt as long as you don't try
to resist. Relax, bud. We put cuffs on everyone. It's
routine. Don't panic over it. Before you know it it'll
be over with. No one wants to get hurt . . ."
"Then let me go and I'll do whatever you-"
"Dump him! " someone shouted. Pepper spray hit
the front of his helmet. The environmental system
only allowed a whiff of it to enter the helmet, but
the irritation muddled his thinking. He was scared.
All four cops were on top of him now, dragging him
backward. He landed flat on his back with a hard
thump. A forearm was pressed against his throat, a
knee was shoved in his groin, and they were trying
to pull the helmet off ...
, , and when Patrick hit the floor, the electrical
surges that had been quiescent for the past several
minutes shot back with full force. Patrick
screamed, a deep-throated, electronically amplified
howl. The uniformed cop with his knee in Patrick's
groin got an armored knee to his midriff and was
saved from a broken left rib cage only by his Kevlar
bulletproof vest. He cried out but kept on fighting
until the second knee crashed in. The two plainclothes
cops had hold of Patrick's arms, pinning
them down with the full weight of their bodies so
he couldn't move-but his head was free. Using his
legs for leverage, he head-butted one cop, then the
other. Blood spattered, but they held firm until Patrick
was able to work his right hand free. That was
enough-a simple swat at one of their faces made
the guy feel as though he'd been hit with an iron
skillet. The last cop landed a couple of blows to
Patrick's head and rammed his knees into his rib
cage, but every
blow was like hitting a brick wall,
and he finally let go of his prisoner. Both he and
Patrick rolled to their feet.
The cop drew his sidearm and aimed it at Patrick.
"Freeze, assholel" he shouted. "Don't move!"
Patrick held up his hands again. He did another
system self-test and noticed he now had a problem.
Power was discharging more quickly now-the
levels were down to one hour remaining, and it had
only been minutes since he checked it last. There
was no way of telling if the suit would protect him
against more gunshots. Time to get out of here.
"All right, listen," Patrick said. "I am telling you
guys the truth. I am on your side. I blew the door in
and came in here because I knew you were doing a
surveillance on the place but couldn't enter unless
you had probable cause or saw a crime actually take
place. I'm not going to hurt you unless you try to
arrest me."
"All right, all right, we won't touch you," one of
the plainclothes cops said. He still had his gun
drawn but held out his left hand as a sign of good
faith. "If you say you're on our side, that's good. We
won't try to hurt you either. just answer a few questions
for us, how about that? I gotta remind you that
you have the right to remain silent, the right to an
attorney, and the right not to answer questions unless
your attorney's present. Do you understand
what I've just said?"
'Yes.
"Good," the cop said. "There's no reason why
anyone has to get hurt. We're just doing our jobs. if
you're innocent, if it was justifiable, everything will
be fine here. But you gotta cooperate with us. Why
don't you start by taking off the helmet?"
"The hell I will," said Patrick. "You're trying to
delay me until more backup units arrive." He
scanned the police channels accessible through the
new VHF system in his helmet comm system.
"Two units, the sergeant, and a fire unit are on the
way now. I'll be long gone before then . . ." I
"Don't you try to leave, buddy," the cop said.
"You're a murder suspect. You look like you're carrying
a weapon in that backpack, and you hit one of
my officers and almost knocked him cold, so you've
got a weapon hidden on you. If you try to run, we
can shoot to stop you. We'll kill you if we have to,
but we don't want to do that. just stay put. Don't
move."
Patrick made another systems check: power
down to forty minutes remaining, much less than
he hoped for but still plenty to get him out of this.
"I'll tell you once more," he said. "I'm not your
enemy. Don't fight me. These guys who set off all
the explosions all over the state are the enemies,
not me. We need to work together."
"Don't move," the cop warned again. "You're under
arrest. Don't move or I'll shoot!"
He had to get out of there before the reinforcements
arrived. He fired his boot thrusters, aiming
for the shattered front door. Gunshots-this time
hitting on his right shoulder, each -impact like an
electric cattle-prod to his head and his heart. He hit
the broken right side of the door and spun around,
landing hard just outside.
A small crowd had collected outside the house. A
woman screamed. "Police!" he heard behind him
from inside the house. "Everyone, clear the street!
You! Freeze! Hold it right there!" And in front of
him, no more than fifteen feet away, was anot er
uniformed cop, crouching behind his open squadcar
door, lights flashing, headlights dead on him.
Patrick dodged left to go around the car. The officer
fired two shots. The crowd cried out in horror when
Patrick went down, but that was a whisper compared
to the reaction when he got back up on his
feet.
Warning advisories flashed in the heads-up display
inside his helmet. My God! he realized, he was
on emergency power. The emergency power setting
was for emergencies only-for escaping and surviving
, not doing battle. The system was supposed to
provide an hour of reserve power, a warning to
recharge or leave the battlefield, before reaching
into emergency power. He'd never received a reserve
power warning, or else it had drained right
through that level with one gunshot. His power indicators
said he had another thirty minutes of emergency
power remaining, but at the rate it was
draining with every shot, he knew it would only
last a few more minutes.
"Freeze!" called the uniformed cop who had just
shot him. "Get down on the ground! Get down now
or I'll shoot!"
There was a sudden soft whoosh! and a short
blast of compressed air-and Patrick vanished.
"There he is!" someone shouted. Everyone
turned. He had reappeared next to a fire truck responding
to the scene almost a half-block away. He
got UP, turned, ran down Sixty-fifth Street, then
appeared again. Police vehicles gave chase, together
with a responding sheriff's-department air unit, but
it was no use. The suspect had disappeared.
SANTO PORTE, CALIFORNIA
THAT SAME TIME
t appears you were correct, Colonel," Reingruber
said as Gregory Townsend rushed into the command
center at the hideout in the Sierra Nevada
foothills near Santo Porte after being awakened by
his excited deputy. "We are receiving news reports
from Sacramento about some invasion-style assaults
on drug houses and Satan's Brotherhood locations
in the city."
"Is it any of our men?" Townsend asked. "Are
your men accounted for, Major?"
"Ja, Herr Oberst, " Reingruber replied. "All of my
strike teams reported in and are returning. It is not
any of my men."
"Any indication on who's behind these attacks?"
Townsend asked as he sat down in front of the bank
of television sets. "Is it the Mexican drug gangs?
Rival biker gangs?"
"There are no specific reports, Sir," Reingruber
replied. "Reports of a few bikers injured, one casualty
. Indications are that police had brief gunfights
with the intruders ' but there were no reports of arrests
. However, one team reported contact with a
lone, strangely outfitted unidentified police officer
or military security officer. One of my men was seriously
injured in a scuffle with him."
"Was he a National Guard soldier?" Townsend
asked. "A police SWAT officer?"
"He could not verify exactly who it was, sir, "
Reingruber said. "He did manage to wound him, but
he reports that the unidentified man's uniform had
some unusual characteristics. In addition, reports
we have heard on police frequencies indicate that
this was the same figure involved in the invasionstyle
attacks, and that the outfit the unidentified
officer was wearing is like full-body bullet-resistant
armor."
Townsend was intrigued. "A new military technology
, in use by National Guard troops but deployed
on the street in a civil mission?" he mused.
"I must get as many details as possible on this armor
. Where are your men who encountered this
man?"
"it will be several hours before the teams return,
Herr Oberst. They are executing full evasion procedures
in enemy territory."
'I want to talk with that team as soon as it arrives
," Townsend said. He thought for a moment.
"This is a good sign. I see frustrated and maybe even
fearful police, perhaps rival gangs trying to move in
on the drug trade in the city or vigilantes or militia
taking to the streets, and angry citizens demanding
that something be done. It is beginning to look as
though the city is starting to rip itself apart, Major.
Any reports from the target area?"
"Still normal activity, sir," Reingruber replied.
"Departure appears to be within the week."
"They will soon have no choice but to accelerate
their departure," Townsend said. "It will happen in
the next few days. Get your men ready to move."
P
atrick McLanahan was hiding between two
Dumpsters behind a minimall just off Stockton
Boulevard when Jon Masters pulled up in the Hum-
mer. He had driven there when he noticed on the
satellite tracking system that Patrick had not
moved in several minutes. Patrick unfastened his
helmet, then slid into the backseat. "How did it
go?" Jon asked. Patrick did not reply. "The tracking
device in the suit worked perfectly. I had a map of
your every move. The undegraded GPS signals pinpointed
you within six feet." Still no response.
"Lots of police around," Jon added. "I thought we'd
head the opposite way, east, toward Florin-Perkins
Road."
"Just get us out of here," Patrick said.
"Patrick, there are police everywhere,
"I've been monitoring the police frequency,"
Patrick said. "The police are setting up a perimeter
in the Rosalee subdivision between Stockton
Boulevard and Sixty-fifth Street. Head west on
Thirty-seventh Avenue and we should miss the
outer-perimeter roadblocks on Stockton Boulevard
and Lemon Hill Avenue." Patrick was filled with a
