Tin Man

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