by Dale Brown
The man in the lead held up his hands, palms facing outward, but Bennie noticed that the cover man never moved. Yeah, the Brit’s gesture was meant to be conciliatory, but Bennie looked into his eye and saw nothing but danger. This was not a man accustomed to conciliation, let alone surrender.
“We don’t want any trouble,” the Brit said apologetically. “We’re here because I have a business proposition for you, one that I’m sure you will find most rewarding.”
“Who are you?”
“Forgive me, Mr Reynolds.” Oh shit, Bennie thought, he knows my name, my real name! “I neglected to introduce myself. My name is Gregory Townsend.”
Old Bennie, who had worked closely with some of the meanest and most psychotic bikers in the world for over twenty years, swallowed a gasp of fear. A couple of years before, the United States had been in the grip of something even more terrifying than today’s threat of nuclear war with China or North Korea: An ex-Belgian commando turned international arms smuggler named Henri Cazaux had been flying around the country, dropping high explosives or crashing airliners into several of the largest airports in the United States. The US military was called in and had set up an extensive air defense network of radar planes, fighter jets, and surface-to-air missiles to try to stop him.
Cazaux had seemed invincible, unstoppable, until his body turned up in a West Virginia dump, with seven Black Talons fired into it from very close range, the superexpanding bullets shredding his body as if his insides had been chopped up in a blender. No other clues were found. The book was thankfully closed on Henri Cazaux and his reign of terror against the United States of America.
Speculation was rampant about the identity of Cazaux’s killer-an FBI hit man, the US Marshals Service’s Fugitive Investigative Strike Team, even secret CIA counterespionage groups. But the most likely trigger man was the highest-ranking surviving member of Cazaux’s gang: his chief of plans and operations and trusted second in command, Gregory Townsend-a former British SAS commando and a fixture on Interpol’s most-wanted-criminal list for many years. And now the motherfucker himself was standing right in front of him.
Don’t look nervous! Bennie begged himself. Stay cool. “So you’re Townsend? Bullshit. I heard he was dead, along with his psycho boss, Cazaux. Killed by government hit squads.”
The guy smiled a frightening smile. “Indeed,” he said. “Yes, poor Henri. He was quite mad. But I assure you I am Gregory Townsend, and as you can see, I’m alive.”
“You got any proof you’re Townsend?”
“Ah. Proof.” The Brit reached into a coat pocket and Bennie thought, Oh, shit, here’s where he drills me. But he pulled a photograph out of his pocket. “I show you this only because I so greatly desire your services, Mr Reynolds.” He flipped the photograph at Bennie. Bennie snatched it in midair, keeping the Brit and his cover guy in sight. Then he glanced at the picture and froze.
It was a photograph of Townsend kneeling in what looked like a garbage dump and supporting a corpse. The corpse’s head was partially blown apart at the forehead so the face was unrecognizable, but the upper torso had been stripped bare, revealing a large multicolored tattoo surrounded by bullet holes. The tattoo was that of the Belgian First Para, the “Red Berets,” Belgium’s elite fighting unit, of which Cazaux had once been a member.
The shot was familiar to Bennie. It was almost identical to the one that had been published in several tabloids and magazines, announcing the discovery of Henri Cazaux’s bullet-riddled body, though Townsend didn’t appear in the published photos. The gun that he held in this one was a 9-millimeter Browning Hi-Power, which was what the FBI had identified as the murder weapon.
“Poor Henri,” Townsend said again. “We could have been quite wealthy back then, but he was obsessed with attacking the American government. Insane.”
“Jee-sus,” Bennie exclaimed. “You dusted Henri Cazaux…”
“When Cazaux died, of course, his grip of terror on his business associates died as well,” Townsend said matter-of-factly, plucking the photo out of Bennie’s frozen fingers and slipping it back into his pocket. “But our bloody accountant spilled his guts to the FBI and Interpol-just before I blew him to hell-so all of our numbered bank accounts were immediately confiscated. I am now attempting to reassemble the best of what remains of his organization, and I am recruiting new members as well. This is why I am here today. I would like to offer you a top position in my organization.”
Christ Almighty, Bennie realized, the new king of the international crime trade was asking him to join him! Bennie didn’t know if this was a con or the opportunity of a lifetime, so experience told him to treat it like a con. “You’re into guns, right?” Bennie asked. “I don’t know nuthin’ about the gun-running business.”
Townsend waved a hand dismissively. “Guns are not quite as lucrative as before, Mr Reynolds,” he said. “There are so many of them out there now. Even automatic weapons, heavy military artillery, and high-performance aircraft and battle vehicles are commonplace on the open market. No, not guns, Mr Reynolds. At least not our main stock in trade.
“I’m talking about methamphetamines, Mr Reynolds. The state of California estimates meth sales are in excess of two hundred million dollars a year in this state alone, almost all pure profit, and with no importation problems. With the right combination of production, distribution, and enforcement, meth sales can easily top a half a billion dollars a year nationwide.
“You are Benjamin Reynolds, known as Bennie the Chef by the Satan’s Brotherhood Motorcycle Club. You have been convicted of manufacturing illicit drugs and possessing a controlled substance only once, and received a four-year sentence, that over eight years ago. But you have been cooking meth and instructing the Brotherhood on how to do it for about twenty years. You are obviously highly intelligent and resourceful, and worth far more than whatever you’re making from the Brotherhood. I would like you to supervise the setup of a thousand of your portable meth labs. We will become the McDonald’s of the meth world. What do you say, Mr Reynolds?”
“A thousand meth labs?” Bennie exclaimed. “A thousand portable meth labs? You’ve gotta be joking!”
“A thousand labs such as that one is only the beginning, my dear sir,” said Townsend, motioning toward Bennie’s portable hydrogenator setup. “I envision a meth lab in every county and province in every country of the civilized world. You shall supervise their construction. I shall…”
“It can’t be done, Townsend, or whoever the hell you are,” Bennie interrupted. “You want war with the Brotherhood? Just try to horn in on their meth business. There will be a bloodbath-probably all yours.”
“I am proposing a merger with the Satan’s Brotherhood, Mr Reynolds,” Townsend said confidently. “The northern California chapters of the Brotherhood control four-fifths of the meth production in the United States, most of it generated by you. The problem is that the Brotherhood is disorganized, splintered into factions. I propose to unite them. The Brotherhood will produce methamphetamine, methcathinone, and crack cocaine, and will oversee distribution; I and our new allies will oversee collections, security, and enforcement. The Brotherhood needs you to supervise their meth operations. If you agree to join me, I believe the motorcycle gangs will follow.”
“They might-or they might want to blow your shit away,” Bennie said. “No Brother is going to work with an outsider, especially a foreigner. They’ll be fighting you as much as you’ll be fighting the feds. Who’s gonna stop the Brotherhood from squashing you and your operation? Who’s going to keep all the players together? You? You and what army, man?”
“Myself-and some former members of the German army,” Townsend replied. He motioned toward the man standing behind him. “Meet Major Bruno Reingruber. He has assembled a hundred of his finest officers and soldiers and has agreed to join my operation. Major Reingruber, meet Benjamin Reynolds, Bennie the Chef.”
The German snapped to attention, gave Reynolds a straight-arm Hitler salute, cl
icking his heels together with military precision, and resumed his on-guard stance, scanning the entire area around them. The guy was enormous, Bennie noted, at least six four, pushing three hundred pounds but as solid as a tree. As for the Nazi salute-that was nothing new. Most of the Satan’s Brotherhood were hard-core neo-Nazis. It was part of the “outlaw biker” mystique, the gypsy thing, being wild and free. Biker gangs were big in Holland, England, Germany, even Australia, and a lot of them were neo-Nazi.
But of all the gangs, the Satan’s Brotherhood had the biggest, most dangerous reputation. If you survived the initiation process and became a full member of the Brotherhood, you were set for life. All the drugs, buddies, guns, and whores you wanted. All you had to do was ride, hang out with the Brotherhood, and of course kill, intimidate, cook meth, sell drugs, run whorehouses, and maintain the extreme level of fear that was the Satan’s Brotherhood tradition.
“Major Reingruber and his men share in the Satan’s Brotherhood’s belief that racial impurity has infected and diseased society, and they believe in all-out war between the races and with the infected governments,” Townsend said, as if he felt compelled to explain the Heil Hitler salute. “Many Nazi sympathizers existed after the Cold War ended. They’ve been repressed by the West German government but the neo-Nazi movement is flourishing, there as well as here. And Major Reingruber and his men are very good at enforcement and security.”
“Then he’ll fit in real well with the Brotherhood-if they don’t stomp you first,” Bennie said.
“Major Reingruber believes that even the Satan’s Brotherhood and the other Aryan groups in the United States have been weakened and divided by the government, victims of the racial-impurity disease they were sworn to eradicate,” Townsend went on. “We are not offering to help-we intend to take over. We have formed an army. We call ourselves the Aryan Brigade. We are the soldiers of the new antigovernment order. The key to our success is the northern California chapters of the Brotherhood. When that is in place, the Aryan Brigade will demand obedience from all the chapters.”
“Oh yeah? Well, that’ll be fun to watch,” Bennie said, trying to sound as matter-of-fact as the notorious terrorist before him. “What about you, Townsend? You a Nazi too?”
“I’m a soldier, an officer,” Townsend said after a moment’s uncomfortable pause. “My job is to lead armies and plan campaigns. Major Reingruber and his men are my new army. Before long the Satan’s Brotherhood and the other Aryan armies in the United States and then the world will be part of my army-or they will be eliminated. So. What do you say, Mr Reynolds? Can I count on your support?”
Since these guys couldn’t be intimidated, Bennie decided to try reasoning. “Look, Townsend, or whoever you are, there are two very big, very mean leg-breakers over there whose job it is to keep trespassers off this property, and they take their job real serious. So I suggest you…”
“Hey! What the fuck?” came a warning shout behind them. Bennie’s two Satan’s Brotherhood enforcers had finally woken up. He didn’t give these Brothers any credit for brain-power, but they loved to fight and they loved guns. He hoped to hell there wasn’t going to be a gunfight around his hydrogenation reactor-the tiniest spark could blow them all sky-high.
The bikers scrambled for their weapons and started to move toward them. The German made a motion toward his coat opening, but Townsend held up his hand. “Nicht,” Townsend said in a low voice. “Tell those bloody bastards to stay where they are,” he warned Bennie. “Major Reingruber will not allow them to come near us. We will leave, but I need your answer. Yes or no-will you join me?”
“Or else what-I get blown away by you or your Nazi buddy?”
“If you say no, you’ll be on the losing end of an inevitable war between the Aryan Brigade and whoever stands in our way, including the Satan’s Brotherhood,” Townsend said. “I’ll let you live for now as a sign of good faith if you say no. But if you are not with me in this war, Mr Reynolds, you are against me, and I guarantee that you will die. Do you have an answer for me?”
Bennie had no assurance that anything this guy said was for real, but he did know that his chances of getting shot in the face by either the Brit or the German were better than good. Better to pledge allegiance to whatever flag was put right in front of his nose, Bennie thought, and work out the details later…
“All right, all right, I’m in. I don’t know how in hell you expect you and a hundred hired guns to go up against five thousand Brothers, but I’m in.” Bennie turned toward the biker leg-breakers: “Hey, you guys, put ‘ em down. These guys are…”
It lasted only a few seconds, but Bennie saw it all as if in slow motion:
Sure as shit, the bikers pulled their weapons, one a shotgun, the other a pistol. Never mind that Bennie was standing in their line of fire, the assholes! And they were pretty far away for a gunfight, well over thirty yards. If they thought at all, they were probably thinking that they could scare the intruders off with a shotgun blast into the ground or a few pistol rounds over their heads.
The German had the bikers zeroed in long before they leveled their guns. He withdrew a small machine pistol from his coat and pulled the trigger three times. The first three-round burst missed, but it caused both guys to freeze-not flee, not run for cover, not dive for the ground, just freeze. They made easy targets then, and the next two bursts did not miss. The biker with the shotgun pulled the trigger on his weapon seconds before his lifeless body pitched over backward and hit the ground.
The echoes of the brief gun battle were still ringing in Bennie’s ears when he opened his eyes and saw Reingruber trot over to the bikers to check whether they were still breathing. Apparently one still was; he was dispatched with a single bullet to the brain. Then the German put a single round into the other one just for insurance. “Sie sind tot, Herr Oberst,” Reingruber said.
“Sehr gut, Major,” Townsend said wearily. “I hoped that could be avoided.” He had never reached for his own weapon, Bennie noticed. “Now, then, Mr Reynolds, I suggest we get our fat friends there out of sight before any curious spectators arrive.” A stunned Bennie didn’t say a word as he was led over to the gruesome sight. Reingruber’s rounds were all neatly centered in each biker’s torso, the spread no more than three or four inches. “I have some men on patrol in the woods,” said Townsend, withdrawing a walkie-talkie from his jacket. “I’ll send them in to…”
“Wait!” Bennie yelled. He whirled toward his trailer hydrogenator unit, his eyes bugging out, and grabbed Townsend’s left arm. “Gas! I smell gas! That shotgun blast must’ve put a hole in the hydrogenator! Run for your goddamn lives!”
The three men ran upwind of the meth cooker until Bennie could run no more. He collapsed behind a tree some two hundred yards away from the hydrogenator. Townsend and Reingruber weren’t even winded.
Townsend spat an order in German into his walkie-talkie, warning his other men to stay away from the hydrogenator and take cover, but to keep it in sight at all times. Then he turned back to Bennie. “That was quite a little jog, Mr Reynolds. What in bloody hell was it all about?”
All three of them were behind sturdy oak trees, but the blast still knocked them off their feet. They felt the searing heat as the hydrogen fireball swept above them. Then they looked up. The grass and the trees around them had been blackened by the intense heat and the fireball-even the hair on the back of Reingruber’s head was singed. The truck, the hydrogenator unit, and the two bikers were indistinguishable black lumps in the middle of the charred field. Every standing object for two hundred feet around the hydrogenator had been leveled, even trees with trunks up to three inches in diameter.
“Well then,” said Townsend as he picked himself up off the ground and surveyed the blast area. “This will be a good place for the helicopter to pick us up.”
“Jeez, my cooker!” Bennie shouted. “That was my best portable fucking lab, man! That was fifty, sixty grand, up in smoke! My truck, my chemicals, the product!…”
> “We will have to get you some more working capital, won’t we, Mr Reynolds?” Townsend said, as if he had decided to order a nice bottle of wine. “We should start with at least one million dollars. That should get you under way building the first ten reactors we need, plus provide us with sufficient operating funds.”
“How in hell are you gonna get a million dollars, Townsend?” Bennie shouted. This was crazy. “You gonna cook up enough speed to raise that kind of cash? It’ll take you years, man.”
A helicopter appeared out of nowhere over the trees, swooping down over the blast area in front of them. Townsend waited until the racket died down. “We will be back in operation within a month, Mr Reynolds,” he replied crisply. “And you will address me as Colonel or Oberst from now on. I run my organization like a military unit, and even my civilian subordinates must comply. Now, the fewer questions you ask from now on, the better. Follow Major Reingruber aboard that helicopter, find a seat, strap yourself in, and keep your damn mouth shut.”
Chapter One
Sacramento, California
Friday, 19 December 1997, 2146 FT
Patrick Shane McLanahan stood at the head of the long table and raised his glass of Cuvйe Dom Pйrignon. “A toast.”
He waited patiently as the sexy young waitress, Donna, finished filling all the glasses-she was spending a lot of time at the other end of the table with his brother, Paul, he observed with a smile. When everybody was ready, he continued, “Ladies and gentlemen, please raise your glasses to our honored graduate, my little brother, Paul.” There was a rustle of laughter around the long linen-covered table at Biba’s Trattoria in downtown Sacramento. Patrick’s “little” brother, Paul, had seven inches and thirty pounds on him.
The brothers were as different as could be, on the inside as well as the outside. Patrick was of just below average height, thick and muscular, fair-haired, a masculine and worldly version of their soft-spoken, sensitive mother. Patrick had graduated from California State University at Sacramento with a degree in engineering and a commission in the United States Air Force, then was lucky enough to stay in Sacramento for the next eight years, becoming a navigator student, B-52 Stratofortress navigator, radar navigator-bombardier, and instructor radar navigator.
