The Tin Man

by Dale Brown

  “Is this your daughter?” he asked. “Is this your child?”

  “Fuck you!”

  “How can you let your own child live in a place like this?” Patrick shouted at her. “How can you let her sleep in a room where you cook drugs?”

  “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 living 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, aiming 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 commando, 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 plain-clothes 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 wall!” the cop yelled, pushing Patrick’s helmeted head hard against the wall.

  “That’s him!” they heard. It was the woman, her nose still bleeding, 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.”

  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, asshole!” 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…”

  “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 another uniformed cop, crouching behind his open squad-car 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 disappeared again. Police vehicles gave chase, together with a responding sheriffs-department air unit, but it was no use. The suspect had disappeared.

  Santo Porte, California

  that same time

  “It 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?” Towns-end 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 invasion-style 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.”

  Patrick McLanahan was hiding between two Dumpsters behind a minimall just off Stockton Boulevard when Jon Masters pulled up in the Hummer. 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 burning rage. “Man, I knew Sacramento had problems, but I never dreamed it was this bad,” he went on. “The drugs, the abuse, the violence-they’re beyond belief. It’s like a battle zone.”

  “I’m just glad you’re in one piece, bro,” Masters said. “I was worried.” He went south on Stockton Boulevard. They could see a knot of headlights and blue flashing lights up ahead and guessed it was the first police roadblock. Jon made a right onto Thirty-seventh Avenue and Patrick steered him through neighborhood streets, hoping the turn hadn’t attracted attention. Before long they were safely headed northbound toward downtown Sacramento. “How did it go, Patrick?” Jon repeated. “Why didn’t you rendezvous with me?”

  Patrick started the generator in the back of the Hummer, then retrieved the power cord from the generator and plugged it in. But the backpack power unit was not charging, and the environmental system was completely shut down. “The suit’s damaged,” he replied. “A knife cut it. I lost t
he environmental control system and power drained out at three to four times the normal rate. I was lucky to get out of there.” Patrick took a deep breath and leaned back against the headrest. “I think I hurt a little girl too,” he said.

  “What? Oh no, Patrick! Christ-how did it happen?”

  “The bomb,” Patrick explained. “The bomb I used to bust open the front door destroyed part of the bathroom where the little girl was.”

  “They had a child in there, where they sell and make drugs? How badly was she hurt? Did you call an ambulance?”

  “Yes,” Patrick responded. “She was bleeding, a little shocky-but she screamed pure holy terror when she saw me.” Jon was relieved; a child’s death would have been unendurable. “Jon, you should have seen that house. It was filthy. The child, she was sleeping in a bedroom that they used to make drugs. I could smell the chemicals. She was sleeping on garbage, eating leftovers off the floor, breathing fumes that would’ve knocked out an adult. It was horrible…”

  “Patrick, it’s all right,” Masters said. “For all you know, you might have saved her life by doing that raid. You didn’t put a child in harm’s way. They did.” He paused, unsure whether to ask Patrick what he wanted to know; then: “What happened with the suit? How was it damaged?”

  “It was a knife attack,” Patrick replied. “I was struggling with this guy who looked like a commando, complete with face mask, combat harness, the works. He pulled a knife. I grabbed his arm, but I couldn’t stop him, he was too strong. The blade touched the suit and just went right on through. Power levels dropped off sharply after that, but the system remained intact. But I also discovered that the cops could wrestle with me and win. Any slow action and the suit couldn’t activate. I barely got out of there without being handcuffed.”