A Time for Patriots (33 page)

“Ow! You're hurting me!” he protested.

“Shut up!”
someone yelled. “Do you have any weapons in your pockets? Any knives or needles?”

“No! Stop twisting my—”

“I said,
shut up
!” He felt his shirt being pulled out of his pants, and then rough hands searching his body right down to the skin. The guy then started going through his pockets, turning them inside out. “Got something,” he called out, before resuming his search inside Brad's pants, then right against his crotch. Brad was then spun around and thrust into a chair, and the desk light shined right in his face, blinding him. He felt blood trickling out of his nose, and his shoulder felt dislocated. “Why did you break in here, McLanahan?” the guy shouted.

“I didn't break in!”

“We got it all on surveillance cameras, McLanahan,” the guy yelled. “You forced open the outside gate, then forced open the hangar door. It's all on video. It's called ‘breaking and entering,' McLanahan, and in a federal facility, it's a federal crime. You could get five years in prison just for that. What are you doing here?” Brad said nothing. The guy slapped him on the side of his head so hard he almost fell off the chair. “
Answer me, you punk!
What are you doing here?” Brad couldn't tell them the truth—Cassandra would get fired for sure.

“Did you come in here to steal our computers?” the guy shouted. “That's burglary, McLanahan—that's another ten years in prison. And you came in here and viewed classified material—that's another ten to fifteen years, along with about a million dollars in fines. You're looking at some hard time, bub, and not in minimum security either. There will be some very big, very bad men who will be anxious to get to meet you up close and personal.” The man held up a tiny bag of white powder. “What the hell is this?” he shouted.

“Nothing!”

“What do you mean, nothing?” He handed it back to someone behind him and shouted again, “What is it?”

“It's nothing. It's airsickness medicine.”

“Airsickness medicine, huh? That's a new one.” A few minutes later, he held up a tiny tube filled with blue liquid that was passed over to him by someone in the darkness. “This is a cobalt-thiocyanate test, McLanahan, and you just flunked it. The stuff in the bag we found on you is cocaine. So you broke in here to steal equipment to buy more coke, is that it, McLanahan?”

“No!” Brad shouted.

“You gonna tell me the stuff isn't yours?”

“No . . . no, it's mine, but it's not cocaine, it's airsickness medicine!”

“Who told you that?” Brad didn't answer. “You're a burglar, a liar, and a doper, McLanahan,” the guy said. “You're going to go to prison for a very, very long time. I hope you get some good drug treatment while you're rotting in a cell, you miserable little—”

“That's enough, Brady,” a different voice interrupted. The desk light was turned away from his face, and some of the hangar lights were turned on so he could see better. When his eyes adjusted, he could see the head FBI agent seated in front of him. “Good evening, Mr. McLanahan. I'm Special Agent Philip Chastain, FBI. We've already met briefly, if you recall.” He turned. “Wipe his face off, Brady, you gave him a bloody nose. I hope you didn't break it. And put those cuffs in front and loosen them—you're making his hands turn purple.” The first agent roughly wiped his face with a damp towel, then took off one of the cuffs, brought his hands in front of him, then snapped the loose one back on.

“You're in some serious trouble, Mr. McLanahan,” Chastain said in a quiet voice. “Agent Brady wasn't lying about any of this: we've got the video of you breaking through the gate and the hangar door; we've got video of you checking out the computers; and the stuff in your pocket really is cocaine. We've got the entire search and cobalt thiocyanate test on video, so you can't claim it was planted.” He inched a bit closer to Brad and lowered his voice: “I even know about you and Agent Renaldo of the Department of Homeland Security.” Brad's head snapped up in surprise. “Yep, I'm afraid she's going to be in some trouble, but not nearly as much as you are right now.”

“Cassandra wouldn't give me cocaine,” Brad said, his voice strained and cracking.

“So it's got to be yours.”

Brad lowered his head, then nodded. “It's mine,” he lied.

“We thought so,” Chastain said. “Possession, sale weight . . . you might be able to get a break if this is your first offense, but even so, with all the other charges, you're looking at serious federal prison time.” Brad hung his head, and his shoulders started to shake. “And Agent Cassandra Renaldo is still in trouble . . .” He paused for effect, then added in a quiet voice, almost a whisper: “If anyone else ever finds out about any of this.”

It took a moment for his words to sink in, but soon Brad raised his head. “Wha-what . . .  ?”

“I'm in a position to offer you a deal, Brad,” Chastain said. “It's just for right now, tonight only. If I pick up the phone to my office and tell them I'm bringing in a prisoner, no more deals will be possible with me. It'll be yes or no, right here, right now. Do you understand?”

Brad nodded. “What's the deal?” he asked.

“First of all, you are going to sign a contract,” Chastain said in a firm, measured voice. “You're going to admit to everything you've done, and agree to do everything I tell you to do in exchange for me not pressing any charges against you or Agent Renaldo—conditionally. It's a federal contract, countersigned by the U.S. attorney and a federal judge.” Brad's face brightened. “You're going to do some tasks for me. You will do them precisely as I tell you, and give me exactly the information I tell you to give me, exactly when I want it, with no excuses. If you fail to do any of this, you will be rearrested, formally charged, and put in jail to await trial.” Brad's eyes flared when he heard the word
jail,
and Chastain noticed that right away. The agent produced a typewritten piece of paper with the FBI shield at the top—Brad was too scared to realize that the contract had already been drawn up. “Sign at the bottom.”

“What do you want me to do for you?”

“First, sign the contract, Brad,” Chastain said. “If you don't, you'll be placed under arrest and taken to my office in San Francisco tonight, in-processed, jailed, then taken in front of a federal judge and formally charged. You're not a minor anymore, so your father won't know where you've been taken until after you've been arraigned, which could take a couple days.” Brad's face turned pale, and his mouth dropped open in shock. “By the time you're released on bail, Agent Renaldo will be out of a job, and I'll charge her with conspiracy and aiding and abetting several felonies, and put her in jail too. I'm sure we'll find that she helped you get in here so you could steal the computers and classified materials, and gave you the cocaine as well.”

“No! She . . . she didn't do
anything
. . .”

“That's for a judge and jury to decide, Brad,” Chastain said evenly. “Unless you sign this contract, I'll have no choice in the matter. You'll be in jail, I can't do anything more, and your life will change forever. Your dad won't be able to help you.” Brad hesitated, trying to clear the cobwebs out of his head enough to think. Chastain waited a few seconds, then shook his head and looked over his shoulder. “Brady, cuff him in back again and read him his rights,” he said with a dismissive sigh. “Then go arrest Renaldo, and alert the office that we'll be bringing in two prisoners tonight—separately. I'll need the—”

“No, wait! I'll sign it,” Brad said, and he snatched up the pen and scribbled his signature at the bottom of the page, with Agent Brady taking a photograph as he did it. “Okay, I agree. I'll do whatever you want. Just don't arrest Cassandra.”

“Good choice, Brad,” Chastain said. “Your future, and Agent Renaldo's career, are still intact . . . as long as you do exactly what I tell you to do.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Simple,” Chastain said. “You will tell me everything your father does, where he goes, and whom he meets and talks with. Whenever possible, you will accompany him and tell me whom he meets with, where, and when.”

“My . . . my father . . . ?”

“This is not open for debate or question, Brad,” Chastain said. “You do what I tell you to do, or you go to jail,
period
. Where he goes and whom he meets with; go with him whenever you can.” He gave Brad a card. “That's my secure text-message and e-mail address. I expect a detailed report three times a day, or more. If I don't get it, you're going to jail, and all the evidence I have gets turned over to the U.S. attorney, along with Cassandra.” He motioned to Brady, who took his handcuffs off. “Now get out of here, don't tell anyone about this, don't ever see Renaldo again, and never come near this building again.”

Brad leaped out of the chair, stumbled, then started crawling for the hangar door, his legs unable to support his weight. Brady grabbed him by the back of his neck, carried him to the door, and tossed him outside. “So much for the tough football player,” he said when he returned, laughing. He theatrically sniffed near the desk. “Why, I think I smell a hint of scared-shitless piss over here.”

“He may be eighteen, but he's just a kid,” Chastain said. “He's been babied and pampered by his war-hero father his entire life.”

“He may be a boy, but he's a very
big
boy,” Cassandra Renaldo said as she walked over to the others.

“Good job, Renaldo,” Chastain said. “Sorry to take away your new plaything, but it's the best way to see if there's any connection between the general, the Knights, and the Civil Air Patrol.”

“He was fun,” Renaldo said dismissively, lighting a cigarette, “but business is business. I still don't think the general is up to anything, but young stud muffin Bradley will tell us.”

“What if he tells his father what's happened?” Brady asked. “The general has some pretty powerful friends.”

“If he did, what's he doing in Battle Mountain, Nevada?” Chastain said. “That's only one of many questions I want answered, and I think the boy will get them for us.”

Joint Air Base Battle Mountain

The next morning

T
hankfully no one was there when Brad got up. He dressed in workout clothes, had a light breakfast, then picked up his cell phone. “Hey, Dad.”

“Hey, big guy.”

“I'm going to practice. What are you doing?”

“I'm going to take Captain de Carteret up in the P210 this morning, fly some patrols and take more sensor images, then take Colonel Spara up later,” Patrick replied. “There're thunderstorms forecast for this evening, so I don't think we'll be flying tonight. What time did you get in last night?”

“Ten-thirty.” Brad swallowed, then said, “I . . . I got into a little fight last night outside the bowling alley.”

“
What?
A fight?”

“No big deal, just an argument over a stupid game,” Brad lied. “The guy claimed he put money in the machine I was playing on, but he didn't, and I guess him and a friend waited for me outside.”

“Are you okay?”

“Just a few bruises. I'm still going to practice.”

“Did you report it to base security?”

“No. I . . . I kinda started it.”

“ ‘Started it'?”

“Look, Dad, it was dumb, and I got what I deserved. I'd rather forget about it.”

“Do you know the guys? Were they military?”

“I guess.”

“Are you sure you're all right?”

“Yes.”

“Was alcohol involved, Brad?”

“No, Dad. I told you, I'm not drinking.”

“Stop by the office when you get done with practice and let me take a look.”

“I'm okay, Dad. I'm going to practice, and then I'm going to work.”

“I'll come over and give you the Wrangler,” Patrick said. “I'll take the scooter.”

“I'll be fine, Dad. If I don't feel well enough to ride to town, I'll come over and switch. But I'm gonna be late.”

There was a long pause; then: “All right, I'll see you tonight. Call if you don't feel good. Be careful driving.”

“Okay.” Brad hung up, then composed a text message:
FLT INSTRUCTING DECARTERET AND SPARA UNTIL DINNER
to Chastain's number. Then he put on a jacket, helmet, gloves, and reflective safety vest, looped his equipment bag over his aching shoulders, painfully got on his Genuine Buddy scooter, and headed off to the senior high school for football workout.

“What the heck happened to you?” Ron Spivey asked when Brad jogged over to the team. Brad's face was badly bruised, his eyes were swollen, and he could hardly move his arms. “You get into a fight or something?”

“Couple of guys at the bowling alley,” Brad said.

“No shit,” Ron said. “You tell your dad?”

“Yeah.”

“I hope the other guys look worse than you do,” Ron said. “You okay to work out? We were going to do light pads today.”

“Red-shirt me,” Brad said.

Ron threw him a red pinnie from the equipment bag, indicating that none of the other players were allowed to block or tackle him during practice. “First time I've ever seen you red-shirted,” he said.

“First time I ever got beat up like that.”

“Do you know who they were?”

“GIs, Marines I think, but I never saw them before.”

“We should get a bunch of the guys and lay in wait for
them
.”

“Let's just drop it,” Brad said, and they started their workout. Brad thought the ride over in the scooter was painful, but now he thought his arms were going to fall off as he started running. But soon the double dose of aspirin he took was kicking in, and he forgot about the pain.