Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 09 (87 page)

 
          
In
moments all of the security officers had been dispatched, and the entire area was
a smoking ruin. "All clear,” Hal Briggs reported, after carefully scanning
the area with his helmet’s sensors for any signs of survivors or escapees.

 
          
"Clear,”
Chris Wohl responded.

 
          
"Clear,”
the electronically synthesized voice of Paul McLanahan replied. Paul, Patrick’s
younger brother, was a
California
attorney and former police officer, who’d been horribly wounded on his
first night on duty. He’d survived the attack but remained dead inside—until an
incredible new technology had given him a renewed will to live. The electronic
battle armor had enabled Paul to play an active role in defending peace even with
his debilitating injuries; and as one of the first to wear the armor and its
associated weapon systems, Paul had become an instructor in how to use the
system, as well as a fighter himself. “Patrick! How copy?"

 
          
“Loud
and clear.”

 
          
Hal
Briggs took another fix on Kazakov and his bodyguards. then on Patrick, using
his electronic locating device. “He’s headed your way. Mack."

 
          
“I’m
ready for him."

           
“Security Three? Security
Four?" Kazakov shouted into his walkie-talkie. “Answer, dammit! Someone
answer!"

 
          
“No
response from any of the security or transportation units." one of the
bodyguards confirmed. “They knocked out our entire force."

 
          
“They’ll
be looking for us next," Kazakov said. “We split up. You two. separate
directions. You. with me. Their armor may make them bulletproof, but try
anything you can think of to slow them down—trip them, dunk them in water,
decoy them, make them fall off a cliff, anything. Now move!" As his men
bolted in opposite directions, Kazakov and his one remaining bodyguard turned
... right into the path of another armored commando.

           
Gunfire erupted on both sides.
Kazakov hit the ground, closed his eyes, and covered his ears as heavy-caliber
bullets and even a forty-millimeter grenade shell burst around him. He lay as
flat on the ground as he could, screaming and crying as the bullets and bombs
flew and wave after wave of gunshots, explosion concussions, and earsplitting
noise roiled over him. But it did not last long. When he opened his eyes and
ears again, everything was still When he got to his feet...

 
          
...
only the commando stood before him. His men were all lying on the ground,
jerking and flinching as the last watts of electrical energy dissipated through
their unconscious bodies.

 
          
Pavel
Kazakov smiled, then raised his hands in surrender. “Well, well, so you really
do exist," the gangster said in English, “And there is a little army of
you people, I see. Very impressive. although you appear to be the shortest in
stature of the group. Americans, I assume. Special operations? Delta Force?
Navy SEALs?” No response. “How did you find me?”

 
          
“Fursenko,”
the commando said

 
          
“Indeed?
The good doctor is still alive? Good for him. I’ll take great pleasure in
plucking off his gonads myself and stuffing them into his empty eye sockets.
So. Are you going to shock me into oblivion, too?” No response. “Well, it was
certainly nice chatting with you.” But as he turned to leave, Kazakov felt
sharp snaps and pings of electricity all around him, like an invisible
electrical fence, hemming him in.

 
          
“Damn
you, what do you want?” Kazakov screamed. “Take off that armor and tell me to
my face, you cowardly bastard!” No response. “What is it? Money? Do you want
money?”

 
          
“Yes,”
the Figure said.

 
          
“Aha.
Now we are getting somewhere,” Kazakov said, an evil smile creeping across his
face. “Money in exchange for my freedom.”

 
          
“Money
... in exchange for your life,” the commando said

 
          
“That
is hardly fair. I’m sure we can...
ouch!”
Another crackle of electricity
jolted his head and made it feel as if a million ants were crawling all over
his body. “You son of a diseased whore! You are
robbing
me? Is this a
stickup? You are
actually
robbing me? My money or my life? How dare
you?” He was answered by another crack of electricity that this time sent him
to his knees. “All right, all right, you win!” He got to his feet, then made a
pantomime of searching his pockets. “Oh, sorry, I seem to have forgotten my
wallet. Maybe you’ll take my, how do you say, IOU?”

 
          
The
commando reached into his utility belt, withdrew a handheld satellite
telephone, and tossed it to the Russian gangster. When Kazakov opened it, he
found a card with account numbers and Interbank address codes on it. As he dialed
a number, he said, “I suppose we should agree on an amount, no?”

 
          
“One-half
billion dollars,” the commando said.

 
          
Kazakov
laughed. “Whatever you have heard about me, my friend, it is obviously wrong. I
do not have—” He was cut off by another bolt of energy that knocked him
backward onto his ass. “Hey! I am telling you the truth, bastard boy! I do not
have a half a billion dollars!”

 
          
‘Then
you will die,” the electronic voice said.

 
          
“I
mean to say. I have it. but I cannot get it with just a phone call—” He was
silenced by another bolt of energy, this one deep enough to cause substantially
more pain, but not enough to render him unconscious. “You scum-sucking bastard!
I will kill you for this, I promise! You and your friends are
dead!
You
understand me? Dead!”

 
          
“One-half
billion dollars, confirmed in five minutes, or you die.” the futuristic
commando said.

 
          
Kazakov
redialed the telephone. To come up with the money, his comptroller at Metyorgaz
had to liquidate all of his boss's personal holdings in the company, along with
several other asset accounts under his direct control—including the loans from
his international “investors,” the crime bosses and drug lords trying to
launder money through Metyorgaz from all over the world—but in just a few minutes,
the money was transferred. The commando pocketed the phone. Kazakov could hear
him talking inside his helmet, apparently on a helmet-mounted communications
network.

 
          
“Now
you let me go, eh?” Kazakov asked.

 
          
“Now
you come with me,” the commando said.

 
          
“A
deal is a deal! You said you would let me go!”

 
          
“I
said I would let you live," the figure said Three more armored commandos
appeared, along with a man in a green battle-dress uniform and helmet—wearing
the insignia of the Turkish Jandarma, the Turkish National Police. “But there
are warrants for your arrest issued by nine different nations, and as a member
of Interpol, this man is authorized by the Romanian government to make an
arrest here.” The Jandarma agent snapped handcuffs on Kazakov, then searched
him carefully, blindfolded him, and led him away to a nearby waiting
helicopter. Kazakov was screaming his innocence, screaming about the money he
just paid, screaming about revenge, all the way until the door was closed on
the helicopter that had come to take him away.

 
          
After
the police helicopter was gone, Patrick McLanahan collapsed to one knee on the
ground and removed his helmet.

           
His head was sweaty and his hair
matted, despite the suit’s excellent air-conditioning system. The other armored
commandos surrounded him, wordlessly waiting to lend any support they could.
After several long moments, Patrick’s brother Paul finally asked, “You okay,
Patrick?”

 
          
“Sure
”

 
          
“Good
work, Patrick,” they all heard former President Kevin Martindale say via their
subcutaneous satellite transceivers. “The funds are already being redistributed
out of the phantom holding account. International and private relief agencies
based in
Albania
,
Macedonia
.
Bulgaria
, and
Turkey
will get most of it to pay reparations for
what Kazakov has done to their people. Some of the rest will go to pay for a
private security force to make sure Kazakov stands trial—I hate to say it, but
even
Turkey
’s government police agencies probably have some of Kazakov’s men
working deep in them.”

 
          
“But
we keep the rest of the money, right. Mr. President?” Patrick asked angrily.

 
          
“What
we do, what we’re
going
to do, isn't cheap,” Martindale said.

 
          
“Then
what makes us so different from bastards like Kazakov?” Patrick asked bitterly.
“We steal, we attack, we raid for money.”

 
          
“The
difference? The difference is
you,
Patrick, you and everyone who wears
that Tin Man battle armor, flies the robot planes, launches the missiles, and
everyone who decides to join us,” Martindale replied. “Yes, we are going to
help ourselves to blood money. We are going to distribute it to those we feel
will benefit from it the most, especially the victims of the criminals we hunt
down, but we are going to help ourselves to it as w'ell.”

 
          
“We’re
criminals!” Patrick shouted. “Stealing money, even from human crap like
Kazakov, is still a crime!”

 
          
“No,
it isn’t, sir,” Wohl said. “It's justice.”

 
          
“Whose
justice?” Patrick grabbed Wohl’s gauntlets. “The justice of the most powerful?
Whoever has the strongest armor or the biggest gun?”

 
          
“It’s
not how justice is dispensed, Patrick, but how justice benefits society.” Paul
said. “The money you got from Kazakov will help a lot of lives. That’s justice.”

 
          
“Then
let's take off this armor and stand up in front of the same judges that Kazakov
will face and tell them that,” Patrick retorted, “Will they tell us it's all
right to invent our own definition of justice? Will they allow us to do
whatever we like, attack whoever we wish, in the name of our own brand of
so-called justice? Let's see what their answer will be!"

 
          
“We
are not lawmen, Patrick,” Kevin Martindale said, through their ethereal
electronic bond. “I didn't make you swear an oath to uphold or defend anything
when you agreed to join me. We don’t serve any government, any court, or any
set of laws. We are not soldiers, lawyers, or politicians. We are
warriors."

 
          
“What
in hell does that mean, sir?’’

 
          
“It
means we fight not for country, not for law, not for money, but for
right"
Martindale replied. “I believe we know what is right, what is
just!
Your
brother Paul knows the law. You, Hal, and Chris are soldiers. We all came from
different backgrounds, different perspectives, and different experiences. But
we’re all standing here, together, right now There's a reason for that Whatever
shaped us, whatever we were, and whatever we
are
. I believe we are
warriors. Members of the warrior class. No rank, no flag, no master We fight
for what is right.”

           
“And sometimes you have to fight on
their level. Mack” Paul McLanahan added. “You taught me that when you first put
on this armor back in
Sacramento
. It wasn’t pretty, it wasn't nice, but it worked. You taught me we
can
do some good with it.”

 
          
“And
you know something else? I
didn't force
you to make Kazakov pay you,”
Martindale added. “I
suggested
you squeeze him so we could help some of
his victims, but I didn’t come up with this numbered bank account or satellite
phone idea
—you
did. You could have turned him over to the Jandarma
without making him do anything. But you did it because you don't think Kazakov
will ever stand trial, and even if he does go to prison, he won't suffer and he
won’t be in long. You believe the only way to hurt him is to take what he loves,
and that’s money. I agree.”