Tin Man Read online

  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 . . ."

  "Ven 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 gunrunning

  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 Brotherls 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 Hider salute, clicking his heels together

  with military precision, and resumed his onguard

  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 brainpower, 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? 'I

  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 'ern 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. ReynoldsV' 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.