Ryne Pearson - Capitol Punishment

Building the system was the next step, and John went about it using all the skills he’d retained from his early days as a machinist. He had no CNC (computerized numerically controlled) machines to make the precision he desired very easy. And his knowledge, he learned, was not complete, requiring several visits to the library in Richmond and to a welding shop nearby for tutelage. But it did come together, though an ounce over the limit he’d decided upon, requiring that some plastic be shaved from the interior of the cosmetic cover.

And now it was assembly day.

“It fits perfect,” John said, allowing himself a bit of self-congratulation. He deserved it at this point. The work of a man can be judged only by its purpose . Trent’s words were true, but this piece of garage engineering was going to advance a purpose.

“All right, Pop,” Toby said, patting his father’s back. “You did it.”

“ We did it.” John twisted the cylinder against the padding tape lining the inside of the skeleton, making certain the timing control would be accessible through the titanium “bones.” He placed the dome header, now attached to the cup, over the top of the cylinder and turned it into twist-notches he’d precut into the top edge of the titanium tube. “Look away.” He held a welder’s mask in front of his own eyes and touched the business end of the arc welder to a single spot where the dome and tube met. A blue light flashed in the confines of the garage, then subsided. John lowered the mask and checked the bond. “Perfect.”

“When do we set it?”

John did a quick calculation. “You’re handing it over next Monday, right?”

“Eight at night.”

“Set it at five forty-five that afternoon,” John instructed. One hundred hours exactly to 9:45 on the following Friday. Forty-five minutes into the speech. John smiled.

“Got it.”

“You can finish the shell after you set the timer,” John said, entrusting that last step to his eldest boy. He would check it, of course. “And don’t forget the charge on the inside of the shell.” The small blasting cap charge, of negligible weight, would be wired to the timer to blow a hole in the shell as the VZ was released.

“Okay, Pop.”

John laid the arc welder on the power unit and switched it off as he looked at the now complete innards of the device. All the rest was cosmetic. What lay before him was the power soon to be unleashed. The power to start anew.

“Would these guys try and mix with any local groups?” Special Agent David Rogers asked from his position at the head of the table. He was from the Bureau’s Washington headquarters, and was supervising the search for the NALF. His question was directed to Art Jefferson.

“I don’t think so. Our office pieced together a picture of a bunch of bitter loners.” Art considered the question on a deeper level briefly. “I think they’d only hook up with someone if it was necessary to complete whatever they’re up to.”

“Well, we know what assumption we’re working on,” Rogers said.

“David, I’d suggest not going too narrow on their target,” Art said. To his right Frankie nodded. “Not that it’s probably not correct, but these guys have hit like a scattergun. L.A. Utah. Lord knows what they’ve done here.”

“If anything,” another agent suggested. “They could just be laying low.”

“All right, if—”

A knock preceded an agent popping into the conference room. “Agent Jefferson, A-SAC in Los Angeles is on the phone for you.”

Art looked to Rogers.

“Take it in my office,” the lead agent said. “Mike, show him where.”

Art left his partner in the conference and followed his escort to the office one floor down. He closed the door and picked up the indicated line. “Jefferson.”

“Art, Lou. Chester Hart’s AB friends tried to shut him up. And in a nasty way.”

Art knew he had no reason to feel pity for the man. He’d made his own bed, and he’d given them questionable information concerning Freddy Allen in the past in the hope of trading it for whatever he fancied at the moment. But being marked for elimination by the Brotherhood was not a pleasant course for one’s life to take. They were capable of some very heinous acts.

“How bad is he?” Art asked.

“They torched him in the prison yard. Quite a message. He’s in the jail ward at Sacramento General now. Just came out of a coma. Art, he wants to talk.”

Art’s eyes rolled. “He’s talked a lot before, Lou. That’s his game. Talk just enough to curry some favors from us, then apologize when the stuff turns out to be less than stellar information.”

“He says he’s willing to spill everything he knows in trade for movement to PC at a federal prison.”

Protective custody. Hart was not the one to waste a PC cell on. “Lou, he’s blowing smoke.”

“Art, he says it’s about John Barrish.”

Art hadn’t expected that. “ Hart said Barrish?”

“I thought you’d be interested in that,” Hidalgo said.

“Lou, I’ve gotta tell you: you’re on the unpopular side of a theory here. D.C. is not inclined to believe that Barrish would link up with the NALF, or vice versa. They were the ones with the VZ, remember?”

“That still wouldn’t mean that Barrish doesn’t have any.”

“But the NALF are the ones who’ve used it,” Art said.

“Giving in, Art?”

“Like hell.”

“Good. Check out Hart. He may actually have something of substance for us this time. Hightail it back to D.C. when you’re done. But keep me informed.”

“Will do.”

The jail ward at Sacramento General Hospital is on the ninth floor and consists of fifty beds in three separate sections. Two thirds of the beds are usually filled, mostly with arrestees or convicts recovering from wounds suffered in the jailhouse. These injuries are treated in the general nursing section. More serious injuries are treated in the surgical recovery section. The most serious casualties are housed in the ICU, or intensive care unit, where medical staff and deputies of the Sacramento County Sheriffs Department tend to their well-being and security.

Chester Hart lay in bed number four, the only resident of the ICU at the moment. His hands and arms were swathed in antibiotic-impregnated gauze, as were his abdomen, chest, and portions of his face. An IV line in his upper leg fed fluids and medicine into his system to prevent dehydration and fight off infection. A sturdy steel shackle connected him to the ICU bed by his ankle.

Art Jefferson entered the jail ward after checking his weapon at the guard station, and the ICU after donning a surgical gown, mask, and gloves. He found his would-be informant awake and staring at the ceiling.

“Chester.”

Hart moved his head as far as it would go to the right, which wasn’t much. His eyes traveled the remainder of the distance until he could see his visitor. He smiled at the black face behind the blue mask. “Black like you, Agent Jefferson.”

“You picked a hard way to change colors,” Art commented, stepping closer so the man did not have to strain.

“Chosen for me,” Hart said. A wet, gurgling laugh followed.

“You got mixed up with some bad boys, Chester.”

“Ah, they’re just protecting their interests,” Hart said. He truly believed that. He understood it perfectly, in fact. It was a credo he now had to live by.

“I hear you want to talk about something,” Art said.

“In trade, Agent Jefferson.” His voice was raspy. From the fire, the doctor had said. It had been sucked in when Hart breathed in its midst. The real concern was to the lung tissue, though. If that was burned in excess the long-term prognosis would not be promising. “More hospitable surroundings.”