The Tin Man

The key to the all-important second step, the hydrogenation process, was the reactor. A commercial Parr half-quart catalytic hydrogenator with heating mantle and agitator cost nearly two thousand dollars and would produce only about a pound of meth; worse, it looked like lab equipment, which always caught the attention of the cops. So Be

The big-time portable meth lab that Be

“Hello.”

Be

That meant that the gun would come out of the first guy’s right pocket or out from under the right side of his coat, while the second guy would cover the left side. Be

Be

“Hello, sir,” said the man again. “If I might have a moment of your time?” The accent had a definite British cast, the voice slightly sterner now, a bit more steel in it, not quite official like a cop but definitely authoritative, maybe military.

“You’re on private property,” Be

The man in the lead held up his hands, palms facing outward, but Be

“We don’t want any trouble,” the Brit said apologetically. “We’re here because I have a business proposition for you, one that I’m sure you will find most rewarding.”

“Who are you?”

“Forgive me, Mr Reynolds.” Oh shit, Be

Old Be

Cazaux had seemed invincible, unstoppable, until his body turned up in a West Virginia dump, with seven Black Talons fired into it from very close range, the superexpanding bullets shredding his body as if his insides had been chopped up in a blender. No other clues were found. The book was thankfully closed on Henri Cazaux and his reign of terror against the United States of America.

Speculation was rampant about the identity of Cazaux’s killer-an FBI hit man, the US Marshals Service’s Fugitive Investigative Strike Team, even secret CIA counterespionage groups. But the most likely trigger man was the highest-ranking surviving member of Cazaux’s gang: his chief of plans and operations and trusted second in command, Gregory Townsend-a former British SAS commando and a fixture on Interpol’s most-wanted-criminal list for many years. And now the motherfucker himself was standing right in front of him.

Don’t look nervous! Be

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 Be

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 Be

“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,” Be

“When 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 Be

Christ Almighty, Be