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 Bennie built his own meth lab, designed specifically to be portable, not look like a meth lab, and be capable of producing far more meth than commercial reactor units.

The big-time portable meth lab that Bennie had towed out to one of the remote West Coast Satan’s Brotherhood ranches scattered throughout California was the best one he’d ever built. The core of the operation was its forty-gallon hydrogenation reactor, made from an old steel coffee roaster, powered by a big gasoline electrical generator and steam pressurization/vacuum device. It was mounted on a trailer and camouflaged with tar to make it look like an asphalt spreader, a disguise guaranteed not to attract any close inspection or curious sniffing. It was several times larger and much better than a Parr reactor, worth almost fifty thousand dollars. It was his pride and…

“Hello.”

Bennie whirled. The two men were standing behind him, no more than ten yards away, maybe closer. Jesus, Bennie thought grimly, they move as quietly as jungle cats! The first guy was youngish, lean, and blond, with a patch over one eye but the other a bright shining blue, wearing a long black leather coat. The second guy was huge, like a pro football linebacker, dark-haired and powerful-looking, standing in a definite cover position a few paces behind and to the left of the first…

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. Bennie had been around trained gunmen-mostly cops-long enough to know how they stood when entering a dangerous situation.

Bennie was wearing his black leather vest, the one with the Red Bat logo and the black-and-red bottom rocker that said “Oakland” on the back, the symbols of a Satan’s Brotherhood candidate. He didn’t ride a bike so would never be a full-fledged Brother, but to most folks it looked like he was wearing no-shit Brotherhood colors. He hoped these guys would see the symbols and get the message: Clear out right now.

“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,” Bennie said in his gruffest, unfriendliest voice, mimicking the Brothers he had known from all over the world. Where the hell were his two guards? Why didn’t they wake up from their stupor and come running at the sound of his angry tone? “Get the fuck on outta here before there’s trouble.”

The man in the lead held up his hands, palms facing outward, but Bennie noticed that the cover man never moved. Yeah, the Brit’s gesture was meant to be conciliatory, but Bennie looked into his eye and saw nothing but danger. This was not a man accustomed to conciliation, let alone surrender.

“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, Bennie thought, he knows my name, my real name! “I neglected to introduce myself. My name is Gregory Townsend.”

Old Bennie, who had worked closely with some of the meanest and most psychotic bikers in the world for over twenty years, swallowed a gasp of fear. A couple of years before, the United States had been in the grip of something even more terrifying than today’s threat of nuclear war with China or North Korea: An ex-Belgian commando turned international arms smuggler named Henri Cazaux had been flying around the country, dropping high explosives or crashing airliners into several of the largest airports in the United States. The US military was called in and had set up an extensive air defense network of radar planes, fighter jets, and surface-to-air missiles to try to stop him.

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! Bennie begged himself. Stay cool. “So you’re Townsend? Bullshit. I heard he was dead, along with his psycho boss, Cazaux. Killed by 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…”

“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 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 gun-running business.”