Deep Cover (26 page)

"Did
you ever run into a man on his way home from two days of fishing in the mountains? It takes about three days to get the smell of fish off him. If I'm going into that bar pretending to be coming from a fishing trip, everything is going to be just right. Right down to the fucking stench of fish. Hell, maybe I'll offer the bartender a couple of fillets."

Leverick
tapped his lip with his forefinger, remembering Richard Atwood's reputation for paying attention to detail.

"That's
right," said Leverick. "You're the one who organized the surveillance a few years back of that fruitcake killer. What'd they call him?"

"Jaws."

"Yeah, Jaws. They still talk about how you made two of the decoy agents douse themselves in that ammonia mixture, so they'd smell like street people. Always thorough."

"Damn
right. When a bad guy smells a rat, it's usually because his senses are telling him that something ain't right. These Henchmen are shrewd operators. Some of them, at least. They rely on instinct for survival, just like you and me."

Leverick
nodded.

"Let's
get going," said Atwood.

Leverick drove the four-by-four jeep into the parking lot at Mike's. He wore a green windbreaker, jeans, and an Oakland A's baseball cap. Atwood handled the fish, then threw them in the back of the jeep with his rod-and-tackle box. "Sit on the passenger side," he instructed Leverick.

"Good
luck, Richard. How will I know if things go sour?"

"If
you see a Henchman come flying through the window, that's your signal."

Atwood
tapped on the hood of the jeep and then made his way past three rows of motorcycles, lined up in perfect order, creating a walkway to the door. Inside it was crowded, noisy, and filled with smoke. Henchmen colors were everywhere, with a few patches from local clubs popping into view from time to time. Atwood noticed members of The Road Stompers, Dead Heads, and Dark Knights motorcycle gangs mingling amongst the crowd of almost one hundred Henchmen. Nationwide, The Henchmen influenced or controlled over forty different motorcycle clubs. Each year at least five of those clubs from the Southern California area got invited to the Eureka Lake run.

Some
of the locals sat quietly by the bar while country music played loudly from the jukebox. The occasional cracking of billiard balls could be heard from the back room. No one paid attention to Atwood as he casually made his way to the only empty stool at the bar.

"What'll
it be?" Sam the bartender placed a paper coaster and napkin on the bar.

"A
beer. Don't matter what kind," said Atwood, as he turned his head and scanned the room.

"Not
usually like this. Big run coming up." Sam opened a bottle of Budweiser and placed it on top of the coaster.

"Thanks."
Atwood placed a ten-dollar bill on the bar. Sam quickly replaced it with seven singles.

"How's
the fishing?"

"Not
bad. Got about two dozen blues, almost as many bass."

"Pretty
good. Give me a shout when you want another beer." Sam left to tend to another customer at the end of the bar. Atwood swung around on his stool to get a better look at the crowd. He thought he saw Walsh a few times, but he didn't want to strain to see through the crowd and draw attention to himself. After ordering another beer, he walked to the back room to watch the pool game. A wiry-looking man with red hair and a long red beard was making a shot with the pool cue behind his back. His leather vest displayed the colors of The Dark Knights.

"Seven
ball. Straight-up." He missed the shot.

Atwood
raised the bottle to his lips and continued to look for Walsh. The noise level in the bar increased suddenly, and many of the bikers turned toward the door. Counsel and Iron Man had entered the bar, and many of the other bikers, who had not seen them since last year's run, surrounded them to shake hands, embrace, and exchange a few words.

Atwood
returned to his seat at the bar, his eyes and ears wide open. Counsel stood next to him and ordered a beer.

"On
my tab, Sam," said Counsel. Sam laughed as he handed Counsel the bottle.

"I'm
real sorry Dog can't be here, Counsel. I used to have to order extra beer just for him."

"I
know, Sam. It's been rough." Counsel gulped down the beer and handed the empty bottle back to Sam, who quickly replaced it with another.

Another
biker came up to the bar, placing himself between Atwood and Counsel, practically knocking the FBI agent off his stool. "Yo, brother!" said the biker. "Is Doc gonna make the run?"

Atwood
almost gasped at the mention of Walsh's alias.

"Yeah,
he's gonna be there. It looked doubtful for a while, but he'll be here." A few seconds later both men melted into the crowd. Atwood left Sam two bucks and slipped out of the bar.

Atwood sat silently for a moment after returning to the jeep.

"Well?"
Leverick sounded impatient.

"He
wasn't there, but I heard them talking about him."

"What
did they say?"

"It
was just as we thought. He must have been laid up some place, injured from the crash. At least it's not too bad, because I heard them say that he was going on the Eureka Lake run."

"Oh,
shit. We have to pull him. We have to find out where he is and pull him
now
. Let's issue a warrant for his arrest on a parole violation, push these assholes for information on his whereabouts, and yank him."

"No
good. The run is only two days away, and these guys are too pumped up. We start harassing them about one of their members and we could have a major incident on our hands, further putting Martin at risk. I think we should wait for the run. With all the other clubs and civilians around Eureka Lake that weekend, we might be able to pull him without causing a problem. We have a better chance of catching him alone there. Besides, we'll have time to organize backup from the state troopers."

Leverick
started the engine.

"Do
you know how to ride a motorcycle, Richard?" Atwood- smiled confidently. "Fuckin' A, I do, Dalton."

Chapter
24

Earl "Crusher" Miller was the most feared Outcast ever to hold the position of president. He had begun the Black Heart Squad so that The Outcasts' killers would have something to aspire to. Members of this elite group had a black heart tattooed on their chests, with the words DEATH IS CERTAIN, LIFE ISN'T printed in black on a silver banner.

Twenty-five
of the squad had answered Miller's summons. They were all crammed into the living room—on the floor, couches, tables, anywhere the bulky men could manage to sit or crouch. Miller sat upright on a reclining chair, holding a leash. The leash was attached to a leather dog collar worn by a young girl of no more than sixteen. The naked girl sat with her head between her knees, her hands folded on top of her head. Miller occasionally snapped the leash, causing her to wince painfully. Chuckles would break out among the bikers each time the pressure of the collar caused her to gasp.

"Before
we get down to the meeting, brothers, let me tell you about Mary Lou. Mary Lou here has been a very bad little cunt. Haven't you, bitch?" He snapped the leash hard against her back. She nodded tearfully.

"Quit
that whimpering before I smack the shit out of you!" Miller raised his hand. The girl cowered and lowered her head to her knees. "Mary Lou tried to run away this morning. Didn't you, cunt?" No response. "If Crusher hadn't come looking for his little sweetheart, she would have left for who knows where. Right?" He yanked the chain so violently that Mary Lou fell on her side, gasping for air. Again she said nothing. "I said
right
, cunt?"

"Right,
yes!" She grabbed the collar and loosened it so she could breathe freely again. Miller removed a dagger from his boot. "Put your hand on the table."

"No
... Crusher! Please... no!" she begged.

"Do
it now, or every one of these brothers is going to smash your little face with his hammer. Now do it!" he growled. The girl place her opened hand on the white formica table. She bit hard on her bottom lip, shaking her head from side to side and silently crying, "No... no... no."

Miller
stood up, still holding the leash. He placed the sharp blade on her pinky finger, just below the knuckle.

"You're
Outcast property, cunt. Our colors, bikes, guns, dogs, and bitches are our property. We don't lose what's ours. God forgives, Outcasts don't."

Grunts
of agreement could be heard from the group of men. Without warning Miller increased the pressure of the knife on her pinky. The finger popped off, like the stem of a carrot, and rolled onto the floor.

Miller
released the chain, allowing the hysterical and screaming girl to scramble around the floor, trying to retrieve her lost finger. She grabbed the severed digit and scurried to the kitchen for ice and a dish rag. Miller turned to the group and held out his arms.

"Do
I know how to treat a woman, or what?" The bikers laughed and cheered their leader while Mary Lou struggled to put on her shorts and T-shirt, her hand wrapped in a blood-soaked towel. She held a paper cup in her teeth where she had placed the finger.

"Here's
ten bucks," said Miller. "Get yourself to a hospital. We got business to discuss." The frightened girl ran from the house.

"Lou,
go with her." Miller shot a glance at Lou "Wired" Jackson, the youngest member of the killer squad. The slim, well-groomed biker complied and followed her out the door. "I'll let you know later what goes down here, man!" yelled Miller. Wired raised his hand in acknowledgment, then turned down the street, out of sight.

Miller
grunted as he lifted his six-foot-five, three-hundred-twenty-pound frame out of his chair. His injured left eye was half-closed. Two years earlier, while riding home from the Des Moines clubhouse, he had gone over the high side on his chopper. His face had hit the pavement, shattering both cheekbones. The left side had never properly healed, leaving him little control over his facial muscles. His face would often twitch, his left eye fluttering opened and closed.

Miller
stroked his long black beard as he paced back and forth. After a minute of expectant silence, he turned to his hand-picked squad of killers.

"I'm
sure you all know that the hit on Frank David in Minnesota fucked up somehow. Our man in St. Paul says David's house is guarded twenty-four hours a day by Henchmen strikers." The Black Hearts listened attentively. The air was heavy with cigarette smoke and perspiration.

"Fuck
'em," said a burly, toothless biker wearing an old top hat and an eye patch over his right eye. "Let's kill the fucking strikers and his whole goddamn family." Some grunts could be heard as the bikers started to stir.

"Don't
worry, brother," said Miller. "Anyone here with a taste for Henchmen blood will have a chance for a meal. We got an opportunity to get over two hundred of those fuckers together this weekend and shoot their asses up but good."

"Crusher,
man. If you're talking about Eureka Lake, that's fucking suicide. We can't just walk into a Henchmen camp," said John "Little John" Mackey, a short, muscular biker. "Hey, I'll take on those scum-bags anytime, but, man, we'll be outnumbered almost ten-to-one."

Miller
gave Little John a long, cold stare. "There were only twenty-five of them in Cleveland. We lost five times as many brothers as they did. I've been waiting years to give it back to them.

"Together,
we've probably chilled over two hundred people. We are the elite of the elite. Most bikers only dream of becoming an Outcasts' Black Heart. They're not expecting twenty-five of the best. Believe me."

One
of the Black Hearts jumped to his feet. "Let's go for it! Let's blow their sorry asses away! I don't give a shit if it's suicide! I'm not gonna miss an opportunity to kill that many Henchmen!" The rest of the group roared their approval.

"The
fucking run starts tomorrow. How the hell do we get from Iowa to California?" asked Little John. He stood with his bulky, tattooed arms folded tightly.

"I'll
let our brother from Reno explain it," said Miller. Matthew "Spider" Alexander rose from a squatting position. The clean-shaven biker was the newest Black Heart; he'd obtained his tattoo just three weeks earlier, for killing a Nevada judge who had a tendency to give maximum penalties to Reno bikers. Alexander had a spider-web tattoo that started under his chin and continued down to the black heart on his chest.

"I
set everything up last week. We have a van. A big one. The windshield is fitted with bulletproof glass and the sides are armor-reinforced. Some dude from the military did the work for two ounces of crank. I chilled his ass the next day." The bikers started to laugh. A few applauded and whistled. "In addition to two up front, over twenty of us can cram into the back of the van. I'm gonna drive right through the middle of their fucking party and, brothers, we're gonna come out spraying."

"The
plane leaves in four hours," added Miller. "No hardware. Bury your colors until we pick up the van. I'm asking every one of you to come. Anyone out?" No dissenting voice was heard. They were all aware of the club's fourteenth bylaw, which stated that any member who refused a request from a brother who was willing to partake in the activity himself risked the loss of his colors and his life.

The parking lot outside Mike's was blanketed with motorcycles. This was the traditional meeting place for several Henchmen chapters before a major run, and the lot was always buzzing with last-minute oil checks, tune-ups, and roll calls. Several weeks prior to the run, the road captains of the various chapters had to map out routes and coordinate with each other so that every member's departure and arrival time would be known. Once the road captain of the mother chapter had all the information, he would call ahead to the local police or sheriff's office of any town the club planned to pass through on the way to the run.

Counsel
conferred with Crazy, who was busy writing on a clipboard. Counsel motioned for Little Vinney to join them as he came by.

"Hey,
Vinney, come here, man." Counsel took off his sunglasses and wiped them on his shirt.

"What's
up, Counsel? Crazy." Vinney was visibly excited. He was wearing a Kaiser helmet outfitted with a pair of bull's horns. For many members like Vinney, the run was a chance to show the citizens what being a biker is all about. The club got a kick out of freaking out passing motorists on the highway, who were shocked by the sight of over two hundred bikers riding two abreast through the streets. Pedestrians in the dozen or so towns that The Henchmen would pass through made it an annual affair, as a parade of Huns on wheels rumbled through their otherwise peaceful small town. Many of the children who gathered to watch the procession imagined themselves riding a motorcycle one day. Many of the men would look on with hatred—hatred for something they feared and didn't understand. Hatred for the part of them that wanted to break out and live free, riding on a big Harley and not caring about society and its rules and regulations.

"What's
the status on the main crash truck?" asked Counsel. Crazy continued to write, occasionally looking around the lot to verify the presence of certain members.

"Left
last night. Snake's chick and Pam drove. They probably got there about four this morning."

"Good.
Crazy, did you talk with the police chief at Bridgepoint?"

"Yeah,"
he said, without looking up from his paperwork. "He says everything's cool. Most of the dudes involved in last year's hassle don't even live there anymore."

"Sounds
like it's all smooth sailing," said Vinney, making a sailing motion with his huge, tattooed hand.

Vinney,
as assistant road captain on this run, was in charge of securing the crash truck's arrival. Besides beer and drugs, the crash truck transported a variety of small-caliber weapons. By sending the crash trucks ahead of or behind the pack, they could easily slip through the various checkpoints that so often delayed the main contingent.

"Okay,"
said Counsel. "Let's get ready to ride. As soon as Doc and Fat Jack get here, we pull out."

Amy Walsh glanced down at the copy of
Roughriders
that lay open on the bed. Pictures of last year's motorcycle weekend in Laconia, New Hampshire, covered the pages. She checked every detail carefully. She wore a tight miniskirt of blue leather, a black-and-white tube top, and soft black-leather boots that came up over her knee. She applied lipstick and eye makeup exactly like the woman's in the picture. A pair of dark sunglasses and a small leather shoulder bag completed the look. Amy glanced in the mirror and said with a nervous sigh: "This is it. Time to find me a biker named Martin Walsh."

She
left the house, map and suitcase in hand. She placed the suitcase in the backseat of the car and set out on her six-hour ride to Eureka Lake. She repeated in her mind the question that she had been asking for days:
What
can
be
wrong
?
Why
hasn't
he
called
?

The
ride would seem endless.

By the time Fat Jack and I arrived, most of the bikers were lined up and ready to ride to Eureka Lake. Counsel steered his bike next to mine. I was making some last-minute adjustments to my carburetor before taking off.

"Here,
Doc. Hold on to these." Counsel handed me a vest, a Henchmen belt buckle, and a gold Henchmen insignia pin.

"What's
this?" I asked.

"They're
Monk's. He must have left them at the clubhouse early this morning. One of the prospects saw him leave around four-thirty."

"He
quit?"

"Seems
that way. We're gonna have a security meeting about him after the run."

Yeah
,
I'll
bet
you
will
, I thought.
Probably
decide
to
kill
the
poor
son
of
a
bitch
.
But
it's
almost
over
for
you
,
scumbag
.
First
opportunity
on
this
run
,
I'm
gone
and
you're
finished
.

"Why
give them to me, then?" I asked.

"I
don't know, really. You two seemed tight. I'm thinking maybe he'll try to contact you or something. Just sit on the stuff for a while, okay, Doc?"