Outlaw MC

by Dwayne Clayden

  “Screw you.” Brad strained in his seat to see the bar. “You parked out of sight. Afraid the bikers will see us?”

  “You’re too well dressed to fit in with these Neanderthals. Best to stay well out of sight.” Devlin handed Brad a wrinkled brown paper bag. “Here, this will help you fit in.”

  Brad reached for the bag. “What is it?”

  “A bottle of wine.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “Relax, it’s Pepsi. Mine’s chocolate milk. Just in case the prospects get too close. I can light up a joint as well.”

  Brad looked across the street. “Lots of hogs over there. What’s going on?”

  “I thought I’d watch Jeter Wolfe tonight,” Devlin said. “About two hours ago, he rode to Keaton’s house and then they rode to the clubhouse. Then about a dozen of them came here. I got some good photos.”

  “I saw them pass by the Highlander. They’re not afraid to show the colors. How much does one of those bikes cost?”

  “The tripped-out ones cost more than your car,” Devlin said.

  “Hey, I’ve got a nice car.”

  “I’m not saying you don’t. I’m saying those bikes are freaking expensive. You and I couldn’t afford one.”

  “Ever think we’re on the wrong side?” Brad asked.

  Devlin stared with dark, cold eyes. “Never.” He pointed to the front door. “They’ve got guys searching everyone.”

  They watched other bikers checking the parking lot and hassling anyone who got too close to the bikes.

  “What’s the get-together about?”

  “Who knows? Maybe just guys having beers.”

  “That’s what you think?”

  “Nah.”

  “Who are the guys outside patrolling?” Brad asked.

  “They’re prospects.”

  “Don’t they go in for beers?”

  “Nope. They gotta pay their dues. They do the dirty jobs like clean up after parties. Clean the leader’s bikes. They do most of the illegal stuff, so if they get arrested, it’s no big deal. The club doesn’t care, and the prospect doesn’t know much, so they’re no use to us.”

  “Sounds like being a rookie with Briscoe,” Brad said.

  “You sure you want to do this?” Devlin asked. “Go after the bikers?”

  “Yeah. Why not?”

  “We’re putting a big target on our backs,” Devlin said. “Our family and friends, too.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Look, I told you they’re organized,” Devlin said. “I’ll bet they have files on your team and they know about the two of us.”

  “You’re paranoid.” Brad didn’t like where this was going.

  “Not paranoid—realistic,” Devlin said. “Chances are they already know where you live, what vehicle you drive, who you date, and your routines. If they don’t have that, they will when they figure out what we’re doing. Then they’ll get information on your family, friends, and neighbors. You need to be prepared.”

  He’s definitely paranoid! “They don’t know we’re here.”

  “Maybe, maybe not.” Devlin drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Sooner or later they’re going to catch on. These guys don’t like to be followed—they’ll retaliate. Especially the Jokers. That’s what the Hamilton cops said about Keaton. He doesn’t give a shit. Biker, cop, lawyer, politician—if you’re in the way, he’ll get rid of you. Maybe they’ll threaten you outright. Maybe they threaten a family member or girlfriend. After that, they’ll escalate. It won’t just be threats.”

  Brad’s pulse pounded. “You trying to scare me away?”

  “No, but you need to know that we’ve picked a fight with an organized and ruthless culture. They’ll hurt and torture those you love. The more your guys are involved, the more you need to worry about them. How well do you know the guys on your team?”

  “You’ve worked with them. We’ve been in some pretty bad situations. I trust them. Well, except Nichols.”

  “See. Already you’ve got one guy you’re not sure about. What about the others? Their personal lives?” Devlin shook his head. “Who’re the ones most vulnerable? Who has risky behavior—gambling, hookers, drugs? The bikers will hit them first. Who’s married? Has kids? We can’t protect them all, and we can’t warn them. Not the time for a girlfriend.”

  Brad stared at Devlin, to his dead-set eyes, the twitch of one eyelid, the curl of his lip. “You killed any chance I had of romance with your page.”

  “Good, and saved your lady’s life,” Devlin said. “From now on, you don’t go anywhere without a gun. I’d suggest a backup. In an ankle holster.” Devlin pulled up a pant leg to show his backup gun. “A knife in your pocket—something with a quick release that you can get to easily—even if you’re restrained. A shotgun under your driver’s seat is a good idea, too.”

  Brad felt a chill as he realized he had to work smart. In the end, it would answer the question—am I smarter than a biker? Brad thought that was an easy answer, but assuming that could cost lives.

  “I’ve got an idea,” Brad said. “Where’s a phone booth?”

  Devlin pointed east down Sixteenth Avenue. “There’s one at the 7-Eleven two blocks down, the other side of Peters’. Why?”

  “I’ll get the traffic guys to do a checkstop. They can run the biker’s names and the records clerks do the computer search. We get a printout tomorrow and match names to bike license numbers and to the photos we took tonight. The traffic guys get a bunch of tickets. We get free intelligence work, and we aren’t associated with the records search.”

  “Make the call.”

  Brad was back fifteen minutes later. “Traffic was going to do a checkstop in the southeast but they like our idea better. They’ll be at Sixteenth Avenue and Fourth Street Northwest.

  Just before 2330 hours, Brad’s pager vibrated. The message read, “Checkstop ready.” At midnight, the bikers wandered out of the Beacon. More than twenty bikers gathered outside the bar were intimidating. They shook hands and slapped backs, the best of friends. Then they were on their way with the distinctive roar of Harleys. They pulled out and headed West on Sixteenth Avenue.

  Brad watched the bikes leave. The immense power of the Harleys was impressive. He picked up his radio, switched channels and said, “Rats on the move toward the trap.”

  He got a double click of the radio in reply.

  “I’ll get the printout tomorrow,” Devlin said. “It’s not busy for them on a Saturday. We can match up the photos from tonight with the printouts. Can you get them printed this weekend by Sergeant Sturgeon?”

  “Yeah, he’ll print them. I’ll owe him more beers in payment.”

  “Great,” Devlin said. “Let’s meet Monday.”

  “Make it Monday morning. We don’t start shift until 1300 hours, so there won’t be anyone around. I’ll meet you at my office at nine.”

  Brad drove west and caught up to a line of motorcycles.

  At the checkstop, an officer waved to him to stop. Brad had his wallet in his lap, open to his badge. The traffic cop shone his light into the car, saw a glint and smiled. “Thanks, buddy. We’re making a killing here, at least two dozen violations, from no signal lights to illegal helmets. A couple of suspended licenses and a few impaired and we’re only half done. We’ll likely impound a bunch of hogs, too. We owe you.”

  “Just being a good citizen.”

  “Have a good night, Sarge.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Monday Morning

  Brad arrived at the TSU office at 0730 and did a workout.

  When Devlin arrived, they spent an hour matching the photos of the Soldiers to their bikes. They needed to find a way to run the Soldiers’ names through police records. Without that, they were doing a lot of guessing. They posted what they had on the blackboard.

  Next, they spread out the photos of the Gypsy Jokers.

  Brad grabbed a stack of printouts of the vehicles stopped at the checkstop. He sorted them i
nto two piles—motorcycles in one, cars and trucks, unlikely to be the bikers, in the other. They focused on the bikes.

  Brad called out a bike license number and the registered owner, and Devlin found the appropriate photo. Once they had a match, they posted the biker’s picture, his bike photo, and the printout from records on the blackboard.

  After two hours, they had a good idea of who the Satan’s Soldiers and Gypsy Jokers were, and their criminal history, which was significant.

  “Here’s Jeter Wolfe—the bikers call him Wolfman.” Brad slid a photo to Devlin. “He’s a mean looking fucker. Worse than Davidson described.”

  “What?” Devlin said.

  “Davidson was there last week.”

  “Where?”

  “At the Jokers’ clubhouse, looking for Annie.”

  “Is she insane?” Devlin said.

  “Her other leads weren’t panning out. She told me about this giant biker, Wolfe. He has lots of charges from Hamilton and area for sex assaults on young girls.”

  “Why isn’t he in jail?” Devlin asked.

  “Charges, but no convictions.” Brad flipped through the pages. “Holy smoke. He is one sick motherfucker. I can’t believe he isn’t locked up for life. The victims didn’t appear in court.”

  “It’s worth talking to Sex Crimes,” Devlin said. “Give them a heads up. We can’t leave Wolfe free to prowl.”

  “Annie—Wolfman might have her, then —” The thought of the Wolfman having Annie made Brad’s skin crawl. He wracked his brain for a way into the clubhouse but couldn’t think of a single legal reason. Then he started thinking about illegal ways. Zerr and Steele would be up for a black ops invasion. Nice to dream about, but not practical.

  He absently flipped through the stack of car and truck license numbers. “What the hell?” He jumped out of his chair and showed Devlin a sheet of paper, pointing to a license number.

  “That’s a car plate. We aren’t checking car plates.”

  “That’s not it,” Brad said. “That’s my license number.”

  Devlin squinted his eyes. “Probably at the checkstop.”

  “No, I showed my badge. They didn’t run my plate.”

  Devlin grabbed the paper. “Holy shit.” He stepped to Brad’s table. “Where is the stack of license numbers for cars and trucks?”

  Brad pointed. Devlin flipped the pages and stopped on one. “Here’s mine.”

  “Shit,” Brad said. “Check the regimental number. Who requested the search? Mine says regimental 1168.”

  “Mine too. Who’s that?”

  Brad grabbed a worn folder and found the number on the first page. “You’re not gonna believe this. It’s Collins.”

  “He doesn’t search license numbers,” Devlin said. “Hell, he wouldn’t know how.”

  “Nope.” Brad paced the office. “Someone knew the system and used that regimental.”

  “Or, someone in records does the searches using that number.”

  “Who? Why?” Brad asked.

  “Look at the time,” Devlin said. “The searches were done when we were sitting at the Beacon. Someone ran our license plates while we were across the street.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Gypsy Jokers’ Clubhouse

  Monday Night

  Pickens watched the packed room from the doorway. Keaton had ordered every member to attend the Monday night meeting—or else. Keaton strode into the room, grabbed the gavel, and pounded the table. Conversation stopped.

  “All right, let’s get this fuckin’ meeting going. We got attacked. The fire at Lust’s house killed him. Three others have burns and smoke inhalation. It’s the fuckin’ Soldiers. They were pissed we wiped out the Head Hunters. Everyone needs to be alert. No telling when they’ll hit us again. Don’t travel alone and vary your routine. We’ll figure out a way to get back at the Soldiers.”

  Keaton continued, “We got a problem with a couple of cops. They’ve taken an interest in us. Pickens, tell us what you’ve found.”

  Pickens moved to a slide projector. “On Friday night when I was outside the hotel with the lads, I spotted a couple of cops watching us. They were sitting across the street in an old car. Alf, hit the lights.”

  Alf rushed to shut off the lights.

  The projector clicked to a slide of a guy with long hair and a scruffy beard. He looked like he’d fit in with this group.

  “This is Detective Tommy Devlin,” Pickens said. “He’s in charge of the undercover narcotics teams. He’s their top drug guy. He joined TSU a couple of years ago when it was formed but transferred back to narcotics a few months ago. He’s single, lives in this house in Brentwood on Charleswood Drive.” Pickens brought up a new slide. “He drives this old blue Duster. That’s what the cops were sitting in. No wife. No girlfriend. No relatives here.”

  Pickens clicked the remote. The photo was from a newspaper. The cop was dressed in tactical gear. “This is Sergeant Brad Coulter. He leads a tactical team. He was shot two years ago while chasing some military pukes who had robbed some Brinks trucks. He killed the soldier.”

  “Ah, isn’t that nice.” Wolfman clapped.

  The room burst into laughter.

  “He lives in Bowness by the park,” Pickens said. “Hell, we’re practically neighbors. He drives a blue Camaro, lives alone with a dog, no girlfriend. He’s all about being a cop.”

  “We need more,” Keaton said. “You got someone who can get us more dirt on these two?”

  “You know I do,” Pickens said. “I’ll set that in motion tonight.”

  “Okay, keep your eyes open for these cops and their cars,” Keaton said. “Next item, that fuckup of a checkstop Friday night. Pickens, it’s you again.”

  “Friday afternoon we got the list of checkstops for that night. Sixteenth Avenue and Fourth Street weren’t on the list,” Pickens said. “The traffic guys got a call before midnight asking them to change the location. That’s why we didn’t know. One of these cops called in a favor.”

  “Well, it hit us hard,” Keaton said. “Eight bikes towed. Twenty tickets handed out. A few impaired charges. That’s bullshit. It can’t happen again. Pickens, lean on your contacts. I don’t want any more surprises. I pay good money for that information. If they can’t provide it, get rid of them. What’s happening with the blackmail scheme?”

  Hammer stood. “It’s goin’ great. We got more business than we can handle. The girls do a great job. They do some kinky shit with the guys. We get it on tape and send a copy to the john. Most pay up real quick. The others, well, Wolfe gives them some incentive. It’s easy money. We need to open at another location.”

  “All right, work up a plan and we’ll discuss it.” Keaton tapped the gavel several times. “One last piece of business–let’s party.”

  It was past two in the morning, and the party was winding down. Annie had served drinks and been groped by bikers for almost five hours. She was exhausted but dreaded the end of the party even more. She reached up to brush her hair back, then realized she didn’t have long hair anymore. After the cops came by, Sissy had cut Annie’s hair and dyed it black.

  She was cleaning a table when she sensed a presence behind her. A cold shiver ran down her spine. A big hand grabbed her breast. She gasped. Wolfman squeezed until the pain was unbearable. He pushed her face down onto the table, humping her through her clothes. She cried out. He slapped her ass and grabbed her arm.

  She tried to pull away. That made him laugh. Bikers stopped drinking and cheered as Wolfman dragged her out of the party room and down the long hall to the bedroom. He opened the door and shoved her into the room.

  Annie ran to the far side of the room, not that it would change anything. Wolfman liked the hunt, and even drunk as he was, she was no match for him. He staggered over and grabbed her again. “You gonna strip them clothes off or do I have to rip them off?”

  Wolfman seemed in a good mood, maybe if she cooperated, he wouldn’t be as rough on her. Perhaps it would be just him a
nd not half the bikers in the other room. She slipped the tube top over her head.

  “Liked you better as a blond,” Wolfman slurred. “Long hair gave me something to hang onto while I’m riding you. Get them shorts off and get over to the bed.”

  Annie slid the shorts off and shuffled to the bed.

  “Feet on the floor.” He shoved her face into the covers.

  Annie grabbed the blankets, buried her face in the soft fabric, and cried.

  Chapter Twenty

  Wednesday Evening

  Maggie Gray slouched in the passenger seat of the ambulance on her second night shift with Rajit Sharma. Last night was slow, tonight even slower. She glanced at her watch—2100 hours. Ten more hours to go and they’d done one call. She yawned and stretched. Then the radio came alive.

  “Medic 2, Medic 2. Ninth Avenue and Nineteen Street Southeast. Police on scene with a twentyish male, severe burns.”

  “That’s more like it,” Maggie said.

  Sharma frowned.

  “You know what I mean. It’s better than sitting on our asses all night.” She activated the lights and siren. “Dispatch, this is Medic 2, responding code one to Ninth Avenue and Nineteenth Street.”

  They crossed Blackfoot Trail and drove into darkness. Not much down here. An industrial area, bus barns, and a bird sanctuary.

  They raced past the bus barns toward flashing red and blue lights.

  Two cruisers and a sergeant’s van were parked in a semicircle, headlights directed to one spot. Maggie jumped out and grabbed her kits. The police parted as she approached. Sergeant Briscoe was kneeling by the patient.

  Maggie shone her flashlight onto the man lying on his stomach. An involuntary gasp escaped her lips. The man’s back was a charred mess of third-degree burns, the dead skin blackened and curled. Blisters had formed in the red second-degree burns. The man moaned in pain, not from the third-degree burns—those pain receptors were destroyed—but from the blistering, second-degree burns.