Chapter 2
I blinked my eyes, and the digits on my alarm clock changed from 2:10 A.M. to 6:32 A.M. "Oh, shit!" I muttered out loud, as I popped out of bed. Amy woke up almost as abruptly.
"What time is it?" She sat up, resting on her elbows.
"I'm late. I have to hurry," I said.
"I guess there's no chance you'll change your mind."
I sat on the side of the bed and gently placed my hand on her soft cheek. She looked at me with pleading eyes. I wanted to stay. I really wanted to stay, but she knew as well as I did that there was no way that was going to happen. She knows that once something is in my mind as strong as this assignment was there's no stopping me.
"I love you more than I will ever be able to express," I said. "These next few months will pass quickly, and then we'll have the rest of our lives together."
She took my hand and kissed it. "I'll miss you, too. So will Alex."
Amy slipped on her blue silk bathrobe. God, I love her in that robe. She went to the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee while I got dressed. On my way down the hall I opened the door to Alex's room. He was holding his stuffed animal while he slept. He clutched it tighter as I kissed him on his forehead.
"See ya, champ. Take care of your mommy for me," I whispered softly, as I closed the door to his room.
After two quick cups of coffee, during which neither Amy nor I said much, we embraced for what seemed like a long time by the front door. As I walked down the path to the driveway, I could hear the click of the bolt as she locked the door.
The training facility was located in Brentwood, thirty miles east of my home in Oakville, a Los Angeles suburb. The facility used to be a summer camp for the underprivileged in the forties. In 1951 funding dried up, and the place was closed. In 1964 the Bureau purchased it from the state and converted it into its West Coast training site.
The facility was divided into four sections: the recently added north section for anti-terrorist training; the south section for basic training; the east section for heavy weapons; and the west section for special assignments, where I was to spend the next three weeks learning how to be a biker.
I arrived at the administration building at nine A.M. It was sunny that morning and I had forgotten my sunglasses. I held my hand above my eyes to block the sun's glare as I walked up the steps. Once inside I picked up my assignment sheet and registered with the duty clerk.
"You're due to report to Training Room 7 at nine-thirty, Mr. Walsh," he said, as he clocked in my sheet and handed it to me without ever looking up from his desk. "Here are the keys to your room. When you get outside turn left, walk straight about a hundred and fifty yards. It's the third building, room C."
"Thanks."
"You're welcome, sir," he said, looking up for a moment.
The sun was at my back as I walked toward the dormitories. It beat down on the back of my head with almost personal intent. I started to feel irritated. The strap on my garment bag was bothering my shoulder, so I carried it by hand the rest of the way. It was about eighty degrees now, and my irritation was growing with every step. When I arrived at the steps of the dorm I felt like I'd just run a marathon. The heat, combined with my nervousness about the assignment, had drained me. Getting little sleep the night before added to my lackluster condition.
The room was the standard one-bedroom issue: two sets of bunk beds, two chairs, a desk, and a coffee table. It looked like it hadn't been painted since 1960. Normally two or three agents room together during training. I figured they had me here alone due to the special nature of the assignment. Getting used to the idea that you're out there alone in deep cover started here.
Training Room 7 was set up with about a dozen chairs, a podium with a director's chair next to it, and a couple of blackboards. I was early, so I sat down and waited. At about nine-forty a man in his early forties came into the room and sat in the director's chair. He placed some files and books on the podium.
"Welcome, Martin," he said, "I'm sorry I'm late."
"That's fine."
"My name is Dalton Leverick. I'll be training you on the specifics of the outlaw motorcycle gang." Leverick's speaking style was crisp and articulate. Of average height, and athletically built, he had the look of a drill sergeant. His hair was short, almost a crew cut. Tattoos on his forearms, long since faded, suggested a tour in the military.
"Good to meet you, Dalton. How do I get started?" I asked enthusiastically.
"We get started by studying our targets. You'll need to read this." He reached up to the podium and grabbed a thick loose-leaf binder.
"What is it?" I asked, as he opened the binder and rummaged through the pages.
"It's like a reference manual. It has the criminal history of every member of the Los Angeles chapter of The Henchmen. That's the mother chapter. We'll be concentrating our efforts there. There are also facts about the club's hierarchy, suspected mob connections, and locations of chapters throughout the United States."
"How many are there?" I asked.
"Near as we can figure, about twenty. St. Paul, Chicago, Des Moines, Phoenix." He flipped through more pages and tapped his finger on the book when he found the appropriate one. "Paterson, New Jersey, and New York City," he continued with the list. "There's a Philadelphia chapter, two near Pittsburgh, and one in Atlanta, Georgia. There are three in Florida. We're not exactly sure of the cities there, since they change so often. The group has had a lot of trouble with a rival gang called The Outcasts. That gang also has several chapters in Florida. The threat of war-fare keeps The Henchmen moving down there. I think they just set a chapter up in Jacksonville."
"How about here in California?"
"Besides the mother chapter in L.A. there's a chapter in Elmwood, San Pagano, and a few more scattered around the southern part of the state."
"How many members in each chapter?"
"Anywhere from a low of six or eight in San Pagano to thirty or so in Los Angeles. It's hard to keep track. A half-dozen of them get killed each year in bike accidents and street violence. There's never a shortage of new prospects, though, all wishing to one day become official members."
"Is the plan for me to become a prospect?" I thought that sounded like a logical way to infiltrate their organization.
"That would be preferable, but may not be possible."
"What do you mean? Why?" I asked.
"The Henchmen are very suspicious, and always watch for law enforcement attempts to bring them down. They usually have prospects, or strikers as they're sometimes called, commit crimes before they can be considered for membership. These crimes can range from petty larceny to murder."
"How, then?"
"I'm working on a plan of action. I should have all the details handled in a week or so. Once I determine its feasibility, I'll brief you.
"The Henchmen have many friends of the club who are trusted, as much as any outsider can be, to do business with them. They also have a lot of legitimate businesses. For example, this guy."
Leverick tossed a file over to me that contained photos and fact sheets on several of the Los Angeles members. On top was a guy named John Weeks, a.k.a. Fat Jack. As I flipped through the pile I saw that all the bikers had aliases or nicknames. Leverick explained that the bikers only call each other by these aliases. Some members don't even know each other's real names. Half of them don't even have proper mailing addresses. Fat Jack was one of the lot who did. In fact he owned his own home, was married with two kids, and ran a moderately successful vending-machine business.
"Where does a guy like this fit in?" I asked.
"We're not exactly sure. Not all Henchmen are full-timers. Some, like Fat Jack, have decent jobs and families. Weekenders, who attend major parties and events. However, if they're called by the chapter presidents they'll drop everything and do whatever is asked of them—including murder. The club and the colors always come first. We had a case two years ago where eight members of The Hombres, a small local club, jumped on
e Henchman at a gas station near Route 36. They held a gun to his head and told him they'd blow his brains out if he didn't take off his colors. The Henchman refused and they shot him dead. We suspect the chapter president declared open warfare, because within four months of the incident four Hombres were dead, three were in the hospital, and the club was disbanded. Fat Jack was arrested for one of those killings. The prosecutors couldn't make it stick because of a sudden case of witness amnesia."
"Intimidation?"
"What do you think?"
"Got it. So what's next?"
"For the next week you study. Memorize that manual. Review it until you know everything the Bureau knows about The Henchmen: their women, favorite music, favorite beer—everything. You'll be a biker before you leave here in three weeks. And keep that beard growing—you'll need to look the part."
For the next six days I slept, ate, and lived bikers. I was amazed at the complexity of the network The Henchmen had put together. I was also amazed at their biker lifestyle. These guys are way outside the mainstream. I mean way outside. They have their own set of laws, even their own wedding ceremonies. The Henchmen have no respect for society and society's laws. The bikers very existence mocks everything that is decent.
On Sunday night I called home. Amy was supportive, but she couldn't hide her pain and fear behind comforting words.
"Are you all right, Martin?" she asked.
"Sure, honey," I said. "It's going real smooth. The first week is mainly textbook work. A lot of reading and studying. How's Alex?"
"He misses you. I told him you were like a superhero—going off to fight the forces of evil. He liked that. You are his hero, you know, and mine too."
"I do, sweetheart. Thanks."
Amy and I talked for about an hour. She understood that for the next six months our conversations would be few and far between. The deeper I went under, the less opportunity I would have for outside contact.
Leverick and I met for breakfast Monday morning. We had developed a good relationship during the past week, and I was comfortable that he was part of the team. We discussed the next stage of the training.
"I understand that you're an accomplished martial artist, Martin," he said.
"I used to participate quite a bit. I haven't done much in the last couple of years, though."
"Well, we're going to get back in the ring for a couple of days."
"Back in the ring?"
"Not exactly the ring as you know it from your karate days. Report to the gymnasium at eleven o'clock and I'll show you what I mean."
I had known there would be some specialized physical training. After going over the manual and several case histories, it was clear that these guys were less than conventional fighters. In one incident a Henchman allegedly bit a guy's nose off during a skirmish at a rock concert. This type of fighter doesn't respond well to conventional self-defense techniques. I started to become a little apprehensive as I watched the ominous hand of time shift toward the eleventh hour.
The gymnasium was set up like a padded living room. Chairs, tables, and other pieces of furniture, all thickly padded with foam rubber and cloth. Leverick arrived exactly at eleven.
"Surprised to see it set up this way?" Leverick asked.
"A little. Why the furniture?"
"I believe that you don't train a fighter for the street or saloon the same way you train him for the ring. I've seen too many so-called 'trained' fighters get their asses kicked when the real thing came down, because the environment they trained in was too controlled. In a real situation you don't have the luxury of padded floor mats and a two-hundred-fifty-square-foot boxing ring. When an agent has to fight, it's usually in close quarters. In an alley, an apartment, or barroom."
Leverick handed me a pair of Chinese fighting gloves.
"Put these on," he said with a slight smirk, amused at my apprehension. The gloves fit well. I punched at my open palms alternately to get the feel of them. Chinese fighting gloves are designed with the same padding as professional boxing gloves, but the fingers are free, unlike the "mitten fit" of the traditional glove.
"Are you ready, Martin?" he asked.
"I guess so. For what, specifically?"
"Okay, Charlie, come on in!" Leverick yelled.
Through the doorway came a figure who looked like a cross between Big Foot and The Wild Man of Borneo. He stood about six-five. He had huge, solid arm muscles, and reddish-brown hair that was almost shoulder-length.
"Who's that?" I demanded.
"That's Charlie Red. He's a freelance bad-ass. We fly him in from New York from time to time when we need to train an agent in the realities of the street. Like I said, that bullshit we teach in basic won't fly out in the real world."
"I suppose you want me to fight him?"
"No, just keep him from killing you."
"Great. Just great, Dalton."
The hulking figure approached me slowly, no emotion on his face. Just a man who'd showed for work this morning to do his job. And his job was to throw me a beating. We circled each other in the middle of the mock living room. My opponent certainly looked as if he'd been in a few scrambles on the street. He made the first move—lunging at my neck with both arms extended. I immediately bent at the waist, slipped under his left arm, and thrust a solid right-hand punch to his left temple. Without losing his balance, he shot a right which grazed my jaw and sent me backwards, falling over an easy chair or whatever that mocked-up piece of shit was supposed to be. I sprang to my feet in time to meet the menace head-on as he leaped.
The force of his body knocked me back about ten feet across the room. As I staggered up to one knee, the thundering impact of his hammer-like fist on the back of my neck sent my face crashing to the floor. He then placed me in a headlock of iron that started to drain me of my strength, spirit, and will to live. Leverick got on his hands and knees, placed his face near mine, and shouted, "You'd better get resourceful, asshole! This ain't basic! Forget everything you ever learned and fight for your fucking life, man! You don't get a second chance!"
Red was breathing down my neck. I estimated the position of his head and whipped my left hand back over my shoulder with the thumb extended and my fist tightly closed. With a painful grunt, his grip on my neck loosened. As he reached for his injured eye, I twisted and snapped an explosive elbow strike to the bridge of his nose, sending him onto his back. He pushed himself up slightly with his hands and attempted to shake off the blow. I leaped to my feet and came crashing through his jaw with my right foot. I lay back panting, repeating with every exhausted exhale, "Shit, oh shit, oh shit."
"Very resourceful, Martin. Very resourceful," Leverick said, with pride in his voice.
Charlie Red regained consciousness, and left as silently and as ominously as he'd appeared. Leverick instructed me to take the rest of the day off and relax.
That second week entailed a lot of physical activity. The morning encounters with Charlie Red were less vicious, but every bit as draining as the first one. By Saturday I was feeling pumped up, ready to take on the world. Simply busting these thugs wasn't going to be enough. I wanted to get a piece of them on the way down. Leverick must have sensed this, because he took me aside that afternoon for a brief sitdown.
"How are you feeling, Martin?" he asked.
"Great, Dalton. I feel strong. I can't wait to get out there."
"Listen, I don't want you to get over-anxious. Your job is to record events, not engage unnecessarily in violence. I've been training agents for special assignments for over six years, and I can tell when someone starts to hate."
"Hate?"
"Yes. You've had to rely heavily on aggression to get you through the training this week. The aggression you've developed towards The Henchmen has served you well. Now it's time to let it go."
"I don't understand," I said. I was a little puzzled. After all, we're the good guys and they're the enemy. It's us or them.
"You have to be emotionless during this operatio
n," Leverick said. "Any extreme is dangerous. Feelings of love or hate for a subject can jeopardize an operation. Or worse, an agent's life."
"What am I supposed to feel?"
"Be like a doctor, removing a cancerous tumor. He doesn't hate the tumor, and he's detached from the patient. He's single-minded and purposeful. His actions are calculated and result-oriented. Are you hearing me?"
"Yes. Loud and clear. Thanks."
Dalton was right. I was becoming too emotionally charged. He put things back in perspective for me that afternoon.
"This is going to be a little different from any investigation you've ever worked on before," Leverick continued.
"Meaning?"
"Meaning we have a game plan that can be altered at any time. If nothing concrete comes your way while you're investigating, we'll have to set up some transactions—weapons, drug buys, etcetera—in order to build a case. You'll need to record and communicate with Base I every time you witness a crime being committed."
"Base I?"
"You'll be given a special number to call. Your statements will be transcribed, and 302's prepared for your signature so warrants can be issued. At times I'll personally answer that number. Other times it will be manned by Atwood, whom you already know, and by special agents Fred Parkins and Molly Samuels."
"Molly Samuels? I remember seeing her name in one of the reports."
"Yes. Molly was part of a team we put together three years ago. She tried to work her way into The Henchmen by posing as a young girl looking for some biker action. We terminated the investigation when two Henchmen tried to rape her on a barroom pool table. Molly was able to get away, but by then we knew it was foolish to try to infiltrate the group that way. She knows a lot about outlaw bikers and will be extremely useful to this investigation."
"Who else is in on the assignment?" I asked, with more than a touch of disgust in my voice. "I can see the Tribune printing details before things even get under way. I'll get my balls shot off the first time I try to make contact with them."
"Don't worry, Martin. Besides you, me, Atwood, Parkins, and Samuels, nobody knows the whole story." "The whole story?"
Deep Cover Page 2