Deep Cover

by Edward Bungert

  It was all over in less than a minute. We had murdered the entire chapter, massacred them. No chance to even give up the colors. Just boom! I couldn't believe it. We stood there silently for a moment. "Savage!" said Iron Man. He crossed the room and knelt beside him. "Shit," he said. "He's fucking dead." Savage had a bullet hole dead-center in his forehead. Someone had managed to take one of his murderers with him.

  "Peel the colors!" ordered Counsel. "Savage, too."

  "Counsel, we can't, it's Savage!" pleaded Dog.

  "I said peel the fucking colors!" Counsel shot a hard look at Dog. "He bought it. Them's the breaks."

  We took the colors off all the bodies. Iron Man placed the sleeveless vests, all soaked with blood, in a plastic bag. Counsel reached down and removed a knife from his boot. He walked over to Sanford Collins' body. Collins, the chapter president who was known as "Sandy," was lying facedown, his legs on top of one of his dead comrogues. Counsel flipped him over and carved the letters OR on his forehead.

  "What was that for?" inquired Dog.

  "The Outcasts' calling card," said Iron Man. "As far as the man is concerned, as far as the rest of our club is concerned, they're just more victims in the ongoing biker war. Let's get the fuck going." I found out later that the initials OR, which every member of The Outcasts had tattooed on his body, stood for "Outcasts Rule." The news of that mutilation would be enough to convince other Henchmen chapters that this had been an Outcasts hit.

  The ride back to the clubhouse seemed to take forever. Iron Man sat alone this time, Monk and I opposite each other again. I looked in his eyes, trying to read him. He hadn't spoken a word since we'd left for San Pagano. "Monk, you okay, man?" I asked. He nodded slightly, then closed his eyes and leaned his head back, obviously not wanting to talk with anyone. At my first opportunity I had to call into Base I and let them know what had happened. A goddamn slaughter. That fucking Parkins, I thought. I had told him this was going to be bad. Now we had to shut down the operation because of my witness to the homicides. At least we would have Counsel and Iron Man on Murder One. It was obvious now that the three of them had planned all along to gun the other bikers down. Me, Dog, and Monk were just backup for their assassination team. Within twenty-four hours I would have warrants issued for Counsel's and Iron Man's arrest. I would have to include Dog and Monk in the arrest, but I planned to testify on their behalf to get the charges reduced. Too bad, I thought. All these months of preparation. Becoming a patch-wearing member of a motorcycle gang, for the first time in the history of law enforcement's battle against them. All coming to an end.

  Monk was the first to leave the van, practically knocking Iron Man down in his haste to get out.

  "Yo, Monk!" said Iron Man, beckoning to him. "What's up, man?" Monk didn't acknowledge him. Moments later, when Counsel and Dog got out, we all turned at the sound of Monk's bike kicking over.

  Iron Man volunteered to chase after him in the van. "No," I said, thinking Iron Man would probably shoot him. "I'll bring him back." I hopped on my Harley and raced down the Avenue. I spotted Monk heading toward the freeway. I must have run a dozen lights by the time I caught up with him. I motioned for him to stop. Monk just cranked his hog up full throttle. We must have been doing close to one hundred mph, Monk always managing to stay just ahead of me. After about ten minutes, Monk turned off toward the beach. He drove his bike right up the steps of the boardwalk and down into the sand, until the wheels spun the Harley too deep to move. I left my bike on the board-walk and took off after him as he ran down the beach.

  "Monk! Monk!" I called, panting and straining to keep up with him. I finally caught his shoulder and slowed him down. He turned and punched me in the jaw. I fell back to the sand and he stood above me, pointing his finger. "You get the fuck away from me, man!" he said, with fury in his eyes. He turned and ran again. I kept after him. My jaw was swelling and I had a pain in my side from running. We must have continued for a half-mile down the beach. Monk, about ten yards ahead of me, fell to his knees, grabbed two handfuls of sand, and began squeezing them with clenched fists as he cried out: "Motherfucker! Goddamn motherfucker!" He began punching furiously at the sand.

  I approached him slowly, in part to catch my breath so I could speak. I crouched down beside him.

  "Monk… Monk... listen... man..."

  "No!" Monk interrupted. "You listen!" He turned to face me. "It's all fucked! What the hell do you know? You've only been a brother for a couple of weeks. I've been with the club fifteen fucking years. It's all fucked now. We used to have the strongest brotherhood on the flicking planet. We fought, rode and drank together. We stood by each other no matter what. Now it's all measured by what's good for fucking business. The motherfucking pursuit of cash is all that matters now. Shit! God damn it! It's all fucked up!"

  He put his hands on his head and started to get his breathing under control. I wanted so bad to tell him who I was and that I was going to arrest those bastards, but that was a chance I couldn't take. Far worse than brother killing brother was brother turning rat. Or brother being the law.

  "Monk, nobody liked what happened tonight. We had no choice. That chapter was too wild. They wouldn't have let us leave there alive tonight. As it was they managed to kill Savage. Counsel was only thinking of the good of the club."

  "It's fucked, Doc. It's just fucked, that's all." Monk was a little calmer now, his breathing even. I continued to try to bring him around.

  "Everybody misses the way it used to be, man. It was that way with my old club, the Saints. The Henchmen are big now. The biggest and most powerful bike club in the world. The old rules just don't work anymore." I extended my hand and helped him to his feet.

  "I don't know, Monk. Maybe we can bring it back. You just gotta hang on and see." Sometimes I wasn't quite sure exactly who was talking. Dr. Death himself couldn't have been more convincing. When you're in deep cover you make up so much of your own reality that, at times, you start to believe it. At times you must believe it. Dr. Death had become my alter ego. He would be hard to let go.

  Monk wiped the sand from his clothes. We stood there silently for about fifteen minutes, listening to the sound of the surf breaking and smelling the aroma of the salty air. It had a calming, hypnotic effect. Monk turned to me and half smiled.

  "Thanks, Doc. I love you, man." We gave each other a bear hug and then trudged back to retrieve the bikes. We rode back toward the clubhouse, two abreast, at a leisurely thirty-five miles per hour. I kept asking myself, Why did you go after Monk? Operationally, it made absolutely no sense. Had it been some instinctive move to keep all my quarry together for an arrest? Was I afraid Iron Man would have shot him? Did I do it out of brotherly love? I would never know.

  Chapter 20

  There was no getting away. Counsel strongly suggested that we stay together at the clubhouse and listen for details of the shooting on the morning news. He also wanted to make sure that everyone was cool. Dog and Monk assured Counsel they stood behind the club.

  "Okay, bros," said Counsel. "We got to keep what happened tonight to ourselves. Let the rest of the chapters and the cops believe it was The Outcasts that got 'em. Tomorrow, me and Iron Man will go down to the sheriff's office in San Pagano. We'll raise a little hell about how much we'd prefer to take care of it ourselves."

  Counsel was smart. Had this been a real hit on one of his chapters, that's exactly what the police would expect him to do and say. This would push suspicion further away from the club.

  "Tomorrow morning I need you two," Counsel said, addressing me and Dog, "to go to Pedro's and pick up a shipment for Beverly Hills. The rich kids are starting to run dry. Mitchell called me yesterday. Says he'll be completely out by tomorrow night."

  Mitchell.... Joseph Mitchell. I knew that name. I remembered hearing it many times around the police station. All the cops knew he was the biggest supplier of crank in the Hills and surrounding areas. He had so many friends in movies, publishing, and local politics that no one was ever able
to catch him cold. But all the Hollywood brats stayed high thanks to Mitchell. I was going to love putting this guy out of business. The beautiful people would have to find another source for their thrills. This was one aspect of the drug problem that really pissed me off. The same people who are the first to condemn drug-related violence on the streets of America keep the dealers in business with their so-called "casual" use of speed and cocaine.

  It was about six A.M. by the time I fell asleep. There were always places to crash at the clubhouse. Iron Man went on guard duty upstairs and sent Snake home. He had been there since I'd returned with Monk, but wasn't hip to what was going on. Monk was still watching TV when I fell out.

  "Come on, Doc. Rise and shine," said Dog, kicking me in the leg. A redhaired, bearded Hun with auburn-tinted sunglasses is an ugly first thing to see after only three hours Sleep. "We got a long ride, Doc. Let's roll, man."

  I struggled to my feet, went to the bathroom and splashed water on my face, then left the clubhouse with Dog. We left Monk sleeping in an old armchair, the television still on.

  We had been riding in the van for a half-hour without saying much. I had to get to a phone. At this point I regretted having given Dog the story about calling my parole officer the day before. It would arouse too much suspicion if I asked him to stop the van so I could call again. Atwood must have heard about the murders by now. If I continued the operation, I would be in violation of both Bureau policy and federal law. What the hell. I'd come in at my first opportunity. I guessed that would be shortly after we made the delivery in the Hills. The location of the lab and the busting of Mitchell would be gravy.

  Dog broke the silence.

  "Hey, Doc. You think Counsel was gonna do them all along? I mean, it happened real fast. Before I knew it we were shooting them down like pigs. What do you think?"

  "I don't know, Dog. Counsel and Iron Man both have good instincts. Could be they just read the situation immediately and did what they had to do. Who the fuck knows?" The lies came so easy. It was as if three people were riding to the desert in that van: Dog, myself, and a ghost called Dr. Death. A man who'd been dead for over five years. I actually enjoyed the role I was playing. The danger of deep cover I had always feared and avoided had now become something I reveled in. At that moment I felt that I was going to miss this assignment, which means I should have ended it right there.

  "There it is, up there," said Dog, as he pointed down the road to a beat-up old service station sign.

  "A gas station?"

  "Why not, Doc? It's the perfect cover. Not many cars come this way, and nobody complains about the smell of the cooking."

  Dog brought me inside the store. Inside, it smelled like cat piss, a telltale sign that crank is being cooked up. Dog said hello to an old Mexican who was sitting behind the counter smoking a cigar. He then led me through a secret door in the floor of the back room and down a set of stairs.

  The lab was a drug dealer's dream come true. A hundred miles from nowhere, and plenty of time to cook and package the stuff for pickup and distribution. Dog introduced me to an Asian named Kim who was the chemist, and Billy E., the Henchman in charge of overseeing the lab. We were in and out of there in less than twenty minutes. We left with about thirty pounds of crank in the back of the van. Dog placed it in the compartment usually reserved for weapons. About an hour into the return trip Dog re-minded me of my obligation to get the club tattoo within one month of getting my colors. "You know, Doc, we have to get that tat before too long." He held out his arm, displaying his own tattoo. A hooded executioner with an axe in one hand and a rope in the other, with the month and year of Dog's initiation into the club, filled most of his huge forearm. "Counsel says the movie company is gonna finish up this week. Why don't we have them shoot you getting yours? Good idea?"

  "Yeah, great idea," I said, slightly distracted. I had spotted some movement on the road in my side-view mirror. "Dog, does that look like a couple of bikes in the distance?"

  "Might be." Dog looked in his side-view. "Yes. Definitely. Coming up fast, too. I can't tell if they're Henchmen or not." Dog's eyes widened as the bikers came within thirty feet of the van. "Doc, get the twelve-gauge! Shit, man! They look like fucking Outcasts! Quick, Doc! They're coming up fast!"

  I climbed in the back, trying to steady myself against the sides of the van. The two bikers pulled along the passenger side.

  "Dog!" I yelled. "They're coming up on the side! Watch it, man!"

  Dog was frantic, turning his head from side to side. "Where? I lost them! I don't see them!"

  The sound of the gunshot echoed in my brain. I tried to reach for Dog, who lay dead on the wheel. I felt myself move, as if in slow motion, reaching for him as the van veered to the side of the road. My head smashed into the side of the van as it spun out of control and flipped over. The pain and confusion were intense. I felt like I was falling into a bottomless pit.

  Atwood was late. The team had been waiting for over an hour. Molly Samuels was reviewing case details with Dalton Leverick. Fred Parkins was disinterested. He chain-smoked and drank coffee, while he nervously awaited the commencement of the emergency meeting that had been called four hours earlier.

  "Sorry I'm late," said Atwood matter-of-factly, as he came breezing through the door. He sat down at the white marble conference table and opened a file marked FBI, CONFIDENTIAL. "Parkins, please thank your father for the use of his conference room. I thought it best we not meet at Bureau headquarters until we'd figured out our next move. I've been avoiding the Director's calls. I'm sure he would have insisted on attending this meeting had we met there." Atwood picked up a pencil from the table and tapped the eraser on his lips.

  "First of all, has anyone heard from Martin?"

  Samuels and Leverick shook their heads—their concern obvious. Parkins looked down at the table. Atwood continued to view the file.

  "From the updates in the file," Atwood continued, "I see that the last time Martin checked in was six days ago. He was going with several members of the mother chapter to discuss some business in San Pagano. What kind of business, specifically? Parkins?" Parkins hastily returned his coffee cup to its saucer, spilling some on the table.

  "Well, sir... er... they were on their way to discuss some internal problem . . . with the San Pagano chapter. Something about their charter being revoked."

  "Their charter was fucking revoked all right," said Atwood sharply, snapping the pencil in half between his fingers. Parkins immediately offered him a replacement. "It's been two fucking weeks, no cigars! I don't need this shit in the middle of trying to quit smoking! Molly, anything new?"

  "No. The seven bodies have been identified. All six members of that chapter were killed." Samuels flipped through some of her papers. "One... a Henry Rivers, a.k.a. 'Savage,' was also killed. He was from the mother chapter. The rest were all from San Pagano."

  "The police say he was the only one killed with a .25-caliber gun," said Leverick. "The rest were either buckshot or nine-millimeter." He handed the police report to Atwood.

  "What else?" asked Atwood.

  "They believe it was the work of a rival club, The Outcasts. Their calling card was left behind, the letters OR carved in one of the biker's heads. Kurt Benson—the one they call `Counsel' told the sheriff's office that Rivers went there to discuss the upcoming bike run to Eureka Lake."

  "What do you think, Dalton?" Atwood spit pieces of the eraser into the ashtray.

  "I think it might have been a way for Counsel to get rid of a problem. He's been under a lot of pressure from the police since the girls' abduction from the concert. I'll bet they went there specifically to murder them."

  Atwood leaned over the table and stared directly into Parkins' eyes. "Parkins, what exactly did Martin say when you spoke with him last week?"

  Parkins took a deep breath and, hesitating only a little, did what drug dealers and presidents alike do when they feel their survival is threatened: He lied.

  "Martin said it was a
done deal. Counsel was going to suspend their charter and take their colors until they got their act together. I offered him backup, but he insisted that he go it alone. Said it would be no sweat. Then he told me about the Fort Dix thing. It's all in my report."

  Atwood looked over at Leverick. Leverick shrugged and turned to Samuels. "Maybe Martin was hurt," she said. "Except for a cache of weapons in the basement of the house, no guns were recovered at the scene. The ballistics report shows no .25-caliber bullets in the walls or furniture."

  "Which means?" inquired Parkins.

  "Which means the .25 was probably returning fire. Which means we have no idea whether or not the guy who fired that weapon hit anyone else besides Rivers."

  The room became silent for several minutes. The agents flipped through paperwork, drank coffee, and tapped pencils nervously on the conference table. Molly Samuels broke the silence. "We have to go in," she said.

  "What?" asked Parkins.

  "Someone has got to go in and try to make contact with Martin. He may be hurt. He may have tried to intervene when the killing started, and is being held. Who knows? Something is definitely very wrong."

  "Dalton, have you gone over the photos again?" asked Atwood.

  "Several times. We had surveillance teams at both cemeteries. We got shots of every person coming in and out. Everybody, whether they were bikers or not. Martin wasn't at the funerals. Since the only excuse for a club member not attending is hospitalization, death, or jail, I'd say we've got a problem."

  All eyes turned to Atwood. He had more undercover experience than all of them combined. He nodded his head. "I agree. We have to find him, bring him in, and shut this operation down. We'll take what we got so far and call it a day. Any suggestions?"