Deep Cover

by Edward Bungert

  "I could go," volunteered Samuels. "I worked vice for a joint task force in Hollywood two years ago. I could hang around and make contact with some of the women who work for the club. Maybe some of them have seen Martin."

  "Too risky." Atwood shook his head. "The club may take notice of you and try to induct you into their stables. We would have to move in. That would place Martin further at risk if they're holding him. No. I'll go in."

  "You?" questioned Leverick. "How?"

  "The Henchmen meet and hang around Mike's, right? I'll stop there a few times on the way fishing or something. Get to know some of the regulars. It's not much, but I think it's the safest way to get close to the club right now. If we act too aggressively and Martin is holed up somewhere, injured, we could blow his cover and jeopardize his life."

  "If it hasn't been blown already," said Leverick.

  "Right, if it hasn't already," responded Atwood.

  "Sounds good to me." Leverick looked at Samuels and Parkins. They both nodded approvingly.

  "It's set then. I'll give the Director a briefing this afternoon. Tomorrow I'll pay my first visit to Mike's. I hope to God Martin is still alive."

  "What about the rest of the team?" inquired Samuels, holding her arms out, palms turned up. "Give us something to do here."

  "Yeah, Richard," added Leverick. "We can't just sit around."

  "All right." Atwood tugged at his lower lip, his eyes looking upward. "Start checking all the hospitals within a hundred-mile radius of the clubhouse. Get descriptions of anyone who was treated for a gunshot wound during the last week. Make sure the hospital records correspond with all police reports. I don't care how you split it up. Decide that among yourselves." Atwood looked over at Leverick. "Dalton, call me later this afternoon." Leverick nodded as Richard Atwood picked up his files and left the conference room.

  "Any preference, Fred?" asked Leverick. "Fred!" Leverick snapped his fingers in front of Parkins' face.

  "Oh... sure, whatever. After lunch. I made an appointment with my father for"—he glanced quickly at his watch—"one-thirty. I'll meet you two downtown at about three P.M. Okay?"

  "Sure, Fred. Enjoy your lunch."

  Samuels and Leverick gathered their things and left the room.

  Parkins sat by himself for a moment, contemplating the seriousness of his situation. If Walsh is dead, he thought, I'll have to live with the knowledge that I could have saved him. If he isn't, my career as an FBI agent is over. He imagined his father, having heard the news, summoning him to his office. He would sit in the old burgundy leather chair, opposite his father's antique oak desk. Just as he had done when he was six years old, facing his father's wrath because of a below-average report card. He could picture his father pointing an accusing finger at him.

  "You loser!" he would say. "I used my best political and business contacts to get you into the Bureau, and you get kicked out?"

  "Dad," he continued the conversation in his mind.

  "You pushed me into joining the Bureau. I would have been happy joining the firm."

  "Damn it, Frederick! If I didn't have this damn heart murmur, I would have been able to pass the physical exam. I would have joined the Bureau myself. I placed all my hope in you."

  Parkins could see his father shaking his head in disgust, arms folded, and then saying, "Get out! Get of my life! There's no place for you in here!"

  No, thought Parkins, that cannot happen. Walsh must be dead. He must never come in.

  Chapter 21

  "Who's there? Identify yourself!"

  "Who's there? Identify yourself!" the female voice said mockingly.

  The young enlisted man relaxed, placed the M16 back on his shoulder, and lit the cigarette he had been carrying behind his ear. "Shit..." He blew out the smoke as he spoke. "What the hell's wrong with you, Carol? It's after midnight. No civilians are supposed to be on the base. I could have shot you."

  "Oh, did the big, bad soldier almost shoot me?" she said in a babyish tone. "Give me a kiss, Rambo."

  The private enthusiastically complied. He complied as he had four other times during the last week. He remembered the first time, in his car, as he'd prepared to drive the new secretary from the recruiting office to the bus stop. The next day she'd seduced him in the men's room just off the southside barracks. He gladly drove her to the bus the next two nights. If he hadn't pulled guard duty two nights in a row, he would have had a go at her again.

  "Well, I'm glad to see you anyway, Carol. How's the job going?" asked the private, after a prolonged kiss.

  "It sucks. But at least I met you, baby." She dropped slowly to her knees and unbuckled his belt. The private leaned back against the railing to the sentry booth. How wonderful, he thought. This experienced, sensual woman is attracted to me—a nineteen-year-old kid with pimples. Except for a couple of whores, and one fling with a divorcée in his hometown. of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, he hadn't had much experience with women. The promise of easy sex had made him the perfect victim.

  She buckled his belt and stood up.

  "What'd you stop for?"

  She pouted, then resumed the babyish tone: "I want to see all the weapons and guns and stuff. I could be a real naughty little girl with all those big, big guns around." She gently squeezed his testicles. He moaned approvingly.

  "I don't know, Carol, I—"

  "You promised, Danny. You said you would show me someday. Well, someday is here." Her voice became cold, more like a scolding mother's now than a baby girl's.

  "Yeah, but things are different lately. Security has been beefed up. Lots of MP's coming and going all the time. It may not be safe."

  "Come on now, honey, you ain't no scared little boy, are you?" Again she placed her hand between his legs.

  "All right, all right," he said, surrendering. "Hop in the jeep. Let's go."

  It was a five-minute ride to the stockade. The private didn't notice the truck following them. A two-ton delivery truck, stolen earlier from the parking lot of Chairs and Stuff Party Rentals in Paramus. It would not be missed until the owners opened up shop in the morning. The five Henchmen inside would have completed their task by then and have abandoned the truck somewhere near the Secaucus swamps.

  "I'll have to ask you to look away while I open the door." The door to Stockade C had an electric lock that could be opened only by depressing a series of numbers on the dial pad, then using a key. The auxiliary stockade contained twenty rocket-launchers, twelve bazookas, forty M16's, two hundred sticks of dynamite, sixteen cases of hand grenades, and four hundred .45-caliber handguns with over ten thousand rounds of ammunition.

  Danny turned to speak to Carol, "Okay, babe, let's—" The barrel of a .22 was aimed right between his eyes. "Carol, what the hell is this?"

  "Just stay quiet, soldier boy." He instinctively raised his arms above his head. The Henchmen quickly appeared from the shadows.

  "Good work, baby," said Dirty Dan, giving Carol a kiss. "Go wait in the truck."

  Stoned Eddie removed the private's weapon from his shoulder and tossed it to Grease. They tied the young man's hands behind his back.

  "You guys are nuts! You can't rip off the Army!"

  "Shut up, faggot! There's nothing we can't do!" said Grease, pressing the barrel of the M16 against the boy's temple.

  "Let's get inside," said Dirty Dan.

  The five Henchmen entered the building with their prisoner. The moon shone through the wire-mesh windows, but provided little light.

  "Where's the light, shithead?" demanded Bones Blackwell.

  "There a timer on the inside of the door frame. Just turn it a full turn to the right."

  The lights came on brightly, causing everyone to squint. Before The Henchmen's eyes could adjust to the light, the sound of over thirty M16's being bolted into firing position echoed through the room like a thousand pairs of tap shoes. The bikers found themselves facing a group of heavily armed military policemen.

  “Oh, shit,” said Dirty Dan. “There goes
my vacation at the lake.”

  The phones were busy at the downtown St. Paul office of the H.F.F.H. Trading Company. The operation was moving two trailer-loads of stereos, seven brand-new Lincoln Continentals, and a small load of blue jeans intended for a major department store chain. Dave was having trouble unloading a trailer of produce that had been highjacked the previous day.

  “We gotta find a fucking buyer for this goddamn lettuce, or we’ll wind up dumping the shit in the river.” Dave’s breathing was heavy, his pulse rate high.

  “Dave, take it easy, man, we’re working on it.” Jimbo offered him a cigarette.

  “Thanks, man. Light?”

  Jimbo flicked a small yellow lighter under Dave’s cigarette.

  “Dave!” said a small, pudgy man in his late thirties. Balding, with thick glasses, he held the clipboard close to his face as he read. “The guy at Vintage Appliances says he’ll take fifty of the receivers, but only wants to pay thirty-five dollars each.”

  “Tell him he’ll pay fifty or he can suck my fucking dick. That scumbag is always looking to screw us.”

  The man scurried back to his desk and resumed his telephone conversation. Dave took a puff on his cigarette as he looked over the paperwork on his desk.

  “You know, Jimbo, this is going to be the last time I deal with that creep Louie. He fucking told me he’d have a buyer lined up this morning. The shit is gonna rot if we don’t move it right away.”

  “Yo Dave!” shouted Ron “Pervert” Hawkins from the far corner of the room. "I got Louie on the phone, line one."

  Dave picked up the receiver and depressed the first button.

  "Lou, you scumbag. I think—"

  "Dave, listen... listen. I got the buyer, man. Just like I said. Twenty-five cents a head."

  "When?"

  "One hour. They'll take the whole fucking trailer. They think they can move the truck, too. They're offering five thousand for it."

  "Take it. Just get the trailer the fuck out of the warehouse right now."

  "You got it, Dave. I told you I'd come through."

  Dave stood as he hung up the phone, stretched from side to side, and threw on his colors.

  "Let's take a break, Jimbo."

  Dave was stopped by a short, fair-skinned woman as he and Jimbo walked toward the door. "Dave," she said. "The buyer at J.R. Goodman says he needs an answer right away on the minks."

  Dave sighed, placed his hands over his face, and rubbed his eyes. "Thursday; the shipment will clear customs on Thursday. Check with Sam to be certain, okay?"

  She nodded and returned to the office. Dave and Jimbo left the building.

  The two bikers rode forty minutes north on Highway 11. They stopped at a greasy spoon to grab some lunch before returning to the trading company office. Dave always found a quick trip on his bike invigorating. He would return to the office ready to wheel and deal in the moving of merchandise.

  When they returned, Dave stopped before the doorway and looked up at the sign hanging over the door way of the old concrete-and-iron building. It read H.F.F.H. TRADING COMPANY. Incorporated six years earlier, fifty percent of the company's activities were related to legitimate businesses. The legal activities included shipments of furniture and fur products from Canada. The office supplied distributors in North Dakota, Iowa, and Illinois.

  "It may be time to replace that old sign, Jimbo," observed Dave.

  Jimbo laughed. "Let's see if we got money in the budget for it."

  Dave laughed as well. He thought about how last year H.F.F.H Trading had posted a profit of thirty-five thousand dollars, although he personally had made bank deposits in excess of one million dollars into various accounts. To hide their wealth, the bikers deposited money and registered houses in the names of girlfriends or club associates. Although four members of the St. Paul chapter were worth over two million dollars, the IRS would never find more than fifty thousand dollars traceable to the whole chapter combined.

  Dave open the door and motioned for Jimbo to enter.

  "Let's get back to selling merchandise, Jimbo. We got a lot of work to do before we leave for the lake."

  "Yeah. Eureka Lake, brother. A fourteen-hundred-mile run to three days of bikes, beer, and tits."

  The two men returned to their desks.

  "Hey, Jimbo, you talk to your bro yet?"

  "Oh yeah. He's coming on the run. He can't wait to see Dr. Death again. He thought the fucker was dead."

  It took two hours for Amy Walsh to get Alex to bed. At least five times he had come out of his room with a request for a glass of water or another story. Finally he cried himself to sleep, and Amy went up to his room for a final look at her young son before turning out his light. She remembered how she and Martin would often stand and watch Alex sleep, their arms linked together, and she felt saddened. Sadness quickly changed to anxiety as she reminded herself that it had been over two weeks since she'd last spoken to Martin.

  Martin had gone this long without calling before. Only this time she felt afraid. Something wasn't right. She couldn't put her finger on it, but in her heart she knew. She tried to relax by calling a friend, but failed to reach anyone. "Someone's got to be home at nine-thirty on a Saturday night," she muttered, as she hung up the phone for the fourth time.

  After rummaging through some bills and reading a letter from her mother, she turned on the ten o'clock news. She'd been out of touch lately and needed to catch up on world events. Amy was beginning to doze off when the anchor-person spoke a familiar name, causing her to sit up attentively. "Officials believe last week's killing of members of The Henchmen motorcycle gang could be just the tip of the iceberg in what's been described by some as 'a biker war.' Residents and shop owners in Eureka Lake aren't worried. They say the yearly event, scheduled for two weeks from now, hasn't seen any serious violence since the late sixties, and they don't expect any this year." Frantically, Amy began to search through her purse and telephone directories for Richard Atwood's telephone number. He had told her to call if she needed to talk, and that if he wasn't available, Mrs. Atwood would be glad to lend a sympathetic ear.

  "Hello," said a warm, mature female voice.

  "Is this Mrs. Atwood? This is Mrs. Walsh! Can I please speak with Richard Atwood?"

  "Honey, what's wrong? You sound frantic," said Mrs. Atwood concernedly.

  "I must speak with him. My husband is on assignment for him and I'm afraid—"

  "He's not here, dear. I can page him, though. Let me have your number, and I'm sure you'll hear from him within the hour."

  Forty-seven minutes later, the telephone rang. Amy had never taken her eyes off the clock.

  "Mrs. Walsh? This is Richard Atwood," he said formally.

  "Where's Martin? I mean... have you heard from him? I just learned about this 'biker war' thing, and I've got to know if he's all right."

  "Everything is fine, Mrs. Walsh. Martin is at a critical point in the investigation right now. I have a strong feeling that it will all be over soon."

  "When was the last time you heard from him?"

  "Now, Mrs. Walsh, that's proprietary information. An agent's contact dates cannot be disclosed to anyone outside the case."

  "He's my husband! God damn you and your fucking case!" She could picture Atwood moving the phone away from his ear as she exploded furiously into the handset, all the frustration of the last few months pouring out. After five minutes of angry abuse, Atwood was able to get some words in.

  "Mrs. Walsh, I assure you that the next time I speak with Martin, I'll instruct him to call you immediately. You must remember that it's hard for him. It's not just a matter of logistics. I've worked undercover for many years. I've put my wife through the same pain, the same worry, dozens of times. It can sometimes be very difficult to get to a phone to call your spouse. It's even harder emotionally to prepare to speak to someone you love, after you've been working so hard to maintain the character you've assumed to make your case. Everything will be fine. Okay?"

&
nbsp; "No, it's not okay. But thanks anyway, Mr. Atwood. I'm sure he'll call. Good-bye."

  "Good-bye."

  Amy Walsh slammed down the phone.

  "Bullshit." She walked over to the oak wall unit and opened the bottom drawer. Unfolding a map of California and spreading it out on the coffee table, she quickly traced a route with her finger. "Eureka Lake. Twenty miles south of Riverside." She returned the map to the drawer and went to bed.

  Chapter 22

  I thought I was blind when I first opened my eyes. Then, little by little, I could make out the dark shapes of the objects in the room. There was a lamp on an end table next to the bed. I reached for it to turn it on, and my head exploded in pain. I must have blacked out, because the next thing I knew I was lying on the floor, the lamp on top of me.

  I got myself up to a squatting position, my head still pounding like someone was beating me with a sledgehammer. I touched the side of my head and could feel the bandages. What the hell had happened to me? It seemed like hundreds of images and as many voices and sounds were spiraling through my mind.

  Hearing the sound of footsteps outside the room seemed to calm the noise in my head. As the steps drew closer to the door my heart began to pound and my pulse rate must have soared, because I sprang to my feet as if I'd just been given a shot of adrenaline. Whoever it was now stood right outside the door. As the door opened and the outline of a massive person came into view, I was suddenly hit with a wave of paranoia. Whatever had happened to me, I was sure someone was now coming to finish the job. With all the strength I could_ summon, I kicked the hulking figure in the chest.

  The kick had little or no effect, because before I knew what had hit me I was in a headlock and pinned, facedown, to the floor.

  "Who the fuck are you? How the fuck did I get here?" I blurted. To my surprise my attacker spoke in a low, soothing tone.

  "Doc, Doc. It's Jack, brother. Calm down," he whispered intensely into my ear. "You've been out cold for days, man." I was breathing heavy, and my eyes felt like they were darting about in a frenzy, for the rush of images had once again returned to torture and confuse me. "Do you hear me, Doc? You and Dog were on your way back from the desert. Dog got wasted. Think, man. Remember!"