Deep Cover

by Edward Bungert

  I put my hands up, almost mockingly. "Whatever you say, Snake." I returned to the room. I looked out the window and saw another Henchman, I wasn't sure who, standing below with a shotgun propped on his shoulder. I was stuck. I sat on the edge of the bed and waited.

  About an hour later the door opened and Counsel walked in.

  "Doc, we have to talk, man," he said without a greeting. Another man whom I had never seen before followed Counsel.

  "This is Pat Helmsford. I'll cut right to it, man. He says somebody tipped him off that you're an agent. He says your real name is Martin Welsh or some shit." Counsel turned toward Helmsford. Helmsford was looking at me menacingly.

  "Walsh," said Helmsford. "You're a fucking plant, aren't you, scumbag?" Helmsford took a step closer to me, accusing me face-to-face. "I did some checking. There is a Martin Walsh working for the FBI in California. I called, and they declined to comment on his whereabouts. I think you're him." He poked me in the chest.

  I knocked his arm away. Think fast, Walsh. Integrity and brains. Now more than ever.

  "Get your fucking hands off me, motherfucker!" I said.

  "Hold it," said Counsel, pointing a snub-nosed .38 at my head. "I gotta make this call, Doc. I don't know…. I just gotta make the call."

  Christ, this is bad.

  "He's full of shit, Counsel! Don't you see? Someone's trying to turn us against each other!" Counsel lowered the gun. I continued talking rapidly. "They feed some name of some retired agent to this asshole and create a fucking war inside the club." I turned back to Helmsford. "I should kill you, you stupid fuck! You don't know what the fuck you're talking about!" This better be working, or I'm going to die today, I thought.

  Counsel also looked at Helmsford, who was beginning to look uneasy. He flipped the gun around and handed it to me. "Here's your chance, Doc. Blow him the fuck away."

  Helmsford looked at Counsel in disbelief. "Are you crazy? Counsel, please, stop this shit!" He placed his hands in front of his face. I stood there, almost frozen with fear, forcing myself to raise the gun and point it at Helmsford. I could practically feel Counsel's piercing gaze as I fought with all my will to keep my hand from shaking. Oh my God, I thought, I'm losing it—got to hang on! Then, as if my instinct for survival had set my brain on automatic pilot, I told myself that it was going to be him or me. He's a crooked cop. Fuck him.

  I pressed the snub-nose against Helmsford's forehead and squeezed the trigger repeatedly. Four successive clicks. No blood. No bullets.

  Helmsford sank to the floor. He placed his head between his knees and started to cough. "God damn it, Counsel!" he said, panting. "You scared the fucking shit out of me!"

  I stood there in a daze. Counsel carefully took the pistol out of my hand. Helmsford, regaining some of his composure, rose to his feet and scurried out of the room like a scared rabbit.

  "Sorry, Doc. I had to be sure." Counsel hugged me. "You gonna be able to ride your hog on Sunday?"

  "I'm ready to ride it now," I said. "Let's go." I started to walk toward the door. Counsel stopped me.

  "Wait here, Doc. We still don't know who's trying to fuck us up. You'd better stay here. Fat Jack will drive you to the clubhouse to get your bike right before the run."

  This was bullshit. Even though I'd passed his little test with Helmsford, Counsel obviously didn't want to take the chance that I would disappear. There was tension between us, and I didn't want to push my luck. Fine, I thought. I'll play it out. I'll wait until the run, and when hundreds of bikers are partying and raising hell I'll slip out and be on my way. It should work out. Unless Counsel's got another test planned for me. One that I can't pass.

  "You should have let me waste that creep," I said as Counsel was leaving.

  He turned around and smiled. "He is a creep, but a useful creep. Saves us a lot of grief having a cop on the payroll. But I still wonder who the fuck told him that bullshit." Counsel shrugged it off and left the room. Whichever way you look at it, I thought, this is all coming to an end soon.

  Leverick waited outside the Federal Building. The jeep's engine was running, and he had the air conditioning turned up high to combat the odor of dying fish. He spotted Atwood coming down the steps dressed in a khaki-colored fishing outfit. Lures and hooks decorated his vest and hat. He was carrying a rod-and-tackle box, which he threw in the back of the jeep.

  "Don't you think we're carrying this cover a little too far?" asked Leverick. "I can understand looking like something from the pages of American Fisherman, but making me buy a load of fish, too?"

  "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 mis
sed 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.