Deep Cover

by Edward Bungert

  Atwood and Leverick met up with Molly Samuels and Amy Walsh. "Take her to the police station off Main Avenue," ordered Atwood. "Nelson's men are moving in now, and we're going in after Martin." Samuels and Amy Walsh began to trot down the street. Atwood and Leverick managed to take cover inside the grounds, behind a row of bikes.

  "You see any sign of Martin?" asked Atwood.

  "No. I think I saw him run behind that group of trucks, then I lost sight of him." Leverick's eyes widened with surprise. "Watch it!" he said. Atwood turned and fired. An Outcast fell dead beside them. Almost ten more minutes went by before the troopers managed to bring the situation under control. Fifty more police arrived on the scene as backup, and mass arrests were being made. Eighteen members of the Black Heart squad, including Crusher Miller, had been killed. Fifteen Henchmen, ten associates, and four women also lay dead. Iron Man had himself killed four Outcasts before taking cover behind the crash trucks.

  I crawled on my hands and knees toward the front of the pickup truck. Slowly, I lifted my body and reached for the door handle.

  "Leaving the run, brother?" said Counsel sarcastically, as he placed the barrel of a .38 behind my ear. Iron Man appeared around the front of the truck and lifted me to my feet. "I'll take that," he said, relieving me of the nine-millimeter. He stuck it in his belt. He entered the truck and moved to the passenger side. Counsel motioned with his gun for me to enter next. Counsel got in, placed the gun in his belt, and took off toward the gate with me trapped between them. Iron Man held a revolver to my head. Shots were fired at us as we left the grounds. The side-view mirror shattered as a bullet pierced it. Iron Man pressed the gun harder against my head.

  "Fuck it," said Captain Nelson to one of his troopers, as they watched a pickup truck speed away. "It's probably no one important. We need the manpower down here." The troopers continued to round up bikers and confiscate their weapons. The Outcasts "suicide mission" had proved to be just that. Most members of the Black Heart Squad were now dead.

  Chapter 26

  Counsel raced the pickup down Main Avenue. He almost mowed down a group of pedestrians who were still lingering under the welcome banner. He made no attempt to slow down. They either jumped out of the way, or they got killed. Counsel's eyes were staring straight ahead. Wherever he was heading with such fierce concentration, it wasn't going to be good for me.

  My worst nightmare was realized when Counsel slammed on the brakes and stopped in front of the now abandoned Eureka Lake police station. Molly Samuels and Amy were descending the huge stone steps. Counsel placed his gun behind my ear. "If you even breathe too hard, dipshit, I'll blow your fucking head off!" As soon as they were close to the pickup, Iron Man jumped from the truck and confronted them. Molly Samuels stepped in front of Amy and reached inside her bag for her revolver. Iron Man fired a round that ripped through her shoulder. Molly fell to the ground, and Amy screamed as Iron Man trained his gun on Molly's head and squeezed the trigger. He clicked the empty pistol three times. "Fuck it!" he said, as he threw the gun down.

  "Grab the cunt and get the fuck inside, man!" ordered Counsel, his .38 still pressed against my head. I was paralyzed with fear. Fear not for myself, but for Amy. I had to make a move soon, but if I got myself shot she would die shortly thereafter. That was certain. Iron Man lifted Amy off her feet and shoved her hard onto my lap. He was barely inside himself when Counsel began to race down the avenue again. Iron Man produced another pistol, a .25 automatic, from a leg holster, and pressed this against my head. When we reached the edge of town, Counsel turned onto an old dirt road into the hills, where the club owned a small cabin.

  "Counsel, listen. What the fuck does she have to do with this?" I asked, hoping against hope I could reason with him. One of my many conversations with Roger Wolfe flashed through my mind. "If you're suspected by your targets of being an operative, maintain your innocence till your last dying breath. As long as there's some doubt in their minds, you'll have a fighting chance. Integrity and brains, my boy. The key to survival."

  "She called you 'Martin' back there," Counsel answered. "I heard her when the other bitch started to drag her away. Helmsford was right! You're the fucking man, a motherfucking agent!" We hit a bump. Amy's head hit the roof, hard. Iron Man laughed.

  "Bullshit, man!" I protested. "I've proved myself already!"

  "Then who the fuck are you? Why didn't Jimbo's brother recognize you?"

  "Let's do the two of them," said Iron Man. "We don't need this shit."

  Counsel pulled the vehicle within twenty feet of the cabin. Iron Man climbed out and held the door open for Amy and me to get out. Counsel followed, and trained his pistol on me once again.

  "Don't get slick on me, Doc. Or 'Martin.' Or whoever the fuck you are. Keep your hands on your fucking head."

  ***

  Atwood and Leverick checked the entire field for Walsh. They caught up with Mark Nelson at the Black Hearts' van.

  "I can't figure the size of the balls on these crazy bastards. They pack twenty-some-odd men into a van and drive in to make a suicide hit. Christ, that's nuts," said Nelson.

  "There's no sign of our man, Nelson. Are you sure no one has left the grounds?" asked Atwood.

  "One pickup got away. We figured it was just some hot-dogger. Too much shit going on down here to chase 'em. We must have gotten our signals crossed here. We should have had that gate covered. Sorry, gentlemen."

  Atwood and Leverick looked at each other. Without another word they moved rapidly toward the exit gate.

  "Shit, Richard," said Dalton Leverick as the two men ran toward their motorcycles. "Counsel and Iron Man are unaccounted for, too. The three of them must have left together."

  "Do you think they made him, Dalton?"

  "Yes. I do."

  The two agents mounted their bikes and exploded onto Main Avenue, heading toward the middle of the town. They could see the flashing lights of an ambulance, surrounded by a crowd. They dismounted ten feet from the crowd and jogged vigorously until they reached the scene. Samuels was being lifted into the ambulance by two paramedics.

  "Hold it a moment!" ordered Atwood. A young police officer stepped in front of him. "Move aside, son. FBI." Atwood flashed his identification. He and Leverick climbed into the back and crouched next to Molly Samuels.

  "Molly, what happened?" asked Leverick, as the vehicle accelerated. He held on to the roof to maintain his balance. Molly was alert, but she was in tremendous pain.

  "They—" She winced. "They got Amy Walsh. Martin was with them." She sucked in her breath as the ambulance hit a bump in the road. "I think it was Iron Man Morgan who shot me. It happened... pretty quick."

  "Did you see which way they went?" queried Atwood.

  Samuels closed her eyes and winced in pain. "No... I couldn't." She closed her eyes again and lay back on the gurney.

  "God help them now, Richard. Damn it!" Leverick punched the roof of the ambulance. "We never should, have let him go in so deep! Never!"

  "Don't count Martin out, Dalton," said Atwood. "He's got what it takes to survive."

  They were walking us to the cabin. I hesitated, allowing Amy to move in front of me. I held back a little more, until Counsel was about two feet behind me.

  "Get moving, man!" ordered Counsel. "Don't think I won't—"

  I shot a powerful back-kick to his groin, which doubled him over. His pistol fell to the ground. I kicked him in the face and quickly picked up the weapon. I turned toward Iron Man, who was already swinging an eight-inch buck knife at my neck. Christ, I thought, this guy produces weapons like a regular Rambo. I instinctively raised my arm in defense. The knife slashed my forearm and I lost the gun. Iron Man took a second swipe at my neck. I ducked under his arm and threw a hard elbow strike to his rib cage. Iron Man gasped for breath. I sent a flying kick to his chest, knocking the three-hundred-pound biker off his feet.

  "Martin, look out!" warned Amy. I leaped onto Counsel, thwarting his effort to reach the gun. Amy quickly picked up
the weapon and threw it into the woods. I hit Counsel across the chin with two thunderous right hands, sending him onto his back again. The pain in my forearm and the loss of blood were weakening me. I turned to check on Iron Man, and was met with a kick to the chest from the sergeant-at-arm's huge boot. I fell on my back, dazed. Counsel shook off my punches, hopped to his feet, and grabbed Amy by her neck.

  "Who the fuck is he?" Counsel yelled. "Tell me, cunt!" He tightened his huge fingers around her neck. I could see she was only seconds away from passing out. Choking and gasping for air, Amy could hardly speak. "He's... my husband, Martin Walsh," she said tearfully.

  "Well, you're gonna watch your husband die!" said Counsel, as he pushed Amy to her knees. Iron Man picked me up off the ground and further punished me with a knee kick to the stomach. He let me fall, doubled over in pain. A blow to the back of my head with a hammer fist forced my face to hit the ground violently.

  Amy, I thought. I won't die…. I won't let this happen…. Got to get up…. Got to. From the deepest recesses of my very soul I found the strength to get to my feet. Iron Man was reaching down for his .25. It must have come loose from its holster during our scuffle. I wasn't going to give him the chance to finish me off with it. I sprang to my feet and jumped on his back, locking my good arm around his oversized neck. I grabbed under his nostrils and pulled half his nose off his face. He roared like a wounded bear. I then hit him with three successive chops to his throat, crushing his windpipe. He fell forward like a great oak. I stepped over his lifeless body to face Counsel, who knelt over Amy, the buck knife to her neck. My heart was pounding so hard I thought it would burst from my chest.

  "It's between me and you, Counsel!" I shouted. I started to inch closer. "Let her go, man! Me and you! Let her go!"

  "Fuck you, you lying cocksucker! I'll cut both your throats!" Counsel was sweating furiously. He was getting a crazy look about him, and I was scared shitless for Amy. My only chance was to appeal to his ego.

  "Go ahead, man!" I goaded him. "Cut down a man's old lady because you're too pussy to face him! I would expect that from an Outcast, never a Henchman. Is that what you are, Counsel? A pussy wannabe with no balls?"

  There was a long silence. I could almost hear my blood rushing through my veins. I was about three feet away now. Counsel was breathing heavy, like a pressure cooker about to explode. Suddenly he pushed Amy flat to the ground and lunged at me in a wild, screaming attack. I waited until the last possible second, then ducked to the side. Counsel lost his balance and twisted violently around, slashing air in hopes of making contact with his target. Before he could get his bearings I shot a powerful straight left hand to his temple. He released the knife, and I followed up with two more blows to his jaw and neck. I grabbed his long, wild hair and pulled his head back. I then shot a murderous palm-heel strike to his jaw, taking him off his feet. As I moved in, he managed to kick me in the groin. Pain shot through my entire body. Without hesitation he kicked again, this time at my face. I fell flat on my back. He dived on top of me and locked his huge hands firmly around my throat. I tried to push him away, but the gash in my right arm was taking its toll. I was running out of strength. Counsel's head was shaking, and his eyes bulged in rage. I couldn't breathe. I felt my windpipe collapsing, my life slipping away.

  Suddenly, the crazy look in his eyes turned to one of shock, and his grip on my neck loosened. Spit dripped from his open mouth as he gasped for breath. As I pushed him off me, Amy's terrified face came into view. She had killed him. Using Iron Man's buck knife, she had saved my life. I held out my arms and she slowly came to my side. Shaken and terrified, we sat embracing each other, barely saying a word. I have never been so grateful to be alive as I was at that moment.

  Epilogue

  Thinking back, I can't say for sure whether I regret that assignment. It was the worst experience of my life, but we did manage to disband The Henchmen. Some of the chapters dug up their previous colors and, having no mother chapter to direct their activities, went back to drinking, riding, and raising hell.

  Parkins was allowed to resign. He broke under pressure from Atwood's grilling, and admitted to "bad judgment" in not having supplied backup for the San Pagano incident. But he wouldn't admit to having tipped off Helmsford. I'll never manage to prove it, but I know it was him. At least we were able to bust Helmsford on his Henchmen involvement.

  Atwood retired last month and moved to New Mexico. Molly took early retirement because of her badly injured shoulder. Dalton and I are still good friends, although it's no more than an occasional phone call. He now heads up the team at Quantico, where they keep tabs on serial killings. He travels around the country, working closely with local police departments.

  I often think about Monk, Dog, and the other Henchmen I got to know and, in some ways, even to respect. They were a ruthless bunch, no doubt, but nobody took care of business like they did. I went into the assignment thinking it was a clear cut case of good versus evil. I was the hero—out to stop the evil doers at all costs. If I've learned anything, it's that good and evil exist only in the definitions agreed upon by the majority. A president can order the bombing of villages, causing the deaths of children, if the majority decides to call it "war." The Henchmen lived outside our society. Judged by their own agreed-upon standards, they were righteous. By our society's, they were not.

  There isn't much danger to my new assignment as Group Supervisor. I head a team of white-collar investigators. I'm home every night at six-thirty, and have the weekends off. Amy and I have another boy, Anthony, now almost two. My life is happy, organized, and simple, right down to the six new suits—all blue—that hang together in my closet. Right next to my Henchmen colors.

  Acknowledgements

  Special thanks to my sister, Helen Bungert. If not for your coaching and encouragement, I might never have gotten started.

  And in memory of “Buddha” from South Ozone Park. You taught me early in life that things are not always what they seem to be.

  I'd like to acknowledge the following people for their assistance, encouragement, information, and coaching throughout the writing of this book: Juval Aviv, Debby, Dudley F.B. Hodgson, I.L., Robert Jaeger (R.I.P. old friend), James Keefe, Lilian Gilden, Hy Bender, Adam-Troy Castro, Maniac, Avril Hordyk, Judy Starger, Elena Gaillard, Tom Deja, R.P., Donna Ellis, Jennie Grey, M.L., Sharon Gumerove, B.M., Lisa Nowak, Michael Higgins, Shawna McCarthy, and A.R.

  If you enjoyed Deep Cover you may be interested in Stranglehold - the next book in the series.

  Extract from Stranglehold by Edward Bungert

  One

  The crowd had been gathering since midnight. Now, a few minutes past six, the mob outside the prison had grown to more than three hundred strong. Most were college students, many from the very campus where Edward Lindy had strangled and mutilated his last seven victims. Dalton Leverick's rented LeBaron inched its way through the crowd and to the gate. On either side of the car, angry students brandished posters and banners which read BURN, LINDY, BURN, ROAST IN PEACE, and THANK GOD IT'S FRYDAY. Leverick waited patiently until his escorts, two motorcycle patrolmen, led the way inside the federal penitentiary in Starke, Florida. This prison had been home to Ed Lindy for the past ten years, ever since his arrest and conviction for the murder of Lou Anne Saunders, a fourteen-year-old sophomore. At thirteen, Lou Anne had been the youngest person ever to be accepted into the University of Florida and was destined to be one of its most honoured alumnae until Ed Lindy's blood-lust rampage ended her young life.

  She had arrived at her dorm at seven-thirty, having turned down yet another invitation to a party with the older students, unaware of the killer lurking in the darkness. As she opened the door Lindy pushed his way behind her, knocking her to the floor. The next person to walk through that door was Lou Anne's roommate, Alice. She found the youngster's headless corpse tied spread-eagled to the bed. Lou Anne's head was propped on an end table, eyes wide, as though horrified at what she had seen happen to her body. Una
ble to utter a sound, Alice managed to get the attention of campus security by activating her car alarm. It was more than four months before Alice spoke a word to anyone.

  Dalton Leverick had only recently joined the division at Quantico, Virginia. He now directed over fifty agents who gathered and processed information on thousands of murders taking place each year nationwide. Lindy's was one of many cases he had inherited since leaving the organized-crime unit, where he and Martin Walsh had brought down the notorious Henchmen Motorcycle Gang. Lindy had been in prison for almost eight years when Leverick first interviewed him about his crimes. Today Leverick would see him die.

  The police escorts, followed by Leverick, rode through three checkpoints before arriving at the office where Warden Jenkins would brief the witnesses on today's execution. Leverick already knew the drill—no photographs, stay with your correction officer escorts at all times, no interviews with any prison employee or trustee, etc., etc.

  Leverick grabbed his overcoat from the backseat. January in Florida was unpredictable. This morning it was near thirty. By afternoon it would be ninety. The cool, moist air reminded him of early March mornings in Virginia. He took a deep breath and went inside. The police escorts stayed on their motorcycles, where they would remain until his return.

  After the briefing, Leverick, Warden Jenkins, two newspaper reporters, an assistant from the D.A.'s office, and a local sheriff were escorted into the viewing chamber, a fourteen-by-nine-foot room. Seven folding chairs were set up in front of a one-way glass. Beyond it was the chair—one of the last still in use in the industrialized world. The method had changed very little since its premiere in New York City in 1890.