Troubled Son -- Savage Sons Motorcycle Club

by King, J. D.

  I walked out the door that opened from my kitchen to my garage, stowed two of my three cell phones in my saddlebag, and I pulled on my cut over my long-sleeved denim shirt. I hit the button to open the garage door and walked my bike outside to check the temperature.

  It was sunny -- like nearly everyday -- and colder than I'd expected. I went back inside to get my jacket. While I was inside, I called Joker from my pre-paid.

  "Hey. I'm headed up to the shop now. Need me to swing by the clubhouse?"

  Joker sounded like I'd just woken him up and he wasn't all there yet. "Nah. Fuckin' Sable got pissed and left me here last night. I'll square up with the girls and handle shit today."

  "You alright, man?"

  "Yeah." Deep, hacking coughs stopped him from speaking for half a minute, and I heard him light a cigarette before he continued. "Fine and fuckin' dandy, man. Livin' the dream."

  I knew better than to try to have a heart-to-heart with the man over the phone, so I said goodbye and told him I'd swing by the clubhouse after work. I hit the garage door button and waited a second before I ran out to beat the closing door. I laughed at myself and how silly it would have looked for a grown ass man to be running to beat the door, and I was glad -- for about the millionth time -- that there wasn't anyone for miles who could possibly have seen me.

  By the time I got to Castle Rock and headed north on 25 toward Denver, I felt like I was stuck inside my own head. Things had been pretty simple for a long time, and now...well..they were anything but simple, and about to get a whole lot more complicated.

  My bike roared as I opened it up on the roads that wound up through the pass and down toward the sprawl of the city on the horizon. I thought about the mess I was in for the thousandth time, and I still couldn't figure out exactly where everything had gone wrong, or what had changed. I'd grown up -- literally -- in the Savage Sons MC, and I'd been balls deep in every nasty piece of business we'd done. I knew it was crazy to even hope that I could somehow get out of the club alive, but I knew that I was sure as shit gonna try. The girl they were gonna send me better be good.

  ***

  Rolling into the parking lot of the strip mall where my shop is, I scanned the scene as a matter of habit. Nothing looked out of the ordinary, so I pulled into my spot directly in front of the door that read "Red Sea Tattoo." When I'd first leased the place, I hadn't planned on taking the best parking space from my customers, but I'd quickly learned that even though my location -- in Centennial, on Denver's south side -- was pretty good, my proximity to the highway would have made it far too easy for someone to fuck with my bike and be back on the road before I even knew what had happened. As it turned out, parking my matte black Harley Night Rod in front of the shop was the best advertising I could have imagined.

  Sure, I got some lookie-lous who wanted to come in and talk about bikes, you know, the folks who thought they were experts 'cause they'd seen every episode of Sons of Anarchy. Their jaws always dropped when I walked out wearing my cut, and it was like I could hear their thoughts. The men were wondering if I had killed federal agents, and the women wanted to fuck me. Sometimes I even let 'em.

  Chapter 3

  Max

  I headed for my desk as soon as I was inside the building so that I could drop off my briefcase, hoping all the while that no one would realize that the case held little other than my cell phone, a handful of pens, and a blank notebook. I greeted folks on my way to get a cup of coffee, and I was just about to head into the meeting room that I'd reserved when I saw my ASAC waving at me from her office.

  I stuck my head inside her door. "Morning, Celeste."

  "Good morning. I need a minute with you if you have time before your meeting."

  "Sure thing." I stepped inside.

  "You haven't met Jeff Tombley yet, have you?"

  "No, ma'am. We've emailed and spoken by phone a few times, but only briefly." I was wondering if I was about to see one of the legendary interagency pissing matches I'd heard so much about.

  "Well, I'm sure you've heard lots of nightmares about dealing with DEA guys, and I just want to let you know that Tombley's one of the finest I've ever worked with. He's by the book, and his cases are always in order. He doesn't take chances with lousy evidence, and he doesn't tolerate sloppy work."

  I wasn't sure what Celeste was looking for in my response, so I decided to play it safe. "I'm looking forward to working with him, then. I'm sure I'll have a lot to learn."

  She nodded. "He's the guy to teach you. These guys you're going to be dealing with are not nice folks. I won't downplay the difficulties you'll face, but Jeff's going to get you through it."

  "Thanks." I checked my phone. "I need to get in there."

  "Good luck. We're happy to have you here, Maxwell."

  I made sure the ringer on my phone was turned off and slipped it into the pocket of my suit jacket while I walked into the meeting room. Tombley hadn't arrived yet, so I took a seat at the table and studied the maps on the wall that faced me.

  "You must be Maxwell Fisher."

  The man who walked into the room looked a little younger than I'd expected. He was also drop dead gorgeous. He put his stack of manila folders on the table, set down his cup of coffee, and extended his hand to me. "I'm Jeff Tombley, and I'm thrilled to meet you. We have a lot to cover. You ready?"

  "Sure am. Call me Max. And it's nice to meet you too. I've heard good things about the work you're doing, and I look forward to soaking up everything you're willing to teach me."

  Jeff slid half a dozen folders across the table toward me. "Here's your homework. These folders contain all of the information we have about the key players in this case. It'll give you some background and probably scare the shit out of you, but you need to know what kind of people you're going to be dealing with. By the time this case is over, you'll know more about these guys than anyone else, but we have reasons for needing to get you up to speed quick."

  I took the folders and slid them to the side without opening them. I had a feeling that Tombley was about to unload a mountain of information on me, and I could comb through the homework later. I figured I'd try to soak up everything he was willing to share.

  "I'm ready."

  His magnetic green eyes narrowed slightly as he evaluated my response, and I figured that he was surprised -- that most agents would have been unable to resist opening the folders right away. It's always been my experience, thought, that you're missing a great opportunity if you focus on paperwork when you have a real live person in front of you who knows more than you do. Reading expressions, body language, and attitudes can tell you things that you'll never learn from a piece of paper. I'd have all the time in the world to pore over the folders when I got home that night, but I wouldn't have Jeff Tombley.

  He nodded as if he liked what he saw. "Here's the situation. You know that meth's a big problem in this part of the country. The problem is complex. Not only are there more people than I can count who are cooking it on a small scale and illegal weapons inevitably involved, but when you have shifting territories and a big new producer, you're going to have warfare in the area. The money's big, and the stakes are high. We've got big problems."

  I wasn't sure if I should contribute, but I figured I'd test the waters. "And from what I've seen, crank just destroys the users. More than any other drug I've seen."

  Tombley ran his hands through his perfectly cut brown hair as he leaned back in his chair, hands locked behind his head. "You know, Max, you're right, but can I tell you a secret?"

  I nodded.

  "I don't give two shits about junkies who destroy their own lives. Once we clean up the meth, they'll be on the lookout for the next thing they can put up their noses or in their veins. I can't fix that." Tombley leaned forward as if he could pin me to my chair with his stare. "What I can fix is the fact that we've got bodies piling up and good people afraid to drive through their own neighborhoods because they might get shot or be next-door when another lab blows up.
"

  I held his gaze and didn't say a word. His statement bothered me a little, but I figured I'd have plenty of time to sort out my thoughts on Tombley. What mattered was putting together a solid case, regardless of motivations.

  Jeff stood up and removed his suit jacket. As he carefully folded it in half and draped it over the back of one of the extra chairs at the table, I got a good look at him. His suit looked like it had been made for him, and as I looked closely, I could see the more visible stitches that indicate pricy bespoke tailoring. That was something you didn't see everyday in a federal building. French cuffs with matte silver cufflinks spoke volumes. This was a guy who looked good and knew it. I was careful not to let him catch me checking him out. I hid a smile as I thought about what an awkward way that would be to start our professional relationship.

  He approached the map wall and pointed at the two state maps that were most relevant -- Colorado and Wyoming. "It's hard to fathom how much meth these two states produce and consume, especially when you consider that there are only a couple hundred thousand people in the whole damn state of Wyoming."

  Tombley pointed out Niwot on the Colorado map -- a little town not far from Boulder, and he gestured toward Colorado Springs -- roughly due south of Denver. "Anyway, the small-time dealers aside, the ATF did a real number on the Sons of Silence in '99 and the old timers in the MC decided that it was safer to go legit -- at least for the most part."

  I realized that I had a lot to learn, and I opened my notebook and quickly jotted down a couple of questions to ask later.

  "Since then, the meth in Colorado has been pretty decentralized. We've got a Latino gang near Pueblo that handles most of the southern part of the state, and Wyoming is huge business handled by another MC. We're working on that problem, but Wyoming has been pretty quiet -- in terms of fallout that affects law-abiding citizens."

  I decided that I needed to speak up. "MC?" I asked.

  "Motorcycle club," Tombley answered. "We've got the Vandals up in Wyoming, but the big problem is the Savage Sons. They're a small club on the edges of Denver-- been around for about thirty years and they've been pretty clean for most of that time. They've run some small-time hookers and dealt a bunch of weed, but nothing that the police couldn't handle."

  Tombley sat back down at the table. "Until now. Now you might imagine that it's pretty hard to get inside information from these folks. They have all of these stupid rules about getting into the club, and a lot of MCs require prospects to commit crimes and go through a bunch of bullshit before they know what's what in the club. They're a tight knit group, and they think of themselves as brothers. They'd rather die than betray a brother -- at least that's what they say until they're facing jail time unless they cooperate.

  "We'd started to get the feeling that some new dealer had moved in and shaken up the status quo. We were finding little petty dealers outside their usual areas -- making risky deals and working harder to find tweakers looking for a fix. That sort of behavior tells us that something's out of balance, that buyers have found another source."

  I nodded, following him so far.

  "It took us a little while to put the pieces together, and really all we'd figured out was that we were looking at a big-time change in the game -- something widespread and organized. And then the answer walked through our door."

  Tombley reached over and pulled the top file folder off the pile and opened it in front of me. "Moses Hall."

  I examined the photograph that faced me. The man in the picture stood with his hands on his hips in front of a tattoo shop called Red Sea Tattoo. His arms were covered with full sleeve ink, and more tattoos were visible beneath the leather vest he wore. His worn jeans rested on his lean hips and ended above a pair of broken-in cowboy boots. He was tall, muscular, and radiated a raw, gritty sensuality. The photographer was obviously a professional, and the set of Moses' jaw combined with the determined and insolent expression in his eyes made the man look like a warning you were dying to ignore.

  I looked up from the photo to see Jeff laughing silently.

  "I've seen that look before. He's not a bad looking guy, but he ain't a nice fella." Jeff closed the folder and returned it to its place atop the stack. "Moses is a member of the Savage Sons. The club was started by Moses' father and uncle. His father, Samuel Hall -- club name Captain -- is deceased, and his uncle, Daniel Hall -- he goes by Joker -- is the club's president.

  "Moses called the FBI here in Denver about six months ago and said he had information to share, but it would come with a price. He met with an agent who was primed to regretfully inform Moses that the FBI doesn't pay its informants. Turns out Moses doesn't give a shit about money, and from the looks of it, he has more than he can spend. He wants out of the Savage Sons, and he wants to take 'em down before he goes. Seems our boy is tired of running girls and crank and wants to go straight."

  "Let me guess. It's not that easy."

  "Not by a long shot. You don't just opt out of these one percenter clubs. They'll kill him before they let him just walk away. Family ties or not, he can't just up and leave. What Moses wants is protection. He wants help getting away and creating a new identity."

  "So he wants to enter the Witness Protection Program?"

  "Something like that. It's not exactly clear if he's going to actually follow all of the rules, but that's gonna be on him if he doesn't. We've agreed to work with him, bring down the Savage Sons, and get him out safely."

  I sat for a moment, thinking over what Jeff had just told me. "Okay. So why do you need me?"

  "Fair question. Moses has fed us plenty of information. We know exactly what's going on in the SS clubhouse; we know where they have their labs; we know how they're getting the ingredients. What we need is evidence. It's not enough to know what's going on. I want to be able to prove it to a jury. Beyond a reasonable doubt. This case is huge. We're not talking about a lot of people, but we're talking a huge amount of meth and an awful lot of money. I want a case that's airtight. That's where you come in.

  "We need you to collect the evidence. We need recordings and your testimony as a federal agent. Moses is willing to wear a wire, but we need you to ensure that the evidence is collected and handled properly. You, my dear, will be a far more credible witness than will our tattooed bad boy."

  I won't deny that I was excited and a little scared. In hindsight, I realize that I wasn't nearly scared enough.

  "We've selected a female agent for a very specific reason, and you need to know what you're getting yourself into. These guys -- members of the MCs -- they don't exactly have a lot of respect for women. If you'll permit me to be blunt, women exist to fetch beers, clean up men's messes, and for sex. That's about it."

  "Sounds delightful."

  "But their less than enlightened attitude toward women presents us with an opportunity. If we tried to send a guy in there, it could be years before they trust him enough for him to gather evidence of what's going on. He'd be a threat to their power structure. It simply won't occur to these guys that a woman -- provided that her cover's good, she's well trained, and that she's willing to put up with all their bullshit -- could be a threat to them."

  "Makes sense." I was starting to feel the thrill of a monster challenge.

  "The plan is for you to pose as Moses' old lady."

  I must have made a face at the expression because Jeff started to laugh.

  "Old lady? Really? That's not just made up for television?"

  Jeff shook his head. "Unfortunately not. We have to send you in attached because you do not want to walk into their clubhouse as a single lady. It won't be pretty, and we don't send undercover agents in to be gang-raped."

  Wow. Gang rape was a sobering thought.

  "Moses is going to be a good partner, partly because if your cover is blown, then it's his life on the line. Literally. He's been talking up some new squeeze to the guys, so they won't be surprised when he finally brings a new chick around. I talked to him this morning and told
him that I need about a week to get you up to speed, and then we'll set up a meeting for the two of you."

  "Sounds like I have a lot of work to do."

  "You have no idea. You have your homework." Jeff nodded toward the folders. "We have to get you new clothes and hair and you'll help to construct your background story. We find that if you contribute to the character that it'll feel more comfortable when you're undercover -- more like your own life."

  "I'm ready to get to work."

  "Glad to hear it." Jeff stood up and pulled his suit jacket back on. "I have you scheduled for a couple of hours to spend with those files. I'd like you to concentrate on the case overview and save the files on the individual members for later. When you've gotten a general idea of our objectives and what we know, I'll put you together with our guys who handle the details of clothes and the like for our undercover ops."

  I felt a little overwhelmed and a lot excited as I stood up and collected the manila folders. "I'll be ready."

  Jeff nodded and headed for the door. He stopped just before he walked out. "Oh -- one more thing -- ever ridden a Harley before?"

  Chapter 4

  Moses

  I parked the bike and took my helmet off. I didn't have any appointments until the afternoon, but I had some things I needed to take care of around the shop. I'd known that it was gonna be hard to balance everything once the undercover fed came on the scene, but I had to admit that I was a little worried now that it was just around the corner. She was gonna dress up and play a part to put some bad guys away, but this was my family I was setting up. I knew that I was taking the only chance I had to get out -- to live a life I could be proud of -- but that didn't make it any easier. Knowing that if things went according to plan that my aunt and uncle could do time in prison, that the guys I'd ridden with for my whole life would be going down. It was a lot to shoulder.