Oh, shit, I thought.
Nathan Trent’s voice came out of the gloom. “Stand in the circle.”
Two of the bikers stood apart to let me pass. I took a deep breath and stepped into the circle. It closed behind me. I turned around, looking into the expressionless faces that surrounded me. I finished up facing toward Furry. Whatever else was going to happen, I didn’t want that bastard behind me.
“Do you wish to join our Brotherhood?” Nathan Trent spoke up. “Yeah” was all I could choke out.
“To be our brother,” Nathan said, “you must be reborn. And in every birth, there is blood. Blood and pain.”
THE FIRST blow hit me square between the kidneys. Pain exploded through my whole midsection. I heard the breath go out of me, and my back arched involuntarily. Furry stepped forward and smashed a big fist into my stomach. I dropped to my knees, doubled over and retching. Someone kicked me in the side, and I went over. I curled into a ball and covered my head with my hands. I lost track of how many times they punched and kicked me. I couldn’t think. My mind had shut down, except for the parts that registered pain. I twisted and turned like a worm on a griddle, trying to get away even as what was left of my brain was telling me it was useless. The only sounds were the thuds and cracks of fists and boots hitting me, the grunts of effort made by the people hitting me, and my own grunts of pain. Then someone yelled, “Hey!” someone else hollered, “No!” and the blows stopped. I uncurled just enough to look up with one eye. The bikers were backing away. There was a look of shock and confusion on Florida Bob’s face. I shifted a bit to see where he was looking.
Furry was standing over me, his face mottled with rage. Something glinted in his right hand. It only took me a split second to register the knife.
“Son of a bitch,” he growled, reached down and grabbed a handful of my hair. I cried out as he yanked me upright, drawing the knife back for a slash across my unprotected throat.
Training took over. I got my legs under me and drove my body straight up and in, getting inside the range of the slash. I slammed the heel of my hand into Furry’s lower jaw with every ounce of force my legs and arms could provide. The blow connected solidly, snapping Furry’s head back. He went over backward, the knife dropping from his hand. His head hit first with a crack that I could hear over the shouts of the others in the room. His body began to jerk, the tree-trunk legs twitching spastically. I felt something warm and wet against the skin of my arm. I looked down. I couldn’t identify it at first. It was soft and squishy and pink under the thin coating of blood that held it to the flesh of my forearm. With a gasp of disgust, I peeled Furry’s severed tongue away and threw it down onto his spasming body. He’d obviously had his tongue between his teeth when I hit him. Furry’s body continued its dance for a few more moments, and then he lay still. I didn’t have to check to confirm he was dead. That blow was meant to crush vertebrae, and smashing the unprotected back of Furry’s head against the concrete floor was probably fatal on its own.
The room fell silent. I looked off into the shadows where I’d heard Trent’s voice. “He wasn’t supposed to have that knife, I guess.”
There was a pause. “No” was the only reply.
“Shit,” another voice said. “What the fuck?” said a third.
Florida Bob came over and crouched by the body. “He ain’t breathing,” he said.
“Probably not,” I replied.
“Fuck,” Stoney breathed. “You kilt him.” “Yeah,” I said.
Johnny Trent spoke up. “It was his own fault,” he said. “He pulled a knife. On a prospect going through his rebirth. He broke the law. Our law. And he paid the price.” There was something strange in his voice. He was using the same pompous tone as Nathan had when discussing “rebirth,” but there was an exaggerated quality to it, as if he were mocking it. I looked at him. There was a slight smile on his lips. It looked like satisfaction. I began to get the suspicion that the son of a bitch had been behind the whole thing.
“So what the fuck do we do now?” Florida Bob said.
“I dunno, Bob.” Clay spoke up. His voice was heavy with sarcasm. “Why don’t we call the cops and let them sort it out?”
Nathan took charge. “Johnny, Clay,” he said, “you stay here with me. We’ll deal with this. The rest of you haul ass. Back to the clubhouse. You, too, McCabe.” He finally stepped into the light. He also had a smile on his face I didn’t like. “You’ve got a party to go to.”
I DON’T feel much like partying right now,” I said.
“Did I ask what the fuck you felt like doing, McCabe? It’s your initiation party. You don’t show up, the associates the pussy are gonna wonder what happened. Just go. Act natural.”
We stared at each other. “That’s. An. Order,” he said finally.
“Yeah,” I said. “Okay.”
It was a short ride to the old run-down house in the woods that the club owned and used for parties, but it seemed to take forever. I was still wired from what had just happened, elated and sick at the same time, like the comedown off a long meth jag. I was also wondering what the hell the Trents were up to. For all I knew they were setting me up to take the fall for Furry’s death. I wondered if I’d show up at the clubhouse and run into a wall of cop cars. I wondered how the hell I was going to explain this to Steadman. I knew he’d try to pull me out. There wasn’t any SOP for this, but the FBI’s Office of Professional Responsibility would sure as hell want an investigation into the killing of a subject by an undercover investigator. The whole operation was probably blown. I couldn’t face that happening. I was so close to getting inside. It would only be a few steps more toward taking down the whole lot of them. There was the methamphetamine manufacture and distribution, of course. That was bad enough. But I remembered some of the images I’d seen on DVDs and computers we’d seized in the past two years. Children as young as ten, boys and girls, always paired with older men, sometimes women, sometimes both. I remember looking into the eyes of a girl being taken from behind on-screen by a fat balding guy covered in jail tattoos. The cameraman, either sadistic or clueless, had zoomed in to capture her face. Her eyes were dead, like doll’s eyes, like the eyes of a mannequin. Anything human had fled from her long ago. According to the crudely lettered credits on the DVD box, she was eleven years old.
No. This wasn’t going to end until I decided to end it.
When I got there, the party was in full swing. Every light in the old house was blazing, and music blared from the windows. There was a line of bikes parked outside, and a couple of others roaring up and down the road aimlessly. One of the riders was dressed in his vest and boots, nothing else. I hoped he would remember to keep his bare legs away from the hot exhaust pipe. It sounded like there were at least three stereos competing. The few residents left in that neighborhood knew better than to complain.
A shout went up as I walked through the door. Someone shoved a beer into one of my hands and offered me a joint for the other one. A few of the “associates,” hopeful new guys who hadn’t been made full brothers yet, pounded me on the back and offered congratulations. I acknowledged them with single words of thanks. No one thought it strange. Axel McCabe was known as a closemouthed guy. Before long, people stopped noticing me altogether. Even though it was supposed to be my party, it was really just an excuse for everyone to get high. That suited me fine. I leaned against the kitchen counter and let the party ebb and flow around me.
After about a half hour of that, one of the dancers from the club zigzagged her way across the room to me. She was a bleached blonde who went by the stage name of Fiona. I had no idea what her real name was. She was so drunk, I wondered if she even knew.
“Hey,” she slurred. Then she put her arms around my neck and kissed me. It was a sloppy, clumsy kiss that left spit smeared around my mouth. She looked up, practically hanging by her arms crossed behind my neck, her eyelids at half mast over her pale blue eyes. “Congrat’lations,” she slurred. Her breath was stale with beer and
cigarette smoke. Her silicone implants were digging holes in my chest. “Al’ys knew you’d make it.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Y’don’ say much,” she mumbled. “I like that.”
I looked over her shoulder. Guys were elbowing one another and grinning. One of them gave me a thumbs-up.
I looked back down at her. “You got a car?” I asked.
She grinned. “Y’don’ waste time, either,” she said. She gave a little bump with her hips that brought her crotch into contact with mine. Despite myself, I was getting hard. She did it again. “I like that more.”
“Come on,” I said. “Let’s find someplace where we can be alone.”
“Awright,” she drawled. She shifted around beside me and put an arm around my waist.
As we walked out, one of the guys standing by the door had a disappointed look on his face. “You ain’t sharin’?”
“Maybe next time,” I said. I half walked, half carried her to a beat-up Toyota Camry parked out by the street. She was fumbling her keys from her pocket when I took them away from her. “I’ll drive,” I said. “You rest up. You’re going to need all your strength.” She giggled. “I’ll be wantin’ more when you’re dead on th’ bed, cowboy.”
By the time we got to my house, she was out cold.
I OPENED the door, then went back to the car to bring her back in. I struggled a little with her dead weight but finally got her inside and dumped her on the bed. I arranged her in the recovery position, on her side so she wouldn’t choke to death if she threw up. I thought of undressing her to make it seem as if we really had had sex, but I was just too damn tired. I went out and lay on the living room couch. Tired and wiped out as I was, sleep wouldn’t come. I kept feeling the sensation of Furry’s severed tongue on my arm. I was shaken and sick. I wanted more than anything else in the world right then to talk to my wife, to be with her, to know there was one sane thing left in the world. It wasn’t a good idea, not with someone in the house who could wake up and hear me. Still . . . I looked at the bedroom door. I could hear Fiona snoring. I got up and crept as quietly as I could into the room. Moving as slowly and carefully as a cat burglar, I took the cell phone out of its hiding place. Fiona didn’t stir as I tiptoed back out. I took the phone out on my front stoop.
The sky was beginning to get light in the east. I checked the time. It was almost dawn. I looked at the phone, then opened it and dialed. It rang three or four times; then a sleepy voice answered. “H’lo?”
I closed my eyes. It was so good to hear her voice. “Hey,” I said. Kendra’s voice suddenly was a lot more alert. “Tony?” she said.
“What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
There was a sudden flare of headlights at the end of the street. Shit.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m okay. Sorry to wake you.” She started to say something, but the headlights were getting closer. “I’ve got to go,” I said. “Sorry.” I snapped the phone shut. There was no time to raise up and stick it in my pocket. I shoved it under my leg.
The black Suburban pulled up, and Johnny Trent got out. He raised a hand in greeting. I waved back. He came over to where I was sitting. I slid over a bit to let him sit next to me.
“Heard you left with Fiona,” he said. “Yeah,” I replied.
“Good choice,” he said. “She’s a real screamer when she gets going.”
I didn’t answer.
“We took care of Furry,” he said. “Took him and his bike to the overpass on Highway 9. Shoved ’em both over. Furry was drunk and cranked enough that the ME’ll rule it a drunk driving accident.”
“I feel pretty ungrateful asking this,” I said, “but why?”
“What do you mean, why?”
“Furry was a full member,” I said. “I’m just the new guy. Why take me off the hook for what happened?”
Johnny gave me a hard look. “Are you questioning my judgment?”
“No,” I said. “I’m just kind of confused.”
He took a pack of cigarettes out, put one between his lips, lit it. He didn’t offer me one. He took a long drag, not looking at me. He was obviously contemplating whether or not he should bother explaining himself to me. Finally, he spoke.
“Furry was getting to be a problem,” he said. “Didn’t much like following orders anymore. Kept thinking he was running things. Pulling a knife on you during your initiation was the final straw. I was going to have to do something about that anyway. You just saved me the trouble.” He looked at me. “But keep this in mind, McCabe. You owe me a lot more than I owe you. You’re not going to cause me the same type of problems. Are you?”
I shook my head. “No,” I said. “I get it now. Thanks.” The tone in my voice was submissive enough, I guess, to reassure him that he was still the alpha male.
Johnny stood up. “Good,” he said as he started walking toward the car. He stopped halfway there and turned back. “Take tonight off,” he said.
“Thanks.” I watched him get in the car and drive away.
He was right. I owed him. And that meant he had me. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that if I told Steadman about killing Furry, he’d pull the plug, yank me out just as I was working my way in. I knew that if I told Kendra, her sense of duty would force her to tell Steadman, and again he’d pull the plug. The rational part of me knew that I should let him. This whole op had gone sideways. But I couldn’t let it go. I kept seeing the dead eyes of the girl in the video. I knew that people like the Trents were behind that video and others like it, to say nothing of the lives their meth business was destroying. If I could take this network down, it would all be worth it. That’s what I told myself. Steadman didn’t have to know. He’d probably prefer not to, just as your average Special Agent in Charge didn’t really want to know that his undercover people weren’t actually “simulating” drug use.
Suddenly I felt weary, the kind of tiredness that seems to make your very bones cold. The last remnants of the night’s adrenaline bled away. My head hurt. I stood up and stumbled inside, barely making it to the couch before I collapsed.
THE SOUND of glasses rattling in the cupboard woke me. I sat up, rubbing my eyes. Fiona was in my kitchen, rummaging around. She stuck her head around the door. Her hair stood out from the sides of her head like straw and her eyes were bloodshot. “You got any aspirin?” she said, her voice a strangled croak.
“Medicine cabinet,” I said. “In the bathroom.” I gestured in the general direction and realized I still had the cell phone in my hand. She didn’t notice, just grunted her understanding and bent to the sink, bending down to drink from the faucet, oblivious to the glass still in her hand. I stuck the cell phone in my pocket, went into the bathroom, and started searching the medicine cabinet. I was interrupted by Fiona, who came running in, fell to her knees in front of the commode, and began throwing up. I looked away as she emptied her stomach of last night’s alcohol and, if the sound was any indication, most of her stomach lining. When she reached a pause, I leaned over and brushed a few hanging strands of blond hair behind her ear. I poured her a glass of water from the tap and wet a washcloth. “Here,” I said, handing her the water and the cloth. “Wipe your mouth and rinse the taste out.”
“Thanks,” she whispered. Then she was off to the races again. I left the bathroom.
I was sitting on the couch when she came out, pale and shaking. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, but I suddenly got a glimpse of how she’d look when she was old.
“Oh, fuck,” she groaned, flopping down on the couch next to me. She leaned over, putting her head on her knees. She looked up after a few seconds. “Did we . . .”
I shook my head. “Both too fucked up, I guess.”
“Oh, fuck,” she said again. She put her head back on her knees. “Sorry,” she said, her voice muffled.
“S’okay,” I said. “Bad luck.”
She muttered something I couldn’t understand. I thought I caught the name Johnny.
&n
bsp; “What?” I said. “What about Johnny?”
She sat up and smiled wanly at me. “Nothing, baby,” she said. “No,” I said. “Tell me.”
She bit her lip and looked away. “It’s nothing.”
I grabbed her wrist. “Ow,” she complained. “You’re hurting me.”
“What about Johnny?” I said.
She looked down at the floor. “Let go of my wrist first.”
I turned her loose. She still wouldn’t look at me. I waited. Finally, she said, “Johnny told me to show you a good time tonight.”
I sat back. “You mean this was Johnny Trent’s idea.”
She put a hand on my knee. “Oh, no, baby,” she said. “I already thought you were cute. I said that to a couple of the other girls. So Johnny told me that I should go with you on your initiation night. That’s all.”
“Was it a suggestion or an order?”
“Sweetie, don’t be like that.” Her hand moved higher, to the inside of my thigh. She began moving the hand in slow circles. “I wanted to be with you. I still do.” She leaned over and kissed me on the ear. “Hey, Axel,” she whispered, “can I use your shower? Maybe if I get cleaned up a little, I’ll feel more like . . . you know.”
“I just want to know if this was your idea or Johnny’s,” I said. She took her hand off my leg. She looked away from me for a long moment. When she spoke next, her voice had lost the flirtatiousness. “It’s not that simple.”
“Explain it to me.”
She looked back at me, her face as bleak as an arctic horizon. It was the first time I noticed how blue her eyes were. “Axel, when Johnny Trent suggests I do something, it’s damn sure an order. And I do it, okay? Because I’ve seen what happens to people who don’t do what he says. It’s just that this time, I was happy, because he was telling me to do something I wanted to do anyway.”
Breaking Cover (Tony Wolf/Tim Buckthorn) Page 13