Sweat broke out on Laser’s forehead, despite the shade and cool breeze. “Maybe we can work something out. You know, for the good of all concerned.”
“I thought you might see it that way.”
He rubbed his jaw and narrowed his eyes. “You said there were three reasons.”
“Yeah. Number three is why you’ll be able to tell your club you’re not a rat if the subject comes up. Those two nomads? I think they’re undercover cops.”
I could see the wheels turn behind his eyes. He’d naturally want to bring this information to his club, and they’d want to grill the two themselves. Undercover law enforcement were no different from rats in the biker ethos, and the two would likely end up in unmarked graves.
I continued, “I know you might want to take care of this little problem yourself, but right now they’re the only lead I have to get me closer to solving my problem. Once I’ve talked with them, your MC can take care of business however you like. Deal?”
Laser licked his lips. “Okay. I can live with that.”
“Thought you might.”
“You got the cash?”
I pulled out a thousand I’d bundled beforehand and dropped it on the scarred wood between us. “Where are they and what are their names?”
“I don’t know names, just handles. They go by Bacardi and Crane.”
“Sounds like a law firm.”
“That’s what I said.” He tapped out a cigarette and ignited it with a flip of his lighter.
“Gimme.” I took one and did the same.
He put on that sly smile. “You sure you –”
“No.”
“Whatever.”
“Where are they?”
“They been muling meth up to Folsom every couple of days. Got a shack off Dogtown Road east of 49. Should be there now.”
I took out a notebook and pen. “Draw me a map.” Once he’d done that, I said, “Now give me your phone.”
“What?”
“Like I said, I don’t want you warning them. I’ll drop it off with your mom.”
With exaggerated disgust he handed me his phone. “Just get it over with. You got until noon tomorrow. Then we handle it.”
“I’ll be back in the City long before that.”
“Good.”
“Great.”
“Fine.”
“Okay then.” I stared into his eyes as I stood up. “Now go get Pork Chop’s phone too.
“He ain’t gonna be happy.”
“Not my problem.”
We left them glaring and smoking. I wondered if they were smart enough to carry more than one phone each. Maybe after this, they would.
I always did.
As we traveled, I considered my approach. If the nomads really were undercovers, they probably wouldn’t shoot first. If they weren’t, coming openly up their driveway might be dangerous. Still, even hardened criminals didn’t normally open fire on sight, especially when they had the advantage of solid walls.
The map led us right to the gravel access road. “Stop here,” I said. “The cabin’s about a quarter mile up. You two take the long guns and work your way through the woods while I drive on up and get them talking. Don’t let them see you or this whole exercise will go sideways. When you get the chance, take them down just like a fugitive drill. Beanbag ’em if you can, live rounds if they use deadly force. Then we’ll get some answers.”
Meat locked the truck in four-wheel-drive before sliding out and letting me into the driver’s seat. We all put body armor on. Mine was a tailored vest that didn’t show under my windbreaker. They took the long guns from the rack, and I laid my shotgun on the seat next to me. “Ten minutes,” I said, checking my watch. “I’ll wait here for five, and then go in.”
When I stopped in front of the ramshackle cabin I saw only two Harleys parked on the side, a good sign. The front door opened, one of the nomads edging half out. “Who’re you?” he called.
“You’ll remember me if you think about it,” I said, climbing down and walking confidently toward the man. “Lime-green Mustang on the road from Don Pedro?”
He tensed and backed up slightly. “Yeah. So?”
“I just want to talk. How about here on the front porch? Your buddy can cover us from inside.”
“Okay,” he said after scanning the forest within view. I dearly hoped the M&Ms were as good in the woods as they were in the city.
After turning and muttering something toward the dark interior of the cabin, the biker stepped out with an automatic in his hand. He sat at the small table on the wide porch, sliding the gun into a shoulder holster under his leather vest.
I took a seat in a rickety steel chair across from the scraggly, dark-haired man. “I’m Cal Corwin, as you probably already know. You Bacardi or Crane?”
He stroked his thin beard with an arm covered in colorful ink. “Bacardi. Crane’s the tall, skinny dude. What do you want?”
“I want to know why you flashed badges at me, tried to pull me over.”
“Just a joke, lady. You know, outlaw shit. We were kinda high that day, I think.”
I leaned toward him, hands folded. “Listen, brother, we need to cut through the bullshit here. Half an hour ago I dimed you out to the Forty-Niners as undercover cops. It won’t matter to them whether you are or not. They’ll be after you and you’ll be lucky to live through their questioning.”
Bacardi looked concerned, but not panicked, reaching inside his vest for a pack of smokes. “Why in the hell did you do that?” He lit up with a squint.
I bummed one from him and did the same, drawing the fumes deep into my lungs. Damn, but it was going to be a fight to quit again. “Because what you did doesn’t add up. Carrying and flashing badges for fun is no joke. There’s the law, who will charge you for impersonating, and there’s all the various lowlifes you deal with who’ll believe what they see and either kill you or shun you. If you’re genuine outlaws, what you did makes no sense. If you’re undercover, what you did makes no sense. So I need to know why you did it.”
“I don’t owe you shit, bitch. Now get the hell out of here before somebody gets hurt.”
“Gonna play it that way, huh?” I took out my phone and got ready to bluff, as well as giving my guys more time to get in position. “I have a friend at the DEA who tells me they have two undercovers in the area posing as bikers. Now if you admit to being them and explain yourselves, I could keep that quiet, being a former cop and all. It wouldn’t be my business. I’d go away happy. You guys could roll on out of here and tell your superiors you’re blown. Blame it on me if you like, though if the feds come knocking, I’ll tell them how badly you breached protocol by waving those badges.”
“And if we’re not really undercover cops?”
“If not, I have to keep digging, but you don’t care about that, because either way, you’ll be gone ten minutes after I leave. I took Laser’s and Pork Chop’s phones, but they probably rode straight to their clubhouse. It wouldn’t surprise me if they were on their way here right now.” I didn’t actually think they were. Laser’d given me until noon tomorrow. Even if he didn’t wait that long, I was pretty sure I had until sundown. I checked my watch as if it were a dramatic gesture, when in reality I was getting the timing right.
Thirty seconds. I set my palms on my knees and shifted my weight.
Bacardi laughed and shook his head ruefully. “You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into, sister, or how big a mistake you made coming here. See, we are undercover DEA. But that don’t mean we won’t kill you.”
I took a guess. “Like you killed that pathetic tweaker you tossed off the cliff at the quarry?”
“Yeah, just like that.”
“Why’d you kill him anyway?”
“Let’s just say he made one too many bad decisions. Kinda like you did coming here. Actually, I think I’m gonna enjoy killing you a lot more.”
He put his hand inside his vest.
Chapter 9
As Bacardi reached for
his gun, I surged to my feet, upending the table, sending him over backward, screaming at the top of my lungs. I’d had to initiate a little early, but the noise should get the M&Ms moving immediately.
If I’d only had one opponent I’d have drawn and held him there at gunpoint, but no doubt Crane was watching from inside, ready to shoot me. It’s what I would have done. So I kept moving forward, stomping deliberately on Bacardi’s chest as I sprinted for the corner of the cabin where I’d be out of the line of fire, but still the focus of their attention. That should let the M&Ms rush the cabin.
As soon as I’d rounded the corner I drew my Glock, pivoted and crouched. A moment later, I heard a door slam and then some yelling in deep voices. A shotgun boomed, and I edged my left eye and my weapon out to see Bacardi on his feet and bolting into the cabin, no doubt to investigate whatever was happening in the back.
I duck-walked below the window to the front door, and then stood and followed Bacardi in a textbook shooting stance. The dim interior of the cabin contrasted severely with the evening sun, so I moved to my left and crouched again, behind the arm of a sofa, waiting for my eyes to adjust.
A flurry of gunshots from nearby brought a curse to my lips. Bacardi was apparently firing out of the back of the cabin, trying to drive off the M&Ms. They must have snatched Crane when he exited the rear to flank me, as I’d hoped. I rose once more, squeezing my eyes shut briefly to try to see better, and then moved toward the interior door to the kitchen.
“Freeze!” I screamed as I stepped forward, aiming at Bacardi, who was pointing his weapon out the broken window over the sink.
He didn’t freeze.
When his aim swung rapidly toward me, I did the only thing I could.
I put two in his chest.
The part of me that stood back and watched in situations like these wished I’d had time to retrieve my shotgun with the beanbag rounds.
Too bad. Better to be judged by twelve than carried by six.
After I stepped on the fallen man’s wrist and pushed his gun out of reach, I looked out the window to see Manson tackle Crane and expertly zip-cuff his hands. Meat sat on a woodpile, both palms pressed to his thigh, a grimace on his face.
“How bad is it?” I yelled.
“Flesh wound. No worries.”
“No worries it is,” I mumbled, checking Bacardi. No pulse at his throat, and with two in the chest, no amount of CPR would keep him alive for the time it would take to get an ambulance, or even a life-flight, up into the hills.
Still, because I might have to testify, I gave him a couple minutes of compressions. All that did was pump more blood onto the floor.
I began shaking from adrenaline reaction, so I took a seat at the kitchen table after fishing Bacardi’s cigarettes and lighter out of his pocket.
Fortunately, they’d come through unscathed. I lit up.
A moment later, Manson manhandled Crane through the door, Meat limping behind him.
“Holy crap,” Crane said as he saw his fallen comrade. “You killed him!”
“He drew down on me. I defended myself.”
“You people are in so much shit. We’re federal agents, undercover!”
“I know. But you’re as dirty as they come, aren’t you?”
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means the only way you’d be carrying your badges when undercover is if you had no concern the criminal elements you rubbed shoulders with would find out. Which means the MC knew, but thought they had nothing to fear from you…and to outlaws like that, the only safe cop is a bought cop.”
“Yeah, we had to convince them we were bought! It was all to get closer, get better intel for the task force.”
I rested a boot on Bacardi’s body, drawing Crane’s attention to it again. “Plausible…but I don’t buy it. It’s one thing for the club to know. They can keep their mouths shut. But showing me those badges? If you guys were actually clean, outing yourselves to a stranger would be crazy, even suicidal, the very last thing you’d do. The MC isn’t the only criminal organization in the area.”
Crane chuckled. “That’s all speculation. You got nothing but a bunch of guesswork and a dead agent you appear to have executed. Who you think they’ll believe, you or me?”
“Oh, I got more than guesswork.” I reached into an inner pocket and took out a compact recorder. After a few seconds of searching, I played back Bacardi’s last words to me.
You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into, sister, or how big a mistake you made coming here. See, we are undercover DEA. But that don’t mean we won’t kill you.
Like you killed that pathetic tweaker you tossed off the cliff at the quarry?
Yeah, just like that.
Why’d you kill him anyway?
Let’s just say he made one too many bad decisions. Kinda like you did coming here. Actually, I think I’m gonna enjoy killing you a lot more.
“Combined with the truck’s dash-cam footage of our conversation, I think the shoot will be judged righteous.” I picked up the Glock I’d laid on the table and pointed it at him. “In fact, it’ll be even easier to sell if you’re not around to tell a different story. After all, we got a guy with a bullet wound to strengthen our case.”
Crane stared at me, wilting. “They were right. You’re dirtier than we are.”
I didn’t disabuse him of the notion. Of course, I’d never kill him in cold blood, but if he believed I would, this would get a whole lot easier. “That’s what makes this so much fun,” I said. “Now you got one chance to live to see tomorrow. Come clean with me on tape and I’ll let you walk.”
“Why?”
“Because I need leverage on you, and on whoever you’re working for.”
“They’ll kill me.”
“Die now or die later. That’s the choice. If you give me what I want and run home and throw yourself on the mercy of your fed buddies, you might even survive to old age.” I bounced my boot on Bacardi. “Maybe they’ll rehabilitate you and use you on the East Coast where nobody knows you.”
Carrot and stick, that’s what gets results. I could see his resistance visibly crumble as his knees buckled. He eased himself into a seat across from me. “Okay, what you wanna know?”
I pressed record again. “Who’s your bosses on the criminal side? Tell me everyone you know up the chain.”
“Laser at the MC passes on some stuff, but it’s small time. A few ounces of meth, couple pounds of dope, shit like that.”
“I don’t care about small stuff. Move up.” I took a drag.
“Sheriff Bartlett is in on it. He facilitates, makes sure the straight arrows don’t make any headway.”
“Who’s the straight arrows?”
“Davis in Granger’s Ford and Renner in Blanchard. That’s why they’re kept out of the bigger towns, and out of the loop.”
I was happy to confirm Mike Davis was clean, and I’d have to keep this Renner guy in mind. “Who pulls Bartlett’s strings?”
“I don’t know. Really! We’ve been trying to find out.”
“Who else carries weight above Bartlett’s level?”
“Dorothy Lam controls all the distro in the Sonora area. We have to notify her when we mule through to Folsom. But she’s not Bartlett’s boss, she’s a peer.”
“How about your Folsom contact? Sacramento area?”
“Richard Rocklin. Aryan Brotherhood.”
“And who do Lam and Rocklin work for?”
Crane stared daggers into my eyes. “You know who.”
“Why am I the only one with the balls to say his name? Houdini?”
“Because, lady, he makes people disappear without a trace.” He pointed a finger. “And you’re next.”
Manson slapped Crane in the back of his head, hard.
“Hey, that wasn’t a threat, just an observation.”
I waved Manson back with the hand that held the cigarette. “I’m still waiting to hear what the plan was the day you tried to
pull me over.”
Crane licked his lips and set his jaw. I nodded, and Manson reached down to lift his cuffed hands behind his back until his shoulders threatened to dislocate. Crane yelled with pain.
“You know, once your arms been ripped out of their sockets, they never quite stay in again,” I said, rubbing my eye with my pinky. “That’s only the beginning of the pain we’ll inflict on you. And if we go too far, we’ll have to kill you just to eliminate you as a witness.”
Crane cleared his throat. “We got the word to take you out if we could do it easy. We thought you’d pull over.”
I shivered as I thought about how close a call that was, and how right I’d been. “’Take me out’ as in kill me,” I said for the record.
“Yeah. Kill you.”
“How about the shot from the top of the hill?”
“What shot?”
“A sniper put a .308 round through my window as I was driving back from the quarry, ahead of Davis.”
“I don’t know anything about that.”
I reached out toward his face with the hot tip of my cigarette.
He jerked his head back. “Really, I don’t! I just admitted planning to kill you in the Mustang. Why would I lie about this?”
“Fair point.” I withdrew my hand and tapped ash onto the floor. “Do you know anything about contract killers Houdini might have on the payroll?”
“Only that everyone assumes he has them. But you’ll never seen them coming.”
I showed my teeth. “Oh, but I have. Which is why I’m here.” I pondered a moment. “Tell me about Jerry Conrad.”
“Retired mid-level wise guy out of Chicago.”
“Did he rat on his mafia buddies?”
“I don’t know. He got out somehow with a good chunk of change and now he’s legit.”
“Except for having tweaker bike thieves murdered.”
“That came from the MC.”
“Why would the MC care? No, Conrad must have put them up to it.”
Crane shrugged.
I’d run out of questions for now. Of course, five minutes after we parted company I’d think of something I’d forgotten, but for now I was stuck again – a little closer to discovering the truth, but not so far as I’d hoped.
Slipknot: A Private Investigator Crime and Suspense Mystery Thriller (California Corwin P. I. Mystery Series Book 3) Page 8