OUTLAW MC
A Brad Coulter Novel
Dwayne Clayden
Copyright © 2019 Dwayne E. Clayden
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention Permissions Coordinator,” at:
[email protected]
DwayneClayden.com
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Published in Canada
Cover Graphic by Travis Miles, Pro Book Covers
Editing by Jonas Saul and Robb Grindstaff
Proofing by Jonas Saul and Laurie McMillan
Formatting by Dwayne Clayden
Social Media Support by Catherine Saykaly-Stevens
Outlaw MC / Dwayne Clayden—1st print ed.
ISBN: 978-1-7752564-4-1 (pbk), 978-1-7752564-5-8 (e-book)
Created with Vellum
To Valerie West.
* * *
She has never wavered in her support
and encouragement of my writing.
I couldn’t have completed Outlaw MC
without her.
* * *
Thank you!
OUTLAW MOTORCYCLE CLUBS
GYPSY JOKERS
NORTHWEST
Beacon Hotel Bar
* * *
GYPSY JOKERS
SOUTHWEST
Westgate Hotel Bar
* * *
HEAD HUNTERS
NORTHEAST
Crossroads Hotel Bar
* * *
SATAN’S SOLDIERS
SOUTHEAST
Town & Country Hotel Bar
Shanrock Hotel Bar
Cast of Characters
POLICE
Deputy Chief George Collins
Deputy Chief Nick Archer
* * *
TACTICAL SUPPORT UNIT TEAM ONE
Sergeant Brad Coulter
Earl Knight
Sam Steele
Randy Ames
Charlie Zerr
Jimmy Nichols
* * *
NARCOTICS UNDERCOVER
Detective Tommy Devlin
* * *
IDENTIFICATION SECTION
Sergeant Bill Sturgeon
* * *
OTHER POLICE
Tina Davidson
Steve Gunther
* * *
PARAMEDICS
Maggie Gray
Rajit Sharma
Pete Thompson
Willie Dixon
* * *
REPORTER
Roger Kearse
* * *
GYPSY JOKERS MOTORCYCLE CLUB
President Felix Keaton
VPEldridge ‘Hammer’ Hammond
Sgt. at Arms Jeter ‘Wolfman’ Wolfe
Treasurer Jeromy ‘Slim’ Pickens
* * *
SATAN’S SOLDIERS MOTORCYCLE CLUB
President Jacques Perrault
VP Angel Morales
Sgt. at Arms Roddy White
Treasurer Dale Hehn
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Chapter One
Calgary, Alberta, Canada
May 1978
Headlights off, the van stopped in front of the house. Two men got out and slid balaclava’s over their faces. Pistols at their sides, they ran to the front door. One of the men, tall and built like a tank, kicked the door with a heavy boot. The door swung open. They rushed inside, moving quickly through the living room to the kitchen. A man and a woman sat at a small table in the kitchen staring back, wide-eyed. The man opened a drawer beside him and reached inside.
“I wouldn’t do that, Russ,” the big man said.
“What the fuck do you want?” Russ pulled the woman off her chair and eased her behind him.
“It’s about what you did to us.”
“I didn’t do nothin’.”
The big man laughed. “You know exactly what you did. We thought you’d get the message when your brother disappeared.”
“You fuckers don’t scare me.”
“Well, we should.” The big man nodded at his partner who took two steps and swung the butt of his pistol, connecting with against Russ’s head. Russ dropped to his knees. The partner kicked him in the ribs, then rolled Russ onto his face and applied plastic fasteners to his wrists. They jerked him to his feet and shoved him against the fridge.
The big man walked to the woman. “Russ, you got a mighty fine lady here. Too good for you.” He tore her blouse. “Yup, too fine for you.” He spun her around until she was bent over the counter then put plastic fasteners on her wrists.
“Let her go,” Russ shouted. “She’s got nothing to do with this. Let her go —”
A baby cried.
“Ah, isn’t that nice,” the big guy said. “You two playing house.” He grabbed the woman’s hair and pulled her upright. “Where’s the kid?”
“No, please —” she begged.
The big guy pushed her toward the sound of crying. His partner pushed Russ along behind.
The baby stood in his crib, screaming now.
“Both
of you, kneel.”
When Russ attempted to fight, the big guy punched him in the head. Russ slumped next to the woman.
“Face the crib,” the big guy said. “Time for you three to go to Hell.”
Two gunshots echoed throughout the small room and the woman fell over.
“No!” Russ screamed. Two more shots silenced him.
“What about the baby?”
“We’s told to kill Russ and his piece of ass,” the big guy said. “That’s it. Leave the kid.”
“Won’t it get hungry or something?”
“Like I give a shit.” The big guy turned toward the door. A teenage girl stood in the doorway, her hands over her mouth. “Well, what do we have here?”
Chapter Two
Brad Coulter sprinted along the winding path through the woods. At each curve, he caught a glimpse of the fleeing figure. The early morning sun peeked through the poplars, casting shadows across the trail.
His body screamed for him to stop, to quit, to admit defeat. But he couldn’t. He pushed past the pain, picked up speed, and closed the gap until he was mere yards behind.
They rounded a corner and broke free of the trees into a parking lot, racing to the vehicles by the park entrance. If he pushed hard, he’d get there first. Then his body quit. His lungs screamed for oxygen, his muscles cramped, and he slowed to a jog. Too little, too late.
Brad reached the truck and put his hands on the door, gasping for breath.
“Looks like you’re out of shape, boss.”
Brad glanced at his partner, Sam Steele. The runs through Weaselhead Park were part of fitness for the Tactical Support Unit. They ran the five-kilometer route several times a week. Brad missed some workouts because of meetings with the police brass.
“Screw you.” Brad kept his head down, sucking in the cool morning air. “I let you win so you wouldn’t pout.”
“That’s hilarious.”
Brad leaned against the truck. His breathing was still fast, but at least the cramps had subsided. He wiped the sweat pouring off his face with his shirt sleeve. He straightened, inhaled deeply, and exhaled. His heart rate slowed and his breathing returned to normal.
Steele pulled his duffel bag out of the truck and set it on the gravel. He took off his T-shirt, pulled out a towel, and wiped away the sweat. Sam Steele had been Brad’s partner since they joined the TSU together two years ago. Steele saved Brad’s life when they cornered ex-military bank robbers. Although seriously injured, Steele shot one gunman, giving Brad time to shoot the other. Brad’s promotion to sergeant hadn’t affected their friendship.
The rest of the team jogged into the parking lot. Charlie Zerr, ex-US Army Ranger, led the way, followed by Earl Knight and Randall Ames. Jimmy Nichols arrived last, gasping for air.
Zerr, holding his chest and gasping, staggered toward Brad. “You’ve still got it, Sarge. I wanted to beat you, but I couldn’t catch up.”
“Not sure why you couldn’t,” Steele said. “He’s an old man now. Lost a step, for sure.” Steele shot him a wry smile.
Brad shoved Zerr as he walked past. He straightened. “It’s a miracle.” Zerr raised his arms to the sky. “The boss cured me. Halleluiah!”
Brad rolled his eyes. “You’re both asses.” Brad pulled off his jogging clothes, toweled off, and changed into his uniform. The others were doing the same, with generous amounts of antiperspirant.
“Nichols, I can’t believe you let old man Ames beat you,” Zerr said. “I had to detour around his walker. He’s got ten years on you.”
“I’ve got a cold.”
Brad shook his head. Nichols had an excuse for everything. He was the weak link on their team.
“We’re heading to the Barlow truck stop for breakfast,” Zerr said. “You coming, boss?”
“Not today. I have to drop off some requisitions at HQ. We’ll meet you at the airport. See you in ninety minutes or so.”
“Roger that,” Zerr said.
Brad slid into the passenger seat and joined Steele.
“Where to, boss?” Steele pulled out of the parking lot.
“Head downtown,” Brad said. “I need a coffee to get going. Then we’ll stop at HQ.”
“Remind me again whose idea was it to start our shifts at six a.m. with a six-mile run through Weaselhead?”
“If we left our workouts until the end of the day, you guys would bolt for the door heading home. It makes sense to start early with a good workout, then hit the street.”
Steele smiled. “If the workout is so good, why do you need coffee?”
“Are we playing twenty questions already? Just get me to a damn cup of coffee.”
“You’re a grump before you get caffeinated!” Steele laughed.
The radio beeped, and the dispatcher said, “All units, Bankview area. Reported shooting. 2413 Nineteenth Street Southwest.”
“That’s close.” Brad grabbed the mic. “Tactical Support 110 responding. ETA two minutes.”
“Roger, TS 110. Unknown situation. Hold back for backup.”
“Roger, dispatch.” Brad turned to Steele. “Screw that. Keep going to the house.”
“All units,” dispatch said, “the neighbor says two dead from gunshots. She took a baby to her house, 2416.”
“Roger that,” Brad said. “Anything about the shooter?”
“Negative, 110. I have zone cruisers and other tactical units en route.”
“Our team went for breakfast in the other direction.” Steele sped up. “They’ll be ten minutes at least.”
“Just you and me then,” Brad said.
Steele turned into the street and parked a few houses away.
“110 on scene.” Brad tossed the mic on the seat. They exited, drawing their guns as they jogged across lawns to the side of the house. Brad peeked into the living room window, turned to Steele, and shook his head. He pointed to the front door, and they advanced. They stopped on either side of the open door. Brad listened for sounds. Hearing none, he gave Steele a hand signal, and they entered the house. Brad stepped inside to the right, and Steele to the left.
Brad worked his way through the empty living room, Steele joined him from the kitchen and shook his head. They crept down a hallway, checked a bathroom and two bedrooms. Clear. They stopped at the last bedroom doorway, and Brad peered into the room. He’d seen too many crime scenes to count—this was one of the worst.
Two bodies—male and female—lay crumpled on the floor between an empty crib and the door. The female’s arm was under the male’s. She was shot first. Small entrance wounds formed a star pattern on the backs of their heads. Thick, congealed, almost black blood pooled around the bodies.
Shards of bone littering the floor, reflected the light from the window. Dark blood, skin, and hair covered the pale blue walls. Brad took a deep breath—mistake. The coppery taste of blood competed with the smell of shit and old diapers—the shit winning.
Thin white curtains fluttered in the breeze from the open window. Brad removed his ball cap and scratched his head. This crap happened too often in Calgary lately. Just when he thought he’d seen the worst, someone took it to another level.
Steele peered into the room. “Ah, jeez. This is messed up.”
“Yeah.” Not messed up. Fucked up. He’d never erase this scene. These graphic images would join the others. Sleep would not come easily tonight.
“Let’s check the basement,” Brad said.
They carefully stepped down the stairs into the undeveloped basement. Their flashlight beams lit storage boxes, toys and all sorts of junk. In a far corner they found a room. The door was closed, but unlocked. Brad opened the door and they stepped inside to see a long work table, scales, boxes of baggies, and dried green leaves.
“Workroom for marijuana distribution,” Steele said.
“Sounds about right,” Brad said. “Let’s go. No one here.”
Back upstairs Brad pulled the portable radio off his belt and keyed the mic. “Dispatch, TS 110. We are okay
on the scene with a double homicide. I need a perimeter set up. Send K-9, Ident, and homicide.”
“Roger, 110.”
“Have K-9 search the yards and alleys for other victims—or suspects. Oh, yeah. Might as well notify the medical examiner.”
“Roger.”
Brakes screeched, and boots pounded on the steps.
Constables Tina Davidson and Steve Gunther stormed the house, guns drawn.
Brad held up a hand. “It’s okay. Guns away.”
“We didn’t hear from you, Sarge,” Gunther said. “We didn’t know if you were okay.”
Brad pointed to Gunther’s portable. “If you had your radios on you would have heard me.”
“Right.” Gunther switched on his portable radio and peered down the hallway. “What do we have, Sarge?”
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