“Sure, boss,” Hehn said. “I got some information from a source. He says the cops have been watching us. They were at the T & C last week taking photos and getting license numbers.”
“Did they run our plates through their computer system?” Morales asked.
“Not sure,” Hehn said. “My source says the cops are careful about using their record system. They realize they have a leak—or two. They used a checkstop to get info on the Gypsy Jokers. Don’t be surprised if we run into a few checkstops.”
“I don’t like the cops stalking us,” Perrault said. “That’s why we’re meeting here. Maybe the cops associate us with the T & C. From now on, the meetings will be at different times and in different places. You’ll find out on short notice.”
“What about our jobs?” Lou LeBeau asked.
“You leave. I expect everyone to be there. Lou, you work for me.”
The bikers laughed. LeBeau looked down.
“There’s more,” Hehn said. “Devlin, the cop that arrested Lenny, was out of our hair for two years because he was with the Tactical Unit. He’s back with narcotics and gonna be a problem. To make it worse, he’s still buddy-buddy with the TSU guys, especially their sergeant. Coulter led the raid on our clubhouse.”
“How’d that work for them?” White grinned.
“What about Weston?” Perrault said. “That tattoo taken care of?”
“Dealt with,” White said. “He just wouldn’t die. I called a lab tech at the General who was into us for ten grand. He did us a favor and I canceled that debt.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Sunday
George Collins had routines, and none more important than on Sunday. His family knew there’d be hell to pay if they messed with the day. He’d instructed his staff not to call him at home for anything less than a declaration of war. Sunday was the one day he didn’t think about being a cop. The one day he relaxed. Bacon, eggs, and toast for breakfast, with the newspaper, then to church. Usually, he found peace with the singing and sermon.
Today, his calm mood disappeared right after church when fellow parishioners mobbed him wanting to know what he was doing about the bikers. People killed in their homes, a girl missing, and arson were not things they expected in Calgary. No matter how hard he tried to calm them, they were sure they or their families were next. He even tried some humor and said they needn’t worry—unless they were bikers. His wife grabbed his arm and dragged him home.
Lunch of tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwich done, he tilted back his recliner, pulled out the paper, and read the sports section, half listening to the baseball game on the TV, peering up now and then to catch a play. Somewhere in the box scores, he drifted off.
“George. George!”
Collins rubbed his eyes and slipped on his glasses. His wife was standing over him. “There’s a call for you.”
“Who is it?” He pushed his chair upright.
“He didn’t say but said you’d want to talk to him. About the bike guys or something.”
What the— Collins pulled his bulk out of his chair. “Calling me at home on Sunday. I’ll give him —”
He snatched the phone off the kitchen counter. “Collins. Who’s this?”
“Thank you for taking this call, Deputy Chief.”
“Who is this?” Collins asked. “Why’re you bothering me on Sunday?”
“Now, calm down.” The voice was calm, precise. “We don’t want your blood pressure too high, do we?”
“Who the hell is this, and how did you get my home number?”
“None of that matters. You have a problem. I have a solution.”
“What problem do I have?” Collins could feel his pulse throbbing in his neck, his jowls heating up.
“You have bikers killing each other. The public is nervous. The mayor is nervous. You think it will just go away. It won’t. Not this time.”
“Who the hell are you?” Collins bellowed.
“Someone who wants to help. I know who ordered the prisoner killed and I know who killed the biker in the hospital.”
“How the hell do you know? We never released that information. Was it you?”
“No, Chief, not me. I had nothing to do with it. But I do know which bike gang did it and where they’re hiding. Are you interested?”
“How do I know this isn’t a crank call of some kind?”
“Let me tell you some details only the police know. The prisoner killed was Lenny. Devlin had him stashed away for the weekend. Lenny gave the cops information about the Satan’s Soldiers. TSU raided the place, but didn’t find anything, did they?”
“How do you know this?”
“Not important. What you need to know is that the Soldiers who beat and burned the ex-biker are in hiding in a house at the corner of Spiller Road and Constance Avenue.”
“What house?”
“I’d imagine there’d be four hogs in the backyard. Maybe under a tarp.”
“Who the hell are you?” The veins on Collin’s forehead threatened to pop.
The line went dead.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Monday Afternoon
Arms folded across his chest, Brad glared at Collins. Arrogant, pompous and sure of himself, Collins glared right back.
“I don’t care where the information comes from,” Collins ranted. “One biker ratting out another, club on club. This is a big opportunity.”
“We still don’t have enough information,” Brad said. “All we have is a phone call to you and very few details.”
Collins pointed a finger at Brad. “You went there today. Was it exactly as the caller said?”
“Yes, sir. Old house with four bikes under tarps in the back, but that’s about it.”
“Is there activity there?” Collins asked.
“Someone has been there for a few days, but nothing farther back than that. Something isn’t right. We need surveillance for a few days—see who comes and goes. Then go in.”
“They won’t stay there for long. This is our best chance.” Collins grinned. “What’s with you, Coulter? Before, I couldn’t stop you from running into every scene. Now you want to hold back. Lost your nerve?”
“We have nothing to lose by waiting a day or two,” Brad said. “We do surveillance. If the bikers try to run, we arrest them. That’s if they’re even there. Nothing lost.”
“The opportunity today—now—to arrest those assholes is lost,” Collins said. “The opportunity to show the bike gangs that they can’t mess with us is lost.”
Brad bit his lip, his eyes blazing, his breathing rapid and shallow. He’d lost the battle. Once Collins’ mind was made up, nothing would change it.
Brad spread his arms wide. “Chief, one more day at least, please.”
Collins jabbed a finger into Brad’s chest. “I say go, you go. Is that clear?”
At midnight, Brad’s team, with Devlin and K-9, crept into position in the yard beside the suspected safehouse. The house was as described, on the corner, in a small community of about twenty homes nestled between the Elbow River and an industrial area. From their location, they had a clear view of the suspect house and yard.
Knight and four tactical cops from team 2, hid behind the house. Once the teams were in place and the perimeter secured, Brad radioed uniform cops to quietly evacuate the occupants down the block to waiting city buses.
At 0030 hours, the house lights went out. Knight’s team sprinted to the back of the house.
At 0100 hours the radio crackled, Knight radioed that they were ready. Brad gave the command. “Execute.”
Brad’s team ran to the front of the house. Steele swung a heavy ram at the door handle, and the door flew open.
Fewer than five seconds passed before two explosions erupted from the back of the house. Windows shattered and flames lit up the night.
The concussive force knocked Brad and Steele out the front door onto their butts.
What the hell?
They rose from
the ground guns drawn, searching for an enemy that wasn’t there.
Brad yelled into the radio as he sprinted back to the house. “Get ambulances and fire up here, now.” Smoke billowed out the open doorway.
He pulled his gas mask from his leg pouch, slipped it on, crouched, and entered the house. Smoke and heat pushed him back. The heat blasted through his uniform. The smoke was thick and dark. He dropped to the floor. The smoke swirled around his head and the heat seared his neck, but on the floor, he could see better. At least he could make out shapes in front of him, but as he crawled, the smoke thickened and filled the room to the floor. Brad reached in front of him with one hand. A shoulder hit a table leg, his head hit a couch.
In the middle of the living room, he felt a body and recognized TSU gear. He grabbed along the inert body until he found the loop on the back of the ballistic vest. Brad pulled the cop toward the back door. The heat was too intense—he dropped to the floor and dragged the cop outside. Cops ran to help. The wail of sirens filled the air.
Brad hunched over and slipped his mask to his forehead to catch his breath. After several deep breaths, he ran back into the house. Flames climbed the curtains and roared overhead, swirling up the walls and around the roof in waves. The air was white hot, even through the mask, and seared his throat. He crawled on his stomach, as low to the floor as he could. Heat burned through his gloves. He moved through the living room to the kitchen, bumping into another body. His hands fumbled over the vest until he found the loop.
He dragged the cop out of the kitchen, muscles screaming, breathing rapidly. Sparks landed on his neck, burning holes through his shirt and into his skin. Roofing material fell, starting fires on his uniform and scorching his skin. Cramps coursed through his arms and legs and his lungs screamed for air as he continued the slow drag through the living room to the door. He raised to a crouch, and with the last of his energy, dragged the cop out the door, stumbling down the steps onto the lawn. A fine spray of water washed over him as he dropped to his knees.
Hands clutched his arms, lifting him to his feet. He stumbled as paramedics led him to an ambulance. Brad collapsed onto the stretcher. Dixon ripped off the gas mask and slipped on an oxygen mask. Brad coughed until his sides hurt. When the coughing stopped, Dixon gave him sips of water from a Thermos.
The ambulance door opened, Devlin jumped in and sat on the bench seat. He was covered in soot with cuts to his face.
Brad pulled the oxygen mask to the side and wheezed. “What—happened?”
Devlin shook his head. “The kitchen has a gas stove. Bikers left the gas on and used a trigger device. Maybe a grenade attached to a fishing line. Someone caught the line with a boot. When the line stretched, the grenade pin slid out. That was the first explosion. The second explosion was gas igniting. The bikers probably had the gas running all day.”
“What about the bikers?”
“No one here,” Devlin said. “The uniformed guys talked to the neighbors when they were evacuating them. Neighbors said the house had been abandoned for months. There were a couple of guys around the last two days. They dressed like construction workers. Big guys. Neighbors thought they’d moved in.”
“What about the bikes under the tarp?”
“They’re old bikes. Don’t even run.”
Brad closed his eyes and dropped his head. “Shit. This was never a biker hideout.”
“Nope. They made it look good for a couple of days. The lights were on a timer. They knew we’d check out the house and yard. They showed just enough action to convince us someone lived there. Collins got played, we all got played. Someone figured Collins would jump at the chance to arrest some bikers. He did. They were targeting you—TSU.”
“Shit.” Brad bolted upright. “Knight, are they—? Who’s … hurt?” Brad coughed uncontrollably.
Dixon put his hand on Brad’s chest, eased him back onto the stretcher and slid the oxygen mask back into place.
“The first guy you brought out was Knight,” Devlin said. “He’s conscious. A paramedic thinks a concussion from the blast. Probably a broken arm and some minor burns. The second guy you got out was from team two—smoke inhalation and fractures from falling roof trusses. He’s unconscious. Maggie thinks he took a hit to the head from the collapsing roof. They took him to the trauma unit at Foothills Hospital. The other guys weren’t as far into the house. They’re being treated for smoke inhalation and minor burns.”
Later that morning, Brad pulled himself up to a sitting position in the hospital bed. The coughing fits were less frequent, although his throat was still raw. He chewed ice chips. He was breathing easier and didn’t need the oxygen. The neck burns were minor, like a severe sunburn, and his hair was singed up his neck.
The curtain swung back, and a nurse entered. “Hello, Officer Coulter. I need to check your vital signs.” She placed a B/P cuff on his upper arm and set the stethoscope on the inside of his elbow. “Just straighten your arm and put your hand on my hip.” She clasped his arm with her elbow and inflated the cuff.
“Everything seems to be okay.” She removed the cuff and made a note in a chart.
“What time is it?”
“It’s a little after 0400.” She adjusted the IV. “Everything’s good. I have to check other patients, but I’ll be back.”
His singed uniform, reeking of smoke, was laid out on a chair. He didn’t have much time until the nurse came back. He shut off the intravenous and removed the catheter as Maggie had shown him when she was practicing IVs on him. He put pressure on the intravenous site so he wouldn’t have a bruise.
The smell of his clothes was disgusting—a cross between a campfire and burnt flesh. He tried not to think about the burnt flesh smell. It was hard to describe, but it was horrible. It repulsed him instantly each time he smelled it.
Brad rifled through the night table next to the bed, found a clothes bag, and put his vest and shirt into the bag. He slipped off the hospital gown, which didn’t cover the critical areas anyway, and had his pants partway up when the curtain slid back. He yanked his pants up, turned his back to the curtain. That nurse returned awfully fast.
“Don’t stop on my account, unless you’re putting them on,” Maggie said.
Brad saw a mischievous smile.
“I’m all about the show.” Maggie winked.
“Do you mind?” Brad glared.
“Not at all,” Maggie said. “Oh, come on. Nothing I haven’t seen before.” She stepped closer. “I see you have some new scars.”
Brad zipped his pants and slipped on his T-shirt. He opened the night table drawer, picked up his gun, loaded a magazine, and chambered a round. He slid the gun into his holster and sat on the bed. “How’s Knight?”
“It could be worse. You got him out before he had any serious burns. He inhaled a lot of smoke and hot air. Fractured arm.”
“What about the others?”
“The second cop you brought out is in worse shape. He’s unconscious. He was in the heat for a long time. His lungs are going to take a while to heal. They’ll keep him in an induced coma and on a respirator.”
Brad slid his fingers through his hair, then held his face in his hands. “We screwed up tonight.”
“What do you mean? You saved two cops.”
“Someone fed Collins bad information. It was a trap. The bastard bikers came after us. Probably the Soldiers.”
“Are you sure?”
“It was the bikers.”
“Why’s this on you?” Maggie asked. “It wasn’t your decision. Devlin said Collins got the tip and ordered you guys to go. You were against it.”
“It was too good to be true.” His shoulders slumped and he felt sick and emotionally drained. “I had a bad feeling about it. I should have listened to my gut.”
The bed sagged. Maggie put her arm around him. He rested his head on her shoulder. Her hand rested on his arm then slid toward his hand. For the first time in hours, he felt safe.
The curtain slid open.<
br />
“I came back as quick as I could —” The nurse’s voice grew cool. “Oh, sorry to interrupt. I should reassess your injuries.”
“I’ll keep my eye on him,” Maggie said.
The curtain closed.
“Maggie, I—”
“Coulter?” A voice called from outside the curtain.
Maggie stood. “Popular as always.”
“Yeah?” Brad said.
Devlin poked his head past the curtain. He glanced at Brad, then Maggie. “Hey, Maggie. It’s been a while. Good to see you. I need to talk to Brad. Can you give us a few minutes?”
“Sure. I have to get back to work. Take care of those burns,” Maggie said as she left.
Devlin watched Maggie leave, checked that no one was within earshot, then pulled a chair next to the bed. “Some personal TLC from a paramedic.”
“Real funny. She was telling me about the injured guys.”
“Well, that was a fuck up,” Devlin said.
“Yeah, I had a gut feeling something was wrong, and now we have injured cops.”
“Collins ordered the raid. This is on him.”
“Collins is Teflon—nothing sticks to him.” Brad snorted. “He’s already figured out a way to blame me.”
Devlin shook his head. “He won’t get off so easy this time.”
“I wish I believed that.”
Devlin stood and slid the curtain back. “Sleep today. Then we’ll regroup. Oh yea, you need to see Deputy Chief Archer tomorrow at HQ—0700 hours.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
When Brad got home from the hospital at 0530, he tried to sleep. Every time he drifted off, the nightmares came. He felt the explosions, saw the flames, and felt the heat. Each time they got worse. He was searching throughout the burning house. He couldn’t find Knight. He crawled through flames, the fire burned his hands and feet. The gas mask melted on his face. He found Knight, all the flesh burned off his body leaving a charred pile of bones. Then he burst into flames. His eyes flew open. He was drenched in sweat. Lobo snored beside the bed.
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