“I know who did this,” Dick said.
“What? How?”
“When the passenger dove back into the car, I saw the back of his vest. It had a design—skull with German WWII helmet and the words, ‘Satan’s Soldiers.’”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Devlin grabbed a pizza and six-pack from the backseat of his car and headed to his house. He balanced the pizza and beer in one arm while he fumbled in the dark with his keys. He got the door open, switched on a couple of lights, and set his dinner on the coffee table.
Coming home to an empty house was depressing. Working undercover for too many years, late nights, drinking and whoring, took its toll—two divorces. At least we didn’t have kids. His last ex- got his dog, though. At night, well, the nights he was home, the company of a dog would be comforting. But his hours were irregular, and sometimes he didn’t come home for days. With a cat that might work, but not with a dog. Undercover was his life, and maybe his wife. On the streets, he came alive. His partners called him the ghost. He fit in with the surroundings and loved the hunt.
He threw his grubby street clothes on the bedroom floor and slipped on gym shorts and a T-shirt. He turned on the TV to catch the news—five minutes to wait. He popped the cap on a beer and gulped half the bottle, then grabbed a piece of pizza and sat back on the couch—what a day. Pickens seemed legit. If the tip he gave them about the Soldiers came through, then Pickens was worth every cent.
He tore off another piece of pizza. He tried to plan out the raid, but his brain was too tired for that. He drained the beer and opened a second.
The intro to the news came on showing the twisted wreckage of a car. Devlin turned up the volume.
The announcer, Roger Kearse, was mid-sentence. “… explosion and car fire in the community of Bowness. According to witnesses, the car exploded about nine-thirty. The fire department was on scene quickly to extinguish the blaze. The explosion was so powerful it blew out windows in nearby homes.”
The video changed to paramedics lifting a stretcher down the front stairs. “One person in the home was transported by ambulance to the hospital with undisclosed injuries.”
Devlin watched a man approach the stretcher. Brad! “Oh shit. What the hell?” Eyes on the TV, he reached for his phone, knocking it onto the floor. As he leaned down his front window shattered. He flattened to the floor as the rat-tat-tat of automatic gunfire filled the room and bullets thudded into the wall above his head. He grabbed the cord on the headset, pulled it toward him and dialed.
“911. What is your emergency?”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Brad slid into Briscoe’s sergeant’s van outside the emergency department.
“Thanks for picking me up,” Brad said. “Can you give me a ride home?”
“No problem,” Briscoe said. “You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“I hear your date took a lot of glass,” Briscoe said. “How’d you escape injury?”
“Uh, she was in the line of the explosion,” Brad said.
Brad watched Briscoe’s face as he started to ask another question, then stopped.
“Is your girlfriend okay?” Briscoe asked.
“She’s not—ah hell. Maybe we were gonna make something out of it. Not now. She saw me outside her cubicle in emergency and started screaming, ‘Stay away from me.’”
“Ouch, that’s rough.”
“She’s gonna be okay, physically. They took about twenty pieces of glass and wood out of her back—all minor. They have her doped up on morphine.”
“No problem.”
While he drove, Briscoe explained the attack on Devlin.
“Shit. Someone wants Devlin and me out of the picture,” Brad said. “The house explosion took out a lot of cops, but not us. They’re trying to make up for that. It was the Soldiers.”
“You sure?” Briscoe asked.
“Yup. My neighbor described the Soldiers colors. The bikers were at peace for years, then all of a sudden, bodies start turning up. We go after the bikers and then cops are the target. I don’t recognize this city.”
“What about the missing girl?”
“We don’t have a single lead,” Brad said. “Davidson has been doing the follow-up. Nothing. I’m out of ideas.”
“You think she’s dead?” Briscoe asked.
“I think the Jokers have her. That means she’s with Jeter Wolfe. He’s got some disgusting sexual perversions.”
Briscoe pulled to the curb behind Brad’s charred Camaro. “Sorry about your car. I liked it.”
“I loved that car.”
“You going car shopping?” Briscoe asked.
“Yeah. Probably tomorrow.”
“You looking for another Camaro?”
“I think so. Or maybe a Corvette.”
“Are you kidding?”
“Yeah. Probably a Camaro. Corvette is too fancy and isn’t worth shit in the winter. Maybe a truck.”
“I don’t see you in a truck,” Briscoe said. “Although, with the dog it would make sense. Have fun car shopping, not that I ever do it. I was surprised you called me for a ride, though.”
“Why?”
“You’re accident prone. I figured you’d need a paramedic to nurse your wounds.”
“Really. You say that hours after a lady I was with gets hurt.” Brad looked out the window, lost in thought. “Nice try getting us together at the hospital, by the way.”
“Can’t blame a guy for trying. You and Maggie are meant for each other.”
“You aren’t going to let this go, are you? I doubt she’d have anything to do with me now, especially after what just happened at my place. It’s bad enough that Sarah got hurt. I can’t get Maggie involved.”
“Maggie’s tough—you know that,” Briscoe said. “And she’s stubborn. You might not be able to keep her away.”
“For her sake, I hope she does.”
Saturday Morning
Brad hung up the phone. He’d called Sarah all morning. The first dozen times, no one picked up. Then Hazel answered. Oh boy. She’d seemed like such a refined lady, but she swore like a soldier as she chewed him out and told him in explicit profanity that he was to leave Sarah alone and never call again. With that, she’d slammed the phone.
He spent the morning cleaning up the debris from the explosion. Glass had flown everywhere. Just when he thought he had it all, more pieces turned up. If he missed any bits, it was likely they’d find their way into Lobo’s paws. Not good.
Finally satisfied he’d vacuumed up every piece of glass, he headed outside. Dick brought over a half-dozen four-by-eight sheets of plywood. They nailed them over the front windows and two windows on the side that were cracked.
A car stopped out front as he finished covering the windows—the insurance broker. They spent the next hour checking each room in the house, ending with Brad’s car. The broker declared it a total write-off—not a surprise.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Tuesday Afternoon
After the lunch rush, Brad walked down the narrow aisle of the Barlow restaurant. A few customers were seated at the counter. Brad continued to the table at the back and took a seat next to Devlin.
“What about the search warrant?”
“Got it,” Brad patted his pocket. “That’s why I’m late.”
“We have a lot of planning to do.” Devlin laid a map on the table. “We checked out Roddy White’s house. It’s a bungalow off Seventeenth Avenue and Thirty-third Street Southeast, with two entrances—a front door, back door.” He replaced the map with house plans. “Two bedrooms on the main floor. Two small bedrooms in the basement and a large open area.”
“These look like the original plans,” Brad said. “No updates since it was built?”
“Nothing submitted to city planning,” Devlin said. “Not that the bikers would submit changes or get permits. We think it’s set up as a small clubhouse and a place for bikers to crash after parties.”
“So, it pro
bably doesn’t look anything like the plans,” Brad said.
“Nope. There’s been a lot of activity at the house this week. Groceries coming in and lots, I mean lots, of beer.”
Devlin pointed to the plans. “There’s a detached garage with a roll-up door off the alley and a door that leads to the house. They moved some long tables into the garage yesterday. I’ll keep my guys in place. They’re rotating every three to four hours, changing clothes and cars.”
“They’ve been doing surveillance for five days,” Brad said. “They gotta be exhausted.”
“If this bust is as big as we think, they’d work for a month straight. Don’t worry about them.”
“I’ll brief TSU this afternoon,” Brad said. “Let them know to expect something big. We’ll be about twenty minutes away.”
“We’ll hit them when they’re asleep.”
Devlin called Brad—it was time for the raid. At 0415 hours, Brad’s team drove down the street to the command post. Cruisers blocked the road, uniformed officers stood, ready to turn back cars, sightseers, and the press. He led his team to Devlin. Each tactical cop was paired with a narcotics detective. They jogged to their assigned positions. Brad gave the order over the radio. “All teams, execute.”
As soon as Steele rammed the front door, lights lit up the yard, and a siren sounded. Shit. Brad’s team rushed into the house. “Police, search warrant!” His voice was drowned out by the noise.
Doors opened throughout the house and half-dressed men and women rushed for the exits. Nichols was bowled over by two men in shorts. As they reached the back door, Zerr dropped one with the butt of his rifle and a drug cop clotheslined the other.
Brad, Steele, and two narcotics cops walked down the hallway into the master bedroom.
“Don’t fucking move.” Brad flipped on the overhead light.
“What the fuck.” A large, bald man wearing boxers stood by the bed, a pair of jeans in his hand. He glanced at Brad then reached toward a pillow.
Brad stepped into the room, rifle pointed. “Don’t even think about it, White. I’ll blow your fucking head off.”
White glared at Brad.
“Now, shithead. On the floor. Slowly.”
White knelt. “You’re fuckin’ dead, asshole.”
“Hands on your head.”
White lifted his hands.
“That’s better.”
A drug cop stepped around Brad and pulled out his handcuffs.
The bed covers moved. Brad focused his gun on the bed and nodded at Steele. “Check it.”
Steele grabbed the sheets and yanked them back. Two naked girls screamed and curled into balls.
Brad glanced at White, who grinned.
“Get them dressed,” Brad said. “Then cuff them.”
“On your feet.” The drug cop pulled up on White’s arms. “Let’s go.”
“Like this?” White asked. “I need my clothes.”
“Fuck that,” Brad said.
The girls dressed and the drug cops pushed White and the girls out of the room.
Brad and Steele stepped into the hall and headed toward a second bedroom. A man, carrying a long object, spotted Brad and sprinted for the back door.
“Stop!”
The suspect didn’t break stride as he raced out the back door, past two uniformed cops, and down the alley. Brad gave chase. At the end of the alley, the suspect turned right and then left onto the street. Before the suspect got to the roadblock, he turned into a schoolyard, and disappeared as he rounded the corner of the school.
As Brad turned the corner, the suspect fired a shotgun. Brad felt the impacts on his chest. A second shot rang out—he was hit again. Brad dropped to the ground and scrambled back around the corner. Damn. Shit. He cautiously rose and peered around the corner. The suspect was running across the school playground. Brad pursued.
The shooter reached a chain link fence and started to climb. Brad gave a final push. Just as he thought he would make it, Steele raced past, ripped the shooter off the fence, threw him to the ground and handcuffed him.
Brad plopped onto the grass, gasping.
“I heard gunshots,” Steele said.
“Yeah, the fucker shot me twice with a shotgun.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No, the vest stopped the pellets.” Brad grabbed the fence and stood. “I had him you know.”
“Sure you did.”
Brad met up with Devlin outside the garage. “Steele said you’re shot.”
“Shotgun. The vest saved me.”
“Your shirt’s a mess and there’s blood on your arm.”
Brad looked at his arm. “Shit. A pellet or two must have missed the vest. Just a flesh wound.”
“All the same, get that checked. Follow me.”
Brad whistled as he entered the garage. “Wow!”
“It looks like we’ve got a deal with Pickens.”
One side of the garage was stacked with extra-large black garbage bags.
“Marijuana?”
“Yup.” Devlin grinned. “Nothing but the best B.C. has to offer.”
Brad looked around the garage. “Holy shit.” Two cargo vans were backed up to the garage doors. Cops were stuffing the vans with the bags of marijuana. “I’m not sure all those bags will fit into two vans.”
“Bitch of a problem to have.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Satan’s Soldiers’ Clubhouse
Wednesday Afternoon
Hehn rocked his chair back against the wall, as far away from flying pieces of wood as he could.
Perrault had picked up a chair and smashed it against the table repeatedly until all he had left was a jagged piece of the leg. “Those fuckin’ cops. Those rat bastard motherfuckers.”
“Easy, Jacques,” Morales said. “We’ll work this out.”
“Fuck,” Perrault said. “How much did we lose?”
“Everything,” Hehn said.
“Shit, I know that. Dollars. How much money did we lose?”
“Twenty-five,” Hehn said. “We paid for the cocaine up front. The Mexicans insisted. If we’d stiffed them, they’d cut our nuts off and feed them to us.” Hehn glared at Morales.
“Fuck you. That’s good business. If it weren’t for my connections, we’d be buying shit from Columbia.”
Perrault paced around the room. “What do we still owe?”
“About ten G’s for the BC bud,” Hehn said.
“Fuck.” Perrault held his head with both hands. “What do we have in reserve?”
“Not more than five thousand,” Hehn said. “We can’t pay for the grass.
Perrault threw the chair leg against the wall. “I’m gonna head to Montreal and get some cash. I’ve got connections with the Rock Machine Motorcycle Club. I’ll get them to stake us to until we make another score. Fucking cops. What about our guys the cops arrested?”
“The girls are out,” Morales said.
“I don’t give a shit about the hookers,” Perrault said. “White and his boys?”
“The boys got out this morning. They’re holding White, though—some outstanding warrant from Quebec. If the Quebec cops want him back, he stays in jail until they come and get him. If they don’t want him, he’ll be out tomorrow. Our lawyer is pretty sure the Quebec cops are glad he’s out west and won’t bring him back.”
Perrault slammed the table with the palm of his hand. “How’d the cops know? Are they following us again? Do we have a rat? Do we?”
“It wasn’t from us, boss,” Morales said.
“So how did the cops know about the shipment?” Perrault said.
“Won’t be the BC guys,” Hehn said. “They haven’t been paid.”
“Morales is tight with the Mexicans,” Perrault said. “That leaves the Jokers. They’re trying to put us out of business. They give a tip to the cops. We lose twenty-five grand and the drugs. We get raided and can’t meet the demand on the street. The Jokers charge more and make a fortune. Fuckers. We gotta stri
ke back at the Jokers.”
“Their clubhouse is a fortress, so that’s out,” Morales said.
“We hit them where they’re weak,” Perrault said. “Their south club. They travel as a group and they’re not as cautious as Keaton and his boys. We can get them at the Westgate Hotel bar. They come out drunk—easy pickings.”
“What about the cops?” Hehn asked. “I got some new information on Coulter. He’s got a girl. Real pretty, I hear. A schoolteacher.”
“We didn’t blow up his car, but he comes after us?” Perrault asked. “What the fuck is with that?”
“He thinks it was us,” Hehn said.
“I’ll send some boys over to have some fun with her,” Perrault said. “This can’t wait for White to get out.”
“What about LeBeau?” Hehn asked.
Perrault raised his eyebrows. “Lazy Lou? Not one of our brightest.”
“This doesn’t require smarts,” Hehn said. “Just a mean streak when it comes to the ladies. He’s put a few of our girls in the hospital. He likes it rough, really rough. It’s better if they put up a fight. He’s got a couple of prospects that he hangs with. Tell them this is their ticket into the club and a leather vest. They’ll be all over that.”
“You know where to find her?” Perrault asked.
“Yup.” Hehn smiled. “She’ll be at school tomorrow.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Thursday Afternoon
Sarah Park slid the English assignments into her carry bag and locked the tests in her desk drawer. She’d finish marking the tests tomorrow. Tonight would be a long night reading the students’ comparisons of the characters in The Lord of The Flies to society today. This will be interesting.
She closed the classroom door and walked down the empty hallway. Her back hurt from the explosion, like tiny needles digging deep. She was anxious to get out into the warm spring afternoon and put the nightmare out of her mind.
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