He pulled her close, hot water streaming onto them, arms encircling each other.
“Maggie,” he murmured, his soapy hands sliding over her ass. “God, how I missed you.” He pulled her tight, her breasts squished into his chest.
She kissed him, a hesitant peck that turned into hunger. “I missed you, too.” Their lips melted into one—her tongue searched out his.
Maggie eased away, and grabbed a bar of soap. This wasn’t their first shower, but the first in a long time.
“Oh, how I missed you,” Maggie whispered.
Their words mixed with the running water. Their mouths came together, exploring, searching, teasing.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Calgary Herald Sunday July 2, 1978
* * *
Good Old Boys or Evil Empire?
by Roger Kearse, Reporter, CFCN TV
Over the past three months, the city has seen an unprecedented rise in violent crime. Most of the violence is by outlaw motorcycle clubs. While the clubs, really organized crime, try to convince us they’re ordinary guys who like bikes, the evidence points in another direction.
In May, Russ and Denise Sutton were murdered in their Bankview home. Their eighteen-month-old son was left unharmed. Denise’s sixteen-year-old daughter, Annie, is still missing.
That night, four members of the Head Hunters Motorcycle Club were murdered in a barn on the city’s outskirts. No one was arrested. Later a drug dealer died in jail under suspicious circumstances.
Acting on a tip to police, the Tactical Support Unit raided the Satan’s Soldiers’ Clubhouse. However, no evidence of any criminal activity was found.
Keith Westin, a known associate of the Satan’s Soldiers, was found by police with extensive burns to his back—a blowtorch was used to burn off his Satan’s Soldiers tattoo. His arms and legs were broken. He later died in hospital under suspicious circumstances.
Deputy Chief Collins received information about the location of the bikers who killed the ex-biker. TSU raided a home reported to be a safe house for the Satan’s Soldiers. The house exploded when the police entered. Five TSU officers were injured. There have been at least four attempts to kill police officers.
On June 21, ten-year-old Paul Timmons died when a car bomb exploded in a Jeep belonging to a member of the Satan’s Soldiers. Paul was on his way home from school with friends when shrapnel from the blast struck him. He died shortly after in hospital, despite the valiant efforts of the paramedics. The Jeep's owner, Lou LeBeau, a member of the Satan’s Soldiers, died in the explosion. The list is extensive and disturbing.
That makes at least nine dead and countless injured in three months. You’d think by now the mayor, council, and police chief would be doing everything to stop this war. But no. We didn’t hear a word from the mayor for weeks. It was only when Paul Timmons was killed that our elected officials and the police made an official comment. Then, in what may be the biggest blunder ever, Deputy Chief Collins announced there’s an informant inside the biker gangs giving police information.
We may never know how many lives were snuffed out following the announcement.
You’d think this would be enough for coordinated action against the gangs. Think again.
What will it take for the leadership of this city to realize the bikers are fighting a war on our streets? Calgary is known for its hospitality and peace, not the Wild West where gunmen roam the city with impunity.
It’s time your voice was heard. Outlaw motorcycle gangs are organized crime. They import and sell drugs, control prostitution, often with teenagers, and run a protection racket. They are everything that is evil.
The mayor must support the police in taking decisive action against the Gypsy Jokers and the Satan’s Soldiers. They are a threat to our city. These criminals must be arrested. The courts must put them behind bars for life. The time for dawdling is over. Are you ready to man up, Mr. Mayor?
Chapter Fifty-Four
Tuesday Afternoon
Devlin munched french fries in the Eaton’s Center Food Court as office workers rushed in to grab lunch.
From behind, a voice said, “Is that seat taken?”
Devlin turned and faced Slim Pickens. Devlin waved his hand absently. “It’s yours. Go ahead.” He munched fries and watched the shoppers. “Bit risky for you here out in the open with me.”
“Yeah. Most bikers do their shopping here.” Pickens set a tray on the table and picked up a cardboard box. “Busy here today. I fit in, you, not so much.”
“Yeah.” Devlin glanced at Pickens in his dark blue business suit with a vest, white shirt, and red tie. “Nice suit.”
“Thanks. Don’t you ever get tired of jeans and a T-shirt?”
Devlin leaned close. “Don’t you ever get tired of being a scum-sucking, bottom-feeding prick?”
“And I thought we were friends.” He jabbed chopsticks into a carton, shoveled in a few bites and glanced past Devlin. “You guys pissed off Keaton big time. The newspaper article made him furious.”
“Breaks my heart.”
“Tough guy.” Pickens took another bite. “Except he’s not coming after you. Not today at least. Good chance your reporter buddy will be dead by the end of the day.”
Devlin stopped, fry halfway to his mouth. “What do you know?”
Pickens snatched some food from the box and chewed. He looked off into the distance. “It’s gonna be a car bomb like Lazy Lou.”
“When?”
Pickens glanced at his watch. “The bomb is already in place.”
After Devlin’s call, Brad raced to the St. Louis Hotel. Good chance Kearse was in the bar. On the way he called Nichols to bring his bomb disposal gear. He put EMS and Fire on standby and had cruisers block intersections. A couple of cops found Kearse in the bar and his car parked out back. Uniformed cops faced away from the parking lot, keeping the gawkers back, while others evacuated the bar. It was a challenge rousting the patrons who rented the rooms by the hour.
The press corps was out in full force with cameramen circling, scrambling for the best location. Kearse was standing with Brad when Briscoe approached.
Briscoe had his usual pissed-off, why-are-you-bothering-me look. “Shoulda known this circus was your doing.”
“Nice to see you, too,” Brad said.
“This better be good.”
“Always is.”
“We still talking about a car bomb?” Briscoe asked.
“Yup, got a tip. Kearse made a few enemies this week.”
“You think the information is good?” Briscoe asked.
“Always.”
“What’s the drill?”
“We’ll get Nichols in the bomb suit,” Brad said. “He’ll check the car. It there’s a bomb, he’ll either defuse it or blow it up.”
“You can’t blow up my car,” Kearse said. “It’s paid for.”
“I don’t think we’ll have to blow it up,” Brad said.
Nichols waddled over in the bomb suit, looking like a green Michelin Man.
Brad lifted his radio. “You ready?”
The hooded head nodded.
“Then let’s do it.”
Nichols lumbered over to the maroon 1972 Pontiac station wagon and circled the car.
Brad turned to Briscoe. “Have EMS and Fire move a little closer.”
Briscoe sent one of his constables to talk to EMS and Fire. Briscoe pointed to Nichols. “He know what he’s doing?”
“I think so. We should be okay.”
“That’s real fuckin’ comforting,” Briscoe said.
Nichols knelt by the driver’s door and took out a mirror on an expanding wand. He slid the mirror under the car and moved it back and forth under the engine.
Nichols’ voice came over the radio. “I’ve got it. Dynamite. It’s attached to the starter. Give me a couple of minutes.”
Nichols pulled tools from his kit. With slow, deliberate motions, he knelt and then slid under the car—only his head, arm, and one sho
ulder fit. Nichols shuffled for position. His heavy breathing grew louder over the open mic. They heard a metallic clang.
“Fuck.”
“Everything okay?” Brad asked.
“Yeah. No room. I dropped the pliers. They tucked it pretty far up. It’s a stretch.”
“If you can’t do it, back out.”
“I’ve almost got it.”
A minute became two, with Nichols breathing heavy, grunting and cursing—often.
Brad glanced at EMS and the firetrucks parked two blocks away. Cops no longer had to push people back at the barricades. The longer Nichols worked under the car, the quieter it got.
At five minutes, Brad was ready to order Nichols out when his voice came over the radio, “Got the fucker.”
Nichols slid out from under the car and gave a gloved thumbs up. He rolled from his back onto his knees with the grace of an upside-down turtle. The crowd applauded. Nichols placed the dynamite in an explosion-proof container, secured the lid, and waddled back.
Brad helped him remove his helmet and loosened the cumbersome bomb suit.
“Not real complex,” Nichols said, still puffing. “Four sticks of dynamite and a simple circuit to the starter. Turn the ignition and boom.” Nichols threw his arms into the air.
Kearse jumped and the color drained from his face.
Chapter Fifty-Five
Saturday Afternoon
Brad and Maggie strolled through Bowness Park. Lobo heeled to Brad’s left, no longer needing a leash. Lobo was older and wiser and knew his reward would come.
“Are you making any progress on the bikers?”
“No, it’s getting worse. I need to do things differently. I need to think like a biker if we’re going to defeat them. Playing by the rules isn’t working.”
“Won’t that make you as bad as them?”
“I don’t see an option,” Brad said. “We can’t catch a break. We’re always too late. We can’t find Annie. She’s just vanished. Every cop in the city is looking for her. Nada. If she’s still alive no telling what horrors she’s enduring.”
“We both want to save everyone. Sometimes you can’t.”
“I’m not giving up. Not yet. There has to be a way to find her. I just haven’t figured that out yet. But I will.”
Maggie stopped walking and turned to Brad. “I worry about you. You take on way too much. Worse now that you’re a sergeant. You need to share the responsibility. Who do you rely on?”
“Devlin, my team, sometimes Briscoe.”
“They’re all good guys,” Maggie said. “Courageous, highly skilled—the best. Use them, talk to them. Don’t go vigilante because you think it’s the right thing to do. That didn’t work so well at the T & C.” She grabbed Brad’s shoulders and pulled him close. “You’re even back to an old girlfriend.” She kissed him.
“Don’t be hard on yourself,” Brad said. “You’re not that old.”
Maggie punched Brad on the chest. He grabbed her wrists.
Lobo barked.
Maggie twisted her arms free. “You’re lucky you have your guard dog here, or you’d be in trouble.”
“He was encouraging you. He likes you more than me.”
“That’s because I’m more lovable. We’re not scared of you. We see through that tough cop bullshit.”
“You both should be scared of me.”
Maggie laughed and grabbed his hand.
“I’m glad you and Lobo still come to the park,” Maggie said. “Does he still fetch rocks?
“Oh, yeah. That’s still his favorite sport.”
“So, did you bring your other girls here?”
Brad glanced at Maggie and saw the twinkle in her eyes.
“Of course, they loved watching Lobo fetch, snuggling close with me on the rock.”
“What!”
“You started this. You’re the only girl I’ve brought to this spot.”
“Swear?”
“I swear.”
At the far end of the park, Lobo bounded into the backwater from the Bow River. He dove below the surface, came up with a rock, dropped the rock at Brad’s feet, and sat. Brad picked up the rock and threw it into the water. “Fetch it.”
Lobo bounded into the water and dove. In a few seconds, he was back with a rock.
“Do you still think it’s the same rock every time?” Maggie asked.
“I’m sure. Sometimes I mark the rocks.”
“Strange dog,” Maggie said.
“Smart dog.”
Brad sat with Maggie on a large boulder for the next twenty minutes and threw the rock for Lobo.
“Maggie, we need to talk.”
“This sounds serious. Are you breaking up with me?”
“Yes, well, no. It’s just that this stuff with the bikers is dangerous.”
“I know that. You know what you’re doing.”
“I don’t mean just for me, but you, too. These bikers are different from any criminals I’ve dealt with. They’re killers, ruthless, amoral men. They know all about Devlin and me—all of TSU, too. They knew about Sarah, and it won’t be long until they know about you. If they don’t already know about us, they will, soon. Maybe we should cool things down until this is over.”
Maggie stepped to the water’s edge and stared. Then she picked up some rocks and threw them. Lobo jumped up and dove after them. She walked back and stood in front of Brad.
“I know it’s dangerous. Maybe we take a break for a few weeks. But once this biker crap is over, then what? It’s drug dealers or murderers or rapists. You’ll always be in the middle of something. That’s who you are. If we’re going to be together, then we both need to accept the risks. I know what I’m getting into. So, no, you can’t dump me.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
Brad nodded, then glanced at his watch. “All right. Time to go.”
“What’s the rush?”
“I have a special treat for you.”
Chapter Fifty-Six
Brad parked in the police association parking lot.
“We’re going to The Cuff?” Maggie asked. “That’s not exactly my idea of a treat.”
Brad took her hand. “Nope, not The Cuff.” He led her across Sixth Avenue toward the police headquarters.
“Is this bring-your-girlfriend-to-work day?”
Brad rolled his eyes. “Just shut up and come with me.”
Maggie grabbed his arm and pulled him close. She whispered, “If you wanted to play cop and bad guy, we could have done that at your place.”
Brad unlocked the back door in the alley and led Maggie to the elevator. They got out on the fifth floor.
Maggie scrunched her nose. “This place smells funny.”
“Gunpowder and lead,” Brad replied.
“Where are we?”
“The gun range.”
“Why’re we here?” Maggie asked.
Brad opened a door. Briscoe stood inside the room, his usual smirk on this face. “Mags, glad you could make it. Happy birthday.”
“How’d you know?”
He pointed at Brad.
“I thought he’d forgotten,” Maggie said. “He didn’t say a word today.”
“That was the plan,” Briscoe said. “I’m your present.”
“Really?” Maggie’s eyes moved from Briscoe to Brad.
“Well, sort of.” Brad handed Maggie a gift-wrapped box.
Maggie raised an eyebrow. “It’s heavy.” She tore off the wrapping paper, lifted the lid and stared into the box. “Seriously? A gun?”
“Not just any gun,” Briscoe said. “It’s a CZ75. It’s made in Czechoslovakia. I bought it for my wife, but she won’t touch guns. It’s small, not a lot of recoil. It’ll be perfect for you.”
“I could use Brad’s gun or yours for target shooting.”
“Brad’s got a Browning 9mm,” Briscoe said. “It’s heavy and has a lot of recoil. You wouldn’t like it. As for my gun, it’s a Smith and Wesson Model 10,
.38 caliber revolver. Street cops use it.”
Brad laughed.
“Okay, it’s a .357 magnum. It looks like the .38, but more powerful. I could get you a .38 with a short barrel—that’s what the detectives use—but the CZ is superior. Brad’s off-duty gun is a CZ.”
Maggie glanced at Brad. “Well, this birthday gets better and better.”
“Don’t be too hard on the guy,” Briscoe said. “Tonight, I’m gonna teach you how to shoot.”
“Are you two serious?” Maggie watched the two men. “You’re serious. You said the bikers might come after me so you’re teaching me to shoot?”
“Yup,” Brad said. “I hope you never have to use the gun, but I’ll feel better knowing you could.”
Maggie looked from Brad, to Briscoe, then to the gun. “Okay, let’s get started.”
“Great,” Briscoe said. “First, gun safety.”
Briscoe spent the next twenty minutes going over gun safety and making sure Maggie was comfortable with the gun. Brad moved farther down the range and worked on his shooting.
Maggie and Briscoe spent an hour shooting.
Brad watched Maggie. After one shot, the ejected case flew back and down the front of her shirt. Maggie let out a little yelp but calmly set down the gun. Brad smiled, impressed.
Briscoe brought the target back.
Maggie beamed. “This was fun. I’m pretty good, aren’t I?”
“Not bad,” Brad said.
Briscoe pulled the target off the frame and set it on the table. “Real nice, close grouping. Good job.”
“Briscoe does not give praise easily, especially when it comes to shooting, so you should be proud.”
“That’s true,” Briscoe said. “You wouldn’t believe the problems I had with your boyfriend. It took me months to straighten him out.”
“So, I’m ready for anything now?” Maggie asked.
“Not even close,” Briscoe said. “We did some target shooting tonight. That’s for learning to shoot and the Olympics. When you’re shooting a person and not a paper target, a lot changes. But with what you learned tonight, you could defend yourself if needed. That’s what Brad wanted.
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