Outlaw MC

by Dwayne Clayden

  Chapter Sixty

  Friday Afternoon

  Brad stepped into his office to ringing—he grabbed the phone. “Coulter.”

  “Are you alone?”

  “Yeah, who’s this?”

  “Your friend. I heard you had some excitement after I saw you last.”

  “You son of a bitch. Fucking grenades!”

  “Whoa, slow down. I’ve told you before, I don’t have a beef with you.”

  “Fuck, really? I should believe you? What about your boss?”

  “If I knew you were in danger, I’d let you know. We have to trust each other. Isn’t that a bitch?”

  “What do you want?” Brad asked.

  “The Jokers run a tattoo parlor at Edmonton Trail and Twenty-Seventh. If you’re lucky, you might find drugs, hookers, and who knows what. They’re always busy on Friday night.”

  “This is legit?”

  “You bet, and that’s not all.”

  “Huh?”

  “Soldiers’ president Jacques Perrault flew to Montreal a couple of days ago to schmooze his former biker club, the Rock Machine. He’s desperate for cash. You guys hurt him bad. Tomorrow night Angel Morales will meet with his Mexican contact and exchange those dollars for drugs.”

  “Two for the price of one,” Brad said.

  “Double the price, though. I’ll expect twenty grand—one more thing. Perrault and Keaton will want revenge. Then you’ll have both clubs pissed. Watch your ass. Sweet dreams.”

  Chapter Sixty-One

  2200 hours Friday Night

  The tattoo parlor, a converted house, was located on the corner of a busy intersection. A stealth approach would be challenging. Brad and Steele had good cover, across the alley, and quick access to the back door. The rest of the team, Zerr, Ames, and Nichols, would storm the front door. Uniformed cops would back them up and handle the arrests.

  He could barely make out Kearse and his cameraman across the road at a service station. Archer wanted Kearse to accompany TSU. Brad had argued to have Kearse go with another team. But Brad wasn’t going to win an agreement with a deputy chief.

  “Be nice,” Brad said. “The press is watching.”

  When the team was in position, Brad gave the order. “Execute.”

  Brad and Steele raced to the back door. Brad knocked lightly. Seconds later Steele swung the ram. The lock and frame shattered. Brad tossed two flashbangs into the building. They turned their backs to the door and closed their eyes. White light flashed from the living room as the devices exploded. Steele followed Brad into the tattoo parlor. A man and a woman seated in chairs rubbed their eyes. Tattoo artists leaned against the chairs. A woman seated at a desk stared blankly past the cops. Three other women, dressed in short skirts and tube tops, and wearing gobs of makeup sat dazed on a couch.

  “Get on the floor,” Brad said. “Everyone, now. On the floor.”

  Zerr shouted from the back hall. “Three heading your way.”

  A bearded biker stormed into the room from the hallway and was tackled by Steele.

  Two more bikers followed. Brad yelled, rifle pointed. “On your knees.” They stopped, raised their arms, and dropped to the floor.

  Brad nodded to a couple of uniformed cops. “Take these shitheads out to the wagon. “Steele, let’s check the basement.”

  Brad carefully stepped down the stairs. At the bottom, he glanced around the corner and saw movement at the far side. Brad felt the rush of cool air. “He’s going out the cellar doors. I’ll follow. Go back up the stairs and catch up to me out back.”

  The cellar doors slammed shut. Brad raced up the steps and opened the doors that led to the backyard.

  Footsteps pounded ahead of him. He raced across the backyard to the alley and keyed his mic. “Steele, I’m in the alley.”

  The suspect was running half a block ahead and tossed something. Brad sprinted after him, closing the gap. Not this time.

  He was within five feet when a dark shape flew past. Then growling and screaming. Brad shone his flashlight on Neiko attacking the suspect.

  Garelli sprinted up. “Good boy, Neiko.”

  “I had him,” Brad mumbled.

  “Yeah, sure you did.” Garelli pointed to the suspect. “He had enough?”

  “Sure.”

  “Neiko, out. Out!” Neiko released the suspect’s arm, lay on all fours, and growled.

  Steele caught up to them. He held out an evidence bag. “I found this in the alley by the shed. Dumbfuck must have dropped it.”

  Brad slapped cuffs on the suspect and rolled him over. “Well, hello, Eldridge Hammond. I see you’ve met Neiko. Oh, and we found the gun you dropped.”

  “Fuck you, Coulter.”

  “Nice. We got all of that.”

  Brad turned to see Kearse and his camera crew. Oh shit.

  At same time Devlin sent his team down Seventeenth Avenue to arrest Satan’s Soldiers drug dealers and prostitutes.

  He had one target in mind. Angel Morales had the money from down east. If Pickens’ information was right, tonight Morales was making a big buy for the Soldiers from his Mexican contacts.

  Morales cruised the streets most nights making sure his dealers had enough product. He used a variety of vehicles to avoid detection. The key was to search for patterns, like a vehicle that passed by more than once. The street was busy with a lot of vehicle traffic, so finding that one car was like finding a needle in a haystack. To make it more difficult, the sky was cloudy and gray with a fine drizzle.

  By 2245 hours, Devlin hadn’t found a pattern. He was getting worried that he wouldn’t get his arrest when a Grand Prix drove past and pulled into a vacant parking lot a block ahead. He’d seen that car earlier. A truck pulled into the parking lot and stopped beside the Grand Prix. A man in a dark hoodie got out of the truck, grabbed a duffel bag from the back, and walked to the car. The driver got out of the car. Angel Morales.

  The two men stood at the back of the car. Morales opened the trunk, pulled out a gym bag, and exchanged it for a duffel bag. He closed the trunk. The men separated and walked to their vehicles.

  Devlin keyed his mic. “I need a team to hustle over to the parking lot on Seventeenth and Thirty-fourth. Stop a beat-up Ford truck, white over green and rust. Arrest the driver. He has a gym bag you need to seize.”

  “We’re thirty seconds away.”

  Morales slowly pulled away. Devlin started his car and followed.

  “We’ve got the truck in sight,” the team said. “Pulling him over now.”

  “Roger.”

  Morales gathered speed and raced through a yellow light. Devlin couldn’t lose the dealer. He blew through the red light. Damn.

  The Grand Prix accelerated, made a right onto Thirty-Sixth Street then another right onto Seventeenth Avenue.

  Devlin was made. He grabbed the red bubble light from the passenger seat and slapped it on the roof of the car.

  “Dispatch, Sierra 710 in pursuit, westbound Seventeenth Avenue SE from Thirty-Sixth Street. A red Grand Prix. I need backup.”

  “Roger,” dispatch said. “All units, 710 in pursuit.”

  Morales turned right and accelerated north on Deerfoot Trail. They were going close to one-hundred-forty kilometers an hour. Devlin felt his car slip on the wet road.

  At the Sixteenth Avenue exit, Morales veered right. As the ramp merged onto the avenue, the car hit some puddles and swerved. The driver tried to hold the vehicle through the curve as it fishtailed erratically. The front wheel clipped the curb. The car rolled at least three times then slid on its roof, coming to a stop in the middle of the road.

  Cars slammed on their brakes. A semi’s airbrakes kicked in, and the trailer slewed sideways. Somehow the driver avoided the overturned car.

  Devlin grabbed the mic. “Dispatch, 710. Suspect vehicle rolled on Sixteenth Avenue east of Deerfoot. Need EMS and Fire.”

  Devlin jumped from his car and ran to the Grand Prix. He smelled gasoline. He checked for an engine fire—none. He
knelt beside the driver’s door and peered in. The driver’s window was shattered, the steering wheel bent, the windshield a maze of cracks. Devlin shone a flashlight into the car. Morales was lying motionless in a heap on the inside of the roof. Devlin reached through the window and placed two fingers on the driver’s neck—no pulse. Seat belts save lives.

  He turned off the ignition and pulled out the keys. He walked to the back and opened the trunk. A duffel bag fell out. Inside he found bags of weed, foils of hashish, and hundreds of small baggies of white powder.

  He smiled, and from the darkest place in a cop’s mind, he thought, Well, at least I don’t have to do an arrest report.

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Provincial Courthouse

  Monday Afternoon

  Brad and Steele sat near the front of the courtroom. It was 1430 hours. They’d been there since 0930. Brad felt smug satisfaction watching case after case denied bail. They’d hit the biker clubs hard, and for once the court system was in support. He wasn’t under the illusion that all these guys would be found guilty at trial, but they were off the street for now, and that was a victory. They’d dealt a severe blow to the Gypsy Jokers and Satan’s Soldiers. Devlin’s drug team had arrested a dozen Soldiers’ dealers. Some were giving information on the supply chain. Devlin was tracking that lead now.

  Throughout the day, lawyers for the bikers petitioned the court to have the charges against their clients thrown out due to illegal searches, or police brutality. The lawyers were certainly putting on a show for their clients, but in the end, the lawyers had no success and their clients were remanded in custody.

  Maggie’s mom had invited Brad to dinner tonight. He’d been working for close to thirty-six hours. He hoped he could stay awake.

  Judge Ethan Gray presided and had listened as each arrest was brought forward, the charges read, and a plea entered: “Not guilty.” Then a request by the defendant’s lawyer to be released on bail. Gray refused bail in every case.

  Crown Prosecutor Matson slid the last file to the center of the table and flipped it open.

  The court clerk called out, “Eldridge Hammond.”

  Court guards brought the shackled Hammond to the prisoners’ docket.

  Matson stood, glanced at the file and read the charges. “Your Honor, the defendant was arrested last night in a tattoo parlor with controlled substances, including heroin, cocaine, and marijuana, in quantities consistent with trafficking. He was also in possession of a handgun and resisting arrest. Based on the defendant’s previous criminal record, and especially a failure to appear, we request that His Honor deny the request for bail.”

  The defense lawyer stood. “Your Honor. While the events of last night seem terrible, my client had no part in that. He was walking down an alley when he was chased. He didn’t know who it was. It’s a bad neighborhood, he feared for his life. That’s why he ran. As to the gun, well none was found in his possession. We also plan to sue the police for the unwarranted attack by a police dog. I humbly request that my client is afforded bail.”

  “Denied.” Justice Gray suppressed a yawn.

  The courtroom door opened. Brad glanced back as two men with scraggly hair and beards stepped halfway into the courtroom and stopped. They wore long coats on a warm summer day. Strange. Brad recognized the Gypsy Joker prospects from surveillance photos. The bikers scanned the courtroom. Hammond glanced back, then nodded toward Matson and Judge Gray.

  Brad elbowed Steele. “Something’s wrong.” They stood, eyes focused on the two bikers.

  The bikers reached into their coats, pulled out sawed-off shotguns, and aimed them at the front of the courtroom.

  Spectators screamed and rushed out the door, others pushed to the front of the courtroom.

  One gunman was bumped as he fired—the pellets striking the the wood panel below Judge Gray.

  Brad drew his pistol and fired two shots, blood spurted from the center of the shooter’s chest. Brad’s ears rang as two shots exploded at his right ear. The second biker fired his shotgun, then two red rings formed on his chest. The bikers dropped to the floor, shotguns bouncing off the carpet. The crowd, screaming, rushed to the front of the courtroom and pressed toward the exit.

  A court officer dragged Hammond out of the room. Another court officer grabbed Judge Gray by the arm. He shook the officer off and leaned into his microphone. His voice boomed over the public address system. “Ladies and gentlemen. Calm, please. Please calm down. Police have this incident under control. We will exit through this door to my left. Let’s be orderly, please. Thank you.”

  Brad and Steele rushed over to the gunmen. Steele moved the shotguns to a court officer. Brad checked each shooter for a pulse. He shook his head.

  Some spectators reversed flow when the exit next to the judge became jammed. They pushed past the two dead gunmen.

  Steele pointed to the front of the courtroom where the judge sat. The wood on the podium was cracked from the shotgun pellets. Too close.

  “You stay with the bodies,” Brad said. “I’ll let Archer know we’re involved in a shooting and ask for protection for the judges and prosecutors for the next week or so.”

  Internal affairs detectives interviewed Judge Gray first, then Matson.

  When Judge Gray came out, a couple of uniformed cops were assigned to take him home. They’d stay with him until Brad and Steele finished their interviews with IA.

  Zerr and Ames were assigned to take Matson home and stand watch until relieved later that night.

  It was Brad’s bad luck that it was the same IA detectives that interviewed him before. They tried to find holes in Brad’s description of the events. The incident was on security cameras, so Brad wasn’t worried. He waited in the hall for Steele.

  “Well, that was fun,” Steele said. “Why do I feel dirty?”

  “That’s what they do. Criminals are innocent until proven guilty. To the IA detectives, cops are guilty, period.”

  “Is this what I get for being your partner?”

  “You’d better get used to it. Let’s go. I’m taking you to dinner with Maggie’s parents.”

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Home of Judge Gray

  Monday Evening

  Maggie was late for dinner at her parents. Brad would be delayed, as well. She was seldom on time but tonight she had a good reason. Triaging and treating more than twenty-five people with various cuts and scrapes from the stampede during the shooting kept her working overtime. Finding Brad at the center of the attack was not much of a surprise. He was always in the middle of something. It was different this time as he had protected her father.

  She turned off Eighth Street and hit the gas, heading south on Prospect Avenue. Not that the quick acceleration was going to make her less late. She was stopped by two cops standing by their cruiser at the entrance to the driveway. They asked for ID, had her stand outside her car and ran her name through records. Finally, they were satisfied and let her pass.

  She parked in front of the garage, grabbed her backpack, and ran to the backyard. She opened the gate and Winston, her parents’ eight-year-old border collie, raced to her. She knelt, and he jumped, smothering her with licks.

  “Hey big guy, I’m happy to see you, too. Come on.”

  Winston padded along beside Maggie to the back door. She let Winston into the mudroom and dropped her backpack. She put her shoes on the boot rack and called out, “I’m here. Sorry I’m late.”

  “Your father already told me you’d be late, so I slowed things down,” Olivia Gray said.

  “It was crazy at the courthouse.” Maggie shook her head. “When the shots were fired in the courtroom, people panicked.”

  “What shots … what are you talking about? Your father said it was a minor disturbance. Ethan!”

  “Hello, cupcake.” Ethan hugged Maggie. “Glad you’re okay.”

  “You’re lucky you weren’t hurt, with all the shooting,” Maggie said.

  “Both of you, slow down,” Olivia
said. “What happened? And the truth this time.”

  Maggie glared at her dad. “Really, you didn’t tell Mom what happened?”

  “It’s over. No sense getting everyone upset.”

  “Ethan.”

  “Fine.” He told Olivia what had happened.

  Ethan walked over to Olivia and tried to hug her, but she pulled away. “Go away. Take your dog with you. I’ll let you know when dinner is ready.”

  “I’m sorry, Mom.”

  “That’s on your father. He thinks he has to protect me.”

  “Can I help with dinner?”

  “Sure, finish the salad. Everything you need is on the island.” Olivia mashed the potatoes aggressively. “I can’t believe two bikers with guns came into Ethan’s courtroom and shot at him. Thankfully the police were there.”

  “Yup. They killed both bikers.” Maggie paused. “Brad shot one of them.”

  Olivia stopped mashing the potatoes and turned to Maggie. “Brad? Your Brad? That boy is always in the middle of trouble.”

  “Yes, Mom, my Brad, and he is not a boy. He’s an experienced tactical officer.”

  “Well, it seems he’s always getting beat up or shot at or shooting someone.”

  “He saved dad’s life and probably the lives of many others.”

  “I’m glad he was there, but, well, I worry.”

  “I worry, too, Mom. Not as much as I used to. He can take care of himself.”

  “You’re protective of him. Now that you two are courting again, do you think it will last this time?”

  “We’re not courting. No one says that. We’re dating—I think. It might work this time. We both grew up a lot in the last couple of years.”