“Not alone, brother,” Doug said, reaching out to grip Williamson’s shoulder on instinct. “I got your six.”
“Thanks, man.” Williamson tipped his chin as he gulped at the hot coffee, seemingly impervious to any stinging from the steaming beverage. Doug heard a buzz and Williamson pulled his phone out, a smile flashing across his face. “Missus. Gotta take this.” With no more than that, he turned and put the phone to his ear, affection in his tone as he greeted his spouse with, “Dionna, hey, baby. What’d the doc say?” Missus. Fucking cute.
Doug turned back to the coffee urn and refilled his mug. So, we get rid of one guy, and up pops another piece of shit to take his place. It’s like fucking Groundhog Day.
Scrolling through his e-mail before clocking out for the day, one subject line stood out, because it contained the dirty politician’s name coming up for the second time that day. Doug opened it to find a report attached from one of the detectives in Indy who had worked the man’s death. It was a witness account of an attack that had happened in an alley close to the river where Sullivan had died. The witness had seen three men cage the smaller man against a wall, have an intense conversation that ended with what was assumed to be Sullivan on his back, unmoving. The witness, who was a homeless guy tucked into a dark corner of the alley, claimed he’d seen the three men carry Sullivan to the edge of the river, roll him into the water, then turn and walk away. Of greatest interest was the witness’s description of the men’s clothing, which included dark vests with skull patches sewn to the back. He’d given a good description of the Rebel Wayfarers patch.
Doug stared at his screen for a moment, then mind made up, quickly composed a response dismissing the witness’s claims. Notoriously inconsistent with actual events, given the distance of the witness from the encounter, level of darkness, the likelihood of alcohol or substance abuse in play, and the fact the coroner’s report didn’t list any injuries on Sullivan consistent with what the witness claimed, Doug soon found himself believing his own words. He had to, because otherwise what he was doing was a felony. I’m a fucking cop, for God’s sake.
He reread his response, tidied up some of the language, then did a quick records search on the witness, finding the coup de gras, several arrests for public intoxication and possession. Adding that info to his e-mail, likely something the Indy detective already knew, Doug hit Send, knowing he’d just buried the true events under a pile of steaming bullshit.
After work, he went home and changed into a tee and jeans, slipping his feet into the already well-worn biker boots. Outside he didn’t pause, didn’t hesitate before climbing on the bike and starting the engine with a tiny smile on his face, the first of the day. At the Rebel clubhouse, he knocked and waited on the back porch to be let in or turned away. I don’t have a place here, yet. The longing was strong for that place to be set in stone and he made a decision. I can be both, he promised himself. But, can I, really?
The door opened, and Winger grinned at him, motioning him inside. Doug paused, keeping the toes of his boots on the edge of the threshold. Suddenly, it was imperative he knew the answer before he took that step. Winger stared at him expectantly. This wasn’t the first time Doug had been to the clubhouse, so his reluctance at entering would definitely ring a warning bell, telling Winger this visit was different.
For another moment he stayed there, literally standing on the outside of where his heart pulled him to be. Inside were men he already called brother in his head, men he would put himself at risk to save, even if they never knew he already had. He was outside looking in, and wanting. God, he wanted so bad it was hard to breathe. Without greeting Winger, without even a first hello to break the silence, he blurted, “Can a man like me find a home here?” Bald need threaded through his words, and he didn’t try to hide it. “Do I have to choose?”
Winger’s chin dipped towards his neck and a solemn expression formed, his smile fading quickly as he nodded. “You do, son. I won’t lie. What you’ve got so far, with us…with the RWMC? That’s all you’ll ever have as long as you’re hiding behind a badge. Cops and clubs, we don’t mix.”
Unexpected pain ripped through Doug and he bent over, hands on his knees, struggling to catch his breath. “Son.” Winger’s hand rested between Doug’s shoulder blades, steadying him. “It’s a life-changing decision, and it’s all on you.” Eyes focused on the boards between his boots, Doug nodded in understanding. It’s all on me. An image of his computer screen flashed across his thoughts, the words of his investigation-derailing e-mail echoing through his head and he realized he’d already made his decision.
Pushing upright, he stared Winger in the eyes, holding the man’s gaze for a long moment. “It’ll take me about six months to leave the force. I’ve got things in motion I need to see through to the end.”
“Kind of man you are, that’s not a surprise.” Winger lifted one shoulder, then let it drop. “What happened today to push you to this, Lawman?”
“That’s what I came to tell you.” He lifted a foot, then hesitated. “Probably should let Mason know I’m here before we talk.”
“It’s like that, is it?” Winger’s gaze was steady, and Doug nodded, finding himself calmed by Winger’s confidence. “All right, son. Come on in. We’ll get set up in the office.”
Doug followed Winger through the door, pulling it closed behind him, shutting out the rest of the world.
***
“Tatum, need you in the conference room in fifteen.” The captain didn’t wait for his response, just turned and walked out of the squad room where they went over the day’s assignments. Doug turned to look at his newest partner, who shrugged. His status of being an over-the-top white knight earned him a new partner every few weeks or months, as men requested to be cycled elsewhere. Their fears his reputation would rub off were probably real, and he honestly couldn’t blame them. It still sucked trying to learn a new partner and build trust, knowing they’d be bailing in no time.
The door was closed when he approached so he paused and rapped on the surface with a bent knuckle, waiting until he heard a clear, “Come in,” to enter. He swept the room with his gaze, recognizing a few of the men, but most were strangers to him. Credentials pinned to their pockets named them as IPD and the sight of those in this precinct gave him pause. He would never have a good relationship with his own crew here in Fort Wayne, but from his experience, the Indy boys were better to deal with any day of the week.
There were stacks of papers on corners of the main table, a scattering of maps and folders across the surface. In the corner was a blank whiteboard, and Doug expected it had been flipped before he came in, knowing the other side wouldn’t look as pristine.
His gaze flicked across the names he could see. Doug recognized two of them and nodded, receiving brusque nods in return. “Tatum,” the captain said, “this is a need-to-know conversation, but you’ve dealt with this kind of criminal element before, and I want to take advantage of your expertise.”
Scratching the side of his nose with one nail, he tipped his head to the side and waited for a beat, but that was all the captain said. “Okay.” Another beat, and Doug followed with a cautious, “Wanna read me in?”
One of the IPD reached to the board and spun it around and an instant later, Doug was struggling not to react, because it felt like someone had sucker punched him right in the gut. Pictures were affixed across the top of the board, black and white surveillance images blown up so much the detail was grainy. But he could easily discern the identities of the men captured in those photos. Mason, Winger, and Bingo, along with four more RWMC members he knew casually.
He kept his gaze on Winger’s face as the men in the room laid down their case for the planned operation. RWMC were implicated in serious efforts to shut down a drug dealer’s network, using whatever means necessary short of murder. Arson, physical confrontation, intimidation, threats—the litany went on and on until Doug wondered who the cops were trying to convince of their justification. IPD
would be working a joint op with Fort Wayne, hitting clubhouses in both towns to put the Rebels off-balance, hoping to scoop up incriminating evidence from their searches.
There was some question about whether they’d get a judge to sign the warrants, but the captain seemed to believe he had that in the bag, so they were down to the timing of everything. Doug still wasn’t certain why he was in the room at this point in the game. Earlier would have made sense with his involvement in the gang and organized crime task force. But, not involving him at all would have made sense, too, and given the odd timing, he had to wonder if any one of these men knew where he spent most evenings and every weekend. Or if all of them did.
They’re trying to set me up. It was the only thing that made real sense. As a cop, it would be acceptable to leverage what they’d consider misplaced loyalties to expose personal associations with the RWMC. Then the department would no doubt take what they learned and force-quit him from the PD. Fuck.
“Tell us about California.” The captain had his arms folded across his chest, fingers tucked into opposing pits to hold them in place. “You and the task force out there were highly effective, and you learned a lot. Tell us what to expect when we go inside.”
Doug had to make a snap decision. Downplay his knowledge and imply all the glowing reports of his work in Cali were lies and puffery, or risk giving these toads one single slice of real information they might bend and use against his brothers. No real decision there. “Oh, man. Midwest clubhouses are no big deal. They’re more like a college fraternity than anything else. Cali would be a different story, but from what I’ve seen around here it’s just beer, booze, and broads. Probably the most you’ll find is some weed so you might catch a with-intent charge for some poor idiot who didn’t know to keep it home.”
The bulging eyes of an IPD told him he had made the right decision. If he’d tried to play it closer to the truth, they’d have known in an instant where he was holding back. By making it seem he’d never seen the inside of a CH, he gained some believability for innocence in what he knew he would have to do.
“You sure about that, Tatum?”
He nodded, lips twisted to the side. “Yeah, think neighborhood treehouse for big boys. I don’t know what line of shit you’ve been fed, but they’re no big deal. The only thing we’ll have to worry about is if they’ve lost the key to the liquor cabinet. It’s not like they’re bangers or anything. You know how those weekend warriors are. They want to pretend to be big dogs, but they’ll all be lyin’ behind the bushes under the front porch when shit comes to town. Nothing to worry about.”
Ten minutes later he was in the bathroom splashing water on his face and trying to bring his racing breaths under control. I’ve got to let them know. He wasn’t an idiot. He knew the RWMC was an outlaw motorcycle club, with all that implied. But the men who rode under their patch were people who mattered, and if they wanted to clean up a drug dealer’s trash, why would anyone else want to punish them for taking care of shit the cops didn’t? Because it makes them look bad.
That’s what it came down to in the end. Saving face for the detectives who couldn’t manage to squeeze out the drug trade in the city’s inner circle, while the Rebels accomplished the feat in less than six months. They’d built a steadily increasing buffer of real estate where the streets were safe and clean, where citizens could go about their lives without worrying about a car crawling up the street, or without answering their door with a gun in hand. They’d taken a neighborhood from a state of fear and desperation to growing prosperity—and the politicians who supported the cops couldn’t stand it. Made them question the money they’d poured into the fraternity, and the higher ups refused to see that faucet close. Keep it flowin’, boys.
That night he bypassed the front parking lot of the bar where he’d spent so many hours drinking. Doug eased his bike around to the rear and backed into a shadowed spot near the dumpsters. Inside the door, he stepped to the side, out of sight of the bar’s security cameras and a moment later found the man he needed. With a lift of his chin, he gained Bingo’s attention. A quick tip of his head towards the door had the older man on his feet in a moment. They met in the back lot, where fifteen minutes later it was done, and Doug took a deep breath for the first time in hours.
A month later when the warrants were finally signed and served, searches of the two clubhouses turned up nothing more incriminating than a printout of a map showing the reclaimed territory drawn in bold marker, with an additional twelve-block outline stating the club’s intent to expand. The note on the map reportedly said by whatever means necessary. Doug didn’t know for certain; he never saw it.
***
“Heard about the busted bust, man. That sucks.” Doug turned to see Kirk Schwartz, a detective he’d been paired with last year, standing behind him, hand on the stack of paper cups.
Doug stepped to the side, carefully blowing across the top of the coffee in his hand. He nodded, trying to mask his lack of heartbreak at the botched investigation and raids led by the IPD.
Schwartz followed him. “Bunch of fuckin’ criminals, they should all rot.”
Hot liquid slopped over the top edge of the cup and Doug hissed. “What?” He reached and gathered up a handful of napkins, wiping down his fingers and the cup, squatting to swipe at the dark spots on the floor. He shook his head, muttering, “If there’s nothing there, there’s nothing there.”
Shoes approached from the side, and he glanced up to see another of the many past partners standing next to the coffeepot, Dominic Vogel, a good cop he’d enjoyed working with. Before he could greet him, Schwartz continued to run at the mouth. “I see ‘em on the highway? I run the bastards off the road. Let ‘em sail the ditch, man.” He made a noise probably intended to sound like a motorcycle in freefall, engine revving. With a laugh, he clipped out, “Ride that, bitch.” Doug’s eyes met the startled gaze of Vogel, and he struggled to school his expression. Tone abrasive, Schwartz said, “World’d be better without that trash.”
Pushing to his feet, he carefully set down his cup and tossed the damp paper napkins into the nearby trash can. Pain bloomed in his jaw and he forced his muscles to unclench the tiniest bit. Just enough to get his words out, because nothing in him would let a statement like that stand. It wouldn’t have mattered if he were friends with the Rebels or not, but him becoming brothers to those men—it couldn’t stand.
“I know you didn’t just stand here and freely admit to committing attempted vehicular manslaughter.” Schwartz’s face blanched, and Doug shook his head. “‘You have the right to remain silent.’ Is that what you want to hear? Because that’s where I’ll take this if you open your goddamned fucking mouth around me again. You want to go there, buddy…make no fucking mistake, I’ll go there with you.” The man’s face whitened even more, and his mouth gaped open like a fish in a dry bucket. “If anyone’s a lowlife piece of trash in this scenario, from where I’m standing, it’s you.”
Turning on his heel, he stalked away, hearing the rising buzz of noise in his wake, only now aware of how silent it had been in the room while he’d shouted at his fellow detective.
This is the kind of bullshit these men who had taken oaths to serve and protect brought to the table? These are the kind of men I want to work alongside?
If he quit the force, he’d have nothing. He hadn’t been on the job long enough to qualify for any kind of retirement, and knew he didn’t have any other marketable skills. Security guard? He bit the inside of his cheek and shuddered. Maybe there was a security firm who needed an investigator.
Fuck.
Line in the sand
Doug woke and blinked, staring into the darkness inside his bedroom, frantic heartbeats booming in his ears. Straining to hear, he tried to decide what had startled him from sleep, but all was quiet. Stupid dreams. With a soft groan, he turned to his side facing the door and settled the covers around him. Shuffling one leg around, he draped the sheet and blanket so he had a foot and calf expos
ed, then sighed and closed his eyes, ready to try and find sleep again.
Snick.
It was the smallest of noises. Tiny and unremarkable, except it was out of place. Someone might mistake it for two coins clicking together in a pocket, maybe. Or perhaps keys giving a single rattle on a keyring. But Doug knew it was the latch on his bedroom door sliding free of the frame. His eyelids flew up again and he glared fixedly at the door. In the darkness, he could see movement, and realized it was slowly swinging open enough to let a widening sliver of dim light ease into the room. That illumination highlighted the shape of a person, seen as a darker shadow that slipped between the edge and the doorframe. He tracked the movement, noting the broad shoulders and long arms on the figure. A man, tall and big.
Shit.
Arms shaking with the effort it took to hold motionless, he let the figure drift closer to the bed, the soft brush of footsteps on the floor scarcely audible. Still only a blurry outline against the bedroom walls, Doug couldn’t determine if there were weapons present in either hand, but knew he had to assume something. There was no way someone would break into the apartment of a cop without having a plan in place.
Three more steps.
He began a countdown as he studied the movements, not as smooth as he’d first assumed, the figure was as hampered by the lack of light as Doug, heel and toe of each foot searching for solid and quiet ground. Another step.
Doug watched as the figure drew back one hand, shifting their grip on a dark bar that seemed to appear out of nowhere, adjusting their hold until a knife was clearly visible and angled down into a stabbing position.
Grasping the top edge of his blanket, Doug settled into quietness as he waited for the final footfall. Time seemed to stand still as a heavy silence rang in his ears. Doug drew a final steady and quiet breath before exploding up off the bed. Folding his leg under him, he threw the covers behind him, and in the same movement grasped the center of the unused pillow on the other side of the bed. Bringing it in front of him when the man’s arm arced downwards, he met the swing of the knife with the pillow, feeling a stinging slice across the backside of his wrist as the knife punched through. With a twist of the fabric, he failed at his attempt to drag the blade out of his assailant’s grip, urgently clutching at the man’s other hand. Doug stepped in close and bent grasping fingers back with a vicious yank, continuing his attack until he heard the sound of knuckles giving up their place with brittle popping noises. Tightening his hold, he ground the bones together, danced a half step to the side, and pulled his attacker off balance. The man reacted violently, cursing sharply as he drew the knife back for a second swing.
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