by Burke, Dez
She smiles and walks away, apparently satisfied with my answer.
“So what’s the deal with her?” Toby asks when she moves out of earshot. “Do you two have something serious going on?”
I laugh at the ridiculous thought.
“Hell no! Are you kidding me? Why? You want her? You can have her.”
Toby shakes his head and grins.
“No way. I don’t want your leftovers. A girl needs to have a little something more between her ears than that one anyway. Too much empty space.”
“If you’re going for brains, widen your search beyond the Sweet Butts,” I advise.
We head to a big room at the back of the building. The chicks hanging around the clubhouse know the room is off limits to everyone except the thirteen members of the Steel Infidels Motorcycle Club. All major club business and meetings are conducted inside.
We’re the last two to arrive for tonight’s meeting. My older brothers, Jesse and Flint, are already seated at the head of the long wooden table. The other nine members of the MC are scattered around the room waiting for us. They look up when we walk in.
“Take a seat,” Jesse says. “We don’t have time for any bullshit tonight.”
I pull out a chair beside Flint. The other members stop talking and join us at the table too. Jesse’s face looks grim, which makes me nervous. Nothing much rattles my older brother and President of the MC, so this can’t be good.
“We’re in a shitload of trouble,” Jesse begins. “One of Flint’s contacts in Atlanta passed us word that we’re under investigation again. This time it’s the Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives division. The ATF can nail us on a number of different charges if they start digging. We don’t have a clue as to what they have on us yet or how long we’ve been under their microscope. Flint knows more of the details, so I’ll let him fill you in.”
“The word on the street is that they’re going to send someone undercover to Bardsville to poke around in our business,” Flint says. “Whoever they send might even try to infiltrate the MC. For them to allocate this much manpower and time to an investigation means they’re confident they can find something solid. Obviously none of us want to go to prison, so we need to get a handle on this quickly and be prepared.”
He picks up the large manila envelope sitting on the table and pulls out a stack of photographs.
“Pass these around,” Flint says. “I want everyone to take a good look. If someone shows up undercover here, they will most likely be a member of this group. This is the field team of the ATF’s Special Agents division. Keep in mind they might change their appearance, so look at the shape of their eyes and facial features. The minute any of these people arrive in town, we need to know so we can cover our asses. Memorize these photographs.”
“How many do you think are coming?” Rocco, the oldest member of the MC, asks.
“Maybe a team of two, or it could even be a single agent working alone,” Flint replies. “It’s a small town, so if more than a couple of people show up and start asking questions, the locals will get suspicious.”
Flint passes the photos across the table to Rocco, who starts thumbing through them.
“What are the exact charges they’re trying to nail us on?” I ask.
Flint is a lawyer so if anyone knows how much trouble we’re in, it would be him.
“The fact that we’re selling bootlegged alcohol in a dry county would be the first and the most obvious illegal activity they would go after. And the cigarettes. Not only are we selling without a license, we’re also exporting hundreds of cases every week across state lines and not paying sales or excise taxes. I suspect the Georgia Department of Revenue is involved too since the two agencies work together. It’s not as if what we do is a big secret. Everyone in this town knows about it. Hell, half of the county’s citizens are our customers.”
“All it takes is one person to turn us in,” Jesse adds. “They probably already have. The alcohol and cigarette operation needs to be suspended until this blows over.”
“How the hell are we going to do that?” I ask. “We’ve been selling out the back of the tattoo shop for years. Toby and I are scheduled to pick up another shipment this week. Where are we supposed to store the inventory? We’ve made agreements with our suppliers that we can’t back out of, and the bottles are going to pile up to the ceiling.”
“I don’t think we have a choice here,” Jesse replies. “Either we temporarily shut it down, or the ATF is going to permanently shut us down. We’ll make it work somehow.”
“Isn’t there another way?” I argue. “Our customers are going to be so pissed when they show up Friday after work and we tell them that we’re closed for business. They depend on us.”
Flint shrugs.
“They’ll have to deal with it. The operation has to be shut down for now. Let’s just hope the ATF doesn’t know about any of the other stuff.”
“Like the guns?” Toby asks with a worried frown.
Jesse and Flint have been grooming him to take over the club’s gun running division since he came back to town. With his military experience, he is by far the most qualified man for the job.
“If we shut everything down, we take the chance of losing face with the other MCs, our suppliers, and our distributors,” Jesse says. “If at all possible, we need to keep the guns going.”
“I agree,” Toby says. “We’ll need to shake up our schedules though. I’ll alert the suppliers tonight.”
Rocco finishes with the stack of photos and slides them across the table to Toby. I glance over his shoulder while he leafs through the pile. Most of the photos are of middle-aged men with short hair, glasses, and dull facial features. They look like worn-out tax accountants. Toby slows down to look at a photo of a prim young woman wearing a tan business suit buttoned up to her neck.
“I bet she’s a lot of fun,” Toby says sarcastically.
I laugh and take a closer look. The woman’s long hair is pulled back into a bun. Wire-rimmed reading glasses cover part of her face. She isn’t wearing any jewelry or makeup. She reminds me of the girls in the high school Math Club. Then I notice something familiar about her eyes.
I grab the photo out of his hands to take a better look.
No way. It can’t be.
“Fuck!” I blurt out. “She’s already here. Damn it! I can’t believe this.”
Flint leans over and snatches the photo from me.
“Who? This girl?” he asks. “How do you know?”
“I’ve already met her. She had a flat tire up on the mountain and I stopped to help her out. Trust me when I say she doesn’t look anything like this now. She’s hot and sexy as hell. I wouldn’t have recognized her except for her eyes. I’m absolutely sure it’s her.”
“When was this?” Jesse asks.
“Yesterday,” I answer. “I was on my way back from my regular weekly cash drop.”
Flint jumps up and runs his hand through his hair, an old nervous habit of his when he’s stressed out.
“She set you up,” he says.
My mouth drops open and I stare at him in shock.
“No way! What are you saying? That she faked a flat tire?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. You were coming back from a weekly drop. The ATF must know your schedule. She was waiting for you and you fell right into her trap.”
I slump down in my chair. “Well, this sucks,” I say. “I can’t tell you how upset I am. I was planning on getting a piece of that sweet ass.”
“Sam!” Jesse snaps at me. “This is a serious situation. Quit thinking about chasing pussy.”
“Never,” I say.
“Wait a minute,” Flint says. “Hang on. Let’s think about this. Obviously the ATF has sent a girl specifically to target Sam. Now that we know about it, we have the upper hand. We can turn this around on them and use Sam to feed her false information.”
“So all hope is not lost then?” I ask, leaning forward. “Good. I feel
better already.”
“We all know Sam has an uncanny ability to seduce the ladies,” Flint continues. “Why would this chick be any different? I’m not saying you have to fuck her. Just pull her in with your boyish charm and keep her close. Try to find out exactly what they already have on us. You probably got her phone number, right?”
I shake my head. “No. I was trying to play it cool so I didn’t ask for it. I told her to swing by the tattoo shop while she is in town. Want me to try and find her?”
“Not yet,” Flint replies. “We need more info on this girl so we’ll know what we’re dealing with. I don’t want to send you into a bad situation running blind. Let me call my guy and see if he has anything else on her.”
Flint walks to a corner of the room and places a call.
“So what is she like?” Jesse asks.
I think for a moment.
“Edgy is the best way I would describe her,” I say. “Independent, smart-mouthed, feisty. She has this weird-colored hair. Not red, not purple, or pink. Kind of a mixture.”
“Magenta,” Toby says.
“What the hell is magenta?” I ask. “And big green eyes.”
I poke her photo in front of me.
“Her name is Lila, and she looks absolutely nothing like this now.”
“You need to think back,” Jesse says. “Did she have an opportunity to plant anything on you, like a surveillance device? Did she ask to use your phone or go near your bike?”
I shake my head slowly.
“No. I’m sure about both.”
Jesse sighs and leans back in his chair.
“I don’t like this one bit,” he says. “Especially the fact that they’re targeting you. Why would they do that?”
“Who else in the MC would they target?” I ask. “Think about it. You and Flint are happily married with babies. Toby has only been back in the country six months and is new to the MC. Rocco and Tom are old as shit.” I look over at the two oldest members and grin. “Sorry, but you know it’s true. Donny’s old lady has him pussy-whipped, and the rest of the crew are all tangled up with the Sweet Butts. I was the logical choice.”
“Plus you’re a sucker for a pretty lady,” Toby says. “Don’t forget that.”
“I am, and I’m not apologizing for it either.”
Flint clicks his phone shut and walks back to the table.
“I have a little bit more information about the girl,” he says. “And honestly I’m more concerned now than ever. Her real name is Delilah Ash. She’s twenty-six years old and lives in Atlanta. She was arrested at the age of seventeen for hacking a government website and served a few months in juvenile detention. After that, she went on to Georgia Tech, where she graduated in three years. The government recruited her right out of college and she’s been an employee of the ATF ever since.”
“Wait a minute!” I say. “She’s a hacker?”
“Was a hacker,” Flint replies. “She was involved with an older guy who taught her how to hack. Mostly it was minor stuff until they started hacking government websites and leaking secure information online. When they got caught, she took the fall for him because she was a juvenile. She served four months in juvie and he walked away scot-free. She hasn’t been in any trouble since then and according to her personnel file, she’s an outstanding employee for the ATF. Her specialty with them is surveillance...bugs, tapping cell phones, breaking into security systems. You name it, she can do it.”
“She’s here to plant surveillance devices, right?” Jesse asks. “So what would be her plan?”
“To get close to Sam,” Flint answers. “This would give her easy access to the tattoo shop, the clubhouse, and maybe even your house. If she was hanging around us, she would be able to find a way to monitor all of our cell phones and computers. If we hadn’t been warned, she could have easily pulled it off. It would have only taken a few casual dates with Sam to visit all these places and plant the bugs unnoticed.”
The room goes silent as everyone absorbs the seriousness of the situation.
“Okay then,” Jesse finally says. “If that is what she wants to do, we’ll make it easy for her. From this point forward, no one is to discuss club business unless you’re in this room or standing naked in the middle of a cornfield. Flint will give everyone new burner cell phones, and we’ll switch them out again in a few days. Under no circumstances can we call each other on our regular cell phones or landlines. We have to assume that she will be planting bugs everywhere. We can’t let the Old Ladies or Sweet Butts know what is going on, because they won’t be able to keep their mouths shut. You got it?”
Everyone nods in agreement.
Flint unlocks a file cabinet in the corner and takes out thirteen prepaid cell phones. He walks around the table and hands out the phones.
“I’ve already programmed them all with our new numbers to cut down on the confusion,” he says.
“Thank God!” I say. “What a mess that was the last time we all tried to switch to burner phones. Twelve new phone numbers to learn.”
Flint gives me a stern look.
“I’m concerned that you’re not taking this seriously enough, Sam. We’re depending on you to pull this off. It’s all on you now.”
“Okay,” I say, throwing up my hands. “I’ll be serious. Tell me what you want me to do.”
“She’s going to approach you again. When she does, act like she’s just another girl that you’re interested in. Ask her out, flirt, be yourself. We’ll let her plant the bugs and then we’ll make sure they don’t get anything useful on us. Pretend like you believe everything she says. Play along. Act stupid. But whatever you do, don’t trust her.”
“Damn, Flint! You don’t need to tell me not to trust her. I won’t. Don’t worry. I’ve got this one hundred percent under control. Personally, I’m concerned about your lack of confidence in me.”
A worried look passes between Jesse and Flint.
“What?” I say. “You don’t think I can do this?”
I stand up, take my wallet out of my jeans, pull out a hundred bucks, then throw it in the middle of the table.
“Who is a betting man? A hundred bucks says I can get this girl to spread her legs for me within seven days.”
The men burst out laughing.
“I’m not taking you up on that bet,” Toby says. “No way in hell. I work too hard for my money.”
“Me either,” Rocco adds.
“Jesse?” I ask.
“Not me, little brother,” Jesse says. “I’ve seen you in action too many times.”
All the other men shake their heads as I glance around the table.
“That only leaves you, Flint,” I say “Want to bet against me? I’ll even sweeten up the pot. Go to two hundred. Come on! I want to win some money. Make a bet with me.”
Flint grins and slaps me on the back.
“I would never bet against one of my brothers. You got this. Make us proud, lover boy. Go do your thing.”
Chapter Four
Lila
The noisy diner is crowded with customers, mostly working men with a few senior citizen couples scattered around the room. As soon as I step inside the door, I glance around for Sam and don’t see him.
Good.
This means I’ve beat him to his regular breakfast spot. If he wants to talk to me, he’ll have to search me out and make the first move.
“Just one for breakfast, honey?” a curly-haired waitress asks me before grabbing a plastic menu from the reception stand.
I nod, and she ushers me to a large booth by the windows.
“This okay?”
“Yes, it’s fine,” I say, sliding into the booth with my back to the door. “I’ll have coffee to start.”
She hands me the menu and hurries off to give me time to scan the artery-clogging choices. Checking my cell phone, I see that I have at least another ten minutes before Sam will show up.
During the week, he sticks to a rigid schedule, usually arriving on his
motorcycle for breakfast at the diner at eight. After spending an hour sitting at the counter talking with the local men, he then opens his tattoo shop down the street at nine o’clock sharp.
He’s never late and his daily schedule never varies by much.
I would have expected someone in a motorcycle gang to have a little less of a work ethic. Then again, considering all of the illegal businesses the Steel Infidels are involved in, it is probably worth his time in gold to stick to a schedule.
The ATF suspects that Sam runs shipments of alcohol, cigarettes, and guns out of the back of his shop. The Steel Infidels have been on our watch list for a long time.
I grab my computer out of my bag and boot it up. After quickly checking my emails and typing up a quick check-in note to my boss, I load up the morning edition of the New York Times. I’m halfway through reading the front section when I feel a light tap on my shoulder. Without asking for my permission, Sam slides into the booth across from me with a big grin on his face.
He’s wearing a black t-shirt stretched tight across his muscular chest. The sleeves barely hide the elaborate skull tattoos covering both upper arms. I would love to ask him what they all mean. Another time, perhaps. When he places his elbows on the table and leans forward, I can smell the soap from his shower.
“I wouldn’t have pictured you as a New York Times kind of gal,” he says, pointing to my computer.
I shut my laptop and slide it back into my bag.
“It’s rude to read over someone’s shoulder,” I say.
“Not as rude as taking up a big booth all by yourself. Mind if I join you for breakfast?”
He doesn’t wait for my answer before waving over the waitress.
“Morning, Sam,” she says. “The usual?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he answers then waves at me. “What are you having, Lila?”
I hand the waitress my menu.
“Just a bowl of oatmeal for me. Do you have almond milk?”
She gives me a quizzical look and shakes her head.
“Sorry honey.”
“Okay. How about coconut milk or rice milk?”
Sam raises his eyebrows and grins at me.
