Breaking Cover (Tony Wolf/Tim Buckthorn)

by J. D. Rhoades

  “Yes, Johnny,” she whispered. The smile was still plastered across her face, but her eyes were filled with horror.

  Johnny smiled again, turned, and walked out, with me behind him.

  WHAT THE fuck was that all about?” I asked when we got in the car.

  He laughed. “A little fun is all.” He started the car. “Chuckles in there got in a little over his head. He was into me for a couple of grand. He likes his black tar heroin a little bit more than he likes paying for it. So I took Clay and went out to see him. After I worked on him a little while,” he grinned, “and Clay started, ah, working on Linda, he let slip about his little sideline. So we made a deal.”

  “He cut you in.”

  “I like to think of myself as a silent partner,” Johnny said. “He was just selling stuff he’d copped from other sites. I figured, what the hell, I had a ready-made pool of talent, right at my fingertips, you might say.”

  “Most of your talent’s a little old for the sites I saw.”

  “Ah,” Johnny said. The smile faded. “He showed you those sites, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You got a problem with it?”

  I shrugged. “Money’s money.”

  The answer seemed to satisfy him. “Damn right. That part of the business was only a few pictures here and there at first. But I noticed those were the ones most in demand. You got to give the customers what they want. Especially when they’re willing to pay more for the, ah, more extreme stuff.”

  “How much money we talking about here?” He didn’t answer at first. “Hey,” I said, “You want me to be in on this part of the business, I’m in. But I ought to know everything that’s going on.” He considered that for a moment, then nodded. “Usually around ten thousand.”

  “A month?”

  He laughed. “A week.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “Exactly.”

  We drove in silence for a few minutes. “So what’s in the envelope?” I asked casually.

  He hesitated again, then said, “Insurance. It’s a list of customers. Names, addresses, all the information I need. Every now and then, you’d be surprised at who you find looking at pictures of naked little girls. I get in a jam, maybe some of those people might be happy to get me out of it, so long as their little private hobby stays private.”

  “Find anything good?”

  “Oh yeah. I’ve got a couple of get-out-of-jail-free cards.”

  “Like what? Cops?”

  “Better than cops, McCabe.”

  “Better?”

  “Let’s just say, a lot more juice than the local yokels. And that’s all I’ll say for now.”

  I pushed a little. “What, you mean, like, Feds?”

  He looked startled, and I knew I’d hit home. Then his voice turned cold. “MCabe,” he said, “what part of ‘all I’ll say for now’ do you not fucking understand?”

  “Okay, okay,” I said. “Sorry, boss.”

  That “boss” always did it. Johnny liked to be acknowledged as top dog. We drove the rest of the way in silence, while I mulled over the implications. When we got back to my house, Johnny turned to me as I was getting out of the truck. “One more thing,” he said. “This end of the operation is mine. Mine alone. Get it?”

  That was another thing to think hard about. Johnny’s uncle Nathan, the theoretical leader of the Brotherhood, wasn’t being cut in on this. Did he even know about it? Curiouser and curioser. I didn’t mention any of this to Johnny. I just nodded and walked into the house.

  WHEN I was sure Johnny was gone, I called Steadman. I told him about the visit to the Spelling household. When I got to the part about the mailing list, he stopped me.

  “Who’s got that list now?” he asked.

  “Johnny,” I said. “I didn’t get a chance to make a copy.” “Can you get it?”

  “I can try. But we’ve got what we need. We can move now on the Trents. The whole operation. I’ve got all the pieces in place.” “Not yet,” he said. “That list changes everything. This may have just gotten politically explosive.”

  “Political?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Jesus Christ, Steadman, these are children being used in those movies. Anyone who’s on that list—”

  “We don’t know who’s on that list,” he said. “Or what their involvement is. We need to be careful here, Tony.”

  “You’re bullshitting me. Tell me you’re bullshitting me.”

  “Get the list, Tony,” he said. “Get me a copy. I need to know who we’re dealing with.”

  “Who cares!?” I yelled. “If they’re on that list, they’re dirty. They deserve to get taken down.”

  There was silence on the other end. Then: “There are other ways to use that information than just taking people down.”

  Then it dawned on me. “Holy shit,” I said. “You want to use it as leverage.”

  “Like I said. We need to know who’s who. Get a copy of the list.” He broke the connection.

  I HELD the phone at arm’s length and stared at it. I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard. Steadman wanted to use that customer list for himself. Either that or he was afraid of who might be on it. I thought back to Johnny’s reaction when I’d asked if anyone on the list was a Fed. Was Steadman afraid of who might be on it? Was Steadman worried he might be . . .

  This was crazy. I sat down on the couch and put my head in my hands. I felt like I’d just fallen down the rabbit hole. Nothing made any sense. I had gotten into this op to shut the Trents and their operation down, not turn it into a bargaining chip. I had no idea who to trust anymore. Well, there was one person, but after what had happened with Fiona . . .

  Screw it. I needed to talk to my wife. I flipped the phone open and dialed.

  “Tony,” she said as she picked up the phone. “My God . . . Are you okay?”

  I closed my eyes. The sound of her voice was like a lifeline. “I’m okay,” I said. “Better than I was a minute ago.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  I told her. I told her about Furry’s death, the visit to the Spellings, my conversation with Steadman. I told her everything except what had happened with Fiona. She heard me out. She always did. When I was done, I felt limp and drained, as if all the air had been let out of me. But I felt better. Calmer. More centered. Until Kendra spoke up.

  “We’re getting you out of there,” she said.

  “No!” I blurted it out, almost panicking. I struggled, got myself under control. “You can’t pull me out, anyway,” I said. “It’s not your operation. It’s Steadman’s.”

  “I’ll go over his head. You’re in trouble. This whole thing is about to go to hell in a big way.”

  “You can’t do that,” I said, hating the way I sounded.

  “Tony, you’re a wreck,” she said. “I can hear it in your voice. This thing is destroying you. You’re exhausted, you’re paranoid, you’re not thinking clearly. I mean, Jesus, Steadman being into kiddie porn? He’s a fifteen-year veteran agent. He’s a family man.”

  “I’ll bet a lot of people on that list are.”

  “Will you listen to yourself?” she snapped. Then her voice softened. “I know what this means to you, Tony, but you’re really starting to scare me.”

  “Okay, maybe not Steadman,” I said. “But Johnny Trent all but told me that he’s got someone on the inside. Someone he’s blackmailing.”

  “He didn’t say any such thing. You interpreted a look. And honestly, Tony, right now, I can’t give that a whole lot of credit.”

  “Forget it, then,” I said. “Forget I called.”

  “Right. Like I can do that. You don’t talk to me for weeks, then you call me sounding like you’ve been up for days—”

  She stopped. “Tony,” she said softly, “you’re not using, are you?”

  I laughed bitterly. “No. I’m simulating. You know how that works.”

  “This is me, Tony,” she said softly. “Not Professional Responsibility. I need to know
what’s going on with you. I need to know the truth.”

  I thought of the line from the movie. You can’t handle the truth.

  “Look, I’m fine,” I said.

  “No,” she said. “No, you’re not.” There were tears in her voice. “And it . . . and it breaks my heart that you’d tell me that. Let me help you, Tony. You want to hear me beg? I’ll beg. Please. Let me get you out of there.”

  “Give me a couple more days,” I said. “That’s all I need.”

  “Now you’re bargaining with me?” She was crying openly now. “This is so important to you? More important than me being scared out of my mind for you?”

  “I’ll call you in two days,” I said and shut down the phone. I lay back on the couch and looked at the ceiling. I had just cut my own lifeline. And for what? Was it really worth all of this just to take the Trents down? I thought of Amber. I thought of the little girl I had seen in the movie. I thought of the Spellings, and Fiona, and even Furry. They weren’t people as far as the Trents were concerned, they were raw material. Just meat for the grinder.

  Yes, it was going to be worth it to destroy them. If my own people would let me.

  I knew my time was short. I didn’t realize just how short.

  THE NEXT day, I was scheduled to work at the Leopard. When I got there, I was startled to see at least fifty bikes in the parking lot, along with half a dozen pickup trucks and SUVs. It looked like most of the Brotherhood was there. When I got inside, bikers were milling around, talking in low voices. A lot of them looked unhappy. I noticed Florida Bob sitting in the corner, staring into his glass of rum. I walked over and sat down.

  “What the fuck?” I asked.

  He looked up. “We got trouble.” “What kind?”

  He took a swig. “Federal. I think.”

  I felt cold. “What do you mean, federal?”

  “Johnny got word from somebody. Something big is coming down.”

  I tried to keep my voice from shaking. “FBI?”

  Bob shrugged. “Who knows? But Nathan’s bouncing off the walls. Him and Johnny are in the office with Clay.” He gestured at the group of bikers. “Clay told everybody to be here.”

  At that moment, Nathan came out of the back office, followed by Johnny and Clay. The room fell silent. “Okay, brothers,” he said. “We’ve got a problem. We’re going to have to shut things down for a while.” There was a momentary rumble of conversation; then he raised a hand. “We’ve got word that the Feds are planning to move on some of the labs. But when they get there”—he grinned— “there won’t be anything for them to find.” He gestured at Johnny and Clay. “They’ll tell you where to go. Pack everything up. Product, equipment, cash, everything. Destroy what you can’t carry. We’ll move everything out of harm’s way until this blows over. Then we’ll start up again.”

  I raised a hand. Nathan looked annoyed. “What is it, Axel?” “How do you know all this?” I asked as calmly as I could.

  It was Johnny who answered. “Never mind that,” he snapped. “I haven’t got time to lay it all out for you. Just believe it.” He started for the door. “Axel, Bob,” he said, “you’re with me.” I didn’t have any choice but to follow. At least he didn’t give any sign of suspecting me.

  We got into Johnny’s Suburban. I sat in the front, with Bob taking the big backseat. He looked behind into the cargo compartment. “All right.” He chuckled.

  “What?” I said.

  He lifted a stubby little machine gun up and showed it to me. “Heavy iron, man,” he said.

  “Hand up the pistols,” Johnny ordered. “We’ll only take the subs out if we need them.” Bob complied. I took a Taurus automatic, Johnny his usual Glock 9. We laid them on the seat between us.

  My apprehension deepened. “You expecting trouble?” I said.

  “Just being careful,” he said. He was trying to sound nonchalant, but I could hear the tension in his voice. “We’re going to be transporting a lot of shit. A lot of product, a lot of cash. I don’t want any punk-ass getting any bright ideas.”

  “I don’t get it,” I said, trying to draw Johnny out. “Where are we moving all this stuff to?”

  “You’ll see” was the only reply I got. Bob lay across the backseat and went to sleep.

  OUR FIRST stop was Eugene’s place. Johnny tucked his pistol in the back of his waistband when he got out. I did the same.

  Eugene looked terrified when he answered the door. “Johnny, man,” he whined, “what the fuck’s going on?”

  “Shut up,” Johnny said. “You got the product bagged up?” Eugene nodded and pointed at the usual brace of duffel bags on

  the couch. “But I got two cases of cold pills still stacked in the spare room.”

  “Flush ’em. Burn ’em. I don’t care.”

  Eugene looked distraught. “Man, I paid a lot of money for that shit. And you still ain’t paid me for the last . . .” The look on Johnny’s face stopped him dead.

  “Look, dude,” Florida Bob spoke up, “the last thing you want to get caught with right now is a lot of fuckin’ Sudafed. Or a lot of fuckin’ cash. Get rid of it.” Eugene still looked unhappy, but he nodded. We grabbed the duffels and threw them into the back of the Suburban.

  We made a couple more stops. These were at the homes and clubs of distributors, and these duffels were filled with tightly rolled bundles of cash. Bob’s admonition about getting caught with large amounts of green didn’t seem to worry Johnny. Clearly he had some other hiding place planned.

  My mind was racing. Obviously my suspicion was correct. Johnny had someone on the inside—but it was someone who knew only enough to be able to tell that a bust was coming. It wasn’t anyone who knew the name of the guy on the inside, namely me. If that name had been dropped in Johnny’s ear, I’d either be dead now or, more likely, praying for death while Johnny and Clay worked me over with a blowtorch and a cold chisel. I needed to get back in touch with Steadman to let him know about what I’d discovered, but there was no way to do that under Johnny’s watchful eye.

  The last place we visited was where it all went to hell.

  IT WAS one of the labs way out in the sticks. There was an old rusted Quonset hut nestled in the woods beneath a stand of pines. The place was accessible only by a twisted dirt road so badly rutted that even the big Suburban bounced and rattled. Johnny’s “cooker” at this lab was a squat, ugly Hispanic dude who lived in an old camper trailer on the premises with his wife and kid. The wife and kid didn’t appear to speak any English, and the Hispanic dude didn’t appear to want to speak any language. He mostly communicated with grunts, shrugs, and the surliest expression I’d ever seen anyone use on Johnny Trent without getting slugged in the mouth.

  When we finally negotiated the rutted road, the Hispanic guy came out, wiping his hands on his jeans. I could smell the acrid chemical tang of methamphetamine cooking.

  “What the fuck?!” Johnny yelled as he jumped out. “You’re not done yet?!”

  The Hispanic guy just shrugged and muttered something I couldn’t catch.

  “God damn it!” Johnny yelled. “You were supposed to have this batch finished fucking yesterday!”

  The guy shrugged again. This time he didn’t even bother to answer. Johnny went red in the face. He whipped the pistol out of his waistband and slammed the cooker across the face with it. The guy crumpled to the ground. I heard a scream and looked around, drawing my own gun. The man’s wife, a plump woman in a shapeless flowered dress, stood in the trailer doorway. A little girl who looked to be about eleven or twelve clung to her leg, wide-eyed. She was dressed in blue jeans and a red top. She was barefoot.

  Johnny was kicking the man on the ground, cursing. The man had curled into a ball, his arms covering his head. I looked over at Florida Bob. He had a sour look on his face, but he caught my eye and shrugged. What are you gonna do? his face said.

  Suddenly, the little girl shouted something and left her mother’s side, running toward her father on the ground. Her mot
her shrieked something in Spanish, but fear kept her rooted in the doorway. The girl reached her father on the ground before Johnny even noticed she was there. She threw herself across his prone body, shouting up at Johnny, her face streaked with tears. Johnny nearly leaped back in surprise. Then he growled deep in his throat, reached down, and grabbed a handful of the girl’s thick black hair. She shrieked in agony as he used his grip on her hair to haul her free of where her father lay. “Maybe this little bitch can work off the money you’re costing me!” Johnny screamed. “You like that idea, you greasy little fuck!?” He put the gun to her head. “Maybe we break her in on-screen, huh? Think that’ll be a big seller?”

  “Bob,” I said over my shoulder. “We need to stop this.”

  “Ees not my yob, man,” Bob cracked in a mock Mexican accent. The strain in his voice killed what little humor there was.

  The man on the ground had gotten to his knees. For the first time, his face registered fear. “Please,” he said, “por favor . . .”

  Johnny’s grin was positively demonic. He ran the barrel of the gun down the girl’s cheek in an obscene parody of tenderness. “See what happens to people who fuck around with me?” he almost crooned. “They get fucked back.”

  “Johnny,” a voice said. I was amazed to realize it was mine. “Cut it out.”

  He didn’t look around. “Johnny,” I said more loudly.

  He turned slightly. “What is it, Axel?” he snapped.

  “Let her go, man.” I raised the gun.

  He looked around at me with a look of amazement on his face, as if I’d suddenly started speaking in tongues. When he saw the gun pointed at him, the insanity in his face returned tenfold. He started to raise his own weapon, and I shot him in the chest.