Deep Cover (16 page)

Chapter
14

Smitty was already waiting outside my apartment when I woke up. From my window I could see him bopping his head up and down to the music from the van's stereo. Today was the day. The day I was to hit McBright and earn my Henchmen colors. I had telephoned Base I the night before to tell them the hit was on. Molly assured me that everything was set. Dalton had set it up with McBright. He would walk through his door at six-thirty A.M. and I would shoot him in the chest point-blank with a .22-caliber pistol. Three shots to the heart. His vest would save his life. I wondered if Dalton had told him that the shots might still knock him on his ass and leave a black-and-blue mark the size of a basketball. I tucked the pistol in my belt and went out to meet Smitty.

"Morning,
Doc. Nice day to off somebody, ain't it?" said Smitty. His eyes were bloodshot from too much speed and not enough sleep.

"Sure
is, Smitty," I said, as I tapped the pistol in my belt.

"Oh,
about the hardware, man. Counsel says he wants you to use this. It makes more of a statement." He reached behind him and pulled out a sawed-off, double-barreled shotgun.
Oh
,
shit
.
At
point
-
blank
range
,
the
blast
from
the
shotgun
may
rip
McBright's
face
off
.
Even
with
the
bulletproof
vest
he
may
not
survive
the
hit
at
that
range
.
What
the
hell
am
I
going
to
do
now
?

"Hey,
not for nothin'," I said. "I kinda like the .22. I feel comfortable with it. Ya know, it's sort of like a baseball player and his favorite bat." I tried to make light of it.

"Look,
man, I hear ya. It's Counsel—he's real uptight lately. One of our brothers was killed yesterday. Popeye. Know 'im?"

"No.
What happened?"

"Not
sure. We think he was hit by The Outcasts. Counsel's checking into it. He's going nuts over it. Just use the fucking double-barrel, man. No big deal, right?"

"No
big deal." I clicked open the barrel and looked at the two shells in the chamber. I had to make it seem like no big thing. "Nice," I said, as I closed the chamber and held the weapon in my hands, looking it over. The barrel was sawed off to within two inches of the fore-end. This was done for two reasons. First, it made a powerful weapon easy to conceal. Second, for a close-range hit, the shorter the barrel, the wider the spread of buckshot.

I
was tempted to lay the barrel across Smitty's temple and arrest him right there. We could still bring down a lot of Henchmen with what we had so far. But at the very same moment I said to myself,
No
.
I'm
in
this
too
deep
.
I'm
gonna
play
it
out
.
I'll
figure
out
something
.

The
ride to McBright's took twenty minutes. Smitty and I spoke about bikes, pussy, and guns. His knowledge of weapons was impressive. At times I had to recall my training classes at the academy, and the countless hours talking with Roger Wolfe about his gun collection, just to keep up with him.

When
we arrived at McBright's, Smitty pulled over opposite the house, just slightly past his doorway. "This is it, Doc. Six-twenty."

"Time
to rock and roll," I said as I leaped out of the van, the shotgun concealed under my jacket. I quickly crossed the street and crouched beside the wooden porch to McBright's house. I looked at my watch. Six twenty-three. He would start to open the door any minute now. I would leap to the doorway and blast both barrels into his chest. I tried to think fast. How was I going to make Smitty think I'd shot him, without really killing him with the spreading buckshot?

Maybe
I could kick him in the chest, knocking him back into the house, out of sight. I could then empty the gun into the ceiling or floor, giving Smitty the sound effects without the visual. We would have to let McBright in on the fact that it was a phony hit.
No
good
, I thought. Then it hit me.

I
clicked open the barrel and removed the right shell. My back was to Smitty, so my activities were out of sight. I removed the crimp from the shell with my teeth and emptied half the buckshot onto the ground. I quickly recapped the shell and placed it back into the barrel. I had barely gotten the barrel closed when I heard the door latch open.

I
leaped onto the porch and pulled the trigger of the right barrel. McBright fell back into the doorway. I could hear McBright's wife screaming. There was no sign of Leverick. With my back still to Smitty I pulled the left trigger, this time aiming toward the wall. McBright was barely conscious. He wouldn't remember the second shot. I would leave it to Dalton to explain away the shot on the wall. That's if McBright even thought to ask about it. I turned and ran across to the van. The streets were still empty, except for a passing motorist who had to brake to avoid me as I ran across the street.

"What
the fuck happened?" asked Smitty as we drove off.

"I
let him have a single barrel first. I aimed slower with number two. It made sure of him. Real sure. Dig?"

"Yeah.
I got it, Doc. Nice job. Let's get some breakfast."

Dalton Leverick darted from the bedroom, Sandy McBright at his heels.

"Oh
my God!" she cried. Leverick knelt next to McBright and placed two fingers on the side of his neck. He lifted his eyelid and looked at his pupils. "Dilated," he said. "He's in shock."

"You
fucking bastard!" shouted Sandy. She knelt next to Leverick, gently touching her old man's forehead. "You fucked him up! You said the vest would protect him! What happened?"

"He'll
be fine, Sandy." Leverick placed a hand on Sandy's shoulder. "Try to stay calm. The blast from the shotgun caused this temporary shock. I've seen it before. He'll be okay." Leverick unhooked a small transmitter from his belt and pulled open the antenna.

"Bad
Boy, Bad Boy, this is the Baker, come in, over."

"This
is Bad Boy. Go ahead, Baker, over."

"We're
ready to make the delivery, over."

"Be
there in two, out."

Leverick
returned the device to his belt. Several long seconds passed before McBright started to come to.

"What
the fuck?" said a groggy McBright. "My chest feels like I got hit with a sledgehammer."

"That
was a shot from a twelve-gauge. We're real lucky. The gun must have recoiled hard. The second shot ended up in your wall." Leverick stood up and pulled off his jacket as he heard the siren of the approaching ambulance.

"Sandy,"
said Leverick. "I want you to wait five minutes and then call the police at the number I gave you. Everything's arranged. We'll take Irish to the hospital. We've had a government physician temporarily assigned to St. Katherine's Medical Center. He'll sign the death certificate. We'll switch toe tags with a John Doe who'll be sent to the morgue with his new name, Kevin McBright."

Molly
Samuels and Fred Parkins walked through the door rolling a stretcher, both wearing EMS uniforms. Parkins tossed Leverick a jacket and cap. He put them on and assisted McBright onto the stretcher.

"Sandy,"
he said. "Meet us at the medical center after the police finish questioning you. You remember what we went over last night? You know what to tell them?"

Sandy
nodded.

"Then
what?" asked McBright. Parkins buckled the straps around McBright's chest and legs. Samuels then held open the front door as Parkins and Leverick began to roll the stretcher out.

"Then
we take both of you to a safe house, until we can work out your new identity and figure out where we're going to place you," said Leverick.

"Do
we get a choice?" asked McBright.

"Quiet,
Irish," said Leverick, patting him on the head. "You're supposed to be dead, remember?

Fenway pulled ahead of Snake and pointed to the side of the road. Snake nodded, and both bikers pulled their machines over and turned off the engines.

"What's
up, Dog?" asked Snake.

"That
bar we passed, about a mile back."

"Yeah?"

"There was a van in front of it. I think I recognized it. Looks like an Outcast's. The one they brought to Sturgis last year."

"Let's
check it out," said Snake.

The
bikers returned to the vicinity of the tavern and discreetly placed their bikes about fifty yards away from the entrance. They walked to the window and peered in.

"Look,"
said Dog. "It's that prick Riggs and that skinny fuck."

"You
think they did Popeye?"

"Don't
know man, but shit, what the fuck are they doing down this way anyhow? I mean... we got a vendetta, right? We gotta move on 'em, right?"

Not
all Henchmen took the club vendetta as seriously as Dog. Those who did would not let a member of the Outcasts get away alive, no matter what the circumstances.

"What's
our next move?" asked Snake.

Dog
looked' around. A young boy was walking up the road, swinging a stick back and forth.

"That
kid, he's the ticket. Give me ten bucks." Snake complied, and Dog approached the boy as he neared the two bikers.

"You
want to make ten bucks, kid?"

"How?"
said the boy, looking inquisitively at Dog. Dog removed his amber-tinted sunglasses and made eye contact with the boy.

"Just
go into that bar and yell as loud as you can, `Outcasts are a scumbag club and suck Japanese dick.' " Dog knew this would rile them. One thing all outlaw bikers share is a common disdain for the Japanese. Bikers have been known to set foreign cars on fire at major motorcycle events. Anyone coming to one of these events as a spectator must use caution if he owns a Toyota or a Honda. The two bikers waited as the boy went inside the bar.

Within
seconds the boy came running out, past Snake and Dog and then around the back of the building. The two Outcasts burst through the door, in search of the offender. Riggs and Skinny Joe stood for a moment, motionless, as they realized they were now face-to-face with The Henchmen.

"So
long, scumbag," said Snake, as he squeezed the trigger on his .44 Magnum. Riggs fell dead to the ground with a bullet in the middle of his forehead. Skinny Joe instantly raised his hands above his head.

"Wasn't
me! Shooter did him! Fuckin' Shooter! Not me, man!" cried Skinny Joe.

Dog
removed his knife from his boot and threw it straight into Skinny Joe's throat. Blood spouted from his neck as his arms shot straight out to the sides, his whole body convulsing. Then he dropped, his body lying across Riggs'. Dog walked over and reached down for his knife. The blade made a squishing sound as he removed it. He wiped the blood on his pants and placed the knife back in his boot.

Some
of the patrons of the tavern started to exit to view the commotion. Snake and Dog ran to their bikes and took off in a cloud of dust. They had turned their vests inside out, so no one would recognize their colors. No one except the boy had seen their faces. Ten dollars richer, he would be nowhere in sight when the county sheriff arrived.

As
they sped down the road, Snake would occasionally remove one hand from the bars and extend both feet to the side, mocking the manner in which Skinny Joe had convulsed before he dropped. Both men would laugh, as their taste for death sent adrenaline rioting through their bodies. Both were wired, fearless, mean-spirited. No regrets about the murder of Riggs and Walters. Just excitement.

The
two bikers slowed down as they approached a vehicle on the side of the road. An elderly woman, about seventy, sat on the driver's side of a tan 1967 Rambler, as her husband tinkered with the engine. She couldn't see him through the raised hood, but would turn the key to no avail when he shouted instructions to her. She spotted the two Henchmen in her rearview mirror.
Oh
no
, she thought to herself, my
worst
fear
is
about
to
come
true
!
Here
we
are
,
two
elderly
people
,
helpless
,
alone
.