Deep Cover (2 page)

"What
do I have to do?"

Atwood
opened his eyes wide, and the left side of his mouth twitched to form a satisfied smile.

"You
have to disappear, Martin. Become part of their world."

"Why
me... Richard?"

"Well,
for one thing, your knowledge of motorcycles. Your age and physique also make you perfect for it." He began to glance through a file on his desk. "Says here you're a karate champion, and an ace motorcycle mechanic. I understand you paid your way through college by working at a motorcycle repair shop."

"Part-time,
yes. I haven't been on a bike in almost ten years though," I said. I had never thought I'd get back into bikes like this. My heart was pounding and my palms were sweaty, as I listened to Atwood explain this assignment.

"Here's
the deal, Martin. You go under for six, eight months, tops. You contact me and two or three other case agents only. You can call home, but no visits. We can't risk your being tailed. I'm sure you wouldn't want that, either."

I
nodded.

"If
any emergency comes up at home, we'll bring you out. If things get too hot, we'll bring you out. You'll get paid automatically through a special account. Not too different from how we do it now. All the other details of your assignment will be determined and fully disclosed during your training."

Atwood
returned to his chair and folded his arms, waiting for my reaction, for questions. I couldn't focus on a single one to ask him.

"Okay,
I'll do it," I found myself saying. "When do I start?"

Clearly
Atwood sensed I was uneasy, and he warmly assured me that he would be there for me and my family.

"We're
partners now. From now on your concerns are my concerns. Take the rest of the day off, then report to Dalton Leverick tomorrow morning at the Brentwood facility. Dalton is our resident expert on motorcycle gangs. He'll teach you everything you'll need to know, and then some."

Atwood
stood up and opened the door. "By the way, stop shaving. We have to make a biker out of you."

All
the way from Atwood's office to the parking garage I wondered whether I'd done the right thing. I was tempted to run back and tell him to forget it. I drove the car out of the garage into the bright afternoon sunlight. The reality of the commitment I had just made hit me hard. The drive home seemed unusually long, as I wondered how I was going to explain this to Amy.

Bumper-to-bumper
traffic gave me time to rehearse—"Amy, I've just accepted a dangerous assignment"; "Amy, I'll see you and Alex in six months"; "Amy, I have an opportunity to do something really important"—but there was going to be no good way to say it.

My
concentration was broken by the rumbling of two motorcycles passing the stalled traffic between lanes. "These lawless punks think they own the highways," I said out loud. My thoughts raced back and forth between the bikers and my family. I remembered an incident where one of the Henchmen had killed a woman and her four-year-old son. The papers said she had tried to run away, from the biker and he'd shot them both. Suddenly I was angry. At that moment my personal crusade for law and order became more important than the prospect of a promotion. I hated these low-lifes and all they stood for. As the bikers rode away I pointed my finger like a gun, as a child would play cops and robbers, until they were completely out of sight. Hating them was an easy way to justify my decision to go after them.

I
arrived home at two-thirty in the afternoon. I must have sat in the car for forty minutes before I decided to go inside and tell my wife that her husband was about to take off for six months. When I walked in, Amy was in the family room playing with Alex, our four-year-old son.

"Hello,
Martin," she said affectionately. "You're home early. What's wrong…?"

"Nothing,"
I said, trying to sound surprised at her question.

"After
eight years of marriage, I can tell when something isn't right with you."

She
had me pegged. "Alex, why don't you play in the yard for a few minutes while Mommy and I talk," I said. With a little coaxing from his mother, he complied.

"It's
about an assignment. A good one. One that will lead to a promotion and security for our family."

Amy
frowned. "I don't understand," she said. "Exactly what kind of an assignment? What will you have to do?"

"I'm
being assigned to an undercover operation. It's not much of an operation actually, just an information-gathering assignment." I thought I could lessen the impact—play down what my actual duties would be. I couldn't tell her I would be rubbing elbows with the lowest form of scum the stinking streets have ever produced. "I have to gather evidence against a motorcycle gang. It's really no big deal. I just can't live at home for a while."

Amy's
look turned sour.

"How
long is 'a while'?"

"Six
... eight months, tops."

"Bullshit.
Bullshit! Bullshit! Bullshit!" she yelled. "I'm not going to stand for having you away from home for six months.
Six
months
? Jesus Christ, Martin! What the hell do I tell Alex?" She turned away from me and looked out the window to where he was playing in the backyard. "Do I say, 'I'm sorry, son, but you can't see Daddy for the next two hundred nights because he's off chasing some bad guys around and can't come home'?" she asked sarcastically.

I
put my hands on her shoulders, and for a moment we both watched Alex roam the yard in search of new and different stones for his collection. I gently turned Amy around and kissed her softly.

"I
love you," I said. "I wouldn't do this if I didn't think it was the best thing for our future."

"This
is unbelievable, Martin. If you go, I don't see you for half a year. If you turn it down, you'll resent me for denying you this opportunity to advance in the Bureau. Alex and I lose, either way." She pushed away from me, looking down and shaking her head. "Do what you have to do." She then joined Alex in the yard.

We
didn't say much to each other for the rest of the evening. Long after Amy had fallen asleep I was still awake, staring at the ceiling and thinking just one thought:
What
the
hell
am
I
getting
myself
into
?

Chapter
2

I blinked my eyes, and the digits on my alarm clock changed from 2:10 A.M. to 6:32 A.M. "Oh, shit!" I muttered out loud, as I popped out of bed. Amy woke up almost as abruptly.

"What
time is it?" She sat up, resting on her elbows.

"I'm
late. I have to hurry," I said.

"I
guess there's no chance you'll change your mind."

I
sat on the side of the bed and gently placed my hand on her soft cheek. She looked at me with pleading eyes. I wanted to stay. I really wanted to stay, but she knew as well as I did that there was no way that was going to happen. She knows that once something is in my mind as strong as this assignment was there's no stopping me.

"I
love you more than I will ever be able to express," I said. "These next few months will pass quickly, and then we'll have the rest of our lives together."

She
took my hand and kissed it. "I'll miss you, too. So will Alex."

Amy
slipped on her blue silk bathrobe. God, I love her in that robe. She went to the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee while I got dressed. On my way down the hall I opened the door to Alex's room. He was holding his stuffed animal while he slept. He clutched it tighter as I kissed him on his forehead.

"See
ya, champ. Take care of your mommy for me," I whispered softly, as I closed the door to his room.

After
two quick cups of coffee, during which neither Amy nor I said much, we embraced for what seemed like a long time by the front door. As I walked down the path to the driveway, I could hear the click of the bolt as she locked the door.

The training facility was located in Brentwood, thirty miles east of my home in Oakville, a Los Angeles suburb. The facility used to be a summer camp for the underprivileged in the forties. In 1951 funding dried up, and the place was closed. In 1964 the Bureau purchased it from the state and converted it into its West Coast training site.

The
facility was divided into four sections: the recently added north section for anti-terrorist training; the south section for basic training; the east section for heavy weapons; and the west section for special assignments, where I was to spend the next three weeks learning how to be a biker.

I
arrived at the administration building at nine A.M. It was sunny that morning and I had forgotten my sunglasses. I held my hand above my eyes to block the sun's glare as I walked up the steps. Once inside I picked up my assignment sheet and registered with the duty clerk.

"You're
due to report to Training Room 7 at nine-thirty, Mr. Walsh," he said, as he clocked in my sheet and handed it to me without ever looking up from his desk. "Here are the keys to your room. When you get outside turn left, walk straight about a hundred and fifty yards. It's the third building, room C."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome, sir," he said, looking up for a moment.

The
sun was at my back as I walked toward the dormitories. It beat down on the back of my head with almost personal intent. I started to feel irritated. The strap on my garment bag was bothering my shoulder, so I carried it by hand the rest of the way. It was about eighty degrees now, and my irritation was growing with every step. When I arrived at the steps of the dorm I felt like I'd just run a marathon. The heat, combined with my nervousness about the assignment, had drained me. Getting little sleep the night before added to my lackluster condition.

The
room was the standard one-bedroom issue: two sets of bunk beds, two chairs, a desk, and a coffee table. It looked like it hadn't been painted since 1960. Normally two or three agents room together during training. I figured they had me here alone due to the special nature of the assignment. Getting used to the idea that you're out there alone in deep cover started here.

Training Room 7 was set up with about a dozen chairs, a podium with a director's chair next to it, and a couple of blackboards. I was early, so I sat down and waited. At about nine-forty a man in his early forties came into the room and sat in the director's chair. He placed some files and books on the podium.

"Welcome,
Martin," he said, "I'm sorry I'm late."

"That's
fine."

"My
name is Dalton Leverick. I'll be training you on the specifics of the outlaw motorcycle gang." Leverick's speaking style was crisp and articulate. Of average height, and athletically built, he had the look of a drill sergeant. His hair was short, almost a crew cut. Tattoos on his forearms, long since faded, suggested a tour in the military.

"Good
to meet you, Dalton. How do I get started?" I asked enthusiastically.

"We
get started by studying our targets. You'll need to read this." He reached up to the podium and grabbed a thick loose-leaf binder.

"What
is it?" I asked, as he opened the binder and rummaged through the pages.

"It's
like a reference manual. It has the criminal history of every member of the Los Angeles chapter of The Henchmen. That's the mother chapter. We'll be concentrating our efforts there. There are also facts about the club's hierarchy, suspected mob connections, and locations of chapters throughout the United States."

"How
many are there?" I asked.

"Near
as we can figure, about twenty. St. Paul, Chicago, Des Moines, Phoenix." He flipped through more pages and tapped his finger on the book when he found the appropriate one. "Paterson, New Jersey, and New York City," he continued with the list. "There's a Philadelphia chapter, two near Pittsburgh, and one in Atlanta, Georgia. There are three in Florida. We're not exactly sure of the cities there, since they change so often. The group has had a lot of trouble with a rival gang called The Outcasts. That gang also has several chapters in Florida. The threat of war-fare keeps The Henchmen moving down there. I think they just set a chapter up in Jacksonville."

"How
about here in California?"

"Besides
the mother chapter in L.A. there's a chapter in Elmwood, San Pagano, and a few more scattered around the southern part of the state."

"How
many members in each chapter?"

"Anywhere
from a low of six or eight in San Pagano to thirty or so in Los Angeles. It's hard to keep track. A half-dozen of them get killed each year in bike accidents and street violence. There's never a shortage of new prospects, though, all wishing to one day become official members."

"Is
the plan for me to become a prospect?" I thought that sounded like a logical way to infiltrate their organization.

"That
would be preferable, but may not be possible."

"What
do you mean? Why?" I asked.

"The
Henchmen are very suspicious, and always watch for law enforcement attempts to bring them down. They usually have prospects, or strikers as they're sometimes called, commit crimes before they can be considered for membership. These crimes can range from petty larceny to murder."

"How,
then?"

"I'm
working on a plan of action. I should have all the details handled in a week or so. Once I determine its feasibility, I'll brief you.

"The
Henchmen have many friends of the club who are trusted, as much as any outsider can be, to do business with them. They also have a lot of legitimate businesses. For example, this guy."

Leverick
tossed a file over to me that contained photos and fact sheets on several of the Los Angeles members. On top was a guy named John Weeks, a.k.a. Fat Jack. As I flipped through the pile I saw that all the bikers had aliases or nicknames. Leverick explained that the bikers only call each other by these aliases. Some members don't even know each other's real names. Half of them don't even have proper mailing addresses. Fat Jack was one of the lot who did. In fact he owned his own home, was married with two kids, and ran a moderately successful vending-machine business.

"Where
does a guy like this fit in?" I asked.

"We're
not exactly sure. Not all Henchmen are full-timers. Some, like Fat Jack, have decent jobs and families. Weekenders, who attend major parties and events. However, if they're called by the chapter presidents they'll drop everything and do whatever is asked of them—including murder. The club and the colors always come first. We had a case two years ago where eight members of The Hombres, a small local club, jumped one Henchman at a gas station near Route 36. They held a gun to his head and told him they'd blow his brains out if he didn't take off his colors. The Henchman refused and they shot him dead. We suspect the chapter president declared open warfare, because within four months of the incident four Hombres were dead, three were in the hospital, and the club was disbanded. Fat Jack was arrested for one of those killings. The prosecutors couldn't make it stick because of a sudden case of witness amnesia."

"Intimidation?"

"What do you think?"

"Got
it. So what's next?"

"For
the next week you study. Memorize that manual. Review it until you know everything the Bureau knows about The Henchmen: their women, favorite music, favorite beer—everything. You'll be a biker before you leave here in three weeks. And keep that beard growing—you'll need to look the part."

For the next six days I slept, ate, and lived bikers. I was amazed at the complexity of the network The Henchmen had put together. I was also amazed at their biker lifestyle. These guys are way outside the mainstream. I mean
way
outside. They have their own set of laws, even their own wedding ceremonies. The Henchmen have no respect for society and society's laws. The bikers very existence mocks everything that is decent.

On
Sunday night I called home. Amy was supportive, but she couldn't hide her pain and fear behind comforting words.

"Are
you all right, Martin?" she asked.

"Sure,
honey," I said. "It's going real smooth. The first week is mainly textbook work. A lot of reading and studying. How's Alex?"

"He
misses you. I told him you were like a superhero—going off to fight the forces of evil. He liked that. You
are
his hero, you know, and mine too."

"I
do, sweetheart. Thanks."

Amy
and I talked for about an hour. She understood that for the next six months our conversations would be few and far between. The deeper I went under, the less opportunity I would have for outside contact.

Leverick and I met for breakfast Monday morning. We had developed a good relationship during the past week, and I was comfortable that he was part of the team. We discussed the next stage of the training.

"I
understand that you're an accomplished martial artist, Martin," he said.

"I
used to participate quite a bit. I haven't done much in the last couple of years, though."

"Well,
we're going to get back in the ring for a couple of days."

"Back
in the ring?"

"Not
exactly the ring as you know it from your karate days. Report to the gymnasium at eleven o'clock and I'll show you what I mean."

I
had known there would be some specialized physical training. After going over the manual and several case histories, it was clear that these guys were less than conventional fighters. In one incident a Henchman allegedly bit a guy's nose off during a skirmish at a rock concert. This type of fighter doesn't respond well to conventional self-defense techniques. I started to become a little apprehensive as I watched the ominous hand of time shift toward the eleventh hour.

The
gymnasium was set up like a padded living room. Chairs, tables, and other pieces of furniture, all thickly padded with foam rubber and cloth. Leverick arrived exactly at eleven.

"Surprised
to see it set up this way?" Leverick asked.

"A
little. Why the furniture?"

"I
believe that you don't train a fighter for the street or saloon the same way you train him for the ring. I've seen too many so-called 'trained' fighters get their asses kicked when the real thing came down, because the environment they trained in was too controlled. In a real situation you don't have the luxury of padded floor mats and a two-hundred-fifty-square-foot boxing ring. When an agent has to fight, it's usually in close quarters. In an alley, an apartment, or barroom."

Leverick
handed me a pair of Chinese fighting gloves.

"Put
these on," he said with a slight smirk, amused at my apprehension. The gloves fit well. I punched at my open palms alternately to get the feel of them. Chinese fighting gloves are designed with the same padding as professional boxing gloves, but the fingers are free, unlike the "mitten fit" of the traditional glove.