Jerry Langton Three-Book Biker Bundle (32 page)

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Yes you do,” Quayle's partner, Dave Novello, said with a smug grin. “We've got times, places, dates, everything—I even know what all of your fuckin' tattoos look like.”

“So I changed in front of some faggot at the health club; that doesn't make me a murderer.”

“Oh don't worry, we know you didn't shoot anyone—Ronnie's copped to all that—as long as the ballistics back up what he says, we know he pulled the trigger,” said Quayle. “But we do have you as the driver, and even if you get off, a lot of embarrassing stuff will come out that could, let's say, endanger your standing in the club.”

Feeney sighed. He knew they had him. “So what do you want?”

“We'll drop the charges against you and keep your name out of Ronnie's trial,” said Novello, “if you'll agree to wear a recording device.”

It was exactly what Feeney had feared the most. But he knew he had no choice.

Novello dropped the tiny recorder on the table.

Feeney looked at it. “What's that there?” he asked. He pointed at a few spots of caked blood on some of the white tape that was stuck to the recorder.

Quayle sighed. “Jesus, Dave, you could have cleaned it off before you brought it out.”

About a week after he was released from jail, Bouchard threw a small party. He had lots to celebrate. His accuser, a former part-time stripper he met through Steve, decided against pressing charges. She didn't give her lawyer a reason why. Bouchard was released that day. Three of Vandersloot's men followed her around for a while. One of them saw her riding on the back of Moe Gannon's Harley. Two days later, her nude body was found bound and gagged in a trash receptacle behind a supermarket in the city's north end.

Two days after that, one of Mehelnechuk's most carefully thought-out plans went into effect. He paid dearly to bring in two members of the Sons of Satan from a chapter in Oregon. He specifically wanted them because he recalled meeting them at a party and they struck him as looking less like bikers than they did officer workers. He also hired Darryl, the guy who looked after Mehelnechuk's cars, because he knew the Lawbreakers believed the Sons of Satan never did business with black people.

Their job was to deliver a big-screen TV to the Lawbreakers' clubhouse in Springfield. Two of Steve's men had stolen a van from a local electronics retailer and had a pair of uniforms made up for Darryl and the guys from Oregon. When they got to the clubhouse, they told the prospect at the door that the TV was a gift from the main office to reward the Springfield chapter for standing up to the Sons of Satan. Since there were no full members in the clubhouse, the prospect checked the papers. The names and addresses matched, so he told the guys to bring it in.

The three workers placed it where the prospect wanted it. He told them to take it out of the box and set it up. The two guys from Oregon looked at each other. One of them said: “No way, man; we get paid to drive, not to assemble.”

The prospect offered them fifty dollars. They declined. Darryl said he'd do it for fifty dollars. Peter, one of the guys from Oregon remembered that Darryl hadn't been let in on the plan. As far as he knew, he was just delivering a TV. He didn't even know that Mehelnechuk or Bouchard were bikers.

Peter put his hand on Darryl's shoulder. “You can't do it, man, union rules.”

“Fuck that? Who's gonna know?”

Peter walked over to the Lawbreakers prospect in charge and put his arm around him. He whispered into his ear. “I didn't want to have to tell you this, but Darryl has a learning disability,” he said. “If you want your TV all fucked up, by all means, let him assemble it.”

The prospect told Peter he understood and turned to Darryl. “Thanks, but no thanks, man. I have some people here who can handle it.”

Darryl looked over at Peter. “Fuck you, you racist bastard.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Peter said. “Tell me all about it on the ride home.”

“Don't worry, I will.”

The three of them left the clubhouse, and got into the van. Peter stomped on the gas, and Darryl, who was riding in the back, tumbled all the way back to the rear doors. “What the fuck?” he yelled.

Then they heard the blast. It was so huge that the windows on buildings three blocks away shattered. Smoke billowed from the Lawbreakers' clubhouse. As soon as the prospect and a hangaround lifted the screen from the box, it triggered the roughly nine pounds of C4 plastic explosive inside. Four men within viewing distance of the TV were obliterated. Two others died from flying debris. Another lost an arm. No full-patch members were present, but the Lawbreakers' farm team had taken a huge hit, and the clubhouse was rendered useless.

Inside the van, Darryl patted Peter on the back and thanked him.

Things were very different at Buster's once Sharpe was gone. Adam Stockton, the new guy Steve sent down, was completely different from his predecessor. Not only was he a friendly, amiable guy, but he worked. Stockton hauled beer, chased away troublemakers, and even took a few shifts behind the bar. He kept his hands off the dancers, helped Ned negotiate deals, and kept everyone who worked at the bar loose.

Things were so much better that Ned found himself incredibly relaxed. But he couldn't say the same for Daniela, who was working as hard and as many hours as she had before. She had softened her tone towards Ned, and he had grown quite fond of her. He'd been attracted to her looks and natural grace from the moment he'd met her, but now he'd come to appreciate—even anticipate—her witty comments.

He found himself wanting to make her happy. So while they were sitting together in his office, he interrupted her story about how stupid the beer delivery guy was to suggest she take a break.

“You've been working so hard, why don't you take a few days off—just go enjoy yourself.”

She was suspicious. “Why? What have I done?” she asked.

“I'm not punishing you, Dani,” Ned said. “I'm rewarding you . . . take a vacation.”

She folded her arms in front of her chest. She liked that he called her Dani. It was the first time she'd been called that by anyone in years. “Bar would fall apart, crumble to pieces without me here.”

“Look, I understand that you have trust issues and all that, but we can struggle by for two or three days. Believe it or not, Adam is actually competent. I can help more than usual and Liliya has been talking about how much she wants to be a bouncer—we'll be fine.”

“I'll think about it.”

Carter knew that being high all the time was making him reckless, but Steve kept giving him more and more coke—and it certainly made doing his job easier. Since the Eggs O'Lent diner incident, Carter had shot six more men associated with the High Rollers, killing five of them.

He'd even joined in the crowd of onlookers after one of his murders, and nobody recognized him. Although he knew better than to get too cocky, he was feeling pretty close to invincible. And that's why he was thinking big. He was tired of offing drug dealers in their shitty apartments or run-down bars. He wanted to make a real score. Not for the money, but for the prestige.

He decided on a target on his own. Declan Allenson was considered an up-and-comer in Springfield. He'd been a Death Dealers prospect (and a good friend of André's), but he couldn't take the disorganization and leadership failings and changed allegiances to the Lawbreakers. He was not only a powerful drug dealer, but he was also running a very lucrative car theft business in which stolen luxury cars were reduced to parts that were then shipped to China for reassembly.

Carter knew that Allenson owned a legit used car lot and spent a lot of time there. But he was never alone—he employed some pretty tough characters and had a pair of Rottweilers roaming around the place. When he arrived at Dexy's Used Cars, Carter walked by both growling dogs and a mean-looking guy who was trying to shine up an old Buick. He went into the trailer that served as an office, and walked right up to Allenson. “I'm interested in that old Audi A4 you've got out there,” Carter said. He was holding an ad Allenson had put in a local paper. “Does it really have just fifty-four thousand miles on it?”

Allenson smiled broadly. “Would I lie?”

“I don't know,” Carter said. “You
are
a used-car salesman.”

“Get a load of the balls on this guy,” Allenson laughed. The other two salesmen in the trailer laughed along with him

“Lemme take this guy,” one of them offered.

Allenson shook his head. “No, he amuses me. Besides, I have a feeling we can get this guy to pay full price and then grab his address and get the car back by morning.”

His employee laughed.

“Okay, okay, why don't we go take a look at the car then?” Allenson said to Carter.

“Great.”

“Just lemme see your driver's license first,” Allenson looked the document over. “Thank you, Mr. Marino; hey, are you related to the Marinos who live on Queenston Road?”

“No, I'm not from here,” said Carter.

Inside the Audi, they talked about the car's features and how well it handled in the snow. Carter asked if he could take it on the highway. Allenson said it was okay, as long as they got back to the dealership soon. But Carter missed the on-ramp and went down a country road instead. “Just to test it out,” he said. “If it can handle these dirt roads, I'll know it can handle anything.”

“Just don't get it dirty,” Allenson laughed.

Carter stopped the car and looked out the passenger window past Allenson. “Hey,” he said. “Is that girl naked?”

Allenson turned to look. “Where?” he said.

Carter took a .44 Magnum out of his jacket and shot Allenson in the back of the head. The bullet came out his mouth and shattered the passenger window.

“Aw, shit,” Carter said, and put his head in his hands laughing. He reached over Allenson's body and opened the passenger door. He put his back against his own door and kicked Allenson's body out. It wasn't easy. Allenson weighed about a hundred pounds more than Carter. When the body was finally out of the car, Carter wiped the gun down, threw it away in a field, and drove back to the city.

Feeney didn't like where they put the recorder. Not only was it uncomfortable on his sternum, he thought it stood out. He thought that it was obvious, and that he'd be killed the second he showed up at the clubhouse. So he took the long way there, along the lake, just to clear his head.

He knew what the Sons did to snitches. He was there when they caught one. A cop who owed Vandersloot some money told him that Sam Cain had been collaborating with the ATF on an investigation that involved Bouchard. That night, Vandersloot invited Cain to dinner. Cain got in his car and started driving for Vandersloot's place in the country. About halfway there, a minivan blocked his way. It wouldn't move. Then a pickup truck pulled up behind him. Cain started to turn into the oncoming lane to get around the minivan, but the pickup truck rammed his car. Three masked men with guns leapt out of the minivan. The first opened Cain's passenger-side door and said in a familiar voice, “Give us all your money and nobody gets hurt.”