Troubled Son: Savage Sons MC Romance (3 page)

I took the folders and slid them to the side without opening them. I had a feeling that Tombley was about to unload a mountain of information on me, and I could comb through the homework later. I figured I'd try to soak up everything he was willing to share.

"I'm ready."

His magnetic green eyes narrowed slightly as he evaluated my response, and I figured that he was surprised -- that most agents would have been unable to resist opening the folders right away. It's always been my experience, thought, that you're missing a great opportunity if you focus on paperwork when you have a real live person in front of you who knows more than you do. Reading expressions, body language, and attitudes can tell you things that you'll never learn from a piece of paper. I'd have all the time in the world to pore over the folders when I got home that night, but I wouldn't have Jeff Tombley.

He nodded as if he liked what he saw. "Here's the situation. You know that meth's a big problem in this part of the country. The problem is complex. Not only are there more people than I can count who are cooking it on a small scale and illegal weapons inevitably involved, but when you have shifting territories and a big new producer, you're going to have warfare in the area. The money's big, and the stakes are high. We've got big problems."

I wasn't sure if I should contribute, but I figured I'd test the waters. "And from what I've seen, crank just destroys the users. More than any other drug I've seen."

Tombley ran his hands through his perfectly cut brown hair as he leaned back in his chair, hands locked behind his head. "You know, Max, you're right, but can I tell you a secret?"

I nodded.

"I don't give two shits about junkies who destroy their own lives. Once we clean up the meth, they'll be on the lookout for the next thing they can put up their noses or in their veins. I can't fix that." Tombley leaned forward as if he could pin me to my chair with his stare. "What I can fix is the fact that we've got bodies piling up and good people afraid to drive through their own neighborhoods because they might get shot or be next-door when another lab blows up."

I held his gaze and didn't say a word. His statement bothered me a little, but I figured I'd have plenty of time to sort out my thoughts on Tombley. What mattered was putting together a solid case, regardless of motivations.

Jeff stood up and removed his suit jacket. As he carefully folded it in half and draped it over the back of one of the extra chairs at the table, I got a good look at him. His suit looked like it had been made for him, and as I looked closely, I could see the more visible stitches that indicate pricy bespoke tailoring. That was something you didn't see everyday in a federal building. French cuffs with matte silver cufflinks spoke volumes. This was a guy who looked good and knew it. I was careful not to let him catch me checking him out. I hid a smile as I thought about what an awkward way that would be to start our professional relationship.

He approached the map wall and pointed at the two state maps that were most relevant -- Colorado and Wyoming. "It's hard to fathom how much meth these two states produce and consume, especially when you consider that there are only a couple hundred thousand people in the whole damn state of Wyoming."

Tombley pointed out Niwot on the Colorado map -- a little town not far from Boulder, and he gestured toward Colorado Springs -- roughly due south of Denver. "Anyway, the small-time dealers aside, the ATF did a real number on the Sons of Silence in '99 and the old timers in the MC decided that it was safer to go legit -- at least for the most part."

I realized that I had a lot to learn, and I opened my notebook and quickly jotted down a couple of questions to ask later.

"Since then, the meth in Colorado has been pretty decentralized. We've got a Latino gang near Pueblo that handles most of the southern part of the state, and Wyoming is huge business handled by another MC. We're working on that problem, but Wyoming has been pretty quiet -- in terms of fallout that affects law-abiding citizens."

I decided that I needed to speak up. "MC?" I asked.

"Motorcycle club," Tombley answered. "We've got the Vandals up in Wyoming, but the big problem is the Savage Sons. They're a small club on the edges of Denver-- been around for about thirty years and they've been pretty clean for most of that time. They've run some small-time hookers and dealt a bunch of weed, but nothing that the police couldn't handle."

Tombley sat back down at the table. "Until now. Now you might imagine that it's pretty hard to get inside information from these folks. They have all of these stupid rules about getting into the club, and a lot of MCs require prospects to commit crimes and go through a bunch of bullshit before they know what's what in the club. They're a tight knit group, and they think of themselves as brothers. They'd rather die than betray a brother -- at least that's what they say until they're facing jail time unless they cooperate.

"We'd started to get the feeling that some new dealer had moved in and shaken up the status quo. We were finding little petty dealers outside their usual areas -- making risky deals and working harder to find tweakers looking for a fix. That sort of behavior tells us that something's out of balance, that buyers have found another source."

I nodded, following him so far.

"It took us a little while to put the pieces together, and really all we'd figured out was that we were looking at a big-time change in the game -- something widespread and organized. And then the answer walked through our door."

Tombley reached over and pulled the top file folder off the pile and opened it in front of me. "Moses Hall."

I examined the photograph that faced me. The man in the picture stood with his hands on his hips in front of a tattoo shop called Red Sea Tattoo. His arms were covered with full sleeve ink, and more tattoos were visible beneath the leather vest he wore. His worn jeans rested on his lean hips and ended above a pair of broken-in cowboy boots. He was tall, muscular, and radiated a raw, gritty sensuality. The photographer was obviously a professional, and the set of Moses' jaw combined with the determined and insolent expression in his eyes made the man look like a warning you were dying to ignore.

I looked up from the photo to see Jeff laughing silently.

"I've seen that look before. He's not a bad looking guy, but he ain't a nice fella." Jeff closed the folder and returned it to its place atop the stack. "Moses is a member of the Savage Sons. The club was started by Moses' father and uncle. His father, Samuel Hall -- club name Captain -- is deceased, and his uncle, Daniel Hall -- he goes by Joker -- is the club's president.

"Moses called the FBI here in Denver about six months ago and said he had information to share, but it would come with a price. He met with an agent who was primed to regretfully inform Moses that the FBI doesn't pay its informants. Turns out Moses doesn't give a shit about money, and from the looks of it, he has more than he can spend. He wants out of the Savage Sons, and he wants to take 'em down before he goes. Seems our boy is tired of running girls and crank and wants to go straight."

"Let me guess. It's not that easy."

"Not by a long shot. You don't just opt out of these one percenter clubs. They'll kill him before they let him just walk away. Family ties or not, he can't just up and leave. What Moses wants is protection. He wants help getting away and creating a new identity."

"So he wants to enter the Witness Protection Program?"

"Something like that. It's not exactly clear if he's going to actually follow all of the rules, but that's gonna be on him if he doesn't. We've agreed to work with him, bring down the Savage Sons, and get him out safely."

I sat for a moment, thinking over what Jeff had just told me. "Okay. So why do you need me?"

"Fair question. Moses has fed us plenty of information. We know exactly what's going on in the SS clubhouse; we know where they have their labs; we know how they're getting the ingredients. What we need is evidence. It's not enough to know what's going on. I want to be able to prove it to a jury. Beyond a reasonable doubt. This case is huge. We're not talking about a lot of people, but we're talking a huge amount of meth and an awful lot of money. I want a case that's airtight. That's where you come in.

"We need you to collect the evidence. We need recordings and your testimony as a federal agent. Moses is willing to wear a wire, but we need you to ensure that the evidence is collected and handled properly. You, my dear, will be a far more credible witness than will our tattooed bad boy."

I won't deny that I was excited and a little scared. In hindsight, I realize that I wasn't nearly scared enough.

"We've selected a female agent for a very specific reason, and you need to know what you're getting yourself into. These guys -- members of the MCs -- they don't exactly have a lot of respect for women. If you'll permit me to be blunt, women exist to fetch beers, clean up men's messes, and for sex. That's about it."

"Sounds delightful."

"But their less than enlightened attitude toward women presents us with an opportunity. If we tried to send a guy in there, it could be years before they trust him enough for him to gather evidence of what's going on. He'd be a threat to their power structure. It simply won't occur to these guys that a woman -- provided that her cover's good, she's well trained, and that she's willing to put up with all their bullshit -- could be a threat to them."

"Makes sense." I was starting to feel the thrill of a monster challenge.

"The plan is for you to pose as Moses' old lady."

I must have made a face at the expression because Jeff started to laugh.

"Old lady? Really? That's not just made up for television?"

Jeff shook his head. "Unfortunately not. We have to send you in attached because you do not want to walk into their clubhouse as a single lady. It won't be pretty, and we don't send undercover agents in to be gang-raped."

Wow. Gang rape was a sobering thought.

"Moses is going to be a good partner, partly because if your cover is blown, then it's his life on the line. Literally. He's been talking up some new squeeze to the guys, so they won't be surprised when he finally brings a new chick around. I talked to him this morning and told him that I need about a week to get you up to speed, and then we'll set up a meeting for the two of you."

"Sounds like I have a lot of work to do."

"You have no idea. You have your homework." Jeff nodded toward the folders. "We have to get you new clothes and hair and you'll help to construct your background story. We find that if you contribute to the character that it'll feel more comfortable when you're undercover -- more like your own life."

"I'm ready to get to work."

"Glad to hear it." Jeff stood up and pulled his suit jacket back on. "I have you scheduled for a couple of hours to spend with those files. I'd like you to concentrate on the case overview and save the files on the individual members for later. When you've gotten a general idea of our objectives and what we know, I'll put you together with our guys who handle the details of clothes and the like for our undercover ops."

I felt a little overwhelmed and a lot excited as I stood up and collected the manila folders. "I'll be ready."

Jeff nodded and headed for the door. He stopped just before he walked out. "Oh -- one more thing -- ever ridden a Harley before?"

Chapter 4

Moses

I
parked the bike and took my helmet off. I didn't have any appointments until the afternoon, but I had some things I needed to take care of around the shop. I'd known that it was gonna be hard to balance everything once the undercover fed came on the scene, but I had to admit that I was a little worried now that it was just around the corner. She was gonna dress up and play a part to put some bad guys away, but this was my family I was setting up. I knew that I was taking the only chance I had to get out -- to live a life I could be proud of -- but that didn't make it any easier. Knowing that if things went according to plan that my aunt and uncle could do time in prison, that the guys I'd ridden with for my whole life would be going down. It was a lot to shoulder.

"Fuck!"

I guess it was a sign of my guilty conscience that I jumped a mile high when I felt Krystal come up behind me while I unlocked the door of my shop. She leaned against me from behind, tits pressed to my back, as she ran her hands around from my hips to the fronts of my thighs. Krystal was great for business at the shop, but goddamn, was she trouble in tight jeans. I left the keys hanging in the lock for a second while I closed my hands over hers and pushed them away.

"What's the matter? Already jerked off today?" Krystal pouted.

I opened the door and held it so that Krystal could enter. "Quit it, you fuckin' tease. I told you yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. I got a good thing going, and she's the jealous type."

"Yeah, yeah," she answered, as if she were already bored with the conversation.