Deep Cover (3 page)

"Are
you ready, Martin?" he asked.

"I
guess so. For what, specifically?"

"Okay,
Charlie, come on in!" Leverick yelled.

Through
the doorway came a figure who looked like a cross between Big Foot and The Wild Man of Borneo. He stood about six-five. He had huge, solid arm muscles, and reddish-brown hair that was almost shoulder-length.

"Who's
that
?"
I
demanded.

"That's
Charlie Red. He's a freelance bad-ass. We fly him in from New York from time to time when we need to train an agent in the realities of the street. Like I said, that bullshit we teach in basic won't fly out in the real world."

"I
suppose you want me to fight him?"

"No,
just keep him from killing you."

"Great.
Just great, Dalton."

The
hulking figure approached me slowly, no emotion on his face. Just a man who'd showed for work this morning to do his job. And his job was to throw me a beating. We circled each other in the middle of the mock living room. My opponent certainly looked as if he'd been in a few scrambles on the street. He made the first move—lunging at my neck with both arms extended. I immediately bent at the waist, slipped under his left arm, and thrust a solid right-hand punch to his left temple. Without losing his balance, he shot a right which grazed my jaw and sent me backwards, falling over an easy chair or whatever that mocked-up piece of shit was supposed to be. I sprang to my feet in time to meet the menace head-on as he leaped.

The
force of his body knocked me back about ten feet across the room. As I staggered up to one knee, the thundering impact of his hammer-like fist on the back of my neck sent my face crashing to the floor. He then placed me in a headlock of iron that started to drain me of my strength, spirit, and will to live. Leverick got on his hands and knees, placed his face near mine, and shouted, "You'd better get resourceful, asshole! This ain't basic! Forget everything you ever learned and fight for your fucking life, man! You don't get a second chance!"

Red
was breathing down my neck. I estimated the position of his head and whipped my left hand back over my shoulder with the thumb extended and my fist tightly closed. With a painful grunt, his grip on my neck loosened. As he reached for his injured eye, I twisted and snapped an explosive elbow strike to the bridge of his nose, sending him onto his back. He pushed himself up slightly with his hands and attempted to shake off the blow. I leaped to my feet and came crashing through his jaw with my right foot. I lay back panting, repeating with every exhausted exhale, "Shit, oh shit, oh shit."

"Very
resourceful, Martin. Very resourceful," Leverick said, with pride in his voice.

Charlie
Red regained consciousness, and left as silently and as ominously as he'd appeared. Leverick instructed me to take the rest of the day off and relax.

That second week entailed a lot of physical activity. The morning encounters with Charlie Red were less vicious, but every bit as draining as the first one. By Saturday I was feeling pumped up, ready to take on the world. Simply busting these thugs wasn't going to be enough. I wanted to get a piece of them on the way down. Leverick must have sensed this, because he took me aside that afternoon for a brief sitdown.

"How
are you feeling, Martin?" he asked.

"Great,
Dalton. I feel strong. I can't wait to get out there."

"Listen,
I don't want you to get over-anxious. Your job is to record events, not engage unnecessarily in violence. I've been training agents for special assignments for over six years, and I can tell when someone starts to hate."

"Hate?"

"Yes. You've had to rely heavily on aggression to get you through the training this week. The aggression you've developed towards The Henchmen has served you well. Now it's time to let it go."

"I
don't understand," I said. I was a little puzzled. After all, we're the good guys and they're the enemy. It's us or them.

"You
have to be emotionless during this operation," Leverick said. "Any extreme is dangerous. Feelings of love or hate for a subject can jeopardize an operation. Or worse, an agent's life."

"What
am I supposed to feel?"

"Be
like a doctor, removing a cancerous tumor. He doesn't hate the tumor, and he's detached from the patient. He's single-minded and purposeful. His actions are calculated and result-oriented. Are you hearing me?"

"Yes.
Loud and clear. Thanks."

Dalton
was right. I was becoming too emotionally charged. He put things back in perspective for me that afternoon.

"This
is going to be a little different from any investigation you've ever worked on before," Leverick continued.

"Meaning?"

"Meaning we have a game plan that can be altered at any time. If nothing concrete comes your way while you're investigating, we'll have to set up some transactions—weapons, drug buys, etcetera—in order to build a case. You'll need to record and communicate with Base I every time you witness a crime being committed."

"Base
I?"

"You'll
be given a special number to call. Your statements will be transcribed, and 302's prepared for your signature so warrants can be issued. At times I'll personally answer that number. Other times it will be manned by Atwood, whom you already know, and by special agents Fred Parkins and Molly Samuels."

"Molly
Samuels? I remember seeing her name in one of the reports."

"Yes.
Molly was part of a team we put together three years ago. She tried to work her way into The Henchmen by posing as a young girl looking for some biker action. We terminated the investigation when two Henchmen tried to rape her on a barroom pool table. Molly was able to get away, but by then we knew it was foolish to try to infiltrate the group that way. She knows a lot about outlaw bikers and will be extremely useful to this investigation."

"Who
else
is in on the assignment?" I asked, with more than a touch of disgust in my voice. "I can see the
Tribune
printing details before things even get under way. I'll get my balls shot off the first time I try to make contact with them."

"Don't
worry, Martin. Besides you, me, Atwood, Parkins, and Samuels, nobody knows the whole story." "The whole story?"

"There
will be players along the way. Local cops or agents may be brought in for a specific role to facilitate your assignment, or, and I hope this doesn't happen, get you out of a jam."

"You
mean if I get caught?"

"Not
just that. You could find yourself involved in a conflict with another club. We don't want you injured while fighting for these guys, for chrissake. Or you could find yourself hanging around with one of the prospects, when he decides to carry out one of his instructions from the club."

"Instructions?"

"When a guy becomes a prospect," Leverick continued, "he has to perform certain tasks to prove himself loyal to the club. These can be anything from robbing a liquor store to shoplifting to murder. Prospects are carefully scrutinized to see if they can show class."

"Class?"

"Yeah, it's a bikers' interpretation of the term. It simply means 'worthy to wear the club's colors on your back,' being a stand-up righteous dude,' and all that crap. Then after an initiation ritual, the prospect becomes a full-fledged member. We'll bring people in to the extent necessary to get you through situations like these. Also, our plans to set up drug buys and other activities will be altered according to information you relay to us. If you get enough just hanging around these guys, we won't have to set up any major operations of our own. My guess is that you'll see plenty of action from day one."

During the third week of training I learned to customize a Harley-Davidson motorcycle, outlaw-style. An outlaw biker can dismantle every nut and bolt on a Harley and put it back together in a matter of hours. By the end of the week Leverick was timing me at just under five hours. The training was winding down and, despite Leverick's talk about emotion, I was winding up. This was going to be one of the biggest busts of the decade, and I was going to be the one responsible. Agents in the academy would hear how I'd brought down the most notorious outlaw motorcycle club in America. I fantasized about media interviews, talk shows, possibly a book. I was hooked. Hooked by whatever drives people to achieve the impossible.

On
Sunday morning I met Dalton for my last session.

"Morning,
Martin," he said.

"Hello,
Dalton. I guess I graduate today." I was feeling a little cocky.

"
Au
contraire
, my boy. This is where the schooling really begins. I just got the green light from Atwood last night. After today you'll be known as James Randall, alias 'Dr. Death.' "

"You
make that one up yourself?"

"Not
at all. Long before the name became a cliché, used to death in pro wrestling and in B-movies, Randall was a member of a bike gang from Vancouver called Satan's Saints. He was also head of their hit squad. The Saints live now only in outlaw legend, but they made quite a name for themselves a while back. In 1976 they took on, in an all-out war with the Canadian authorities, half an army division. Eighty soldiers were killed, and all but four of the sixty-four members of the Saints died as well. Two were later killed during an attempted bank robbery. One died in an automobile accident in Quebec, and the fourth, James Randall, died of a drug overdose in South America."

"South
America?" I asked.

"He
took up with some mercenaries. Apparently they must have paid him in cocaine."

"Won't
any of The Henchmen know what he looks like?"

"We've
had to dig real deep to get this information. Atwood called in some favors from a CIA contact. We couldn't even find a photo of Randall. Some of the old-timers will probably remember his name, but I would bet that all outlaw bikers know of the infamous Saints, and the battle that wiped them out. Randall was only twenty years old at the time. He'd be thirty-six today. Just two years older than you."

"So
how does Dr. Death get in with them?"

"First
thing we have to do is to get you tattooed."

"Tattooed?
Don't you think that's a bit much?" I was gung ho and all, but placing permanent scars on my body was a lot to ask.

"Relax,
Martin, we aren't going to scar you," Leverick said reassuringly. "The lab guys recently got hold of a process by which we can create a removable tattoo. It was invented by the Japanese government when they were trying to infiltrate the Yakusa. The Japanese Mafia are well known for their colorful tattoos, and none of their agents was willing to have a permanent garden of colors painted on his back either. The paint can be removed by laser. It's painless and leaves no scars."

"Do
I get a choice of pictures?" I asked, only half kidding. I thought the least they could do was let me pick out the tattoo myself.

"No."
Leverick's answer was automatic. "I've already planned which ones you'll wear. And one in particular is vital to your cover."

He
showed me a photo of a corpse. The dead guy had a bearded, almost Christ-like head, and on his chest there was a crown of snakes.

"Every
member of the Saints," Leverick added, "had this tattooed on the left side of his chest shortly after initiation. We'll also put an eagle on your right forearm with 'Live Free or Die' written under it. On your left shoulder, a knife dripping with blood reading `Death is certain, life isn't.' Both classic biker tattoos. We'll take care of that tomorrow morning at the research facility in Harrisdale."

"Then
I go find the Henchmen, right?"

"Not
exactly. One of the members is scheduled to be paroled in two weeks. We're going to send you into Boldero to get to know him. He's sure to recognize the Satan's Saints tattoo. We'll arrange to get you in tight with him. My guess is he'll invite you to come around and see him when you get out."

"Who
knows I'm there?" I asked cautiously. The thought of being inside those prison walls with fifteen hundred rapists, thieves, and murderers, any one of whom would cut my throat in a moment, scared the hell out of me.

"Besides
the Base I group, only the warden, Bill Pierce, and two of his senior guards. You remember the name 'Leo Ryan'?"

"Senator?"

"Congressman."

"Yeah,
Congressman Ryan... Killed by the Reverend Jim Jones in Guyana."

"That's
what he's known for. Terrible tragedy. But a couple of years before he developed his hard-on for Jim Jones he had himself placed in Folsom Prison for a week to expose the inhumane conditions there. Pierce was warden then, and Richard Atwood coordinated the whole thing for Ryan. Pierce had himself and the two supervisors transferred to Boldero eight months ago. You'll be in good hands."