The four deputies in the keeled-over Suburban strained against their seat belts, coughing out glass and bleeding from the ears. One set of motorcycle wheels zipped past, heading the wrong way. Innumerable car alarms bleated; someone's cry of anguish expired in a gurgle.
The wind picked up the severed chains dangling from Den's and Kaner's shackles, drawing them horizontal. Kaner's torn shirt flapped open, showing off his backpack, the club logo rendered on his flesh in orange and black. They sped off, the flaming skull screaming back from the receding bike at the dead and wounded.
Chapter 2
Silver rattled on china as white-gloved waiters cleared the remains of the five-hundred-dollar-a-plate luncheon. Marshal Tannino stood milling with other Angeleno political luminaries, looking mildly out of place with his coiffed salt-and-pepper hair and his department-store suit. He tugged at his too-short shirtsleeves to bring his gold-star links into view and squinted up at the chardonnay-haired woman holding a glass of white wine.
"If we really are serious about committing resources-"
Across the vast ballroom of the Beverly Hills Hotel, someone's beeper chirped-a cutesy electronic rendition of "Jingle Bells."
"-to fully secure the courts, we need to-"
Another pager added a discordant melody, and then a multitude chimed in. Tannino glanced down, frowning at his own beeper. "Excuse me, Your Honor."
State assemblymen and deputies alike scurried to the ballroom's exits, checking the reception levels on their cell phones. Tannino was halfway to the lobby when the city attorney approached, holding out a Nextel. "It's the mayor."
Tannino snapped the phone to his ear, still moving. "Yes, sir. Uhhuh. Uh-huh." His face tightened. As he continued to listen, he fished his cell phone from his pocket and, holding it down at his waist, speed-dialed. "Right away, sir."
He handed back the Nextel and pressed his own phone to his ear. "Get Rackley."
Chapter 3
Tim jogged down the Federal Courthouse corridor, pulling off his blazer and cuffing his sleeves. Tannino had called him with the news-an emergency of sufficient magnitude to yank Tim from mind-numbing court duty, where he'd been suffering through day three of jury selection for a tax-evasion case. He'd been offered a road back into the Service-but only so far back in-as a reward for a stellar freelance investigation he'd conducted on a mind-control cult in the spring. Court duty was a penance of sorts, one he'd gladly been paying. But this afternoon he felt no happiness at receiving the long-awaited summons back to the Warrant Squad's Escape Team-two deputies dead, four injured, and Den Laurey and Lance Kaner out cruising California Central District's asphalt.
The marshal's assistant glanced up from a bank of blinking phone lights and nodded him in. Despite his stern posture, Tannino still looked short behind his great oak desk. He eyed the hole shot through a warped piece of metal-just minutes earlier a badge. A distinguished man with an age-softened linebacker's build half sat on the arm of the opposing chair, hands laced over a knee. A razor-straight crew cut completed his square face.
"Rackley, you know the mayor?"
"Of course. How are you, Your Honor?" Tim regarded the mayor's expression. "Right."
They shook hands all around, then took seats on the couch and surrounding chairs. Tim's right knee popped when he sat-it still gave him trouble from time to time, though the scar on his chin had resolved nicely. Souvenirs from the investigation eight months prior. He adjusted his old-school Smith amp; Wesson wheel gun in its hip holster; checking the revolver was second nature. He'd never made the jump to an auto and probably never would.
"How are the boys?"
"Everyone's holding. Jim seems to have lost hearing in one ear, but the docs say it ought to be temporary. We're arranging Frankie's service for tomorrow. And Hank's." Tannino tugged at his face, which had gone gray, and his eyes pulled to the bent star on his desk. "I just got off with Janice, convinced her we need to go closed-casket. Bastards put a lot of holes in the bodies."
"Let's get down to business." Mayor Strauss, like Tim, was a former Army Ranger. In his brief time in office, he'd developed a reputation for being a man long on efficacy but short on tact. "You'll be the deputy in charge of the task force."
Before Tim could register his surprise, Tannino said, "Obviously we've designated Den and Kaner as Top Fifteens. We already put out a news release, and a BOLO's gone out to other agencies."
"We're gonna need our locals," Tim said. "Bikers spread out."
"We're getting a command post up and running. As I'm sure you're aware, Jowalski's partnered with Guerrera now. You and Guerrera work together?"
"Very well."
"You'll be a threesome in the field."
"Tip hotline?"
Tannino nodded. "We beefed up the comm center to handle incoming."
"I'll announce the number during the press conference I called for"-Strauss checked his watch-"about fifty-two minutes from now. We'll also use the occasion to get the mug shots out there. Gives us a jump on the morning papers."
"Any leads?"
"At this point we've got shit," Tannino said. "The copters had to come from Piper Tech, took seventeen minutes to get on scene. The crew was smart, hit the van between two close exits-a lot of exchanges and intersections in the area, not to mention the fact that there are bikers all over the roads this month."
"Whose handle?"
"Ours. But it's a mess. Since it was on a highway, we had to back off the Chippies. Sheriff's will pick up the murder-Walnut/Diamond Bar Station, though I'm sure they'll roll someone from Homicide Bureau. Oh-and we have the pleasure of an FBI tagalong on the task force. I fought off a joint operation, but their agent sits in. It came from up top."
"I understand you've worked bikers before," Strauss said.
"Some. Not much. I know the Sinners, but so does anyone with a badge in L.A."
"Give me the CliffsNotes."
"The mother chapter's in Fillmore. I live just south in Moorpark. We get them through town now and then, pissing off all the off-duties-Moorpark, right? The only thing sacred to a Sinner is his bond to the club. Don't expect honor among thieves-they're famous for double crosses, drug burns, cop killings. They've been deep into the meth racket for years-last intel briefing we were told they've done twenty mil on the western seaboard in drugs and weapons smuggling. And they're in an expansion, muscling in on the Cholos for who's gonna move quantity in and around L.A. Other gangs they've just absorbed, but their hating Mexicans is a big part of the Sinners' appeal to the national membership. The Cholos have a more diversified portfolio of controlled substances, but the Sinners want to take the meth away from them completely-get a monopoly. They've almost got it with operations in Nevada, Arizona, New Mexico, West Texas, maybe Oregon. As far as one-percenters go, they rule the seaboard and the Southwest."
"One-percenters?"
Tannino stepped in, "The American Motorcycle Association issued a statement after the Hollister incident-you know, Brando?-that ninety-nine percent of bikers are law-abiding citizens. The outlaws embraced the one-percent tag."
"So it's a badge of sorts."
"Would you rather be a loser or an outlaw?" Tim asked.
"Neither. But point taken." The mayor shot a sigh. "What other rackets are they into?"
"They're strong on handguns, assault weapons, and low-end prostitution. Call girls they leave to the mob, along with gambling and hijacked electronics. They're smart that way-they mind the terrain, dominate their sectors."
"They're a business," Strauss declared.