Let the Music Play - 40. Greylag Goose

A crackling fire, a comfortable seat on the sofa, his boyfriend by his side. Under other circumstances Brandon would have been happy, but Günter was still missing, and the TV was swamped by non-stop reports of the horrendous carnage in Australia. With a sigh, he said to Chase, “It’s like a different world. Everything’s changed; a nuclear bomb, everyone afraid, and then there’s what happened to us and whatever’s happened to Günter – what do we do now?”

Chase shrugged, and shook his head with a downcast expression on his face. “I don’t know, Brand. I guess we wait and see… Helen ordered the money for Jim’s guys yesterday and it should be at the bank this afternoon. She asked Jim to go with her to get it.”

“She’s going to ride on the back of Jim’s bike?” Brandon asked with a chuckle, his first in two days.

“Nah, we’ve got a Jeep here, in the garage by the side of the house.”

“We should go see Jim’s guys and give them the money in person. It was damn good of ‘em to ride up here; they had no idea we’d pay them.” Brandon said.

A few hours later, Helen, seated beside Jim in the Jeep, drove down Telluride’s main street. Neither of them thought to pay any particular attention to a trailer towed by a truck with ‘Chevo Landscaping’ emblazoned on its side, nor did they notice its California plates.

Minutes later, at a small hotel alongside the San Miguel River, Dimitri climbed stiffly out of the landscaping truck’s cab. With some help from Mario, they unlimbered The Scar’s Suburban and drove it off the trailer. With that task done, they set out in the Suburban for Last Dollar Road.

Using a topographic map purchased from a local store, Dimitri navigated while Mario drove up the serpentine road. At one point in the road, where it clung to the rim of a bowl-shaped valley as it climbed towards the first pass, Dimitri found himself with a severe case of white knuckles due to the dizzying drop on his side of the vehicle, just inches from his door.

When the road topped out and wound through a stand of high forest, Dimitri breathed a sigh of relief. Ten minutes later, they were approaching Instinct’s ranch house. Stopping on a shallow down slope on the rutted road, Dimitri spared a glance through his binoculars. “About a hundred yards ahead there should be a track going up to the ridgeline. From the look of the map, you’ll need four-wheel drive and low-range; shift into it now.”

Mario hesitated before saying, “I’ve never driven off-road in this sort of terrain before. Getting this far was difficult. You should drive the rest of the way.”

Nodding in agreement, Dimitri jumped out and changed places with Mario. Putting the transmission in neutral, he shifted the second gear-selector into 4-low – four-wheel drive with low-range gearing – and set out. The small rutted track to their right came into view, and Dimitri wheeled the suburban into it.

The track snaked around the back of the mountain spur which formed the ridge. After half an hour spent negotiating the washed-out, rock-strewn old mining road, they had covered barely a mile. Stopping at a rockfall that blocked the remainder of the road, they exited and locked the vehicle with their guns inside. Going armed would have been legal, but they had no desire to lug heavy and awkward weapons up rough terrain. Armed only with the hunting knives Dimitri had purchased, they skirted the rockfall and walked up the road. A hundred yards from the ridgeline they encountered the yawning maw of an old mining drift; a horizontal shaft hewn into the rock. Passing it by, they continued up a barely-identifiable footpath, as it hugged the rock face. Dimitri had to force himself to continue due to the perilous drop to his right, a vertical plunge of over three hundred feet to the treetops below. A few hundred yards further on, a stream from the mountain above hurled itself over the malevolent precipice. To Dimitri’s immense relief, the trail, as indicated by his map, came to a small draw leading up to the left. With a prayer of thanks to a God in whom he did not believe, Dimitri scurried away from the edge of the cliff, leaving it well before he reached the rushing waterfall. Mario did not mind heights, but noticed, with a suppressed chuckle, that Dimitri most certainly did.

Cresting the ridge, breathing heavily in the thin mountain air, the two men looked down on the rolling countryside. Dimitri found that, as he’d hoped, he had a clear view of Instinct’s ranch two miles away. He was delighted that they had chosen a home on high ground; the neighboring ranch house, which he’d caught a glimpse of as he’d driven past, was hidden behind a low hill covered with a copse of aspen from his current vantage point.

Sitting down with his back against a jagged boulder, Dimitri settled in to observe the target via binoculars. He was relieved; if they had divulged their information to the authorities, he reasoned, they would be elsewhere, and guarded. The fact that they were not indicated that he was in time.

Mario, pulling up against a boulder a few yards away, settled in for what he correctly assumed would be a long wait.

Half an hour later, Dimitri handed Mario the binoculars and waited while Mario adjusted them, focusing in on Instinct’s property. Dimitri adjusted his position to relieve some minor cramping as he turned to stare at the distant ranch house before saying, “The location is good. It is suitably remote, with easy approaches from the north and east. If possible, we are to make it look like an accident, but with the four targets and their manager, that may be problematic. Rendering them unconscious and then placing them in a vehicle and pushing them off a cliff is one option, but doing so without leaving signs is difficult. Our best option may be to simply charge in and shoot them, and then spray-paint ‘Paid in Full’ on a wall for misdirection along with a few other clues in order to make it look like a drug deal gone bad. Rockers are known for their pharmaceutical indulgences after all. I just wish we had access to some narcotics to make it look more believable.”

Mario, who had even more experience than Dimitri at the art of killing, lowered his binoculars. Turning to look at Dimitri he said, “That’s a very weak cover. A more effective approach might be to tie them up and then suffocate them by placing plastic bags over their heads. Then we untie the bodies and place them in beds, to make it look like carbon monoxide poisoning from the secondary effects of a fire begun in another room. A cigarette in a couch is a good start as the fire scene investigators almost always look for something like that, and a burning sofa can emit deadly gasses. We could use a lighter to start the blaze itself. We must not use any accelerants; but in a remote setting such as this, we do not need it to be fast. We’d have to be careful to avoid leaving marks on the bodies; fires are notoriously inconsistent in covering abrasion marks on flesh.”

Dimitri considered the plan for several minutes, remaining silent and never taking his eyes off the distant ranch house. Finally he said, “That is feasible and would be a better cover. However, the operational complexity is greater and the main difficulty would be in restraining them without wounding them noticeably. However, what we can do is attempt to use your plan and hold mine as a fallback. If one of them resists and needs to be shot, then we would have to go with my plan.”

The two men looked into each other’s eyes, each developing a greater respect for the other’s professional abilities. Nodding, feeling that Dimitri was someone he could work with – always before, Mario had operated alone – he said, “Tonight, then?”

“About an hour after sunset, I think,” Dimitri said, as he resumed his vigil with the binoculars.

Helen strolled into the ranch house, carrying her briefcase. She set it on the coffee table and said, “I got half of it, fifty grand. They said they’d have the rest by tomorrow. I talked it over with Jim and he said this should be more than enough. His advice was not to go over a grand for each biker. I think he’s right.”

“We need those guys, or we might,” Eric said, flicking open the briefcase’s clasps with a snap. Brandon, looking over Eric’s shoulder, gave a low whistle as he laid eyes on the stacks of hundred-dollar bills.

“Let’s go see Jim and his crew,” Brandon said with a smile. “This should keep his guys happy, which means they’ll stick around–”

Helen interrupted to say, “Not so fast. Jim also said not to give it to them all at once. He also thinks four hundred per biker would be more than enough for now.”

Eric shook his head. “Those guys are protecting us, and we think what happened on the plane was no accident, so that means somebody wants us dead. Is this any time to be pinching pennies? I say we give ‘em a grand now, then some more later.”

Faced with a resolute Eric, and with his two brothers nodding agreement, Helen conceded the point by saying, “I suppose you might be right.”

Vigorously shaking his head, Brandon said, “That’s way too much. I know how those guys think. Jim has it right. They didn’t come here for the money, so if we dish out that kind of cash there’s a good chance they’re going to think less of us. It’s an insult in a way, because it implies they did come here for money. Five hundred would be okay, but no more than that, not right now, or we’ll do ourselves more harm than good.” After receiving nods of agreement, Brandon said to his band mates and Helen, “Let me do the talking at first; I’ve been around bikers before. Bikers have their own culture, and we don’t want to offend anyone by saying the wrong thing. Also, if you see any jackets with the club logo laying around, whatever you do, don’t touch them unless invited. Same goes for motorcycles.”

Arching an eyebrow in surprise at the revelation Brandon had just made, Helen asked, “How did you come to know so much about bikers?”

Nodding, Brandon replied, “Jim took me to a few biker parties back in Phoenix and I got to know some of the club members. I hung out with ‘em sometimes. They were pretty decent guys by and large, and they even taught me how to fight. That came in handy a few times when I was living rough.”

On the ridge above, Dimitri watched as his five targets left their house on foot, walking across the open ground towards the home which was hidden by the trees. He cursed under his breath, wondering what he would do if they did not return.

Arriving at the Jacobs Ranch, Chase smiled as he saw two bikers sitting behind a few bales of hay, using a small spotter-scope to keep an eye out.

Jim, alerted to the approaching guests, opened the door just before Helen could knock. “Hi Jim,” she said as she nodded towards the four members of Instinct, “the guys wanted to meet your crew and to say thanks.”

Jim nodded. He knew what they intended, and wanted it to be taken well. The bikers, he well knew, had their pride, and had not come for financial gain. However, a few were already growing bored and in order to keep them all around, he knew some reward was needed.

“Hey, gather ‘round, we’ve got company,” Jim yelled, loud enough to shake the rafters.

Following their informal yet very strict hierarchy, the many bikers lounging around the room let the two club leaders approach first.

One, decked out in dusty leathers and a sleeveless denim jacket, stepped up and clasped Brandon’s hand in an iron grip. “Hey, dude, good to meet ya. My name’s Brody.”

Brandon, familiar with the ways of bikers, returned the crushing grip and said, “Thanks for bringing your chapter up.”

Brody shrugged, angling his head in Jim’s direction. “When a brother calls, we answer. He said you guys are good people, even if you’ve never been on a Harley. He also said the damn government ain’t takin’ you seriously, and a lot of us, well, we’ve had our own issues with Uncle Sam. Livin’ in the wind is about freedom and watching your friend’s backs. We’re happy to oblige, and if anybody comes poking around, we’ll take care of business.”

Brandon knew the situation needed to be handled with great tact, so he nodded and said, “We aren’t 81s,” Brandon said, using a metonym, just as many bikers did. It stands for the eighth letter of the alphabet, which is an H, and the first letter of the alphabet; an A. These formed the first letters of the two words ‘Hells Angels’. “But we live in the wind in our own way. We’d also like to show our appreciation for what you’re doing by kicking in for your next club ride, and also giving each member some walking around money.”

Nodding, but crossing his muscular arms to show a little reluctance, Brody said, “We didn’t come here for money; you know that, right?”

“We know, we’re just kicking in for some expenses, is all. It’s our way of showing support, and of saying thanks. After what happened to us, having you guys watch our backs is worth more than you can know,” Brandon said, crossing his own arms and meeting Brody’s steady gaze.

Wondering what response he’d get, and how it would be presented, Brody asked, “So is it true? Did you really land a busted plane like they said?”

Shrugging, Brandon replied, “I was saving my own ass, too.”

Satisfied, Brody flexed his right bicep to emphasize the tiger tattoo there. “You’re okay in my book. I got the big cat here after a hairy firefight in ‘Nam. I know what it’s like to go against long odds, and I like the fact that you don’t brag about it.”

Brandon pulled a bankroll from his pocket and peeled off fifty one-hundred-dollar bills. Handing them to Brody he said, “This is for your chapter.” Counting off five more he said, “This is for you, and we want to do the same for every biker here. We like to do what we can, in our own way.”

Accepting the money with a slight widening of his eyes, Brody gave Brandon a nod, and then walked away. As he did, Brandon looked at the back of Brody’s denim jacket – his colors – at the big winged death’s head logo.

With Jim casually observing from a few feet away, Brandon repeated the offer to the other chapter president, and then the four members of Instinct began handing out the cash to the club members.

With the paying done, the bikers handed out beers ­to everyone present. Brandon had felt comfortable from the start, but after a few minutes, his band mates began to relax as well, and for the next two hours they and the bikers got acquainted. Helen made sure to take the two chapter presidents aside and warn then that under no circumstances was Eric to be allowed anywhere near tequila. With a laugh, they agreed, much to Helen’s relief.

At Edwards Air Force Base, General Bradson and one of his computer techs were examining Chase’s GPS. The tech looked up to say, “This could be faked fairly easily with the right software. However, if it’s real, this GPS was at ground zero before the explosion.”

General Bradson nodded. “They would have had to fake it right before their flight or during it… The band manager has been calling me incessantly and I’ve got to tell her something. So far, we can’t prove anything untoward happened but it sure as hell looks to me like it did. The damage to their aircraft is not consistent with a bird strike and it could not have been caused from inside. The lab reports from the aircraft investigation should be coming back any time now; I’ll wait and see what we have. However, I suspect I’ll soon be flying out to talk to those people.”

Mindful that given what was involved, every minute might count – he’d been briefed in on the nuclear blackmail – General Bradson phoned the lab himself, just to make sure they were working as fast as possible. They promised to have the results within five minutes.

Walking into the hanger ten minutes later, the general found, as he’d expected, Captain Vargas paging through a fax.

“General, the lab report indicates that the explosive residue is pentaerythritol tetranitrate, usually called PETN. It’s not used in our missiles, sir. Also, the forensic report came back on the bird residue we found. They say the blood had coagulated, and had then been dissolved in alcohol to re-liquefy it. Further, the DNA came back as a match for a Greylag Goose. I checked, sir; those are native to Europe and Asia, and are often domesticated and raised for meat.”

General Bradson nodded, and then asked rhetorically, “So, the bird was already dead and its blood had been re-liquefied. It was at twenty thousand feet, and oh, by the way, we have bomb residue. Does this sound like an accident to you, Captain?”

Shaking his head, Captain Vargas replied, “No, sir, it does not. What it does sound like is that someone tried damn hard to make it look like an accident.”

Nodding, the General replied, “Those people reported suspicions regarding the nuclear issue. Given that, the contents of their GPS, and your findings, I’m declaring that this case has top priority due to the national security implications. Bring in everyone you need and run down everything, no matter how trivial it might appear. I’ll take two investigators and go pay that band and their manager a visit. Incidentally, you can forget anything I told you about their GPS; due to the national security implications, that’s compartmentalized information, need-to-know only.”

Snatching up a base phone, General Bradson considered his options. He didn’t want to talk over an open line, so getting to the ranch outside Telluride as fast as possible was his goal. His decision made, he dialed flight operations. “Get an Osprey spun up and rustle me up a flight crew. I’ll be leaving in ten minutes with two passengers.”

For once, the members of Instinct, still reeling from the incident on their plane and worried about Günter’s disappearance, didn’t feel like partying. Returning to their house for dinner, they all gathered out back while Eric grilled the steaks, foil-wrapped corn on the cob, and potatoes that were to be their dinner. Brandon looked on, and Chase noticed the look of apprehension on his face. “Relax, Brand. This isn’t like the pancakes. Eric does pretty well with a barbecue.”

Helen laughed. “Pretty boy has a point. I value my stomach too much to take any risks, and even I don’t mind Eric’s barbecues.”

“I’m standing right here; thank you very much,” Eric replied with a laugh of his own, which sounded flat and forced, even to his own ears.

Sinking his teeth into a flatiron steak twenty minutes later, Brandon had to agree; Eric did just fine with a barbecue.

As they finished up their meal, Brandon asked Chase, “Your laptop will work over a cellular phone connection, won’t it?”

Chase shook his head; his laptop was able to connect to the Internet WiFi, but he had no idea how to connect it to a cell phone. Jon, sitting across from Brandon and Chase, said, “Mine will, it’s behind the sofa in my backpack. Got any ideas?”

As he retrieved the laptop, Brandon replied, “I just wanted to see what we can find. The TV news blows chunks; they don’t say much but they keep saying it over and over. I also wanted to find a map.”

After plugging the laptop into his cell phone and using it to connect to the Internet, Brandon began browsing news sites. One of the first things he looked at were the fallout maps; he shuddered as he said, “The Bunyip Beach Resort is in the fallout zone. I hope they got out okay.”

Eric took a seat on the floor beside the coffee table and asked, “Do they know how long it will be before it’s safe to go back into those areas?”

Brandon turned the laptop and eased it across the coffee table towards Eric. “It’s the top story; they say the bomb was built to enhance the fallout and the fallout is long-lived. They’re saying fifty years.”

Eric looked, skimming the article, with a sad look on his handsome face. “Yeah, they’re saying that, and that they still don’t have a reason why somebody would set off a nuke in Australia. It’s no accident, they’re sure of that much,” Eric said, as he browsed the long list of articles about the nuking of Toowoomba.

Brandon scooted around the table to look over Eric’s shoulder, as Eric browsed the stories. Many had pictures of the devastation. The news of the nuclear blackmail had yet to break; due to the risk of a panic, the government was keeping the tightest of lids in that situation. The rumors of a high military alert were easily explained away as a reaction to the nuclear event.

The Scar had volunteered the locations of two of his dummy bombs so far; one in Salt Lake City and the other in Chicago. As a result, it had been assumed that the real bombs were likely already in place. As a direct result, the alert level had been reduced to DEFCON 3. The other result was a frantic ongoing search of every self-storage unit in or near a major city. The traces of chemicals the FBI had detected on the bombcases had resulted in an investigation of every pool-chemical supply house, store, and contractor. The Scar’s plan had succeeded in that respect as well; he’d given the Feds something to do. With the enormous number of places and people to be investigated, they would be busy for weeks.

“Look at that,” Jon said with a shudder as he pointed at an aerial photo of what had once been Toowoomba. “That crater is right where we tracked Jerry to. The news reports say it was some kind of industrial park.”

They continued to read and search, until Eric selected an article on how a bomb could have been built. It listed many of the components, and had photos of everything from plutonium to neutron generators. Eric scrolled down the page, only to be startled as Brandon shouted, “Stop! Scroll back up a few pictures.”

Shouldering in to look at the screen, Brandon stared at the photos for a moment, his eyes opening wide as he pointed to one and said, “Click on it to make it bigger.”

Eric did, and the screen slowly filled with a larger photo, containing what looked like dark little glass starfish.

Brandon pointed at the caption at the bottom of the photo and said, in a shocked whisper, “It says those are Kryton switches, used in nuclear bombs.”

Brandon slumped back against the sofa, shaking his head in disbelief. Eric asked, “I don’t get it, what’s bugging you about those?”

While still staring at the screen, Brandon spoke in a low, flat voice, “When I fixed that scooter Jerry lent you… there was this circuit board with row after row of weird looking things on it. I thought they were some new kind of capacitor or integrated circuit.” Brandon pointed at the screen. “They looked just like those things. It says they are used only in bombs, or physics experiments. Holy fucking shit… Jerry is involved and he smuggled those damn things into Australia inside that scooter.”

A single look at Brandon’s stunned face was enough to make Chase yell, “Helen!”

Helen walked out of her bedroom, closing her phone. Jon, Eric, and Chase all began talking excitedly at once, and Helen waved her arms to make them stop. It was Brandon who caught her eye, staring at the laptop screen, looking as though he’d seen a ghost. Bending to look over his shoulder, she asked softly, “What is it hon?”

Extending a now-trembling hand to point at the screen, Brandon said, “Those things… they were in Eric’s scooter.” A confused discussion followed, and Helen learned how Brandon had seen the switches, and what they were.

Her eyes narrowing, Helen said, “That would explain why he was so protective of that damned thing. He’s involved in what happened, sure as hell. I’ll try calling the Air Force again, and then I’ll try the FBI. Somebody has got to look into this.”

Helen reached for her phone, but it began to ring.

In Los Angeles, a tired police officer began filling in a report. There had yet to be any identification of the body, but something nagged at the back of his mind. Taking a sip of coffee, he recalled one of the ‘missing persons’ reports that had crossed his desk earlier that day. Taking a fresh look, he discovered that the description matched. The next step was by the book. Using the phone number on the report, he called Barbra.

Barbra arrived at the coroner’s offices within the hour. As she walked toward the entrance, she was desperately hoping that it was all a mistake but somehow suspecting that it wasn’t. The police officer met her at the door, and together they walked back into the building, through austere hallways that seemed to reverberate with the chill specter of Death.

Entering a cold and silent room, one suffused with the nauseating scent of formaldehyde. A technician in a lab coat approached them and without a word, escorted them to a sheet-covered body. With an unconcerned air, the technician pulled the sheet from the body’s face, and Barbra gasped in shock. “That’s Günter,” she said in a whisper which seemed far too loud for the surroundings.

The police officer led her to a nearby office. He began taking a detailed statement, and made note of Barbra’s fervent claims that Günter’s murder had to be connected to what she claimed was a bombing of a private jet. Barbra’s further claims that this was somehow tied in with the nuclear bombing of Toowoomba made the officer inclined to dismiss the wild story as delusion, but he decided that it couldn’t hurt to follow up. He knew all too well that stranger things had proven true. For the next half hour, he took detailed notes as he asked question after question.

Once the interview was over, a badly shaken Barbra waited until she left the building to call Helen. “Hon, I have some terrible news…”

Listening to Barbra, Helen slumped in shock, sitting down hard on the couch, feeling a mix of anger and grief. Looking at the members of Instinct, she was about to relay the awful news about Günter when her call-waiting beeped. Seeing that it was Jim, she clicked over and answered the new call. After a few seconds, she left the phone open but said loudly to the members of Instinct, “Get the shotguns; we’ve got company coming from the north side. Jim said to leave the lights on so we don’t tip the intruder off that we know they’re out there.”

The guns, stored in a small coat closet off the living room, were retrieved within seconds. Looking around the room, Helen said, “Let’s all hunker down in the kitchen. We’ve got a good field of fire from there. We can cover the doors and windows.” Once everyone was in place, Helen spared the time to say, “Jim said his lookouts spotted at least one guy coming over the north fields, staying low, and they think he’s armed. Jim warned me that he’d send twenty guys over on foot and they’re going to take positions around the house, so don’t shoot just because you see someone outside.”

Listening into her phone, Helen repeated Jim’s update, “The guys with the starlight scope say the first bikers should be arriving right about now. The intruder is still a hundred yards away, but he is armed. That’s no paparazzi. They think they spotted a second man, but aren’t sure. Twenty more bikers are getting ready to ride out; they’ll handle the road in case our intruders try to retreat.”

A few tense moments of silence followed. Jon, his voiced lowered needlessly to a whisper, said, “I’m sure glad those guys are keeping an eye out for us. Maybe we should go outside and give ‘em a hand.”

“No, Jim said to stay put, and that’s what we’ll do. Let them handle it,” Helen said softly, but in a tone of voice that made clear that she would brook no arguments on the issue. Still listening on the phone, she added, “Fifty yards, closing in fast, any second now.”

The voice of one of the biker’s boomed out, “Throw down your weapon if you want to live,” and all hell broke loose.

The staccato chatter of an AK-47 ripped the night air and the members of Instinct crouched lower as a few slugs punched through a kitchen window. Half a second later, the guns of twenty bikers fired in reply, sundering the night air with a sustained roar from their collection of handguns, rifles, and shotguns. Gun flashes lit the windows, but the AK-47 did not fire again. No further slugs hit the house. The fusillade died down, its noise replaced by that of twenty Harleys roaring north on the road, part of the planned flanking maneuver.

A strange silence descended, and Helen listened on her phone. The only news she had to relay was, “Jim said to stay put, it’s kinda tense out there.”

Feeling cornered, staying put was far from an easy task. The seconds passed, seeming like hours. Jim’s voice came back on the line to say, “I’m heading over now.”

Minutes later, a normal-sounding knock on the front door made everyone jump. Helen assured them, “Jim says it’s him, but cover me just in case.”

Shotgun at the ready, and backed by four more, Helen opened the door and Jim strolled in, his own rifle slung on his shoulder. “The guys are sweeping through the fields to the north, and the crew from the road is heading west. I’ve got ten guys around the house, and we only saw the one guy for sure. According to Brody, the intruder stood up to fire and made himself a perfect target.”

“Anyone on our side hurt?” Helen asked.

Jim nodded, “One guy took a slug in the arm, but it looks like a flesh wound, a deep graze. That gun the intruder had was full-auto, and several of the guys say it sounded like an AK-47. Full-auto is illegal, so he was carrying some serious hardware; this wasn’t some guy out deer hunting.”

Answering his ringing phone, Jim listened before relaying the good news, “The intruder won’t be bothering us anymore. He’s Swiss cheese. They said there’s no ID on the body. If y’all ask me, this looks like an attempted hit.”

“Was there just the one?” Brandon asked.

Jim shrugged. “Can’t be sure. The guys on the spotter scope said they might have seen a second one, further back and to the left, but they only caught a glimpse, nothing since. My guys are out sweeping the area now.”

“Should we call the police?” Helen asked.

After thinking it over for a few moments, Jim sighed resignedly before answering, “I guess we have to, now that there’s a dead guy out there. My guys won’t be happy about it though; Johnny Law doesn’t like us much.”

Helen made the call. In half an hour, a sheriff’s department SUV with two deputies rolled up, parking near the front door. The first thing the deputies noticed was the throng of armed bikers hanging around. Then they were led to the bullet-riddled body.

© 2008 C James

Please let me know what you think; good, bad, or indifferent.

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Many thanks to my editor EMoe for editing and for his support, encouragement, beta reading, and suggestions.

Thanks also to Shadowgod, for beta reading, support and advice, and for putting up with me.

A big "thank you" to to Bondwriter for final Zeta-reading and advice, and to Captain Rick for Beta-reading and advice.

Special thanks to Graeme, for beta-reading and advice.

Any remaining errors are mine alone.