Chapter One
It was the second Wednesday in September and a sprinkle of rain caused many of the shoppers to quicken their pace as they went to and from their cars. Young moms were enjoying the freedom of having their children back at school, and this morning the mall parking garage in Surrey, British Columbia, was busy. For one man it was the ideal time to go hunting. He selected his prey and kept his head down so that the hoodie he wore hid his face.
He guessed she was in her early thirties. Her raincoat was open, revealing an attractive figure, and her black hair cascaded over a white blouse. Her slacks were charcoal-coloured. She carried several shopping bags from high-end clothing stores. Expensive tastes ⊠exactly the kind of snooty rich bitch Iâm looking for.
He approached her. She hesitated at the elevator beside the stairwell, then cast a glance in his direction. She turned and walked up the ramp in the parkade, taking the more visible and open route designed for cars.
Whatâs the matter, bitch? Arenât I your type? He felt the blood surge in his groin and took the stairs two at a time to the second level, then eyed her through the glass pane in the door. She had one hand rummaging through her purse, probably seeking her keys, while she continued walking to the third level. He scampered up the stairwell again and saw her stop at the end of a row of cars and hold out a key fob. The trunk to a white Lexus obediently opened and she bent over to tuck her packages inside.
He pulled the drawstrings on his hoodie tight around his face as he crept toward her. He was within a couple of steps before he saw her body momentarily freeze, then spin around, her eyes riveted on his. He gave an evil grin when her gaze shifted down to his open fly and his engorged penis.
âHow âbout you bend over again and I pack this in your trunk, bitch!â
The woman looked curiously at his penis. âWhy is it so tiny?â
âWhat?â he spluttered as his penis promptly wilted. âWhat did you say?â
âIs your problem achieving an erection due to feelings of insecurity around women? Do you only achieve physical gratification and a feeling of empowerment over a woman if she displays fear â or are you hoping to arouse me?â
His eyebrows furrowed. âYou whore!â he snarled, stepping forward with his fist raised.
âI donât mind if you talk dirty to me.â Her voice had turned sultry. âIâve fantasized about this moment. Hoping it would happen.â
He stopped. âYou have?â He lowered his fist.
âYes,â she answered while rummaging in her purse again. âWould you like to join me in the back seat of my car?â
âAre ⊠are âŠ,â he stuttered before finding the words. âAre you serious?â
âDefinitely. I hope youâre into bondage,â she added, taking a set of handcuffs from her purse.
He heard a van door slide open two spaces down and turned to see a couple of men leap out. He looked back at the woman. The cuffs were gone and she was pointing a pistol at him.
âYouâre under arrest!â she yelled. âPut your hands over your head!â
âYou fucking bitch!â he screamed, ignoring her command and running for the ramp. When he saw other police officers closing in on him, his mouth fell open in panic.
Seconds later Constable Sophie Whiteâs jaw also went slack when her suspect ran to the edge of the parkade, gave a glance back, then leaped over the side of the retaining wall. She, along with her colleagues, rushed to the wall and looked down. Three storeys below, the culprit lay sprawled face down on the sidewalk.
âThink heâs dead?â one of the officers asked in a tone that showed his indifference.
âMaybe,â Sophie replied. âGlad he didnât land on anyone.â
As they watched, the culprit squirmed and rolled over onto his side.
âNope, guess we donât need the coroner,â Sophie said, taking a portable radio out of her purse.
The culprit managed to stand on one leg. After a few failed attempts to put his other foot down, he started to hop away.
Sophie rolled her eyes, then clicked the transmit button.
Constable Chuck Field was in a car near the parkade exit when he received the call.
âField, we tried to arrest our man,â Sophie radioed, âbut he leaped over the wall on the opposite side of the building from where you are. Drive around and pick him up. Weâve got the eye from up here.â
âYou got it.â
The sound of screeching tires echoing up from the street said that Field would not take long. His voice crackled over the radio again. âWhatâs he look like?â
âIf you see a guy hopping down the street on one leg with his dick hanging out, thatâll be him.â
Chapter Two
Corporal Jack Taggart drove into the parking lot of the Steinhouse Pub in Port Coquitlam. The pub was about a forty-minute drive from Vancouver, where he worked undercover for the Intelligence unit of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.
He was driving a black SUV with tinted windows. Constable Laura Secord, who was both his partner and subordinate, sat beside him. Today her long auburn hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she wore a green rain jacket over blue jeans and a denim shirt.
Jack had shoulder-length hair and a bushy beard that was showing a hint of grey. He wore a black T-shirt under an open brown kangaroo jacket and black jeans.
Both Jack and Laura had received special training by the RCMP to work undercover. Their assignment was to combat organized crime. At the top of their list was Satans Wrath, a motorcycle gang involved in drug trafficking, prostitution, murder, and a host of other criminal activities.
Satans Wrath had developed over the years into a sophisticated criminal empire with seventy chapters in forty countries around the globe. It had, for the most part, insulated itself from its criminal activities by using other gangs as middlemen. Satans Wrath would use a puppet club to do its dirty work for a few years, after which some puppet-club members might be selected to join Satans Wrath. At that time the remainder of the puppet club would soon find it in its best interests to disband. In September, during the Labour Day ride, it was noted that the Gypsy Devils had been invited to tag along.
Bikers wear their club logo, called their âcolours,â on the backs of sleeveless jackets, which for the Gypsy Devils was a skull adorned with a green bandana and a black patch over one eye. The name of the club, or the âtop rocker,â was above the skull, while the âbottom rockerâ beneath denoted the area theyâre from. For the Gypsy Devils it simply read âPoco,â to denote Port Coquitlam.
Satans Wrath colours bore a full face-on skull with horns, purple eyes, and a sinister grin. Their bottom rockers bore the names of countless cities from many regions of the world.
Probationary members of the clubs, referred to as âprospects,â had only bottom rockers on their jackets. Prospects generally took part in the riskier areas of Satans Wrathâs criminal activity and then, after theyâd been thoroughly screened for a couple of years, Satans Wrath members would vote on whether to allow the prospects entry into the club. If accepted, a prospect would receive the top rocker and complete logo, which was known as getting the âfull patch,â or âcolours.â Currently, the Gypsy Devils had nine full-patch members and three prospects.
What surprised Jack was that the Gypsy Devils tended to represent the more degenerate and filthy image of what outlaw biker clubs were thirty-five years ago. Although Satans Wrath didnât hesitate to use extreme violence to protect its turf or expand its criminal tentacles, the members generally wore clean clothes and tried not to attract police attention and thereby jeopardize the financial gains from their criminal activity. The Gypsy Devils had not displayed the same intelligence.
In the past clubs like the Gypsy Devils would receive a warning from Satans Wrath to shut down, and if they didnât the ramifications would involve lengthy hospital stays â if they were lucky.
Jack felt that Satans Wrath had displayed a friendlier attitude toward the Gypsy Devils than it had other puppet clubs. He believed the Gypsy Devils had something Satans Wrath wanted and he intended to find out what. All bikers were well aware of police wiretaps and seldom said anything of value over their phones. Biker informants were also a rare commodity, as loyalty and devotion to their respective clubs was extremely high.
Today Jack hoped that surveillance might lead to his discreetly busting someone the Gypsy Devils dealt with. He intended to try to turn that person into an informant and work his way up from there.
Laura eyed the cluster of Harley-Davidson motorcycles in the pub parking lot. One of the bikes, which had the logo of the Gypsy Devils painted on the gas tank, belonged to the club president, Carl Shepherd. âLooks like weâre in luck today,â she said.
Jack gave a satisfied nod. âThis is their favourite watering hole. They were bound to turn up sooner or later.â
âYou sure you want to go in there alone?â
âIâll be fine,â Jack assured her. âThese guys donât know me. Besides, Iâve got Smith and Wesson to help, if need be. Stay put, collect the plate numbers, and act like the paparazzi.â
Laura frowned. âThese guys donât know you, but some of Satans Wrath do. What if they show up? I know you used to have a goatee, but even with your beard and longer hair, they could still recognize you.â
âI doubt any full-patch members of Satans Wrath would lower themselves to hang out with these yokels. Maybe one or two of their prospects might show up to conduct business, but those guys donât know me. Besides, even if Satans Wrath members do show up, they arenât stupid. Theyâd probably send me a beer to let me know Iâd been spotted.â
âYes, a beer with the date-rape drug so they could bend you over a table and ⊠do you.â
Jack smiled to himself. Despite the years on the job and the type of work Laura did, she seldom used foul language. âDonât worry if they do show. Itâs the Gypsy Devils we need to be concerned about. Theyâre more dangerous because of their lack of cerebral development. Iâll call you if I need a hand. Speaking of which, time for a radio check.â
Laura flicked on a portable police radio and Jack whispered, âTest, test, test,â into a microphone hidden in his sleeve. His words echoed over Lauraâs portable radio. He then tucked a receiver into his ear and covered it with his hair. Laura clicked her portable and Jack heard the click on his receiver. He gave her a thumbs-up and reached for a ball cap.
âThe cap makes you look like Forrest Gump,â Laura noted. âYou look meaner and tougher without it.â
âI know,â Jack replied. âLooking tough around these guys is inviting trouble. Theyâd want to find out who I am â or worse, how tough I really am.â
Moments later he wandered into the bar. It was relatively small and well lit. The Gypsy Devils had been forced by law to not display their colours in the pub, but were still easily identified by their appearance. They, along with an assortment of other representatives of the criminal element, occupied one side of the pub, while the other side was favoured by people from local businesses who often came in for lunch.
Jack found a small table on the fringe of where the bikers were and ordered a beer. Sitting alone tended to make him stand out, but Laura was a very attractive woman and he feared sheâd attract unwanted attention from the Gypsy Devils. Unwanted attention thatâd require a bare-knuckled response ⊠or the need to use the 9mm Smith & Wesson pistol tucked in the back of his jeans and thereby blow his cover.
Heâd only taken his first sip when he saw that heâd caught the attention of two women at the next table. One was a brunette in an outfit that looked like a chauffeurâs uniform. The other had her blonde hair in a braid over her shoulder and wore a blouse and slacks. She looked like an office worker.
The women gave him a friendly smile, then each said, âHi.â
Jack nodded in response.
âYou look lonely sitting there,â said the blonde. âMy nameâs Roxie.â
Yeah, and I guess I look stupid, too. Jack gave a curt nod and stood up. âExcuse me, I have to find a quiet place to make a call.â As he glanced around for another place to sit, he thought, Okay ⊠the ripple effect ⊠fourth table away should be okay. A Gypsy Devil by the name of Thorsen, who was the sergeant-at-arms for the club, was talking to a couple of his buddies at a nearby table. Ah, the guy they call Thor ⊠looks like a gorilla and only half as smart. I better pick five tables away.
The women exchanged annoyed looks as Jack picked up his beer and moved five tables away from the bikers. He was no longer able to hear any of their conversation but he still had a good view.
Some minutes passed and Jack discreetly radioed Laura the descriptions of the few men whoâd left the pub after sitting with the Gypsy Devils. He then saw two men enter and walk past him. Both were clean-cut and one was wearing a black leather bomber jacket and the other a light windbreaker. Jack noticed that the man with the bomber jacket had a jailhouse tattoo â a Celtic cross â on the crux of his thumb and forefinger. So his nice-boy image hides a sinister past, he thought.
Once, on an undercover assignment in prison, Jack watched a group of convicts use a lighter to melt a green plastic comb, then dip a pin into the melting plastic. Next they used the pin to make a row of prick marks on the recipientâs arm. The resulting tattoo was less than what one might call professional, but it did the trick.
Both men looked around the bar for a place to sit. It didnât appear that they knew anyone. They then opted to sit at the table where Jack had originally sat.
Jack whispered into his sleeve, âLaura, you see the two guys who just entered? Black bomber jacket on one and a blue windbreaker on the other?â
âTen-four. I got close-ups of both their faces. The driver is the one wearing the bomber jacket. I ran his name. Heâs got a record for armed robbery and sexual assault.â
Jack grinned when he saw the two men being chatted up by the same two women whoâd spoken to him minutes before. Oh, yeah, here it comes.
âYou copy, Jack?â
âI copied. Sexual assault, eh? Thatâs perfect.â
âWhy is it perfect?â Laura asked.
âIâll explain later.â
âAre they with the...