“Done,” Daniels said, ending the call. “The chopper’s pilot will text me when they’re in range. How are things looking at the club?”
“I think we just got lucky.” He passed the binoculars so she could have a look.
“I’m seeing a purple minivan drive into the compound and a wooden gate being pulled back by two guys wearing leather,” she said. “Now the van’s inside and the gate’s being closed. Think it’s a shipment of speed?”
“I do. The timing’s right.”
“How so?”
“Truckers use speed to stay awake at night, and buy it at truck stops on the interstate. The one percenters wait until dark to make their deliveries.”
“What’s a one percenter?”
“It’s what the Outlaws call themselves. Ninety-nine percent of bikers are law-abiding citizens. The other one percent are criminals.”
“So they’re proud of breaking the law. What degenerates.”
She pulled out her cell phone to read a text. “We caught a break. The FBI’s crime lab identified the body the fishermen pulled up in Tarpon Springs. His fingerprints were altered by the salt water, but his neck tattoo did the trick. His name is Skyler Seeley, and he served ten years in Raiford for raping a woman in Miami.”
She passed him the phone, and he studied Seeley’s mug shot. Rapists were on the low rung of the genetic totem pole, and Seeley looked like a Neanderthal. When he’d left the force two years ago, identifying criminals through tattoos had been an inexact science. He didn’t like challenging Beth, but wanted to be certain they had the right guy.
“How many bullets did he have in him?” he asked.
“Two. Both in the same spot. Nice shooting.”
“Thanks. How do you positively identify someone by a tattoo? Back when I was a cop, that wasn’t very reliable.”
“It is now. When a person gets arrested, their physical description is put in a police report, including weight, height, hair color, and any tattoos. Since most criminals are inked, the bureau thought it would be a good idea to compile a Tattoo Recognition Database. By getting a tattoo, these idiots make it easier for us to track them down.”
She got another text. “The team’s ready and so’s the chopper. Let’s roll.”
Her team was parked at the other end of the block in two black SUVs. Each vehicle carried three FBI agents dressed in body armor and carrying assault rifles. They would come running the moment she hit a button on her cell phone.
They crossed and walked up the front path. He pulled a pack of chewing gum from his pocket and offered her a stick. She declined with a shake of her head.
“Take one anyway. It will make you fit in,” he said.
“Is that the deal? I should have worn my leather jacket.”
She popped the gum into her mouth and blew a bubble. They reached the front stoop, and he noticed there was no bell to ring, or welcome mat. He rapped on the front door, and a moment later it opened a foot; a wild-looking guy wearing a leather vest with nothing underneath stuck his head out. He was missing both front teeth, and every word that came out of his mouth was accompanied by a whistle.
“What the fuck do you want?” the wild man said.
Daniels blew a bubble and popped it. Lancaster laughed and said, “I just got out of Coleman, and was friends with Snivelhead. He wanted me to pass a message to the head of your club. Is he around?”
The wild man’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Jon, my friends call me Jonny.”
“If you knew Snivelhead, tell me his real name, and how long he’s in for.”
“Snivelhead’s real name is Willy White. He’s a lifer.”
“Who’s the bitch?”
“She’s my parole officer.”
“Is that a joke? I’m not laughing.”
“She’s my girlfriend. Not that it’s any of your god damn business.”
Daniels popped another bubble, and the door was closed in their faces. In a whisper Daniels said, “How do you know Snivelhead?”
“He ran the Fort Lauderdale operation for the Outlaws,” he whispered back. “I helped put him away.”
“What for?”
“He decapitated a guy that he didn’t like.”
“How charming.”
The ruse worked, and the wild man returned. “Hawk said you can come in.”
He ushered them inside. The club took up the downstairs and was a paean to the biker lifestyle, with a pool table, a long bar that took up a wall, and assorted black leather furniture. A Lynyrd Skynyrd song about white supremacy played on a flashing jukebox, while a trashy woman in a tank top was passed out on the couch. A leather-clad man at the bar spun around on his stool. He sported a purple Mohawk and had muscles on his muscles. This had to be Hawk. He growled like a junkyard dog, and the pool players stopped their game and fell silent.
“Dirty Pete said you had a message from Snivelhead,” Hawk said. “What is it?”
“I lied. There is no message,” Lancaster said.
“Is this a joke?”
“No. But we do want to talk to you about Dexter Hudson.”
“Who?”
“Dexter Hudson. He’s a member of the Outlaws.”
“Never heard of him. I think you have the wrong address.” The pool players all laughed. To the wild man he said, “Dirty Pete, show these nice people out.”
“Let’s go,” Dirty Pete said.
“We’re not done,” Daniels said.
“Oh yes, you are. Start moving.”
Dirty Pete placed his hand on Daniels’s shoulder, which was a mistake. When they were dating, Lancaster had learned not to initiate physical contact with Beth, but to let her take the lead. She had been abducted by a pair of serial killers while in college, and thrown in the trunk of a car. By a stroke of luck and the grace of God she’d managed to escape, and as a result of that experience, she’d developed an aversion to men who thought they had the right to place their hands upon her.
She kicked Dirty Pete in the groin with enough force to make every male in the room wince. He groaned in agony, and sank to his knees. Pulling her wallet from her purse, she tossed it onto the pool table so her badge was showing.
“FBI,” she said.
Out came her cell phone. She pressed a button on the screen, summoning the troops. Hawk watched her with a bemused look on his face.
“Where’s your search warrant?” he asked.
“I don’t have one,” she said. “I came here to ask you a few questions, which I’m legally entitled to do, and one of your men assaulted me. You’re all under arrest.”
“You’re arresting us?” Hawk said in disbelief.
“That’s right.”
“God damn bitch,” Dirty Pete said, choking in pain.
Daniels grabbed Dirty Pete’s ponytail and jerked his head back. “Open your mouth again, and I’ll stick my shoe in it.”
The clubhouse began to vibrate, and the walls shook. It felt like an earthquake, and Hawk took a cell phone off the bar and pushed a button. Lancaster assumed he had an app that allowed him to view the surveillance cameras on the property, and was now looking at the police chopper dancing over the house and the small army of armed FBI agents poised to break down the front door and rush inside. Hawk let out a curse and tossed the cell phone back onto the bar, knowing he was beaten.
“Dexter isn’t here,” Hawk said. “He came by a couple of months ago, said he’d just gotten released from Raiford, and wanted to check in. He played some pool and drank some beer and then split. Haven’t seen him since.”
“Where’s he staying?” Daniels asked.
“The hell I know,” Hawk said. “I’m not his mother.”