"More like a conglomerate."
Tannino focused his dark brown eyes on Tim. "What's your gut?"
"Having looked at no evidence?" Tim asked.
The marshal waved his hand impatiently.
"Normally bikers take their medicine and do their time. They don't want to stir trouble for the whole organization, so they go down nice and quiet. A decision like this had to come from above. Something big's in the works for the club to take a risk like this. And Kaner and Laurey are key elements of it."
"Like what?"
"That's what we have to figure out. But whatever it is, it requires their chief nomads back in action."
"Who do you think worked the break?"
"The other Sinner nomads already top your suspect list. They're the hit men and muscle, the guys with the know-how and the balls to pull off something like this. Guerrera came up in that scene. I'm sure he and Bear are working up the names as we speak."
"What are the nomads?" Strauss asked.
"They're a chapter not based at a location. Always on the move. No home turf. When a club member becomes a fugitive, they'll send him to the nomads-it keeps him from the law and insulates the other chapters from investigation. The different chapters help hide the nomads as they move around the country."
"An Underground Railroad for shitheels," Strauss observed.
"Right. And in exchange the nomads do the dirty work for the national club, since they're already wanted." Tim turned to Tannino. "One thing should be clear: Guys like this, they rarely come in alive."
Tannino's weariness showed in his face, the kind of tired that anger wore down to. "Fine by me."
"They're white guys, right?" Strauss asked. "The Laughing Sinners?"
"Yes."
"Good. The press can't play the race card. That'll make it easier to sell the body bags." Strauss observed Tim, his face holding a hint of curiosity. "You do know why you got called in for this case, Deputy Rackley?"
"I have an idea."
"That freelance work you did a while back. Infiltrating and dismantling that crew of vigilantes." Though Strauss offered the for-public-consumption version, the gleam in his eyes showed he knew better. "We have a name for you around City Hall." Strauss drew out the pause, his expression an odd hybrid of respect and disdain. "'Troubleshooter.' So this case? As we'd say in the Rangers, it's a free-fire zone."
Tim met Strauss's eyes. "I'm gonna bring them in alive if I can."
"And if you can't?"
Tim studied the mayor, then Frank Palton's twisted badge on the desk. "Then I won't."
Chapter 4
The right side of the six-foot-by-four-foot face was a mass of bubbled scar tissue. Were it not for the mug shot thrown from the computer projector onto the far wall, the command post would have been pitch black. Staring out from the nomad's right eye socket was the flaming skull, etched onto an otherwise realistic glass eye.
Bear Jowalski walked in front of the image, his enormous frame cutting a black outline from the stream of light. His somber tone matched the mood in the room. "Gents, Goat Purdue. He went over the high side in '02, left half his face on the asphalt in Malibu."
Ordinarily Goat's appearance would have elicited a volley of off-color commentary, but there were no chuckles or wisecracks today. The deputies functioned through a post-disaster haze; Tim hadn't felt morale this grim since reporting to duty as a Ranger platoon sergeant in the wake of 9/11. In Frank Palton's usual place beside Jim Denley sat an FBI special agent, Jeff Malane-a slender man with fine hair and sad, intelligent eyes.
Bear bent over the laptop, and a new photo flashed up on the wall. A surveillance shot, taken from some distance, showed a biker with pencil-thin strips of facial hair-a stenciled beard. He couldn't have been taller than five-four. His barrel chest seemed transplanted from a larger torso.
"His tag is Chief," Bear continued. "He earned the nickname because he rides an Indian instead of a Harley."
Guerrera ran a hand through his gelled hair. "Chief's the Sinners' intel officer. He keeps the files on the rival clubs, law enforcement, you name it."
"An Indian," Tim said. "Sounds like our lead biker on the bust, right Jim? Jim?"
Denley rustled in his chair. "Yup?"
"You said the short guy rode an Indian?"
"An Indian, uh-huh."
"He the one who sliced up that club mama a few years back?" Thomas's voice called out from the dark.
"No, that was our good friend Den Laurey," Bear said. "He's the knife man. Legend has it he cut one of the club mamas from her hips to her ankles, like a pair of chaps."
"But it was Kaner who nailed his old lady to a tree a few years back?"
"Through the hand, that's right, out near Devil's Bowl." Guerrera's accent turned that's right into thass ride. "When CHiPs found her a day and a half later, home girl didn't want any help. Said her man told her to wait there."
"Quality girl."
"Den and Kaner are the most vicious of the nomads," Guerrera said. "Which is no small claim."
A click brought the next photo up on the wall. A leering mug shot, the wide face peering out from beneath a mop of white-yellow curls. Faint, nearly invisible eyebrows.
"Tom Johannsson, aka Tom-Tom. An explosives specialist. And a nomad."
No neck was in evidence; Tom-Tom's head was set directly on his shoulders.
"I saw some white hair peeking out from beneath the helmet on the Harley man." Jim's voice, flavored with a strong Brooklyn accent, was always slightly hoarse and strained, as if he were yelling.
"Does he have the skills to have designed the boom ball that flipped the Suburban?" Tim asked.
"Oh, yeah," Guerrera said. "Word is Tom-Tom came up in the Michigan Blood Patriots. Those boys could teach the ragheads a thing or two about improvised explosives."
Freed opened the blinds, revealing the modest view from Roybal's third floor, and everyone blinked against the light.
"We know of any other Sinner nomads?" Haines asked.
"Nigger Steve, but he was shot off his bike three days ago," Guerrera said.
"A black guy?" Thomas asked with surprise.
"No," Guerrera said. "Just tan."
"And dead," Bear added.
Guerrera said, "He's the first Sinner nomad to be killed by another club. The Cholos took advantage of Den and Kaner's lockup to take him out."
Thomas again: "You think that's why the Sinners busted them out?"
"That's my guess," Bear said. "Protection and-coming soon to theaters everywhere-retaliation."
"You know how Sinners avenge the killing of one of their own? They take out five." Tim set down his pen, noticing he'd chewed the cap flat. "We're gonna see more blood."
"Yeah." Miller's face was tense with anger. "Theirs."
"Thomas and Freed, establish contact with the Cholos," Tim said. "See if you can get in with their boss man in the mother chapter, the dude with the headdress-what's his name?"
"El Viejo," Guerrera said.
"It's probably an exercise in futility, but if that's where Den and Kaner are headed, we'd be remiss not to touch base and see if we can post a few men around the clubhouse."
"No way, Rack," Guerrera said. "They'll never go for it. Bikers handle biker problems, sabes? Plus, the Cholos are all over the roads-we couldn't run surveillance on them even if they wanted us to."
Freed shrugged, the creases vanishing from his Versace suit. Growing up in a family business-money from which supplemented his GS-12 paycheck-had taught him great respect for particulars. "We'll get on it. Can't hurt."
Thomas gestured at the now blank wall. "So you have those three beauty queens pegged as the break team?"
"Looks like it," Bear said. "They're the remaining nomads-it is their job. Plus, we've gotten back corroborative buzz from our CIs, for what that's worth."