Mark Stone - The Judas Line

It was enough for the young man, if just barely. The change disappeared back into his jeans. “In Terrebonne. Their leader owns a bar up there.”

Mike’s eyebrows shot up. “Their leader? Alexander?”

“No one knows his name,” the old man jumped in. “Calls himself Shiv.”

Not anymore, I thought darkly. “What’s the name of this bar?”

“The Hard Way. That’s all I got, dude.” The bartender left to pour a beer.

Mike shot me a look. “The Hard way?” he whispered.

My voice was equally quiet. “Lousy name.”

“So how do we handle it?”

I shot him a toothy grin. “I have the beginnings of a cunning plan.”

“Oh, Lord.”

Mike

If I were a cursing man, I would’ve laid a blue streak all the way from Bend to Terrebonne, but I had put that part of my past behind me when I left the Army. Morgan’s (funny how easily I’d stopped thinking of him as Jude) plan had me scared spitless, but to save Alexander’s soul from the infernal parasite, I had to put fear behind me. Just like in Iraq.

Danzinger’s handled the distribution of beer and liquor in the area, including the Hard Way. It didn’t take much to find out when the next delivery of beer would be heading to the gang’s club-only a judicious use of ten grand of Morgan’s cash, mainly, a bribe to the dispatcher for a uniform and a temporary assignment as a delivery driver. The next scheduled delivery was for the next day, so we holed up in a hotel until it was time for action.

Once my cover was in place, Morgan disappeared to “arrange for backup” should I need it. That had me worried, but there was nothing for it. I just had to trust him.

The beer truck handled like a pig on a skateboard, but I managed to steer the darn thing all the way to Terrebonne, a blip on the road so small that if you blinked, you’d miss it. Thanks to the jolly dispatcher, I had an easy-to-read map to get me to the bar.

If Bend had a hope of green, Terrebonne abandoned that hope a long time ago, some time just before the dawn of Mankind. The only thing that separated it from Las Cruces was the winter wind that howled down the flat land.

Toasty in a dark blue Danzinger’s jacket, I pulled up to the back entrance of the bar. The dispatcher had given me the code to the surprisingly sophisticated electronic lock that safeguarded the back door. Made me wonder why such a crappy looking little place needed one.

I try not to be judgmental, but the Hard Way looked like the kind of place where the bartender swept up teeth as well as trash at the end of business. The patchy roof needed re-shingling; the parking lot resembled the surface of the moon while most of the windows contained wood, not glass. Nevertheless, the front and sides of the building had enough Harleys packed together for a Sturgis rally-a border of chrome, steel and rubber.

After opening the truck for delivery, I started to punch the code for the back door. Halfway through the sequence, it opened. A bearded, grimy man in dark biker leathers and a scraggly beard leaned out.

“Where’s Dave?” he asked gruffly, beady eyes narrowed.

I kept my tone noncommittal and shrugged. “Not available today.”

He gave me a squint while I studied him in return. Big, flabby, tattoos on neck and chest, biker leather ripped at the shoulders so the fat arms could swing free. Long, tangled brown hair. Not a boss, just a flunky, I surmised.

His study of me was mercifully brief. After all, I was wearing the Danzinger uniform-the navy-blue pants, short-sleeved shirt and ball cap. Despite that, I could feel his cold appraisal. Apparently I passed muster because he pushed the door open wide and propped it with a cinder block.

With a smile and a nod to the troglodyte, I unloaded a keg that I placed on my shoulder with a grunt and carried in.

With the big lummox in the way there was barely enough room in the dimly lit storage area for me to maneuver the keg around. For some reason he was staring at me, his thick lips parted.

“What?” Was my fly undone?

“Most guys use the hand truck,” he uttered softly, pointing to a once blue dolly.

I silently berated myself. This was supposed to be a recon mission and I had just showed off by hauling a 156 lb keg of beer on my shoulder like it was nothing. Smiling, I asked, “Where’s the cooler?”

The fat man pointed to the right and I made my way among the boxes of liquor and bottled beer, stacked high. Covertly glancing here and there, I noticed no window to the main room, just a battered wooden door painted black. There had to be some way to scope out the main bar.

One my third keg trip, I hit on an idea. “You want me to take a keg up front? Maybe clear out an empty?”

Just as I reckoned, here was a man who had no problem with someone else doing the heavy lifting. “Sure,” he said with a gap-toothed smile that did nothing to improve his looks. “Follow me.”

Keg perched on my shoulder, I complied, trailing him through the black door and into the bar proper. Not much, really, just a typical one-room place with a dozen tables, two pool tables and a grimy counter that ran the length of the room. Bikers of every size, shape and color crowded the place (apparently the Demon’s Blood was an equal opportunity gang), causing such a ruckus that my ears threatened to shut down for good. Fat guy led the way to a trio of lonely looking taps lined against the wall.

Then the place got quiet and I felt the first shiver of dread trill through me. Carefully I set the keg down and looked around. Dozens of eyes were upon me, some speculatively, some apprehensively.

“Can I help you folks?” I kept my voice mild, light.

More silence. I shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot then turned my attention back to the keg, which I stowed in the cooler underneath the taps. An empty in one hand, I was headed toward the door to storeroom door when I was stopped by a voice I recognized.

“How did you do that, man?” The voice was hard-edged and growly, with a deep undercurrent of menace. When I’d heard it last, it had come though Leslie Winchester’s cell.

“Do what?” I asked, not looking up.

“Look at me when I talk to you!” Alexander screamed and I jumped like I’d been goosed.

Alexander Winchester had his mother’s nose and eyes, but little else. Rangy and lean instead of bulky and muscular, with long dirty blond hair and acne-scarred cheeks. The leader of the Demon’s Blood didn’t look like one. Oh, he was tall enough and had the sleek grace of a panther, but there was no look of … competence in his face. Instead he had the air of a petulant, spoiled child who had been given everything he wanted and hated the givers because it was never enough. Cold, cold green eyes sparkled like pools of viridian cruelty. A purple Crown Royal bag was tied to the belt of his dirty blue jeans and one veiny hand caressed it like a lover.

I knew instantly what was in that bag.

My eyes must have lingered too long. “What you looking at, asswipe?” he snarled. There came a sudden stillness from the other bikers and I knew that the wrong word, the wrong gesture, would see me buried beneath a stack of kicking, stabbing bodies.

So of course I took the road only the proud and foolish follow. “Your purse, ace.”

Not good. Don’t know why I said that. Something about Alexander really rubbed me the wrong way. Looking at him made my eyes itch, as if I could see into him, capture his subtle wrongness with sight; hence the suicidal response.

A busty woman standing next to the pool tables, blue and black tats on her large breasts, pointed out the only window as Alexander brought his hands up, knife flickering between his fingers. “What the hell?” she cried.