Don Pendleton - Enemy Agents

“Well, shit,” Gruber said.

Six, no, seven bikers entered, dressed in faded denim bearing one-percenter patches, swastikas and lightning bolts. Two of them were long hairs and all sported some variation of sideburns, mustaches, or beards. Their jewelry mixed gold and stainless steel, running toward heavy rings and chains that dangled from their vests or belts.

They all wore knives.

“Are they—?”

Before Mosier could finish it, one of the bikers half turned to address the others, giving Halsey and his crew a clear view of the rockers on his back.

“Not Comancheros,” Halsey said.

“Okay. So just a friggin’ eyesore,” Gruber said.

“Don’t sweat it,” Halsey ordered. “Assholes have to eat, the same as anybody else.”

“But do they have to eat with us?”

“Don’t borrow trouble,” Mosier said. “We’ve got enough of it, already.”

“Nothing we can’t handle,” Halsey said. “We’ll get what’s coming to us. Everybody will.”

“I like the sound of that,” Doolan said, scooping up another spoonful of three-alarm chili. He chased it with beer, which emptied his bottle. “Who wants a refill?”

“I could use one,” Gruber said.

“Me, too,” Mosier added.

“I’m all right,” Halsey answered.

“Same here,” Webb replied.

“Three it is,” Doolan said. He looked around for the waitress and saw she was serving the guy who’d come in by himself earlier. “Hell, I’ll get ’em myself. Save the tip.”

“That’s the spirit,” Halsey said, and watched Doolin head for the bar.

BOLAN’S HAMBURGER LOOKED GOOD, smelled good and tasted better. He chewed slowly, fleetingly regretting he hadn’t had time to finish before the contingent of bikers had entered.

They wore Diableros colors, which fit with the San Berdoo turf, green patches depicting Loki, the Norse god of mischief. Bolan knew the gang had been investigated by the FBI and ATF, resulting in a series of arrests including counts of robbery, assault, extortion, drug and weapons violations.

Situation normal for the “one-percent” fraternity.

He wondered who they were and where they’d come from, how Brognola or his contacts had collected and prepared them, then delivered them in time to fit his schedule.

Unless…

It crossed his mind that these might be real bikers, after all. Bolan hadn’t made a detailed study of the subject, but he knew that there were “outlaw” motorcycle gangs—OMGs in FBI parlance—scattered worldwide. According to the Feds, they earned at least one billion dollars yearly in the States alone, from various illegal enterprises. Dominated by the “Big Four”—Hells Angels, Outlaws, Bandidos and Pagans—some three hundred gangs claimed turf from coast-to-coast, with others roaming from Canada through Britain and Europe, as far afield as Australia and New Zealand.

The odds of meeting random real-life bikers in a place like Scoots on any given night?

Pretty damned good.

Which could be problematic for Bolan’s plan. If these were faux bikers, cast by Brognola or someone else at Justice to play the part for one night, then Bolan was right on track. Conversely, if it turned out they were members of a real club passing through, his scheme could be derailed.

Bolan used the time to finish his burger and make a good start on the fries, while he watched the maybe-bikers make room at the bar by elbowing other drinkers aside. No one complained, including the burly bartender, who clearly knew a stacked deck when he saw one.

How would it play?

If these were Brognola’s men, they’d been sent to start a fight with Bolan’s targets, giving him a chance to lend a hand and make new friends. He normally preferred a more direct approach, without the playacting and subterfuge, but the Executioner was versatile.

He’d even played the role of a Mafia “black ace” for several months, back in his old life, and had sold it to the toughest critics in the world.

Before he buried them.

This night’s job should be simple by comparison, if he could use that term for any mission where his life was balanced on a razor’s edge. All Bolan had to do was watch and wait.

The bikers would start something with his targets, or they wouldn’t. If they did, he’d have to hope that they were agents, not a group of thugs strung out on meth and alcohol, picking a fight just for the hell of it. Real bikers would be more of a challenge, and they wouldn’t hesitate to stick a knife between his ribs or put a bullet in his head, if Bolan interfered with their idea of fun.

See how it goes, he thought, still working on his fries. Either way he’d get the job done. The waitress passed by, asking if he needed anything. A little flirty smile to sell it, and he asked her for a refill on the coffee. As she poured it, raucous laughter echoed from the bar. Her smile became a nervous frown.

“Bad news?” he asked.

“Could be.”

“Are those guys regulars?”

“We get the type a lot,” she said. “Same patches, too. But I don’t recognize them.”

“Thanks,” Bolan said, when she’d finished topping off his mug. “Be careful, eh?”

“I’m always careful, mister.”

Words to live by.

Bolan sipped his coffee, while the bikers downed their first round of beers and called for refills, telling the beefy bartender to run a tab. Again, he didn’t argue.

Could be trouble there, if they refused to pay, but nothing helpful. Bolan wasn’t there to serve Scoots as a cooler or to collect its bar bills. If the might-be outlaws didn’t drag his targets into it, he’d have no play.

Just then, one of the long-haired bikers turned with beer in hand, back to the bar, and scanned the room. He looked a little bleary-eyed, which could’ve been an act or the combined effect of chemicals and desert night-riding. From Bolan’s angle on the sidelines, he was ill-equipped to judge.

But he felt hopeful when the guy nudged one of his companions, pointing toward the table where five men hunched over plates of food, and said, “Well, lookee here. Those pricks are in our seats.”

“AW, SHIT!”

“What is it now?” Clay Halsey asked.

“They’re coming over here,” Doolin replied. “Who is?”

“Those punks. Who do you think?”

“Just chill,” Halsey advised. “We’re in a public place. The rule of law prevails.”

“You think so?” Gruber asked him.

“So they tell me,” Halsey said. “Until it doesn’t, anyway.”

“And when’s that?” Webb asked.

“When I say so.”

Halsey didn’t turn to watch the motorcycle scum advancing on him. He could hear them coming, and a moment later he could smell them. Sweat and motor oil, a mix Halsey sometimes thought of as Eau de White Trash.

Not that he’d ever say as much out loud. Too many good ol’ boys might take offense and look for someone else to stoke their rage.

Halsey ignored the bikers as they ranged themselves behind him, concentrating on his meal. He’d see a sucker punch before it landed, telegraphed by the expressions of his four dinner companions, and the steak knife in his hand could do some wicked damage in a pinch.

But Halsey hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

The very last thing that he needed was another incident involving cops and bad publicity. The media was after him already, snapping at his heels, sniffing around for dirt. As for police—

“You’re in our seats,” one of the bikers said, somewhere behind Halsey and well above him.

“Our seats,” another of them echoed, sounding like an idiot.

Halsey swallowed the bite of steak that he’d been chewing, half turned in his seat, keeping his knife and fork in hand.

“I think there must be some mistake,” he told the long-haired man who appeared to be the leader of this motley pack.