Busted

Chapter 1

Edward Scranton, special-agent-in-charge of the Drug Enforcement Administration’s field office in Dallas, opened the door to his office, walked across the carpeted floor and put a large briefcase on an oak wood desk. Although wearing a dark suit he shivered as the air conditioner cooled the perspiration on his skin. Even at seven in the morning, the short walk from the parking lot to the DEA offices had been a hot one under the August sun. Sitting in a leather swivel chair he wiped his face with a handkerchief and wondered why he’d ever left Denver. Of course, he knew the answer to the question even before asking it. It was the promotion. At least his wife thought the raise in pay was worth the rise in temperature.

He opened the briefcase, took out a small thermos bottle, and poured a cup of coffee, then put the thermos and cup inside a bottom desk drawer, so that it could be discreetly closed if a visitor came in. Scranton had gone through this ritual so many times in the past, he’d stopped musing over the fact that a drug agent was smuggling brewed coffee into a federal building, breaking an archaic rule from the early years of Hoover's FBI.

He sipped the coffee while sorting through a stack of paperwork, an assortment of official correspondence from Washington, faxes and mail between field offices, and the inevitable letters sent by concerned citizens. Scranton tried to get the civilian mail out of the way first. Occasionally, a lead developed through them, though most were vindictive homeowners trying to remove an unwanted neighbor, or spurned lovers seeking revenge. Undoubtedly, at least one in the stack was from someone claiming they had seen spacemen unloading bales of marihuana. One demented fellow swore he was possessed by the ghost of Al Capone and was forced into drug trafficking to satisfy the criminal spirit’s lust for action and danger.

Though the reading of this mail was time consuming, and distasteful, especially the crack-pot notes, the letters were an excuse to put off, even if for a short time, the reviewing of official communications, which ultimately increased his workload. Even the most insignificant note demanded immediate action, as though any thought that originated in Washington or at the Justice Department should be carved in stone. If not a missive of national consequence, it would be a query on a filed report that was not clear or to which changes had to be made, such as updates, compromising situations, or names. All serious and which should have been taken care of yesterday, generating miles of paperwork which added to the mountains of reports that besieged his office. Modern computers helped ease the paper load, but he was an old dog in an era of new tricks. Navigating through a computer was sometimes even more frustrating than sorting stacks of reports. After twenty-five years of government service, Scranton had learned to do what could be done, ignore what couldn’t and forget the rest. Reading the trash mail first thing in the morning was his own little victory over a career that had stranded him in a paper jungle. Besides, if any unofficial coffee spilled on the unofficial mail, it could be unofficially shredded.

He’d just finished sorting the papers and pouring another cup of coffee when the door burst open. Irritated, Scranton quietly closed the coffee drawer with his foot, then looked up at the young agent who had entered unannounced. There’s an old custom that you might’ve heard of. It’s called knocking.

Sorry, Sir, said the agent, a communications expert named Turner. But it’s an urgent message.

They all are, Turner. Put it on my desk and I’ll get to it.

Yes, sir. Turner dropped the paper and quickly left.

The communications man was good, the best in his field, thought Scranton, as he opened the drawer and wiped up a small amount of spilled coffee. But he was always in a hurry as if each encrypted message was the eleventh commandment. He also had a nasty habit of trying to second-guess Scranton’s every move or decision. It ticked him off to no end, because Turner’s forecasts were, for the most part, correct.

Reluctantly, he put away the coffee, pushed aside the mail, and reached for the newly decrypted message.

Subject: Operation Stop Rock. Cocaine pipeline uncovered from gulf coast to North Texas. Drop off point, Flatrock, Texas, Brock County. Large shipment scheduled to arrive middle of September. Suggest immediate investigation. Focus on known motorcycle gangs.

Finishing the message Scranton sighed; another six-month job that had to be completed in less than six weeks. Brock County. What a hole in the wall. Nothing but small farm towns and a few broken down rock quarries. His men were going to love it.

Bikers. Hell, he was sick of them. The DEA had been busting motorcycle thugs since its creation in the seventies. Before that the Bureau of Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs was rounding them up in the sixties. Now he was supposed to jump through his ass and find an unknown trafficker overnight. Well, there was no way he’d blow a gasket over a case called Stop Rock in Flatrock.

Putting down the message, he freshened up his coffee, then grabbed an envelope from the stack of civilian mail. It was marked with a Bristol Texas address, a tiny rural community south of Dallas. Maybe it’ll be some down-home soul reporting the location a drug lab, something that can be taken care of quickly, thought Scranton, opening the four-page handwritten letter.

Dear Sirs;

It has come to my attention that two of my fields which I left fallow this year are being used to cultivate marihuana. I reported it to the sheriff, but he said such a large amount of contraband should be handled by the DEA. The fields are remote and well camouflaged. In fact, the marihuana is almost totally invisible and can only be seen through special glasses, a pair of which I obtained after they were dropped by one of the extraterrestrials as they boarded their spacecraft after working in the fields one night.

Without reading further the frustrated supervisor leaned back and stared at the ceiling. After a few seconds, he pulled an envelope out of the desk and stuffed it with the letter. This was definitely a matter for the boys in D.C.

Putting the envelope in the out basket, he paced the room, trying to focus his thoughts on the new case. Okay. I’ll need a list of drug convictions in Brock County. No doubt, if a biker club existed there it’d be in the computers. Ferguson could handle the case. Though not the best field supervisor, Ferguson had Fitzpatric on his squad, the oldest and most patient street agent in Dallas, well known for his honesty. If anyone could keep a handle on a tricky situation, it was Fitz.

Scranton picked up the phone, intending to ring Turner’s extension, when the man walked in carrying several computer printouts.

Sir, here’s a list of convicted drug offenders from Brock County. Recently, local police have raided several speed labs, so I have a list of those indicted. Also, there is one outlaw motorcycle club based in the area.

His boss looked at him for a second. Good work, Turner. I wished I’d thought of that.

Thank you, Sir.

On your way out see if you can find Ferguson. Get him in my office.

I already did, Sir. He’s on the way.

I already did sir, I already did sir, Scranton mimicked under his breath as Turner left. He sat down to study the information, unaware that, the simple order he’d given would result in the deaths of three men.

Chapter 2

It was hot. Hot like only Texas can be in August. The noon sun radiated a harsh, merciless heat, which burned the grass and hay to lifeless straw, and baked the ground until it cracked and crumbled like dried bread, leaving stock tanks dry or little more than mud wallows. Thirsty horses sought refuge under short mesquite trees, which dotted the grasslands. Cattle restricted their movements to chewing cud and swatting flies. Few birds dared venture out except for a few buzzards, scavengers, whose ancestors once feasted on fallen longhorns from the great cattle drives up the Chisholm Trail, who now, for the most part, were regulated to cleaning up road kills, if they weren’t run over themselves. The air was still. Little relief came from the dusty winds which infrequently stirred. The one-hundred-plus temperature would be considered a killer in the eastern states, where harsh, wet winters and high humidity left the inhabitants ill-prepared to suffer through a rare heat wave. In the dry northern states, the century mark was a novelty, little more than a peak as temperatures cooled rapidly after sunset. But not in Texas, where it was hot at dawn, a furnace during the day and gradually reduced to an intolerable swelter at night. In the Lone Star State heat was taken in stride; heat that bubbled the asphalt on the farm to market road that ran through the short, rolling hills and cow pastures.

A slight rumbling came from the west, which at first might have been mistaken for thunder, if the blue sky hadn’t been all but clear. The noise got louder, and then, through shimmering heat waves rising from the pavement, a speck came into view.

Hal Slayton, alias Drifter, twisted open the throttle on his roaring Harley Davidson. The 1958 Panhead engine responded with a slight pitch in the deep-throated growl of the straight pipes. The rider was tired. A numbing pain assaulted his lower back, and his lips were dry and cracked from the wind and sun. Blue eyes squinted behind steel rimmed glasses and were bloodshot from hours spent in the saddle. Shoulder-length blond hair was tangled and matted, as was a full beard. A bug splattered t-shirt had a generous supply of oil and gas stains, which matched perfectly with crusted jeans.

Somewhat stocky of build with a slight beer gut, Drifter wasn’t exactly a hunk. Though his physical appearance and dress weren’t trendsetters, the motorcycle was a work of art. Low slung on a hard-tail frame, with a king and queen seat and ape-hanger handlebars, it was a traditional chopper in the Easy Rider fashion. Even with several layers of road dust, the black Imron paint job stood out. Black wrinkle-painted engine cylinders were accented with chrome. To a novice, it might resemble a clone from the dozens of cheap biker flicks of the sixties. But to an enthusiast, individual touches were easily spotted. The bike was a mixture of stock and custom parts, as if the owner were experimenting through trial and error to see what worked best. In truth, Drifter was. Compromising to reach a balance between comfort and reliability while keeping a sense of uniqueness, creating a machine that was a reflection of himself.

The v-twin engine was of a design born before the First World War, a massive seventy-four cubic inch motor that churned out raw, grating horsepower, like the rough, calloused men of its time, who depended on the strength in their backs to survive. The Harley, like the people of old, was simple and moved slowly without restriction. The rich heritage of the bike somehow tied Drifter, an Iowa farm boy, to his own past, though he would never voice such an opinion. Now both were thrust into the space age of modern, computer-controlled, EPA regulated machines. Where people traded the uncertainties of forging their lives with their own two hands to punch a time clock. He existed in both worlds, yet was bonded to neither.

Drifter shifted his weight in the saddle and stretched, trying to ease the pain in his sore ass, a legacy of three weeks on the road. Recently laid off from a seven-day-a-week roughneck job with no certain prospects ahead, the rider decided to take a well-deserved vacation, prowl the Texas countryside and satiate the wanderlust that had earned him his nickname.

Passing a sign that read, Rockwood Tavern One-Mile, he licked his parched lips. Thoughts of icy mugs with foamy yellow brew tantalized the sun and wind-burned biker. Ahead in a graveled parking lot just off the right side of the road sat the tavern, a small, ancient building, fabricated entirely of petrified wood. In front were a couple of pickups and an old Ford station wagon. Near the entrance sat a bright red FLH Sportglide, a stripped down version of a full dressed Harley. It was parked in front of a large window shielded with metal grade-x, designed to keep out rocks and bottles, but not the line of vision from within.

Good, thought Drifter, who didn’t like leaving his ride where it couldn’t be watched. He parked next to the red Harley, loaded with a set of black leather saddlebags much like his own and a sleeping bag.

Drifter paused just inside the door to let his vision adjust then ordered a longneck from the barmaid, who had been talking to a couple of cowboys. He found a spot to sit near a single pool table located on the opposite end of the building from a small dance floor. A young clean-cut Caucasian, who looked barely old enough to vote, was playing eight-ball with one of three Mexicans, who wore cowboy boots and brightly colored shirts.

Watching the game was a tall, slender, dark haired man with goggles pushed back on his forehead, obviously the owner of the crimson machine outside.

With a satisfied smirk, the young man sank the black eight-ball. His opponent shook his head, and then handed over a dollar bill. The second Mexican fellow lifted a quarter off the table, put fifty cents into the slots and racked up for a new game.

The winner swaggered up to the table and slowly chalked his cue. Forming an elaborate bridge, he hit the cue ball so hard that it bounced into the air almost flying off the table. Colored ivory scattered as two stripes fell. The shooter sank one more ball, then missed. Chalking up, the Mexican dropped three solids before miscuing. The game went back and forth for several minutes before the young man again finished the eight-ball.

A broad grin creased his face as he snatched a one-spot from the second loser. The tall biker picked up the remaining quarter, racked, and then selected a cue stick. The boy who held the table went to the bar, purchased a beer, before dropping some change in the juke box. After picking several tunes, he walked with an exaggerated slowness back to the table, savoring his hold on the game.

Want to shoot for five? he asked, chalking up.

The challenger shrugged. I thought you were just playin’ for beers, but it’s your game.

Like a major league pitcher on the mound in front of thousands of screaming fans, the boy took several seconds in making his first move. The break was a good one. The balls spread themselves evenly on the table, but when they stopped rolling, fifteen still remained.

Unconcerned, the young man grinned smugly at his opponent. Take your miss, he said, leaning against the wall with his chest puffed out. Swelled with pride at his expertise with the stick, he almost glowed with self-confidence. The beaming gradually faded as his adversary, with precise movements, dropped six solids in as many shots.

Seeing the cue ball was off shape, or out of position on the seventh shot, which called for a cross side bank, the boy relaxed. It was a tough cut. Two seconds later he was staring in fish-eyed amazement as the three-ball ricocheted off the cushion and fell deftly into the side pocket.

In disbelief he watched the biker line up on the eight the game ball. It was a good soft shot, but the black sphere slowed on the worn felt and stopped a hair's distance from falling into a corner pocket.

The denim clad rider smiled good-naturedly and stepped away from the table. Take your miss, he said, reaching for his beer.

The boy, his ego skewered like an archery target, seethed in anger as the realization hit him that beating three half-inebriated migrant workers would