Kill Shot
“We have to get out of here,” the man said. “There’s twenty or thirty more where these guys came from, and they’ll be out here any minute.” Bolan didn’t need any more explanation than that and both men raced back to the Mustang. By the time the doors to the clubhouse opened and men started pouring out, Bolan had rowed through three of the Mustangs six gears and the speedometer needle had hit 100 mph. Someone from the club house managed to fire off a few shots at the fleeing Ford, but by that time Bolan was already three blocks away.
When they were out of sight of the clubhouse, Bolan asked his passenger, who appeared to be taking inventory of his injuries, “Are you hurt bad?”
“I think I have some broken ribs,” he said, “but I’ll live. You okay?”
Bolan rubbed his swelling jaw. “Nothing an ice pack won’t take care of. What did you do to those guys to make them want to kill you?”
“It’s not what I did,” the man said. “It’s what I am.”
“What’s that?” Bolan asked.
“A Hellion.”
“What were you doing at the Slaves’ clubhouse?”
“I wasn’t there by my own choice,” the man said. “They grabbed me at a bar in Anoka and brought me here.”
“Were you wearing Hellion colors?” Bolan asked.
“No. I wasn’t trying to commit suicide, if that’s what you’re asking. But they know who I am, and apparently they knew where to find me.”
“Were they going to kill you?”
“I suspect that was their plan,” the man said. “I appreciate your putting a stop it.”
“Don’t appreciate anything just yet,” Bolan said. “I’ve got some questions for you, and if I don’t like your answers, you might wish I’d never broken up your little tea party back there.”
“You a cop?”
“Do I look like a cop?”
The man pondered the soldier’s question a moment. “You just killed three Slaves, and the two we left breathing looked like they’ll be sucking their meals through tubes for the rest of their lives. If you’re a cop, you aren’t like any of the cops I ever saw.”
“If you don’t tell me what I want to know,” Bolan said, “you’re going to wish I was a cop.”
“Look, man, you saved my life and you just took out a bunch of Slaves. Even if you were a cop, you’d have my respect. I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Where do you want me to start?”
“How about you start with your name?”
CHAPTER FIVE
After Bolan had tended to the wounds of the injured Hellion, whose name was Neal Trembley, though his biker name was Animal, and safely deposited him in a room in the same Bloomington motel where the soldier was staying, he called Kurtzman to see if they’d learned anything from the body they’d exhumed earlier in the day.
“What did our corpse have to tell us?” Bolan asked.
“It was not our boy Teddy Haynes,” Kurtzman said, “but we already knew that. We’re waiting for a conclusive DNA match, but it appears the body was the former president of the Minnesota chapter of the Hellions, a certain Bryan Trembley, though most people knew him by the name Dirt. The FBI has him listed as a fugitive. We’re not one hundred percent sure that it’s Trembley, but we’re sure enough that I’d bet money the FBI can scratch Mr. Trembley from its most-wanted list.”
“What was he wanted for?” Bolan asked.
“You name it. Human trafficking, for starters. Apparently, the Hellions were bringing in girls from Eastern Europe and forcing them into prostitution.” Bolan said nothing. The soldier’s own sister had been the victim of forced prostitution. It was a subject he took very seriously.
“It gets even more sordid,” Kurtzman continued. “The Hellions apparently were running some sort of welfare scam using these girls. Not only were they profiting from the women as sexual slaves, but they were collecting government checks for them, too.”
“Were any Hellions convicted of any of this?” Bolan asked.
“Yeah, five of the top guys. They almost beat the rap, though. They presented a pretty good case that they were set up by the Slaves, that the Slaves were really the ones running the prostitution ring. The trial was a genuine spectacle, but in the end the jury didn’t have a lot of sympathy for a bunch of greasy, long-haired bikers.”
“What’s your take on it?” Bolan asked.
“You know as well as I do that damn near everyone who’s ever gone to jail claims to be innocent, Striker, but you know better than anyone that the system can be gamed. The Slaves don’t seem like the type of organization that would have the clout needed to manipulate the system to that degree, though.”
“They could if they had the right people backing them,” Bolan said.
“You mean like the type of people who could organize hundreds of random assassinations across the country with military precision?” Kurtzman asked.
“Yeah, I mean people like that.”
“You think our bad guys are using the Slaves to help carry out their dirty deeds?”
“It looks that way, Bear. At least we have five less of them to worry about.”
“I heard about that,” Kurtzman said. “We picked up the chatter on the Minneapolis police radios. They were slow to respond to your afternoon soiree at the Slaves’ clubhouse because they were responding to sniper attacks.”
“How many were there?” Bolan asked.
“In the central time zone or in Minneapolis?”
“Both.”
“There were sixty-nine in the central time zone, almost all of them cops. There were two in the Minneapolis metro area, one cop and one member of the Minnesota National Guard, an Iraq War veteran.” Again the soldier was silent. “Anything else to report?” Kurtzman asked.
“Yeah, I need you to get me some information on another Hellion. He goes by the name Animal, but his real name is Neal Trembley. Probably a brother or cousin of our misidentified corpse.”
Kurtzman didn’t respond, but Bolan could hear him clacking away at his keyboard as he pulled up information. Finally, he said, “Brother. He was in the club, too. You have something on him?”
“I have him,” Bolan said. “The Slaves I took out were in the process of beating him to death when I tried to scope out their clubhouse. What do you know about him?”
“He’s a felon, but not for anything serious. He and some buddies stole a car. They took it for a joyride and then they brought it back, freshly waxed and with a full tank of gas. They even left a $50 bill on the dash. It’s kind of funny, really, but the owner of the car didn’t think so. Trembley was convicted of grand theft auto. He did six months in the state pen in Stillwater.”
“Just six months?” Bolan asked.
“He got time off for good behavior. Worked his ass off in the prison laundry. The report says he was a model prisoner. He joined the Marines after he got out, served in the Corps for eight years and worked his way up to staff sergeant. When he got out he started a carpet-laying business with his brother. That was fifteen years ago, and except for a couple of speeding tickets, he’s been spotless ever since.”
“Are you serious?” Bolan asked. “How does a member of the Hellions get by without being busted for something?”
“It wasn’t for lack of trying. Everyone from the Hennepin County Sheriff’s office the NSA has had him staked out at one time or another. He got in a few fights over the years, but for a member of a motorcycle club, the guy’s practically a Boy Scout.”
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