He was referring to the MRT’s Cole Taggart. Taggart and a county deputy were having words with two bikers. The bikers looked like the real thing, hard-core outlaw motorcyclists. “One-percenters,” as they were called, their own mocking self-description to distinguish themselves from the “ninety-nine percent of respectable, law- abiding motorcyclists” that industry spokesmen and proponents for responsible biking enthusiasts routinely invoked to polish up the public image that in their view had been tarnished by the fringe outlaw element.
Not so unusual a sight in the West, where biker gangs were more numerous and firmly established than in the more urbanized areas east of the Mississippi. Denver and its surroundings had more than their fair share of renegade motorcycle clubs.
These two specimens were emblematic of the type. Each sat astride a heavy-duty Harley customized with extended front forks and all the trimmings. The duo were down and dirty in greasy, well-worn denims, but their machines were in top shape, their gleaming streamlined shapes marred only by a coating of dust picked up while cruising the dirt road. The machines weren’t dirt bikes built for off-roading but rather muscular cycles designed for high- speed highway long hauls. One thing outlaw bikers can do is ride, handling their machines with the facility of a Cossack on horseback, taking them to the streets or the back trails as they pleased.
Jack’s activities in the past had caused him to work undercover operations among outlaw motorcycle clubs with a penchant for gunrunning and operating meth labs, so he eyed these two with a professional interest.
One of them was medium-sized, with long, greasy black hair slicked back and a hipster goatee. His eyes were banded with oversized sunglasses that looked like the kind worn by patients recovering from cataract operations. Jack figured there was nothing wrong with the cyclist’s eyesight and that he sported the shades because they provided a kind of effective half mask, obscuring his features. His face above and below the dark glasses was wizened, sharp-featured, and weasely.
The other was big, hulking, pumped up with that comic book superhero physique that comes from steroid use. Reddish-gold hair was combed up in a pompadour and hung down the back of his neck in a classic mullet. His nose was crooked from having been broken several times, and he had a wide, jack-o’-lantern mouth.
The smaller of the two was saying, “We saw that some joker must’ve gone off the high side but we couldn’t see nothing from up there so we came down for a better look.”
The deputy said, “There’s nothing to see so you can go back the way you came.”
The big biker said, “That’s some drop. How many people got killed?”
Taggart said, “You can read about it in the papers.”
The big biker snickered. “Reading? What’s that, man?”
His buddy laughed, said, “That’s telling him, Rowdy.”
The deputy said, “You can practice by reading a few traffic summonses if you like.”
Rowdy said, “Hey man, what’re you picking on us for? We ain’t doing nothing.”
Taggart said, “Go do it somewhere else.”
The deputy said, “We don’t rightly care for your kind hereabouts. Make yourself scarce, unless you’d like to spend ninety days as a guest of the county.”
Rowdy turned to his buddy, said, “You heard the man, Griff. No point hanging around where we’re not wanted.”
Griff said, “I can take a hint.”
The dirt road was narrow and the bikers had to manoeuvre their machines to turn around. Their backs were to Jack and for the first time he could see their colors, the emblem of their club that was sewn to the backs of their sleeveless denim vests.
Their insignia depicted a demonic, quasi- humanoid Gila monster straddling a souped- up cycle on two stumpy legs. It bore the legend: “Hellbenders M.C.”
Hellbenders Motorcycle Club. Jack had heard of them. A tough outfit, very tough. They’d been in the headlines about six months ago when some of their leaders had been swooped up in a high- profile gunrunning bust.
One area of equipment where their bikes came up short was in the muffler department. The choppers took off with an earsplitting crack of iron thunder. The machines churned up dust clouds as they vroomed east on the dirt road, heading for Nagaii Drive.
The deputy and Taggart watched them go. The deputy muttered, “A- holes. You know if you search them bikers you’d find a half-dozen violations easy. And you know what’d happen if I did that?”
Taggart said, “No, what?”
“The sheriff’d have me on the carpet for a royal ass-chewing, for diverting precious departmental resources on them hog-riding fools when we’re already stretched thin providing security for the Round Table.”
Taggart laughed. “That’s why he’s sheriff. He’s got his priorities right. Nothing’s more important than making sure that nobody crashes that private party for Richie Riches.”
The deputy said, “Soon as they haul that wreck with those two stiffs in it out of here, I got to go back to patrolling Sky Mount.”
“You and me both, brother.”
“I don’t know what the big deal is. It ain’t like that heap was going anyplace.”
“It had a couple of ATF guys in it, so that makes it Federal.”
“Big deal.”
Taggart joked, “Maybe they were drunk when they went over the edge.”
That got a laugh out of the deputy. “That’s what I’m going to do when the conference is done — get drunk. And not before then. They’ve got us all pulling double shifts while it’s on. All leaves and days off canceled for the duration.”
Taggart said, “Times are tough all over.”
Jack and Anne Armstrong had to cross the road to get to where their car was parked. Their path crossed that of Taggart and the deputy. The deputy had seen their credentials when they first arrived so he let them pass without comment.
Jack and Taggart made eye contact. Jack said, “Small world.”
Taggart smiled. “Miller Fisk is mad at you.”
“He can have a rematch anytime he wants.”
“He ain’t that mad. Anyhow, Hardin’s got him pulling roadblock duty way up in the hills right now. He’s so teed off at Fisk that Fisk is lucky he’s not cleaning latrines at the station instead.”
“Is Hardin mad at him for abusing a prisoner or for getting chopped down to size?”
“There’s a question. You’ll have to ask Bryce the answer to that one.”
“And you?”
“Far as I’m concerned, that overgrown plowboy got what’s been coming to him for a long time. ’Course, I ain’t related to him, like Bryce is.”
“Is that right?”
“Fisk is Hardin’s nephew. You don’t think Fisk made the MRT because he’s a regular Sherlock Holmes, do you?”
Jack said, “I’m going to try to not think about it at all.”
Taggart said, “Not a bad idea. See you around.”
Jack nodded to him. Anne Armstrong was already in the car, waiting for him. She looked pleased. She said, “I just finished talking with Central. Good news for a change.”
Jack said, “What’ve you got?”
“A lead, maybe. They’ve turned up somebody who’s seen the blue bus.”
8. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 10 A.M. AND 11 A.M. MOUNTAIN DAYLIGHT TIME
Cletus Skeets said, “Is there going to be any reward money in this?” He pronounced it “ree-ward.” He was of medium height, reedy, with muddy eyes, a three- day beard, and a prominent Adam’s apple.
Anne Armstrong said, “It’s possible, Mr. Skeets.”
