LITMIR.BIZ

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tossed Jack a dirty look, then left.

      Chapter Two

      Lance Morgan parked his blue Honda Odyssey minivan and sat for a moment to take in his surroundings. Stanley Park was situated in the heart of Vancouver, but at this time of year it was largely deserted. Being early October, the tourist rush was over. And the usual lunch crowd had gone back to work.

      He reached for the glovebox and grabbed a bottle of antacids. As he munched on the tablets he reflected on the morning’s activities — and his own life. As president of the Westside chapter of the Satans Wrath outlaw motorcycle gang, he’d seen more than his share of action. He glanced in the rear-view mirror at his reflection. Christ, I look old. Mid-forties? Hell … I look mid-sixties.

      He rubbed the half moon scar on his forehead. When he was stressed, as he was now, it tended to redden. The scar was obtained in his early days with the club — someone had caught his attention with the broken end of a wine bottle. He’d viewed the scar as a badge of honour.

      In those days he’d also had a beard and long hair. Coupled with the scar and his height — he stood half a head taller than most men — he was someone most people instinctively feared. And when he was younger, he took delight in intimidating others. But with age came maturity and that line of thinking was gone. These days he was clean-shaven and kept his thinning hair closely cropped.

      He looked at the empty car seat in the back of his van. His first and only grandchild was a year old. When I held him the other day he touched my scar with his little finger. What do I tell him when he learns to talk and asks about it? He ran his tongue over his teeth to dislodge any remnants of antacid as he thought about it. Think I’ll tell him it’s a badge of stupidity.

      He got out of his van and despite the presence of a few homeless people, didn’t bother to lock the doors. Two prospects for the club were sitting in a nearby car, which indicated that some of the club’s hit team must be around, too.

      So why’re they meeting twice in one day? Did the team bungle their assignment and allow Damien to escape? Or is the team being given another job?

      The prospects’ presence was to ensure that whatever vehicles the hit team drove would remain free of any electronic tracking devices. The hit team had been code-named the three-three team, but the code wasn’t kept secret from the police for long.

      The prospects cast their eyes on him, but their stature in the club meant they hadn’t yet earned so much as a nod of recognition from someone in his position. He turned and took the path leading to the meeting spot.

      His mind still felt numb. Four hours earlier he’d gone to the park for a meeting at the request of Pure E. That was when he learned that Damien had been the one who tipped off the police about a boatload of cocaine. The boat was on its maiden voyage and the shipment had been seized in France the day before. The club’s new pipeline to Europe was severed before it started.

      At first Lance refused to believe it. Damien had been a close friend for years. Then he learned what Damien had been presented with … and did believe it. It was a culmination of factors. Damien’s son, Buck, was a new member of the club who belonged to Lance’s Westside chapter. Twelve days previously that cop Jack Taggart had videoed Buck beating a rival drug dealer to death. The death was not intended, but it happened. Rather than try to coerce Buck into becoming an informant, Taggart set his sights on Damien — offering to destroy the video in exchange for Damien supplying information. At that time Damien had refused to co-operate and alerted the club about what Taggart had done.

      A week ago Taggart took part in executing a search warrant on Damien’s house. He seized all of Damien’s assets, including a secret bank account that Damien had in the British Virgin Islands. This morning the club heard that Damien’s wife, Vicki, had overreacted to the search and tried to kill Taggart — something Damien hadn’t told the club. Lance was told that Taggart had given Damien the choice of either informing or seeing both Vicki and Buck go to jail.

      Lance frowned. Obviously Damien made the wrong decision — except I’d have done the same thing if it was my family on the chopping block. Christ, I already have.

      Years earlier Lance had received a similar visit from Taggart. The cop had had evidence to put him and two other club members in jail for attempted murder. Taggart said he wouldn’t if Lance became his informant.

      Initially Lance had refused to co-operate, but Taggart threatened to put him in protective custody and provide the prosecutor with a report that would ensure a reduced sentence to make it look like he’d co-operated. Lance knew that if the club couldn’t get to him, they might take it out on his wife or children. In his mind he had no choice but to co-operate. A year later Taggart set him free of his obligation, apparently feeling Lance had fulfilled his end of the bargain.

      Lance’s thoughts came back to the meeting he’d attended four hours earlier with Pure E. Whiskey Jake, who was the president of the Eastside chapter, had attended, along with Buck and all four of the three-three team who lived in British Columbia.

      Buck had taken the news hard when Pure E told him what his father had done. Tears of disbelief stained his cheeks, followed by sorrow and then outrage.

      At the time Lance wondered if Pure E was going to have Buck killed in front of Damien as added punishment. A similar thing had taken place the night before to punish another drug dealer by the name of Neal Barlow, who they believed was an informant. This time, however, Pure E had another idea. Buck agreed to wear a wire and confront Damien while the three-three team listened nearby. Buck also agreed to be the one to execute his father.

      Lance grimaced. Pure E isn’t wasting any time living up to his nickname. The guy is pure evil. Getting Buck to kill his own father … fuck. Guess that’s one way to prove which family his loyalty is with. Dumb kid barely got his colours and Pure E told him that if he did what he was ordered to, Pure E might assign him to the three-three. Lance thought at the time it was a bad idea, that it would raise some eyebrows — including Taggart’s. Lance’s thoughts didn’t matter. Pure E was not a man who accepted criticism.

      Lance neared the meeting and saw Whiskey Jake ambling away from a concession stand while munching on a hot dog. His hair, a mix of black and grey, was pulled back in a ponytail and his beer belly hung over his belt. He usually had a beard, but following his latest divorce, he’d shaved it off. He’d told Lance he thought being clean-shaven would make him more appealing to younger women.

      What they find appealing about you, Lance thought, is when you leave.

      Behind Whiskey Jake at the concession stand were two long-time members of the three-three team — Floyd Hackman and Vic Trapp. Hackman was assigned to Lance’s Westside chapter while Trapp belonged to the Eastside.

      Lance looked around. The two other members of the hit team, Pasquale Bazzoli and Nick Crowe, were not present. They also belonged to Whiskey Jake’s Eastside chapter, although Bazzoli was currently living in Kelowna. His current assignment was to discreetly check and see if it would suit their interests to open a chapter there.

      Whiskey Jake spotted him and they met at a nearby picnic table. Once seated, Lance raised an eyebrow questioningly.

      “It’s done,” Whiskey Jake replied abruptly.

      “Buck?” Lance asked.

      “Yup.” Whiskey Jake used his hand to simulate shooting a pistol. “One through the head. Our lawyer called Taggart to tell ’im we knew Damien was the rat and Taggart immediately called Damien to warn him. It went down exactly like Pure E predicted.” Whiskey Jake uttered a hoarse chuckle. “I bet Taggart shit himself when Pure E answered Damien’s phone.”

      “This ain’t nothin’ to laugh at,” Lance stated.

      After a few moments, Whiskey Jake nodded. “You’re right. What the fuck would everyone think if they knew Damien ratted? We’d all lose respect.”

      That’s not what I meant. Damien was my friend. “How’s Buck doing?”

      “Fuck.

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