Two Up

Dayton “Day” Rand

Day could be a real asshole. Although he had many flaws, self-awareness wasn’t one of them. The number of women he’d hurt on and off the job numbered in the dozens. He was about to add Katie to the list. He couldn’t push her from his mind. What the hell was different about her? Was it even her, or was it where he was in life? A gnat’s ass from retirement. Didn’t matter right now. His women problems would have to get in line. If he didn’t work this just right, his “brothers” would expect him to kill a man.

“You understand what I’m fuckin’ telling you?” Nasty asked, his index finger spearing Day’s well-developed chest, his tattooed arms rippling.

Undercover ATF Agent, Dayton Rand, who club members knew as Randall Dayton, couldn’t hesitate. Nasty would get suspicious in a heartbeat. Dayton went by the moniker “Day,” which was not unusual. All club members had road names—nicknames.

“Yes,” Day said, and tipped his beer and took a long slug. Once drained, he crushed the can and tossed it into the trash.

“Good, now let’s get back to it,” Nasty said, slapping Day’s shoulder. “Do you need me to repeat anything?”

Day’s thoughts were like bullets ricocheting in his head before he came up with an innocent way to delay. He raised a finger toward Nasty and shuffled across the room to the fridge. Getting another beer was always a priority.

Nasty trusted him. At least, Day was beginning to think so. He might finally give Day more responsibility. But, that the club president still had reservations was evident. A serious show of loyalty to the club would show the club’s patch holders could trust him.

Patch holders were full club members who’d earned their colors. Colors comprised three patches sewn onto the back of a leather or sometimes denim vest. The clubs’ logo sat in the center. The club’s name arched across a top rocker, and the club’s territory, often a state on an up-curving rocker, was at the bottom.

If Nasty could hang a robbery or even murder over Day’s head, he’d get a two-fer. It would cement trust or, more precisely, leverage. And some of the club’s dirty business would also get done.

Day snatched another beer from the fridge. Nasty was staring at him, arms folded— impatient, maybe, but didn’t appear suspicious. Day crossed the room and spoke before Nasty did.

“I’ll need a piece,” Day said.

“You got one.”

“Untraceable.”

Nasty smiled, chuckled uncharacteristically and patted Day’s shoulder. Was Nasty warming to him or hiding something? Who knows, maybe both?

Nasty lost his smile, walked into the kitchen, and opened a trunk. It looked like a pirate’s treasure chest but instead of gold and jewels it was crammed with handguns. The trunk was labeled “Carla’s Antiques.” Day had seen it since his first time in the clubhouse. He’d assumed it to be too obvious a place to contain anything other than, well, Carla’s Antiques. Who gave a shit about those? On retrospect, not his finest work.

“Hang on a sec,” Nasty said, turning back toward Day, one hand still buried in the guns. “Maybe we should wait on this thing.” Nasty stared hard into Day’s eyes. Had Nasty made him for a cop, after all? It was always Day’s first thought when Nasty shifted like this. Sweat collected on Day’s forehead, and rivulets ran down his cheeks. Good thing the temperature hovered at a humid ninety degrees. Nasty’s shirt was soaked, too. Day worked to keep his breathing even. Every time it seemed like Nasty was beginning to trust him, he’d pull back like this.

“Hell no, boss,” Day blurted, extending an eager hand. “Let’s get this shit done. Fucker like that needs to be taught a lesson. All them assholes do. No one fucks with our crew. Gimme a piece.”

Nasty smirked. He reached in and fished out a flat black, .40 Cal. Glock, Model 22.

“This ought to do the trick,” he said, slapping the pistol grip first into Day’s hand. Day expertly drew back the slide a crack. A slice of brass indicated a chambered round.

“Loaded,” Day said.

“Not much use when they ain’t.”

Day depressed the magazine release button. The mag slid from the well and dropped into his palm. It felt fully loaded. Fourteen rounds, plus the one in the chamber. He blew on the mag out of habit to clear any dust, shoved the magazine back into the handle until it clicked, reached behind his back, and tucked the gun into his waistband. Nasty handed him two more mags each as heavy as the first. Day slid them into his waistband and draped his shirttail over them.

“Good man,” Nasty said, opening his arms. Day walked into the hug and returned a firm clench. Nasty patted Day’s back up and down, and, as they broke apart, he patted Day’s chest.

“Hey, Prez,” Day began. “You ever hear what the murder suspect said when the judge asked why he shot the guy fifteen times?”

Nasty didn’t answer. He just stared.

“Because I ran out of bullets,” Day said, with a chuckle.

Nasty didn’t laugh. He didn’t frown or grimace either. He seemed to move past the joke as if it hadn’t happened. Day found out long ago that he could learn a lot about a man by how he reacted to a joke. He’d observed, generally, psychopaths don’t like ’em.

“Now let’s get it done, bro,” Nasty began after grunting at Day’s attempt at humor. “Don’t fucking forget. This is real important. Make sure you drop out of sight for a few weeks after it’s done. May as well keep the cops looking at guys up here who didn’t do it, to throw ’em off. As far as we know, you’ve already been gone for three days. Oh and lose your cut for this job.” Nasty flicked a finger at Day’s club vest. “Can’t risk any connection to us if you get hung up.”

“Yeah, I got it. Good idea, Boss,” Day said.

“Asshole,” Nasty said, appearing oddly pleased.

Now Day had to figure out a way out of this mission but without compromising the case. Fortunately, he’d had the chance to prove himself in a couple fights with rival gang members and with the occasional bar rowdy. Those, he could chalk up to self-defense. He also didn’t mind smacking around a scumbag or two. Adept with his fists, some club members asked why he didn’t beat them worse. Day argued he didn’t want to bring the club any unnecessary attention from the cops. They seemed to buy it.

Day had invested too many months for things to fall apart. Now, he could slap charges on a few members. But just for chicken-shit stuff. He wanted to put the entire club away, especially Nasty who was known for his brutality. Rumors said he once took out an entire family. A patch holder rat, his wife, and their two little kids. Nasty maintained he’d hired out the hit. But club members whispered he’d smoked the entire family himself—even the kids.

“All right,” Nasty said, motioning toward the door. “I’ll see you in a few weeks. I’ll be reading the papers.”

“You got it, Mr. Prez.” Day stepped toward the door and grabbed the doorknob. How the hell was he going to get out of this one? “I won’t let you dow—” Like a gust of wind, Carla crashed into Day, as she burst through the door. The woman was up there in years compared with other ladies at the house, but damn, she kept herself trim and firm. Her attire left little to the imagination. She seemed to want the world to know she still had it, but only Nasty could have it.

“Oh, geezuz, Carla,” Day said. “Sorry. You okay?”

“Don’t sweat it, sweetie.” Carla reached out and pinched Day’s cheek between the long red nails of her thumb and forefinger. “I don’t mind a surprise bang every once in awhile, good-lookin’.” She laughed.

Day grinned and glanced at Nasty. Her joke might not be so funny for him. Nasty rolled his eyes toward Day. The gesture seemed almost apologetic. Carla pushed past Nasty and yelled, “Prospect!” Two eager young men appeared in the kitchen doorway.

“Frick and Frack. Beautiful response, boys. I need a glass of wine, and I need it an hour ago.”

The two men were prospective club members identifiable by the sole “Prospect” bottom rocker patch on the backs of their vests. They scrambled out of the room, fighting to be the one lucky enough to serve their “queen.” Once patched in, they would no longer be obligated to do things for her. It was clear Carla would take advantage of the situation for as long as she could.

“Sorry again, Carla,” Day called after her. She waved back without turning around. “Forget it,” she said. Then she turned askance, smiled seductively, and added, “Was it good for you, too?”

“Later,” he said, squirting out the door.

“I’ll hold you to that,” Carla said.

Ignoring the quip and happy Nasty had rolled his eyes again, Day strolled toward his Harley.

Day got to his bike, pulled the gun from his waistband, and stuffed it into a saddlebag. What could he do? He was a federal agent. Killing a rival gang member was obviously out. Not that the world wouldn’t be a better place if he did it. However, although he didn’t like to think about it, retirement was racing at him. And murder wasn’t the best way to collect his pension.

Still, this is why he loved the job. The twists and turns came at him like rounds from an MP5—on full auto. It kept his wits razor sharp. He’d worked undercover for so many years he sometimes wondered where Randall Dayton ended and Dayton Rand began. Wasn’t it the shit though? He enjoyed many aspects of the biker lifestyle. The camaraderie, the motorcycles and, of course, the women. And they liked him, too—a lot. To further solidify his position in the biker world he’d become a skilled custom bike painter. Something he used as a cover while on assignment. This talent also made him almost as sought after as an ink slinger. Paint your bike; paint your body.

His situation sucked, both of them: this case’s dead-end and his pending retirement. And he had to resign himself to it—to them. This looked like the end of the line for this case. He half-thought about carrying out the contract. But just half. He’d have to take what he could get, get out, and terminate the operation. ATF could take down whoever for whatever. This meant several criminals, including Nasty, would walk without so much as a ticket for littering. He just hadn’t gotten enough yet to nail them.

The club’s door reopened. A sliver of light sliced into the night and grew into a veritable spotlight. Day shielded his eyes. A large silhouette dominated the doorway. “You still here?” Nasty’s voice boomed.

“Yeah, boss. But, you’re fucking up my night vision? What’s up?”

Nasty walked over to Day and handed him a fat, white envelope.

“What’s this?” Day asked. Cash, of course, even though Nasty had said nothing. But for what?

“You’ll need some scratch to take care of this shit. Also, take it as a sign of appreciation.”

“Thanks a lot, boss, but—”

“Don’t go gettin’ all faggot on me,” Nasty interrupted. “It’s just the standard down payment for shit like this.”

“You don’t need to pay me, man. This one’s special. For the club, right?”

“Yeah, it’s for the club. It’s all for the club, but a man’s gotta eat, right? Here’s the thing: I don’t expect you to get caught. But, if you do, thing like this done by contract bring less jail time than not done by contract. Get me?”

“No shit?” Day said. This hardcore criminal was looking out for him. He quashed a slight twinge of guilt. Guilt was another thing common among undercover cops. But Nasty would never do this if he didn’t trust him because Nasty would be the first one Day would give up in a plea deal. The fact Day was a cop didn’t seem on Nasty’s radar.

“Shit, Day. You’re a smart fucker for sure, but why you gotta think too much? Just take it and get the fuck on with your business.” Nasty issued another rare pat on Day’s back.

“Got it.” Day sloughed the envelope. He hid his giddiness. Before the money, the contract killing was verbal—words. Day’s word against Nasty’s. A cop’s word should outweigh a criminal’s, but that was no slam-dunk in a modern criminal justice system infected by so much social justice, political bullshit. Nasty had given him an envelope fat with cash. He wore no gloves. This was so much better than a littering ticket. Nasty was not only going up the river without paddles but also he had no boat. He was headed toward the jagged rocks below.

“Do you some good to get time away from that chick you been seein’,” Nasty said. “What’s her name? Katie or some shit?”

“Didn’t know you cared ’bout my social life, Pa,” Day said.

“Fuck you! I don’t. I’m just sayin’…. Shit, Day. She’s got a kid. You wanna get stuck with a drooling, nose-picker ain’t even yours?”

“We’re just hangin’ around, Nasty. Nothing serious.”

“Yeah, well the way you treat her… You know her ol’ man, Quint, was killed in a bike wreck, right? He didn’t treat her half as good as you do. It’s his kid—well, most likely.” Nasty sighed. “We owe it to a downed brother to take care of his family, but...”

“I know all about that shit, man. She’s okay, you know? Real good in the sack, too,” Day said and smiled. “And the kid’s quiet. He don’t get in the way.”

“Oh, give me a fucking break, Day. You’re not thinking about settling down. Get a house and live some white-picket-fence life? You? You ain’t the type, man.”

“I don’t know—I mean, no. Shit, I don’t know. My age? Might be time to slow down some,” Day said, telling Nasty something true for a change.

“You’ve got to be shittin’ me, brother. You went through three ladies your first week here before you met her.”

“Practice makes perfect, right?”

“Oh, shit. Fuck it. Not my business, but that don’t mean it ain’t club business. Just remember the two club rules we all know so well, but I don’t mind repeating: One, don’t let nothin’ interfere with club business. Two, everything is club business.”

Nasty meant this conversation to draw a line Day should never cross. But the discussion brought back something weird Day had been feeling. The end of his career was upon him. Retire or be chained to a desk. Those were his two choices.

Was settling down one possible future? Maybe this assignment pointed that out. Katie was a rarity in the outlaws. Quint’s best friend, Groucho, had told Day that something Katie never talked about happened and then this sweet thing ran away from home. She married Quint before he’d earned his patch. Made her one of the few women who hadn’t been passed around among the members. She had Quint’s kid, and then he was killed. Groucho said as far as Katie was concerned, end of story.

A future with Katie would not happen. She was an asset. Period. Damn it if sometimes he hated being so fucking good at this kind of work. Katie made it easy for Day to pretend he was serious. Pretty, great body, and genuinely nice. She had it all. There were stories about some agents hooking up with assets romantically after cases, but he’d never met one. One big problem was that Katie had been involved in the illegal activity even if only on the periphery. Aiding and abetting and accessory, before or after the fact, type stuff. Charges could be brought against her when they took the club down. She’d go to prison, maybe just probation if she cut a deal. Child Protective Services would take her kid, at least for a while. If she turned rat and testified against the club, she’d end up in the witness protection program. Even with Day’s connections, it would be impossible to find out where they’d settled her.

And that was the clincher. What woman would ever give him a chance after he’d sent her to jail? After he’d let them take her kid away? He wasn’t responsible for her decisions. It was her own behavior that got the kid snatched, but she wouldn’t look at it that way.

“Now get the fuck outta here.” Nasty trudged back up the steps and disappeared into the clubhouse.

“Yes sir,” Day said to a dark, starless night. He fired up his bike and putted away. Day felt like riding a wheelie all the way home. He’d just gotten fingerprints on an envelope with a payment to kill a man, and he now knew where the club hid their cache of guns—done deal. Home. Katie would be waiting for him. That also made him happy. Well, it used to.

***

Early the following Sunday morning, ATF agents and local cops took down the gang. This raid was as bittersweet as it had ever been for Day. This time, he got closer to the players than ever before. Nasty and Carla, Katie and her kid. Taking down such a violent criminal bastard as Nasty was sweet. Still, Day winced as the agents hooked the three up. He didn’t give a shit about the others. Fuck ’em all. But it’s never all black and white. Investigations don’t take place in some two-dimensional cartoon world where no one ever gets hurt. These operations occur in vivid three-dimensions with thinking, feeling, fucking real people. Like he was.

Agents perp-walked a flex-cuffed Nasty past Day. The club president cast him a look that could have made his body explode into atoms. He looked for surprise in Nasty’s face. Maybe some hurt from the betrayal. Anger. Instead, there were deep hatred and submerged rage. Understandable. In Nasty’s boots, he would have felt the same. Nasty didn’t utter a sound. Anything in the man that had softened through their “friendship” had now hardened and would never soften again.

Then came the inevitable sound Day was dreading but knew was coming. Still, he was unprepared for it. His chests cavity felt hollow, cavernous—a black pit.

“No! No! You can’t…” Katie cried as agents led her to the car. Her delicate wrists barely contained by the handcuffs.

“You can’t take him. You can’t just…” She struggled against the agents hauling her to a waiting police cruiser. Day finally raised his eyes. Katie stopped screaming and was staring at him. Her watery, mocha eyes grew wide. Day was leaning against one of the cop cars. The sun glinted off the badge that dangled from a lanyard around his neck. And then her expression changed from shock to hurt to rage.

“You fucking asshole! How could you? How the fuck could you do this to us? Do you know how fucked up this is—you are?” Katie yelled through clenched teeth. Day never imagined this side of sweet Katie existed. He never allowed himself to think about what this would mean for her once the investigation was over. But, he couldn’t deny that deep down he knew.

“Oh, fucking fun for you, right? I suck your dick and fuck you every night and then you go laugh about me with your pig friends, right? You fake liking my kid. How fucked up is that? The whole fucking joke’s on me, right?”

Day returned a cool gaze, reached in his pocket, and put on his sunglasses. He didn’t want other agents to know these people were anything to him other than the scum biker outlaws they all saw. But, that’s the problem. When you’re undercover, you have to make actual friends. That’s the way it works. You can fake it but only to a degree. You can’t fake it all, all of the time, with everyone. If you can, then you find out you’re a sociopath which is a whole other conversation. Perhaps Day had some sociopathic tendencies after all. He had wondered about that from time to time. Maybe that’s what made him so good at this shit. But today, watching them drag Katie away from her little boy, he didn’t feel the least bit sociopathic. He deserved everything she was saying. He was a total asshole.

“Well, fuck you, you fucking prick. I hope you rot in hell because you know that’s where you’re going, right? You get my kid taken from me. Fuck you to hell! I admit to the bad I’ve done, but I never, ever, lied to you. I lo—”

Day finished the words in his head. They cut down deep to his compromised soul.

“Rot in hell you fucking bastard.” That sentence she finished just as an agent pushed her into a cruiser and slammed the door. Right before she disappeared into the shadows of the backseat, Day caught her eye. Her anger receded and the pain returned. It was sincere, and it was profound. It was also the last thing he ever saw in those pretty eyes. This assignment was his toughest yet. And that was saying a lot. On two previous cases, he’d been shot.

***

Two well-deserved weeks of R&R later, and regretting it wasn’t three, Day hauled himself over to his supervisor’s office. Standing at the window with a cup of coffee, he stared out at a gray Seattle day. Greg Spaulding the, Napoleonically, short district Agent-in-Charge barged into the office.

“Oh, good to see you, Rand. Glad, you’re here.” Spaulding always sounded like he needed to clear his throat.

“Hey, boss.”

“I’m not going to beat bushes, Rand. You know why you’re here, right?”

Day nodded. “Unfortunately.”

“You must have known this day would come, right?”

“Yeah, but shit. Went by so fucking fast.”

“I’ve found that’s the speed life comes at you.”

“No lie,” Day said, shaking his head.

“Well, you know the drill. You have two choices: retire or come off the streets. I’ll give you a desk anywhere you want.”

“Washed up, just like that, eh? Putting me out to pasture.”

“Maybe the bureau wants you to have a little life left in you to enjoy your retirement.”

“Yeah, right. Like the bureau thinks of stuff like that. Some fuckin’ bean counter figured out for most of us our batteries ran out about this age and made a rule. You know I’m right, boss.”

“Don’t matter who’s right, Rand. There’s the right way, the wrong way, and the government way, which is the way we’re stuck with.”

“So, either I ship myself off to the old agent’s home, or I chain myself to some desk like some pencil necked prick?”

Spaulding looked up at Day from his desk—a pencil between his thumb and forefinger. He pursed his lips and furrowed his brow.

“Oh, sorry, boss.”

“Well, decide. What you choose determines the next part of this discussion.”

“What? Not even some fake sympathy?” Day asked.

Spaulding said nothing. He just sat behind his desk. He tossed the pencil onto the blotter, folded his arms, and exhaled.

“How’s it going to determine what happens?”

“Decide.”

“No offense, boss. But, I can’t do the desk thing. I just can’t—I…”

“Then, retirement it is,” Spaulding interrupted him. “But, you still have time on the clock you owe Uncle Sam. I’m giving you one final assignment. Should be quick and easy. Only a few weeks. A couple months, tops. It’s back in New England. You’re from there, right?”

“Yeah, born in Mass. but mostly grew up in Seattle, why?”

“Well, perfect. That’s where this assignment is.”

“Boston?” Day asked.

“No, west of Boston. Small town—Easthampton? Ever heard of it?”

“Hah, you’re kidding? Small town; small world. I was born there—well, near it. I spent some years there as a kid before we moved to Seattle.”

Spaulding opened a drawer, searched for a moment, pulled out a blue folder, and tossed it on his desk.

“Well, there you go. Anyway, some thug took down a federal judge in Boston.” Spaulding opened the folder and scanned the pages. “We’ve traced the gun he used to a motorcycle shop in Easthampton. We’re not sure the extent of the gun dealing going on there, but the suspect sang like a cockatoo in heat for a reduced sentence. He said he thinks one bike shop employee, or more, is involved, and—get this—maybe some town cops. He described the bike shop guy but couldn’t remember his name, which sucks because all those bikers look the same.”

Day didn’t agree, having worked among bikers of all types for so many years, but it wasn’t worth the time to argue.

Spaulding closed the folder and slid it toward Day. Day picked it up and skimmed the cover page. “Not much to go on,” he said.

“Nope,” Spaulding began. “But you got a dead federal judge, gun dealing by possible outlaw bikers, and maybe a cop involved. That puts it in your wheelhouse, Rand.”

“Shit. Would suck if a cop was involved,” Day said. “Well, may as well get this finale on the road. When do I leave?”

“Thursday.”

“Thursday?”

“That a problem. You have to get your nails done?”

“Nah. No problem. But that’s only about enough time to ride there—just.”

“Then what are you complaining about?” Spaulding smiled, and then said, “Agent Rand, it’s been great working with you.” Spaulding seemed uncomfortable with the sentimentality but seemed compelled to make the gesture. He held out his hand.

“Yeah, thanks, boss. You too,” Day said, surprised at the kind words and shaking Spaulding’s hand.

“Hey, I’ll be sending a second with you,” Spaulding said.

“What the hell? This is supposed to be an easy one, right?”

Spaulding gave Day a don’t-fuck-with-me glance.

“Oh, shit. Okay, who is it?”

“Not sure. Difficult to find someone willing to work with you, Rand,” Spaulding said with a smirk. “Will probably be a rookie who lost a coin toss.”

“Gee, thanks, boss.”

“Hey, maybe you’ll find a good woman back east and settle down.”

“Yeah, right. That sounds like me.” Katie flitted through his mind. Day swallowed hard. He wondered how she was doing. He was happy when he was with her even though it had all been a lie. Well, maybe not all. He snuffed the image.

As the two men were still shaking hands, Spaulding’s phone rang. He snatched his hand back, turned away from Day, and answered it. Day headed out the door. Spaulding’s sentimentality had obviously run out but, then again, so had Day’s.