Road Kill: Quest for Freedom

By Dave Ebert

Road Kill: Quest for Freedom bores a window back through time illuminating an era gone by. The story focuses on a place, and the events of a single Motorcycle Club during a period many call The Golden Age of Motorcycle Clubs.

The Vietnam War was not the only war fought by these young men. Road Kill fought another war, one that germinated deep inside his soul. This war was spawned by a quest he never fulfills. A Quest for Freedom and in the end, as this Club looks back, many older members tell their younger Brothers, Its easy to see this was the most phenomenal period in our Clubs long history.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 15, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503528772

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Road Kill

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Quest for Freedom

Book II of the Bikers Series

Dave Ebert

Copyright © 2015 by Dave Ebert.

Front cover painted by Tom Martinez: [e-mail]

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 05/21/2015

Xlibris

1-888-795-4274

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CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

I dedicate this book to you, Debie Dog; thank

you for a lifetime of love and happiness… RIP

Of far greater concern than censorship of bad words, is censorship of ideas.

BIKERS II

CHAPTER 1

A pril 10, 1977 — The night is exceptionally dark. It’s a new moon and heavy clouds are blocking the stars from their inspiring brilliance. A cold rain threatens the safety of the road and drains the confidence from a single Harley Davidson rider as he carefully maneuvers through a series of tight curves. It’s after midnight as this lone rider pushes diligently through the darkness. The blood flowing from his shoulder is the only warmth he has tonight. The temperature is dropping as fast as his ability to continue on with the lie he’s been sheltering himself under for the last two years. But tomorrow will be his moment of truth. So many lies, so many tangled webs of deceit, and so many head games played. Tomorrow it will all come to light as he sits on the witness stand answering all the questions hurled at him from both the defense and the prosecution; he’s the star witness. But this bullet hole in his shoulder will have to come f irst.

Not a problem, Road Kill says aloud as his bike enters into another series of slippery hairpin corners. It’s gonna take more than one bullet to stop me from getting on that stand tomorrow.

The trial he’s been summoned to started over two weeks ago. Several bikers from Road Kill’s motorcycle club are incarcerated and their fate is at stake. The outcome of this trial could put them all behind bars for life, or close to it. If the bikers are convicted it will be a major victory for the ATF’s Task Force, the Biker Enforcement Team or BET. But if the bikers walk, it will be a major upset, and a three year investigation down the drain. Both the prosecution and a single member of the defense team feel the outcome of the trial is hinging on what Road Kill has to say and wait eagerly for his testimony. He too eagerly awaits the opportunity to sit on the stand and have his ‘day in court.’

Road Kill is thirty years old; he has long, semi wavy dark hair and a bushy black beard. He’s of Italian descent and strikingly handsome. But as a hard core biker, surprisingly, he wears no tattoos that claim him as a club member, or one percenter. He does, however, dress the part: tight blue jeans with rolled up cuffs exposing his high top black leather boots, fingerless gloves, and a buck knife strapped to his belt, along with a large chain wallet. His long hair is often pulled back behind his ears and held tightly by a bandana; a gold cross dangles from his left ear. But when wearing club colors over his black leather bomber jacket, it becomes obvious he belongs to a motorcycle club. He is six foot, five inches tall and weighs in at over 230 pounds; he is leanly built and muscular. Road Kill is a Vietnam combat veteran and a retired kick boxer. He is also a chapter president in the huge motorcycle club he joined two years ago. Although raised in a Christian home by two very decent God fearing parents, Road Kill is restless, suspicious, and loves to fight, and he will do it on a moment’s notice. It’s this powerful resolve and the never ending stubborn determination born into him which keeps Road Kill striving forward; even in this, dark, cold rain with a bullet hole through his shoulder.

Road Kill continues homeward, anxious to end this miserable ride and get into the comforts of his warm home where he can give his shoulder wound the attention it needs. There’s tremendous pain, seeping blood, and some numbness, but all his range of motion is there so he figures the bullet must have passed through without striking any major arteries or bones. But for sure, time is of the essence.

When finally reaching home, Road Kill enters cautiously, not knowing whether his attacker, the man who shot him, has a partner hiding in the darkness, one that will try to finish the job. Everything seems normal, so he makes an eager path straight to the refrigerator and opens a cold beer. He leans back against the kitchen counter as he gulps down the beverage. He uses his thumb from the other hand to spin the cap off a bottle of Jack Daniels. Like a toy top that has just left its string following a hard pull, the cap gracefully spins on its corner as it dances at his feet. He takes a killer slug from the almost empty vessel; he violently shakes his head from the strong taste of the whisky. Road Kill displays an almost painful look upon his face while recovering from the healthy swallow of booze; he smacks his lips and then examines the remaining content by tilting the bottle and rolling the few meager ounces of booze around the bottom corner before finishing the whisky and returning his attention to the beer.

He removes his colors and carefully examines the bullet hole that clearly passed through both sides of his vest. Road Kill extends his arms, holding his colors out; he gazes at the three piece patch sewn to its back. The top rocker proudly bears the club’s mane, BIKERS, in old English print. The center patch is a skull with wings and two crossed swords encompassing a swastika. The bottom rocker boldly displays the club’s territory, Earth. He smiles, then kisses his colors and carefully hangs them in his bedroom closet to dry. Road Kill strips off his wet clothes; he disgustingly throws down his new expensive leather riding jacket when seeing the damage the bullet has caused to the shoulder. The heavy rain soaked coat loudly slaps down on the hard oak flooring. Angered by the condition of his new leather jacket, Road Kill disgustingly kicks it to the corner of the room. He goes to the bathroom and begins nursing his wound. It hurts terribly; the two large slugs of Jack Daniels have done little to stop the pain. To his surprise, the bullet only grazed his shoulder, never actually entering his body, but there is a large slice where his arm meets his shoulder. He dumps rubbing alcohol directly onto the wound and lets out a loud painful yell. His cat that’s been lying stretched across the countertop watching immediately sits up from the sudden scream; it jumps off the counter and streaks out of the bathroom; in a single bound it’s gone. He puts a few large gauze pads over the wound, tapes it up, grabs another beer, and then flops down onto the couch where he instantly falls into a deep sleep. Road Kill sleeps naked, lying on his back with a .45 automatic gripped tightly in his hand and resting on his hairy chest.

Many hours later: Road Kill is awakened by the telephone’s persistent ringing. Disoriented from sleep, and irritated by the caller’s insistence, he sits up, looks around the room and then answers the phone.

Hello, he answers very curtly.

Road Kill, it’s nine o’clock…what da fuck ya doin’?! Bones, the motorcycle club’s national president, angrily questions.

Road Kill answers, Oh shit….I just woke up! It’s nine o’clock?!

Bones sharply replies, It’s after nine!

Road Kill says, I got shot last night, but the bullet only grazed me.

Bones anxiously asks, Holy fuck, Road Kill, who shot ya?

We’ll talk about it after court, Road Kill says.

After a long pause, Bones ratchets down his excited tone and calmly asks, You okay, ya gonna make it to the courthouse? Need any help?

Road Kill perks up his tone, and sternly answers, No, thanks, I’m fine…they’ll have to kill me to stop me from testifyin. Whirly and my brothers need me and I’ll be there come Hell or high water."

Once again there is a long pause and then Bones concludes, Okay, I’ll see ya there soon…hurry da fuck up.

Road Kill hangs up the phone and slowly peels the dried blood soaked bandages from his shoulder. His neck is stretched tightly as he turns his head downward looking at the ugly wound, now beginning to bleed again, then into the bathroom he goes.

For the first time in over three years Road Kill shaves himself clean, free of whiskers, then with an electric shaver gives himself a military haircut. He showers and then does an exceptionally good job of patching up his shoulder wound. He doesn’t want any blood soaking through his new suit while on the witness stand; he wants to keep this wound a secret.

Standing in his underpants and socks, Road Kill does a quick polish job on a nice pair of dress shoes and then dresses in a new three piece suit. Crouched in a kneeling position, he opens his safe and places his colors in an area he has reserved for them. He then removes a small strong box; with a key he had hidden in his desk, he opens it and removes a small, thin black leather wallet. Road Kill seems to be in a trance as he stares at the wallet for a long time. At one point in his life that wallet was as important to him as his colors are now, but that was a million years ago. Suddenly he snaps back, returning from wherever he was to the gravity of his present situation, then places the wallet in the inside pocket of his suit coat and drives to the courthouse.

When Road Kill enters, the restless courtroom instantly calms; it’s obvious he’s being waited on by all who are present. There sits Whirly, Crusher, and Heavy, along with three other brothers from this motorcycle club. They’re all wearing inmate orange coveralls and chained together at the ankles. They sit in the accused section of the courtroom guarded by uniformed policemen standing on either side of their bench. There are many plain clothes cops standing around too. Major security is being pulled here today, and has been since this trial began. Like a high school basketball game, the courtroom spectators are segregated; on one side of the gallery sits as many bikers as the seats will hold, many wearing their colors. On the other side sits all the cops, some in uniform, some not. Many feds are here from the ATF’s task force, BET, the Biker Enforcement Team. This is a group of federal agents compiled several years back for the sole purpose of tracking and destroying all one percent motorcycle clubs, or what they so affectionately call motorcycle gangs, and this task force does not go by the rules!

As Road Kill curiously looks around the courtroom, all eyes are upon him. The silence is broken when the judge, while looking at his wristwatch, angrily blurts out, Are you Gregory Stuart?

Road Kill nods and calmly answers, Yes sir.

The judge sarcastically says, Well, nice you could make it. Would it be too much to ask that you come to the witness stand and be sworn in? You were called twenty minutes ago.

Upon seeing Road Kill and hearing the judge, all the brothers begin whispering to one another; none have ever heard Road Kill answer to that name before, or seen him dressed this way.

That’s not his legal name. Why is he dressed like that? What’s go’in on? are popular questions among the whispering brothers.

Road Kill takes the stand. As he raises his right hand to be sworn in, he slowly pans his eyes across the courtroom. One by one he looks directly at each and every juror, then the defense counselor, and then the prosecution. He studies the court stenographer and then the bailiff, who begins to speak. Do you swear to tell the truth….

As the bailiff continues, Road Kill looks at all the cops and the entire group of brothers restlessly sitting across from them. And then finally he looks at the accused, again, one by one he looks at each and every club member chained together and dressed in orange. The very last person in this courtroom that Road Kill views is his sworn brother Whirly; the man he fought beside, rode hard beside, drank beside, and the man he hugged thousands of times and said, I love you brother.

The bailiff finishes, …so help you God?

Road Kill says, I do.

Road Kill sits down and this courtroom drama begins with the lead prosecutor approaching him and saying, For the record, will you state your full name and occupation please?

Road Kill answers, Greg Stuart, I work in a division of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms named Biker Enforcement Team, or BET.

Upon hearing this, Whirly stands and begins systematically trying to extricate himself from the chains, the ones that bind him from going over and beating Road Kill to death!

The judge loudly orders, Be seated! But Whirly continues to methodically attempt escape; the chains are the only thing keeping him from Road Kill, the man Whirly swore to defend to the death…the man who just announced the last two years of his life have been a lie.

Once again the judge loudly orders Whirly to Be seated! Three uniformed police move in to restrain Whirly, now the other five defendants stand; they too are trying to calm Whirly. As the deputies begin to manhandle Whirly, all the other brothers seated in the courtroom stand; they will never allow harm to come to a brother without coming to his aid, even if that means defending him to the death in a court of law! When all the seated cops see all the brothers stand, they too rise. The courtroom is now on the threshold of an all-out brawl. The judge is pounding his gavel so hard and fast it breaks and the cylindrical hammer head flies back hitting his face…. Wham.

Finally, Whirly sits down and the courtroom begins to mellow.

Heavy, one of the incarcerated brothers sitting beside Whirly, leans over and whispers, Be cool Whirly, you’re looking at a dead man as he angrily nods his head toward Road Kill.

Being set up and tricked by an undercover cop is bad enough, but to have viewed him as your brother and vowed to love, defend and protect him to the death, then to sit here and find out it was all a very well orchestrated lie and the man is no more than a deceitful, tricky liar is the ultimate act of betrayal. Whirly is hurt more than any of the brothers because he and Road Kill were the closest of them all.

The courtroom finally settles down to an acceptable level.

As the judge collects himself, he straightens his glasses and announces, Any more outbursts from anyone and I’ll have them removed from this courtroom and charged with contempt of court. He gives Whirly an ugly glare, then speaks directly to him. And you sir, are close to being hobbled, bound, and gagged, so it may be in your best interest to maintain a calm demeanor while in my courtroom. Understood? Whirly does not acknowledge the judge’s threat; he only continues to glare at Road Kill while grinding his teeth. The judge figures Whirly is going to end up being a big problem. But by nature, the judge is tolerant and kind, and as a practicing liberal, will show leniency toward Whirly’s dilemma.

The prosecution obviously disclosed Road Kill under his legal name, Stuart, the name no Biker knows. Although he’s the prosecution’s key witness, Road Kill was put at the bottom of the witness list as a cop that filed no report, so other than his name, there was nothing to disclose. His name resided anonymously, lying dormant, so it was never considered a threat by the defense or given any real consideration. This was a very well thought out plan by both the prosecution and BET. This way, Stuart could stay undercover as a Biker right up to the last minute and report back on the defense’s legal strategies. So Road Kill’s entire introduction this morning has come as a complete surprise, as well as a total shock to every single Biker…every single Biker except one—Bones, the club’s national president. Bones has known all about Road Kill, Stuart, for a very long time.

Once again, the prosecutor approaches Road Kill and says, Let’s try this again. For the record, will you please repeat your full name and occupation?

This extremely young prosecutor would love to see Whirly repeat his last outburst. He feels this will only help the prosecution convince the jury that these are violent men and a danger to society.

Again, Road Kill says, My full name is Gregory L. Stuart, and I’m currently employed by the bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearm’s task force division of the Biker Enforcement Team, or BET.

And again, the courtroom fills with whispers, mostly from the side where all the Bikers are seated. Trying to comfort Whirly, Heavy raises his two cuffed hands, placing them on Whirly’s shoulder.

Road Kill continues, BET was formed for the specific purpose of closing down all motorcycle gangs, like this one right here. He points over at the six defendants sitting chained in the accused section. Once again, Whirly becomes restless as Heavy continues to hold his shoulder.

The prosecutor slowly walks to the jury box and leans toward the twelve citizens gathered to judge this trial and determine the fate of these six defendants.

Leaning forward, and resting his forearms on the small wooden wall in front of the jury box, the prosecutor cocks his head toward Road Kill and says, Mr. Stuart, in your own words, will you please tell the court what your assignment in 1975 was and what your involvement with this motorcycle gang has been thereafter?

Road Kill wiggles around the wooden chair he’s seated in, takes a small drink of water, looks at the jury, and says, It started for me three years ago in 1974. I was doing undercover work for the ATF, the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, tracking illegal guns coming from an armory that was burglarized a year earlier. The trail eventually led me to Brock Owens, a member of this motorcycle gang. Months later, after gaining his trust, I was approached by my boss and the head of BET. They asked me if I would be willing to join the Biker Enforcement Team, a group of ATF agents dedicated to the removal of all one percent motorcycle clubs. The task force, BET, felt my growing relationship with Brock Owens could be nurtured to the point that I could possibly penetrate the organization. They viewed Brock as a weak door I could use to enter the club. Being undercover, having long hair, a beard, and riding a nice Harley, I was already playing the role, and I have always loved the free spirited lifestyle that tends to follow Harley Davidsons, so I eagerly agreed. Although I had been working for the ATF for many years, this was the first time I had ever heard of BET. This division is kept very quiet. I officially became a member of the BET and was assigned to this case on August 9, 1975.

The young prosecutor asks, What happened to your relationship with Brock Owens?

Road Kill sits back and considers the question for a moment, and then answers, Well, Brock was an egotistical narcissist, so it was pretty easy for me to get beside him. All I had to do was give him the respect he so desperately craved, along with some monetary goods every now and again, and I was in. Brock was a chapter president and had a long running feud with another chapter pres they called Clutch. I was able to get into the club easily by siding with Brock, because Brock needed all the help he could get to support that feud. Brock was eventually murdered; it’s rumored by his own club. And it’s also rumored that man sitting right there pulled the trigger. Road Kill points directly at Heavy, who shows no signs of emotion; he just sits calmly while staring back.

Once again, many whispers from both the Biker side and the cop side of the courtroom.

The defense attorney jumps up, throwing one arm high into the air and loudly bellows out, I object! He continues, That’s hearsay, and I move to have it stricken from the record!

In a clear deep voice the judge says, Objection sustained. He looks at the court stenographer and says, Strike that last statement from the record. Then to the jury, Please disregard Mr. Stuart’s last statement. Last, he looks at Road Kill and says, You’ll have to refrain from repeating any hearsay as evidence.

Pleased with the judge’s ruling, the defense attorney thanks the judge with a nod and then returns to his seat. He offers a proud strong smile to the six defendants.

With his head down, the prosecutor slowly paces back and forth in front of the witness stand rubbing his chin, then says to Road Kill, as he looks directly toward the defense team, In lieu of your last statement, let me ask you this: During your investigation, was there ever a suspect in the Brock Owens murder?

Road Kill is quick to answer, Yes sir, Jerry Macroy, alias ‘Heavy’.

The prosecutor asks, Is that man here today?

Again Road Kill is quick to answer as he points directly to Heavy. He’s sitting right there.

The judge announces to the court, Let the record show, Gregory Stuart has identified Jerry Macroy.

Although the defense team shows no outward signs of distress, it’s easy to sense dismay coming from that table over Road Kill’s testimony. They wiggle around a lot.

At this point, every single club member sitting in the courtroom is secretly plotting Road Kill’s murder, all except for one, the club’s national president, Bones. He is actually extremely pleased by Road Kill’s testimony, and hopes Road Kill continues to uncover all the secrets the BET has gathered during their three year investigation. He feels this will only help with what is going to happen very soon, maybe today or tomorrow, or maybe even longer, but when it does, it is sure to echo loudly across the entire country, if not the world!

Whirly, however, has never felt so betrayed in all his life. He feels raped! He loved Road Kill like a brother and now that love is turning to hate. On the other hand, Heavy, while trying to calm Whirly, is hoping he can slowly and painfully murder Road Kill before Whirly gets to him. He also hopes Road Kill and the BET have no recent undisclosed evidence that can pin the Brock Owens murder to him. After all, he really was the triggerman.

The prosecutor continues, Once again, Mr. Stuart, in your own words, can you tell the court what involvement these six defendants have in the alleged manufacturing and distribution of methamphetamine?

Road Kill carefully approaches this question and with much caution he replies, There is involvement here with drugs, yes. But it would only be hearsay, and assumed, to try and implicate their motorcycle club as a functioning entity in that involvement.

And that statement is a hard blow to the prosecution’s RICO case: Racketeer Influence and Corrupt Organizations. And all the cops sitting in this courtroom know it; they all become restless over what Road Kill just said.

Yet again, the courtroom fills with whispers, only this time much louder and mainly from the cop’s side of the courtroom.

The judge pounds his gavel several times, loudly saying, Order in the court.

As the courtroom quiets, the prosecutor, now afraid to continue with this line of questioning, wants to move on to something less risky. He must go over the damage made by Road Kill’s last statement with his prosecuting team before resuming that line of questioning. That will have to be done tonight, after court.

Although a fast thinker, after hearing what Road Kill just said, the young prosecutor is at a loss for words. As he paces anxiously around the courtroom, both the judge and the jury can see it.

Finally, the prosecutor asks the judge if he would call for lunch break. He wants to give his team time to gather their thoughts and evaluate the damage caused by Road Kill’s last statement. The judge concurs and says, Although somewhat early, the court will recess for lunch. We will reconvene at one thirty this afternoon. His brand new gavel comes down reluctantly hard. Crack. Court dismissed.

As everybody stands to exit, Bones looks directly at Road Kill and offers a very soft, careful smile, but it is not seen by just Road Kill alone. Group Supervisor Adams also saw exactly what Bones just did. Confused by that smile, Adams, Road Kill’s boss and childhood friend, and the man that helped Road Kill enter the ATF, gets weak at the knees and sits back down in total shock. With his head bowed, and slowly scratching the back of his neck, Adams is hoping his gut feelings and suspicion about Road Kill are wrong. However, the smile Bones just initiated lends a strong suggestion there may be some merit to his gut feelings and all the ugly rumors floating around the BET…God forbid.

CHAPTER 2

S hackled together by leg irons, the six defendants are slowly led out of the courtroom through a series of loud slamming steel doors and into a cold, dingy, yellow colored steel walled corridor. There, they are unchained and returned to a small, dirty holding cell. It’s in that cell that they will eat county jail food and wait until court reconvenes at one th irty.

Whirly is still shaking from anger over Road Kill’s betrayal. The focus of the other five defendants isn’t on that betrayal, rather on calming Whirly. They don’t want him to get into any more trouble, or to hurt their seemingly failing criminal case; however, Whirly will not be so easily calmed. He’s hotheaded by nature, and a sworn fighter. But he’s also a loving brother; one that will do anything for a brother in need. Road Kill was on that list before this morning. Now Road Kill is on the top of a different list, one that is sure to bring him to his grave.

Meanwhile, in the courtroom, Bones slowly makes his way through the crowd of angry Bikers and into the hallway, where many gather around the defense council for a brief question and answer session. The senior defense attorney, Bill Love, steps away from the growing circle. With his head, he motions for Bones to follow him. They both enter into what is considered to be a secured room where they can talk confidentially, but neither believes that. Therefore, they both know to exercise much caution in what they say.

They remain standing, as this conversation will be brief. Bones leans forward and quietly asks, Wada ya think?

The emotionally charged defense counselor says in reference to Road Kill’s testimony, This guy was supposed to help, but he’ll definitely kill our case if allowed to continue. Did you have any idea he was BET? What da fuck is going on, Bones? You told me this guy was one of yours. His demeanor is reckless; speaking so loudly.

Bones calmly says, Relax, everything is gonna be fine. You just do exactly as I tell ya to do, regardless of how wrong it may seem. You must stay focused. Remember, the cross examination is gonna be the key. Everything leading to that is mere foreplay to the hard fuckin’ I intend to give BET once the cross examination begins.

The attorney puts his head down and slightly turns away, reluctantly nodding in agreement. It’s obvious to Bones that Attorney Love hates not having full control over the case to do with as he pleases. Attorney Love (criminally) believes if he can have the terrible idea spawned in his mind during Road Kill’s testimony initiated, it will solve all the problems, and for sure help win this case. So he tries to deliver a hidden message to Bones, but from all his frustration, it’s pretty obvious what he is trying to suggest…. He leans close and quietly says, Although Stuart helped us with his statement about the club not being involved in an organized drug business, in the long run, his testimony is gonna singlehandedly destroy us. Bones, if there’s any way he could be prevented from climbing back on that stand, now’s the time to do it.

Bones smiles as he struggles to hold back a good laugh. He knows, Bill Love (an attorney that’s been representing his club for many years) just suggested murdering Road Kill…this is exactly the kind of attorney he wants on the club’s payroll. Therefore, a reprimand is not in order.

Still smiling, Bones says, You let me worry about that, you just do exactly as I say.

Once again, the attorney bows his head in dismay. Love feels Bones is putting too much hope and trust in the cross examination phase of the trial. But he knows Bones is smart and believes Bones has something going on that he is not aware of. Down deep inside, he’s hoping the plan is to eliminate Road Kill. It’s the only reason he can imagine why Bones does not appear upset or threatened by the BET agent’s testimony.

Back at the courtroom, Road Kill is more or less escorted through a side door by the prosecutor, two uniformed police officers, and Group Supervisor Bob Adams, where all but the officers take a seat in a small conference room. The two uniformed cops are now standing guard outside the closed door. This is the same type of conference room that Bones and his attorney used, but none of these men are afraid to speak. If these rooms are bugged, they are the ones that would have bugged them.

The prosecuting attorney, Ronald Skypes, loudly blurts out his first question: What the hell is going on, Stuart? His temper flares as he throws his skinny arms high in the clean smelling air of the courthouse.

Totally ignoring the prosecutor, Road Kill kicks back in a nice swivel type cushioned office chair. With his palms, he strokes and caresses the soft padding on top the armrest of the chair. He smiles from the comfort this expensive chair offers. He gently swivels back and forth while rubbing the chair and looking down from side to side examining this masterpiece, a half smile locked on his face. Finally, Road Kill gives a lazy look at the angered prosecutor, smirks, and calmly answers, Why, I don’t understand…. What are ya talkin’ bout? It’s obvious he’s deliberately tormenting the baby faced prosecutor and this distractive show of passion toward a mere office chair is clearly a large engineered part of it.

Much tougher than the young prosecutor, and always ready for combat, Group Supervisor Adams instantly appoints himself as the prosecutor’s acting back up man, and quickly intervenes. Greg. This entire RICO case is built around and designed to implicate their bike gang as organized crime. You know that, how can it be hearsay when you’re the one that taped them talking about it?! Adams’ anger is prompting a disrespectful tone.

Road Kill quickly stands and sternly says, Those tapes were taken illegally!

So what. the geeky looking prosecutor snaps back. Nobody knows that!

Road Kill opens the door to leave and as he steps out, turns to Adams, looking him straight in the eyes and says, I do.

Group Supervisor Adams and the prosecutor look at one another stunned, as Road Kill firmly closes the door and leaves.

Adams has been studying law for many years and hopes to pass the Bar soon and then secure a position here at the courthouse as a federal prosecutor. He and the young lead prosecutor, Skypes, worked hard together on the legal strategy for this case, but they both reluctantly turned a blind eye to the BET’s conduct in order to bring this investigation to trial. There has been a wealth of filthy misconduct and illegally obtained evidence. The reality is, the success of this case may very well rest upon that evidence. As decent men, it’s been hard for either to accept most of what they see, but it now appears that Road Kill may not accept any of it!

Road Kill knows at this point in time, that it’s not safe for him to walk around unprotected. He has a small snub nose .38 in a boot holster strapped to his right ankle. However, that gun is for last resort only; he absolutely has no desire to shoot a Biker, even in self-defense. He doesn’t want to walk around guarded by cops either, but he should have some protection. The entire club will surely be out for blood. What really adds to his dangerous situation, besides this huge motorcycle club, is another angry enemy, the one who shot him in the shoulder last night. This guy is a fellow officer and a member of the BET…. So being guarded by cops is definitely out of the question.

Road Kill has strong resolve. He is brave and fearless, and also very hungry. He walks straight down the hallway, past all the police, and all the angry Bikers. Like Moses parting the Red Sea, everybody steps to either side of the hallway, letting him pass. Both cops and Bikers are no longer standing in small segregated groups; they are now intertwined shoulder to shoulder. They all stop what they’re doing and stand silently as they watch Road Kill walk by. He looks no one directly in the eyes, but he doesn’t look away either. He walks down the long hall, through the main doors, crosses the street and sits down in a nice Italian restaurant, where he orders a hot plate of spaghetti and a glass of red wine.

Through the club’s chain of command, Bones has quietly put the word out to the entire club, No one is to harm Road Kill in any way until I give the order. Not so much as a single ‘fuck you’ to him from anyone.

The cop that shot Road Kill, although lurking around in the shadows of this courtroom drama, is not willing to risk prison by attacking him in a downtown restaurant beside the courthouse; a family restaurant frequented by court officials, cops, defendants, and attorneys. So on the outside, Road Kill’s march to the restaurant looks reckless and daring, but the truth is, not really, he is just very hungry.

Road Kill sits in a corner booth, his back against the wall, and eats his lunch. While eating, for easy accessibility, he removes his pistol from the ankle holster, placing it in the outside pocket of his suit coat, where it can be ready for action in seconds. That’s the one thing Road Kill likes about being a cop—he has the right to carry a gun anytime, anywhere. In fact, as an ATF agent, it’s required.

About halfway through his meal an extremely beautiful female comes out of nowhere and quickly slides into the booth beside him. He doesn’t act surprised…he’s been expecting her. He nonchalantly turns slightly toward her for acknowledgement, pauses for a moment, and then continues chewing.

She says, Hello Greg, or should I call you Road Kill? …Greg, then chuckles.

She takes his hand and begins slowly, and very sexually sucking his index finger. She opens her mouth slightly while slowly swallowing his entire finger, then firmly tightens her moist lips and slowly retracts her head, sliding all the way back to his fingertip. She then repeats the process, again and again. But Road Kill doesn’t budge; he just sits and stares for a long time, until finally submitting by letting out a long deep moan. Mmmmmm.

Now that she has all his attention, she looks up and says, I miss you.

I miss you too, but I only have an hour for lunch, Road Kill says jokingly as he releases a wide smile.

This beauty is the love of Road Kill’s life. They have been sexually active for six years now, ever since they met during the ATF boot camp academy as cadets. Her name is Roberta, but she goes by the name Bobby.

Aside from her general overall beautiful, Bobby has a perfectly toned body; she works out constantly. But her face requires no maintenance; it’s effortless. She was born beautiful. She has long blonde hair and deep Caribbean blue bedroom eyes. Today she is dressed somewhat casually: high heeled stiletto shoes, semi tight, slightly faded blue jeans that tend to wrinkle and cling in all the right places, adding a sexy look to her walk. In addition, she is wearing a darker colored bra beneath a nice light colored silk blouse, provoking any onlookers to imagine what’s inside. She has a badge clipped to her hip; even that is provocative, drawing attention to her tight belt that accentuates her slender hips. Although easy to look at, Bobby would be difficult to violate; she is an expert in martial arts, and carries a 9mm tucked behind her back.

Bobby looks at Road Kill and says, You’re in a lot of danger, aren’t ya?

Road Kill smiles and says, No more than I’ve been in for the last three years. He cocks a half grin and lightly shrugs one shoulder, suggesting it’s okay, then continues, In the next few days, you’re gonna find out something about me that may really upset ya. But if you truly love me, and are willing to take me for who I am, then you’ll just have to accept it. But I promise, it’s gonna make front page headline news.

Holy shit, Greg! What did you do?! Bobby demands.

Road Kill answers, Sweetheart, we’ve always planned to be married. Well, in the wedding vows you’ll have to repeat, ‘for better or for worse.’ Personally, when this thing comes to light, I think it will be ‘for better,’ but I’m willing to bet you’re gonna think it’s ‘for worse.’

It’s one thirty: Lunch is over and court has reconvened; once again the courtroom is packed with restless Bikers and cops with guns.

Road Kill is back on the witness stand, belly full; he’s feeling pretty good from the hot meal and two glasses of red wine. The six incarcerated defendants, however, are not feeling so great. They suffered through a miserable lunch of green baloney served on stale bread, a warm unsweetened flavored drink, and some sort of slimy mystery vegetable. But out of a hungry need, they all bravely ate their way through the prison feast.

The prosecutor begins by slowly walking around in front of the jury. He finally stops, leans toward the jury, resting his forearms on the short wall in front of the jury box, and cocks his head toward Road Kill. This is a position the young prosecutor has come to love, but the jury grows tired from all of the close up views they receive of his acne, dandruff, and the enormous overdose of stinky cologne he liberally splashes on before entering the courtroom. It’s distracting, and they wish he would stop. He, on the other hand, believes he is making a connection with the jury by getting up close and personal.

Without the benefit of having conferred in depth with the prosecuting team, the baby-faced prosecutor, Skypes, plans to avoid any questions pertaining to the RICO charges on today’s agenda. Road Kill has put a damper on that line of questioning. Skypes strategically repositions his line of questioning and comes at the defense from a different angle.

During your two-year undercover investigation, did you ever see any members of the defendant’s motorcycle gang involve themselves in any criminal activities other than the alleged manufacturing and distribution of methamphetamine? the prosecutor eagerly asks.

Road Kill, obviously disturbed by the question, blurts out, I don’t understand the question…ya mean like, jaywalkin’ or litterin’?

Feeling good from the long lunch break, the entire courtroom breaks into loud laughter, it continues well after the judge breaks in his new gavel by pounding hard and long to stop the disruption. But everybody here has sat quietly for so many long days they need a good release. Knowing that, the judge allows it to continue long after the humiliated prosecutor feels it should stop. Bones uses this outbreak as an opportunity; he gives an uncomfortable stare directly into the eyes of Bob Adams. His piercing dark eyes penetrate deep, interrogating Adams’ soul. They’re searching for insecurities, weaknesses and lies. Finally, after a long time of being dissected by Bones’ scan, Adams surrenders from the intense look by sharply turning away. He doesn’t know what that look was all about, but he didn’t like it. Bones is a scary guy and he feels Bones was taunting him, or maybe it was a warning. Adams is no sissy, but even with all the cops around, it’s easy to be intimidated by these kinds of men giving this kind of look.

Prosecutor Skypes releases a disgusted sigh and says, I’m sure as a seasoned ATF agent you know exactly what I mean. The state has spent, and will continue to spend, an enormous amount of taxpayer money on this trial. I would hope you can appreciate that and in the future try to be the professional that you are supposed to be. Now, let me ask again: Other than the alleged manufacturing and distribution of methamphetamine, did you ever witness any of these gang members commit a felony?

Undisturbed by this young prosecutor’s attempt to reprimand him, Road Kill confidently says, You’ll have to be more specific. But I will say this, when all the hearsay, rumors, lies, and slanderous statements are removed from the image of this motorcycle club, I find them to be honest and law abiding, patriotic Americans.

This statement infuriates the prosecutor, and officially marks the beginning of the war between him and Road Kill.

Mr. Stuart, the prosecutor says firmly while trying to hide his anger, you yourself collected evidence that helped bring these six defendants to trial. But now, for whatever reason, you would like us to believe this is not a violent and criminal motorcycle gang, but rather a rowdy group of overaged Boy Scouts. All I’m asking is…did you ever witness any of these six defendants commit a violent or otherwise felonious crime? Yes…or no?! The prosecutor starts that question at a normal tone, but as it progresses, it becomes louder and louder. By the end, he is practically yelling.

Road Kill continues his calm demeanor and politely says, I can’t answer that by giving a simple yes or no; it’s much too complicated for a simple answer like that. But if we are here today to discover the truth, then please, let me speak freely.

With that reply, Road Kill has earned a desire from the entire jury to hear him speak. The prosecutor knows by not letting him talk, it would appear the prosecution is hiding something. After all, Road Kill is a cop and the prosecution’s star witness. So the prosecutor gives in.

Go ahead, Mr. Stuart, you have the floor, the prosecutor says while loosening his tie and lazily taking a seat at the prosecution’s table. He slowly slouches in the wooden chair, legs out; he leans to one side, allowing his arm to limply dangle straight down.

To give an accurate answer to the prosecutor’s question, I must start at the beginning, if I may. Road Kill glances at the judge, who gives a permissive nod.

Road Kill is talking directly to the jury now. He nervously sips some water and continues, "When I first began ridin’ with this club, I was one hundred percent an ATF agent. All I ever heard was what cutthroat criminals these guys are. I was told by my supervisors, ‘They’ll lie, cheat, and steal from one another, so that only suggests what they’ll do to someone outside their club.’ Because of that image, I went in with both barrels cocked.

"Initially, as I said earlier, I was easily let into the club by the president of my chapter, Brock Owens. But after Brock as murdered, I was made to prospect all over again. When Brock was killed, at first the ATF figured it was because the club had found out I was a cop. We thought that they may have killed Brock because he brought me in, and no doubt I would be next. BET almost pulled the plug on the entire operation that very second. But I persuaded them to at least give it a bit more time so that I could gather more evidence on Brock’s murder and what appeared to be a thriving drug trade.

After a few months, things lightened up and BET decided to continue the operation they named Gray Spider. But like I said, by this time I was prospecting all over again. No one can possibly understand what sheer hell that is unless they go through it themselves. You are made to be the club’s slave. You gotta run full blast everywhere you go, and do things like push-ups whenever a full patch member feels you need to. And anytime two or more of ya walk into a strange bar, you’re ‘out front’. This means you’re first in, first to fight, first to disarm an enemy, and first to be killed if that’s the intensity of the situation. You are bodyguard to all club members, especially the chapter president. You start the member’s cars, work on their bikes; absolutely anything you are told to do, you do. And it doesn’t take much to receive a hard punch to the gut if you are too slow or do something wrong.

The jury sits quietly; not a single member has any idea where Road Kill is going with this or where he will end up. They do,