Forever Two Wheels

By Phil Queen

The warm wind blew through my sun-bleached hair; my eyes watered and ears popped as the trek down the twisting Missouri highway brought back past violent accounts through my mind. The fence posts and passing cars blurred as I cruised at eighty miles an hour in a failed attempt to get to Branson before one of the most feared outlaw motorcycle gangs wreaked havoc and provoked death. The "good ol' boys," as many law enforcement officers called them, had rewritten the rules for their existence and their passion for the alcohol and drug-fueled way of life.

Many lives would be lost during one of the most brutal turf wars between two rival outlaw motorcycle gangs in the Midwest, some innocent, most not. The ATF and US Marshal Service had inserted a rookie agent to stop the war before it started. With the assistance of retired officer, Phil Quick, they employ a team of agents to try and prevent an all-out war. A history riddled with violence, Phil must survive an operation that would test his psychological boundaries as well as his existence of family life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Newman Springs Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 20, 2022
• ISBN: 9781638818717

Book preview

cover.jpg

Forever Two Wheels

Phil Queen

Copyright © 2022 Phil Queen

All rights reserved

First Edition

NEWMAN SPRINGS PUBLISHING

320 Broad Street

Red Bank, NJ 07701

First originally published by Newman Springs Publishing 2022

This is a fictitious novel, and any similarities of people (alive or deceased), groups, or locations described are purely coincidental.

ISBN 978-1-63881-869-4 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-63881-870-0 (Hardcover)

ISBN 978-1-63881-871-7 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Tarnished Badge

Chapter 2

New Beginning

Chapter 3

Scarlet 'n' Cream

Chapter 4

What Makes the Green Grass Grow?

Chapter 5

Special Agent Baines and Marshal Olson

Chapter 6

Warlords MC 1%ers

Chapter 7

Welcome to Branson!

Chapter 8

The Transformation

Chapter 9

The War

Chapter 10

Algonia Bike Rally

Chapter 11

Alex and Vince

Chapter 12

Got Any Guns?

Chapter 13

In the Wind

Chapter 14

Kill 'em All

Chapter 15

Aw Shit, Here We Go Again

Chapter 16

Let It Bleed

Chapter 17

Revenge

Chapter 18

Time to Put in Work

Chapter 19

Ambush!

Chapter 20

Ambush

Chapter 21

Second Thoughts

About the Author

To my Marine brothers and sisters. Semper fi!

Chapter 1

Tarnished Badge

The judge, dressed in his black robe, held a folded 8 × 11 white piece of paper and adjusted his bifocals. He peered from his elevated ornate oak judge's bench like a raven over fresh roadkill on a deserted highway. His bald head glistened off the fluorescent lighting as he began reading, averting his vision from the standing crowded courtroom. For the charge of possession of a controlled substance with the intent to deliver times two, not guilty. For the charge of felon in possession of a firearm, not guilty.

I sat on the vintage wooden courtroom bench studying the judge's face as he read the verdict of the four men whom I sat behind. The aged oak creaked beneath me as I anxiously shifted in my seat. His voice, monotone and empty, each word slower and more deliberate than the last. No body movement, no expression as the judge loomed through his black-rimmed glasses. The courtroom light reflected off the satin lapel of the judge's robe as the room became louder with eruptions of joy for the four criminals progressing through the verdicts.

The unruly crowd cheered and clapped; it went from a dull roar then swelled to a deafening hail. The corrupt judge continued with the bogus verdict, For the charge of assault, third degree, not guilty. For the charge of assault, first degree, not guilty. And finally, for distribution of stolen firearms, not guilty. The cheering was so loud, no one could hear or understand the judge telling the defendants they were free to go. Gentlemen, see the bailiff for your belongings. You are free men.

The judge concluded the reading of the verdict and exited the courtroom without hesitation through the judge's chambers doors at the right side of the bench. He slumped over the liquor cart where he stripped his robe and let it fall to the ground in a clump, then poured a tall glass of scotch all in one shameful motion. The ice cubes tumbled on top of each other as they entered the highball glass before it was brought to the judge's chapped lips. The high-priced liquor slid down his throat as easily as the verdict escaped his mouth.

The perpetrators continued to stand and cheer, high-fived and bro-hugged, each one took a turn to shake the hand of each legal team member and with a congratulatory you're welcome and head-nod response. Mikey turned around to acknowledge me and gave me a toothy grin. Then the grin turned to a scowl followed by the universal slitting of the throat hand gesture with his right hand. I glared back through him as if my eyes were heat-searing lasers, not intimidated in the least but prepared myself for the inevitable.

The bustling of papers and constant conversations echoed through the courtroom as I stood there in awe, staring down the empty seat where the crooked judge once sat soiling the sanctity of Lady Justice. The judge that just received X amount of money from who knows was clearly in somebody's wallet. I sat down on the bench and waited for everyone to vacate the courtroom. What does this mean for me? What now? I thought to myself.

After months and countless hours of portraying a dirtball, outlaw biker, drug dealer, and gun runner, I finally get my day in court with two of the largest drug dealers in Iowa, and now I sit on this uncomfortable wood bench and listen to the shitbag judge dismiss everything. Everything I had lost by inserting myself into this drug world. The loss of time with my family, the sleepless nights of stress-induced insomnia, the paranoia, and the threat of death. These brothers of mayhem and the rest of their degenerate family were about to walk freely into the streets to continue to deal drugs to kids and families which will, in turn, break up homes and schools. And why was this? Because even the straightest of judges could be bought.

My hands encompassed my face with my elbows planted on my upper knees. The dark gray suit became restricting, and sweat had formed above my brow as I sat silently, struggling to control my breathing. The bustling of the once-crowded courtroom had become quiet, in fact, tomb-like.

The large oak double doors creaked open, the echo of hard-soled footsteps grew closer and closer until they stopped directly behind me. A large white hand squeezed my left shoulder. We'll get 'em next time, brother. This ain't over. However, we need to get you and yours to a safe location before they come for ya, my handler, Russell, said trying to console and reassure me.

I emphatically grunted in acknowledgment and stood up to exit the courtroom with Russell. I reached for my dependable Glock Model 23, which was securely tucked in my right-side waistband next to my silver police badge, which felt useless at this point. This was going to be my right-hand man for the rest of my life or the rest of Mikey's life, whichever was fine with me.

As I turned to face Russell, I paused for a moment and looked down at the object that I once held so dearly, the object which I wore proudly day after day as I put on the blue uniform. Each day I would polish it with Never-Dull and make sure it sat next to my bed every time I lay my head on the pillow, reminding me as I slept why I swore to uphold the laws to make the community safe and secure. The vivid silver turned to dull bronze, to gray, to black, right before my eyes. I reached for my belt line, unclipped the metal badge holder, and removed it from my belt. I held the tainted symbol of law and order in the palm of my calloused left hand and gently placed it on the bench where I once sat. I positioned the badge, so the point directed the way to the judge's bench, then turned and walked briskly out of the courtroom with Russell following.

Russell and I arranged for my wife, Tracy, and me to meet the next day to go over the temporary move and the prescribed security measures. Tonight, I get to explain to my family that we would soon be moving to a location which I did not know. How fun will this be? It won't.

Chapter 2

New Beginning

Tracy and I arrived at the sheriff's office to meet with Russell just before nine in the morning. It was a cool dreary day with light rain in the forecast. As we drove into the parking lot, I looked at my beautiful wife, and thought she could do better than me and deserved better than me. I turned the ignition off of my black 2000 Dodge Ram 1500 crew cab pickup and listened to the final engine noises as it settled into its parking space.

I reached over to hold her soft hand as it rested on her left thigh, her wedding ring dug into the palm of my hand, not painful but noticeable. She smiled an assuring grin that helped make me feel more at ease. We walked across the asphalt parking lot to enter the secured door of the sheriff's office.

Tracy and I took a silent, somber ride in the elevator to the third floor to meet with Russell and another person I did not know until this day. Mr. Tim Lewis, the United States Attorney from Cedar Rapids, which was odd since all our federal cases go through Sioux City. But with what just happened in court yesterday, it would make sense we were meeting with Mr. Lewis. However, at this point, my approval of the legal system was very low, so it did not matter who was representing the government.

Mr. Lewis was a tall thin White man, about six feet, three inches tall. He had thinning salt-and-pepper hair and dressed as if he were on a cover of an Attorney GQ magazine. His two-toned brown wingtip shoes accentuated his dark gray three-piece suit. My limited fashion sense told me this didn't match, but apparently, it's the cool thing to wear. His hot pink tie popped against the background of the light gray with white-collar Oxford shirt. Mr. Lewis had a well-manicured five o'clock shadow, black horn-rimmed glasses, and of course, gold golf ball cuff links, like I said GQ. And by judging from his appearance, that was probably his blue Mercedes sedan parked in the parking lot.

Mr. Lewis extended his right hand to shake mine and Tracy's as we entered Russell's office. He cordially introduced himself and asked how we were doing. I nodded, my wife said nothing.

Please, sit. We have some important business to go over, and you folks have some things to think about regarding your future, Mr. Lewis requested. First of all, what you did, Phil, with the UC work you put in, was nothing short of admirable. The sacrifice you and your family endured must have been taxing.

Thank you, sir. I wish the outcome would've been better, I quietly responded, still solemn, and rightfully so. I pulled the chair back for my wife to sit, then sat next to her as she reached for my right hand and squeezed. Mr. Lewis handed us each a dark blue file folder with the US Attorney General embossed insignia on the center of the cover.

Mr. and Mrs. Quick, in those folders you possess are you new futures.

We flipped through the files and paused, read and reread the words that were now guiding us to the new beginning as a family in a new location that neither one of us had ever been—Lake McConaughey, Nebraska. A twenty-one-mile reservoir in the middle of the western Nebraska panhandle that feeds into the North Platte River and provided energy to that entire region. The lake is bordered by white sandy beaches and tourist towns, as well as camping sites and resorts. Was the government going to put us up in a lake house? It sure looked that way.

I glanced at my lovely wife and could tell she was distraught about this situation. Being an Iowa girl, born and raised, she did not like the idea of moving; this had been a trying topic at our dinner table numerous nights. The anguish on her face said more than words ever could. I reached over to her left arm and placed my hand gently upon her forearm; without looking up, she gave a half-hearted smile. This was going to prove to be a long road in the upcoming months.

With me being a Nebraska Husker fan, I would love to live in Nebraska, and judging by the photos in the document, it looked like a beautiful place to live. Very remote and a large body of water, sounds good to me. The house they had provided appeared as if it were a modular one-story, three-bedroom house with a two-car attached garage. Nothing elaborate but nice for our family, and we could and would make it work.

A 2000 dark gray Chevy Tahoe LT will be our newly appointed family vehicle. This took some bargaining on my part; my theory was while living in a secluded part of the country, we needed a four-wheel-drive vehicle and was able to convince our new government-issued handlers of this fact. Also, a vehicle a few years older would not draw as much attention as would a brand-new vehicle. It was very important to blend in and not draw attention to ourselves.

We had a say in picking our new names, Phil, Tracy, Chase, and Samantha Thompson. It's simple, easy to remember, and there are many Thompsons in the United States. It would be easier to blend in with the local folks. My backstory is that I was a security consultant for the military, and I work from home. Bullshit job, yes, but the locals wouldn't know any different. Plus, when you use words like military and private security after 9/11, people tended to leave you alone.

Tracy would be a stay-at-home mom, and Chase would start his fifth grade year at the local elementary school. Samantha was too young to understand what was going on and would someday be told about the adventures endured during the early 2000s. This was frustrating that we must go through this ordeal, but until the justice system corrected itself and actually put hardened criminals behind bars, we must protect ourselves. Yes, I volunteered for the assignments and knew the risks involved, but my intentions of placing my family in harm's way were nonexistent.

When do we leave? I asked, not really wanting to know the answer.

Tomorrow, was the one-word response we got from Russell.

Well, we best get to packin', I said in my best get-along voice.

The government provided boxes at our house for the move. All of our personal items would be boxed up and delivered to a government-sanctioned warehouse for safekeeping until this blew over. The majority of our personal effects and identifying property will be kept there, but we would be able to keep some personal items such as clothing, nothing with identifiers from our current location. Which included new vehicles, plates, driver's license, credit cards, etc. Our names and all the information on us will be scrubbed, thanks to the US federal government. To the outside world, the Quicks would no longer exist, vanished in the middle of the night without as much of a goodbye.

Tracy and I exited the sheriff's office with our blue government file folders in hand, the heavy wood and glass door swung closed behind us with an echoing thud. As we walked down the corridor to the stairwell of the old courthouse, I heard the door reopen and quickly moving hard-soled footsteps approaching from our rear. I turned and waited for Russell to reach us.

Phil, Tracy, I'm sorry it has to go down like this. Once this blows over, you'll go back to your normal lives back here.

Will we? Will we go back to our normal lives, Russ? Phil's going to be a uniformed police officer again, and I'm going to go back to being a doctor's office assistant. Is that what will happen? Our normal lives are gone, and that's that, Tracy frustratedly explained then spun and walked away as she began to tear up.

Russ lowered his head and tried not to make eye contact with Tracy, as her motherly tone struck a chord with Russ but couldn't shake it. She was right, and he knew it. I caught up with her and placed my hand on her shoulder as an act of comfort. I knew she was upset and rightfully so. I did my best to reassure her it would soon be all right. I extended my right hand toward Russell as he stepped to me, and without saying another word, he grasped my hand with a firm handshake and an empathetic smile. I nodded and released the grip, then turned and walked toward the next chapter in our lives, one which will prove to be more challenging than anything I had ever endured as a cop or US Marine.

My wife and I made our way to the parking lot and stopped at the door. I grabbed Tracy's hand before she could get through the door. Wait a minute, I requested softly as if I were telling her a secret and stopped her so I could scan the area through the security glass window for any looming threats.

What? Do you see something? she asked in a concerned tone.

No, just a feeling, I explained as my eyes shifted, looking for anything out of place.

This is our new life, looking over our shoulders, scanning the area, and double-checking the backseat, being as cautious as possible everywhere. The grocery store, a restaurant, a park, our home, the law enforcement center, everywhere and anywhere. I scanned the parking lot for a couple of minutes searching for anything out of the ordinary, the exhaust from a vehicle, a car parked differently, a person moving, the glimmer from a scope, anything.

The area appeared clear, I motioned for Tracy to stay behind me and move with me. We crossed the parking lot briskly but not too fast to draw attention to ourselves. We made it to the Dodge. I opened the door for Tracy and blocked her with my body. Once she was in, I shut the door and moved rapidly around the rear of the truck to use it as cover and concealment. If an attack were to be launched, it would be from across the road in the residential neighborhood where there's an abundance of cover.

I opened the door and sat in the seat, took in a deep inhale through my nose, and exhaled through my mouth. Tracy had gotten her phone out of her purse and was checking for text messages. I fumbled for the ignition key on the cluster of keys from my pocket. As I inserted the key into the ignition, I stopped suddenly. I kept my left hand on the apex of the steering wheel and cautiously removed my right hand from the key, leaving it in the ignition, and then gently placing my hand on my thigh. Tracy noticed this. What's wrong? Aw, fuck, it's going to blow, isn't it? She knew right then and there that something was wrong.

Don't move. There might be a pressure switch under us, or the ignition is wired, I responded. I can't say for sure, but somethin' don't feel right.

What do we do? she asked.

I'm not sure. Let me think for a moment.

I had no indication there was an explosive device wired to the vehicle, but the hair on the back of my neck told me otherwise. This gut sense has saved me more times than I could count, and I've learned to not only trust it but also rely on it. I reached for her hand and held it tight; she looked at me and smiled; she knew what I was about to say. Her face looked so beautiful; her eyes glistened from the tears forming. Still smiling, she winked.

When I say go you open the door and bail out, roll as far away as you can. I figure there has to be a delay on the switch, so keep going and going until you're clear. The truck should contain the blast, I hope. I'm goin' to do the same. When you get to your spot, place your back toward the blast, cover your head with your hands, and open your mouth to absorb the concussion. Do you understand? I instructed her in an audible whisper.

Yes, I understand.

Oh, and, Trace, I love you, you are the best thing that has ever happened to me.

I love you too, Phil. Her voice trembled.

I let go of her hand and reached across my body with my right hand and prepared to open the door. Tracy did the same but with her left hand. This way, we could open and push the door at the same time then roll out and away. Her heavy breaths were labored. Her long brown hair fell into her face and did not make the effort to remove it. She adjusted her purse strap and set her feet against the hump in the center of the truck's floor for a strong support in anticipation of the hasty exit.

On three. Ready?

Yes, she replied with a nod.

One.

Two.

"Three!"

We both at the same time threw the doors open and bailed out. I rolled to my left and low-crawled around the adjoining vehicle. I covered my ears and opened my mouth in preparation for the blast.

Nothing.

I paused for a moment then assisted myself up by way of the rear bumper of the adjacent Toyota and looked for Tracy. Trace! Trace!

Over here!

I crouched and ran to the other side of the truck and found her sitting with her back against the passenger side rear tire two cars over. She was sitting in a small puddle of dirty water from last night's rain. Her hands were grimy from aiding her movement to safety across the pavement. I reached down to help her up as her smile disappeared and turned to a scowl as she slapped me in the upper arm. I attempted to break the tension.

That was a good practice run, I said with a sarcastic smirk.

I bent over to help her up. I grasped ahold of her left arm with both of my hands, then Booooom! Booooom!

Two large explosions from the inside of the truck, both seats exploded sending shrapnel and debris in all directions. The sound, deafening and unexpected. The ringing and concussion of the explosion brought me to my knees on top of Tracy. I regained my composure for a moment and asked her if she was all right; she nodded, still confused. The smoke and smell of accelerant filled the air, forcing both of us to cough. I patted her down checking for blood and foreign objects. Nothing.

Numerous people came running out of the courthouse wanting to check on us, including Russell. I yelled for them to stop and get back into the building; there might be a shooter in the area. This is a common tactic used in guerrilla warfare: create a diversion to force the victims to the shooters' fatal funnel and then pick them off one by one. Russell understood what I was requesting and assisted in getting everyone back into the building.

Situations like this make you reflect on your life and accomplishments, disappointments, successes, failures, families, and friends. All in a kaleidoscope blur flashing through your mind, thirty-two years of life in an instant. What would I do if Tracy was injured, or worse, killed? How would I explain to her daughter and son that their mother was killed because of my job? Was this how I wanted to live? Was this how I wanted us to live? The faint echo of emergency sirens interrupted my epiphany as they grew closer while the blaze inside my truck continued to burn. I helped Tracy to her feet and told her to run for the courthouse and stay low. She didn't hesitate and ran like her life depended on it. Which it did.

The assailant is here somewhere, but where? I scanned the area, putting my military eyes on. Left to right, near to far, up and down. Nothing. My Glock was at the low-ready position while I moved through the combat zone looking for anything that would tell me who did this. I already knew who did this, but I wanted confirmation. My balance unsteady, and the fog of war had now made its home in my head. I tried to focus on clearing the cobwebs, the feeling was as if I had been blindsided by an NFL linebacker.

The fire trucks arrived and entered the parking lot. The horns honking, sirens blaring, and radio traffic over the intercom were becoming clearer now that the fogginess had started to wear off. The bustling of the firemen scurrying around and spraying water to extinguish the truck fire made me lose focus on the attempt to