Enemy Agents

Before he sat, Bolan already had his targets marked.

All he had to do was wait.

“NEW GUY,” LARRY MOSIER said around a bite of porterhouse.

Clay Halsey glanced up from his T-bone, toward the stranger, taking in his chiseled face and rangy build. He looked like another drifter, passing through.

“Nobody,” he replied.

“Can’t have the same old faces every night,” Steve Webb chimed in.

“Some of them never change,” Mosier said.

“’Cept for getting uglier and older,” Tommy Gruber added, reaching out for his Corona longneck.

Including Brian Doolan, they were five in number at a table near the middle of the room. Halsey supposed they were considered regulars, spending at least one night a week at Scoots when they were in the area, but he would never put himself in the same class as those who always seemed to have a bar stool claimed whenever he stopped by. Scoots was a place for Halsey to relax, wash down a steak with beer from time to time, but it would never be a lifestyle.

He felt certain he would always stand apart from, the sweaty laborers and farmhands who had nowhere else to go after they clocked out from another working day. He was their natural superior.

Not that he’d ever say that to their faces.

It was all about equality these days—at least, for people of a certain kind, he thought, a common breed and background. There were no blacks in the bar. No Asians or Hispanics, either. Scoots had no sign on the door forbidding them to enter—which, of course, would violate the law and bring the Feds to crack their whips—but most people knew where they’re welcome.

And where they’re not.

“So, anyway,” Webb said, “about the shipment—”

“I’m still working on it,” Halsey interrupted.

“All I’m saying is, they got the money, and—”

“I know they got the money, Steve. I paid them. And we’ll get the product, one way or another.”

“Okay, then. Because the German—”

“Can I eat my steak in peace? Is that too much to ask?”

“No. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Just relax and change the subject.”

“I’m looking forward to the exercise this weekend,” Doolan said. “Try out that new HK416. The rotary diopter sight’s supposed to make a world of difference.”

“If you can shoot to start with,” Gruber said.

“I’ve got a Franklin says I shade you on the range, when ever.”

“I could use the money,” Gruber told him. “Where and when?”

“You fellas aren’t about to drop your trousers, are you?” Mosier asked. “Because I’m eating, here.”

“Eat me, why don’t you?” Doolan offered.

“Can’t,” Mosier replied. “I’m cutting back on fat.”

That got a laugh around the table, Doolan being just a little on the porky side, compared to his companions. He was working on a comeback, getting nowhere with it, when the front door groaned again and trouble walked into the bar.

“Well, shit,” Gruber said.

Six, no, seven bikers entered, dressed in faded denim bearing one-percenter patches, swastikas and lightning bolts. Two of them were long hairs and all sported some variation of sideburns, mustaches, or beards. Their jewelry mixed gold and stainless steel, running toward heavy rings and chains that dangled from their vests or belts.

They all wore knives.

“Are they—?”

Before Mosier could finish it, one of the bikers half turned to address the others, giving Halsey and his crew a clear view of the rockers on his back.

“Not Comancheros,” Halsey said.

“Okay. So just a friggin’ eyesore,” Gruber said.

“Don’t sweat it,” Halsey ordered. “Assholes have to eat, the same as anybody else.”

“But do they have to eat with us?”

“Don’t borrow trouble,” Mosier said. “We’ve got enough of it, already.”

“Nothing we can’t handle,” Halsey said. “We’ll get what’s coming to us. Everybody will.”

“I like the sound of that,” Doolan said, scooping up another spoonful of three-alarm chili. He chased it with beer, which emptied his bottle. “Who wants a refill?”

“I could use one,” Gruber said.

“Me, too,” Mosier added.

“I’m all right,” Halsey answered.

“Same here,” Webb replied.

“Three it is,” Doolan said. He looked around for the waitress and saw she was serving the guy who’d come in by himself earlier. “Hell, I’ll get ’em myself. Save the tip.”

“That’s the spirit,” Halsey said, and watched Doolin head for the bar.

BOLAN’S HAMBURGER LOOKED GOOD, smelled good and tasted better. He chewed slowly, fleetingly regretting he hadn’t had time to finish before the contingent of bikers had entered.

They wore Diableros colors, which fit with the San Berdoo turf, green patches depicting Loki, the Norse god of mischief. Bolan knew the gang had been investigated by the FBI and ATF, resulting in a series of arrests including counts of robbery, assault, extortion, drug and weapons violations.

Situation normal for the “one-percent” fraternity.