“At the time, Marcel didn’t know anything,” she admitted. “But he said he’d do some digging, ask some questions.” Her shoulders drooped. Once again, she looked into her lap. “I should’ve stopped him. I should’ve—”
Everything inside Ozzie urged him to reach for her. He was about to throw caution to the wind and do just that, but Washington beat him to the punch. The police chief put an arm around her shoulders, giving her a fatherly pat.
“You start blaming yourself for other people’s choices, and you’ll quickly find you don’t have time for much of anything else,” Washington told her. “Marcel was a full-grown man. He knew the risks and the consequences of the life he was choosing.”
Julia had been a full-grown woman and known the risks of her job, but that doesn’t stop me from feeling some measure of responsibility for her death. And then there was Mom…
No doubt Samantha felt the same, and nothing anyone said would assuage her guilt. Still, she firmed her jaw and got right back to business. “So obviously Marcel wasn’t talking about the Black Knights. But who was he talking about? Who was… Who is that biker?”
And that’s my cue, Ozzie thought. “He’s the sergeant at arms for the Basilisks. Or so say the patches on his cut.”
“Basilisks?” Samantha shook her head. “Is that, like, the name of a gang?”
“A biker gang,” Washington clarified. “And not the snuggly, teddy bear sort that do good deeds like coordinate charity rides and blood drives. We’re talking old school. The one-percenters.”
“One-percenters?” Samantha frowned.
Ozzie explained. “Years ago, the AMA—”
“That would be the American Motorcyclist Association,” Christian clarified.
“Right.” Ozzie nodded. “Anyway, they commented that ninety-nine percent of motorcyclists were law-abiding citizens. Which, of course, implied that those in the last one percent were not. Since then, outlaw biker clubs have glommed on to the notion and started referring to themselves as the one-percenters.”
“Exactly,” Washington agreed. “The Basilisks are the same kind of bikers as those who perpetrated that bloodbath down in Waco, Texas.”
“So you’re telling me these guys are the real, honest-to-god Sons of Anarchy? An outlaw biker club running guns?” Samantha blinked owlishly. “Doesn’t that seem a little…”
“Coincidental?” Washington asked.
“Well, yeah.” She hitched one shoulder.
“Fiction often mirrors fact. And if the Basilisks are running guns out of Iraq, it’d be one more entry on a long list of criminal enterprises they’ve embarked on over the years.”
“Such as?” Her dark eyes gleamed. She was fanatical in her desire to unearth corruption and crime. Ozzie couldn’t help but think there had to be a story behind her rabid hunt for the truth, but in all their time together, he had never gotten up the guts to ask her about it. Maybe because he had sensed how personal the subject was for her, and he had known that if he asked her to open up her Pandora’s box of deep, dark secrets, then she might want him to open up his.
“Such as nothing that we’ve been able to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt, but a whole host of stuff we suspect. Like extorting corrupt city officials, running prostitutes, maintaining protection rackets, and so on and so forth,” Washington said.
“Shit,” Samantha said.
“That pretty well sums it up,” Washington concurred.
Carver joined the conversation for the first time. “Their sergeant at arms goes by the road name of Bulldog.”
“You know him?” Ozzie raised an eyebrow.
“Liked him for the murder of a shopkeeper a couple of years back,” Carver explained. “But like always with these guys, I could never get enough proof to arrest him. They’re slimy as eels. And good news, ladies! Most of them are single!”
Carver’s frustration was clear, as was the fact that he’d had a chili dog for lunch. The yellow and brown stains on his shirt were impossible to miss.
In Ozzie’s experience, homicide detectives always looked like a dry-cleaning nightmare. Hunting down murderers was a 24-7 job that required catching meals on the go. Carver also had the prematurely graying hair, the slight paunch, and the weathered complexion of a quintessential murder cop.
“Do these Basilisks run some sort of motorcycle mechanic shop?” Samantha asked.
“It’s small. Just one of their many businesses,” Carver said. “Many fronts,” he added with disgust. “But yes. They do.”
Samantha took a deep breath. “So Marcel tells me the Apostles are getting their guns from motorcycle mechanics. Eight hours later, Marcel is dead, and a motorcycle mechanic, a Basilisk, is chasing me down an alleyway with…that in hand.” She flicked a finger at the knife lying in the center of the table. “I’m thinking that’s no accident.”
“I’m thinking you’re right,” Washington agreed.
