Like every other lawyer in the land, he had one of the most important rules pounded into his brain over and over again during law school—anticipating the offense is most certainly the key to a great defense. As he worked his way through the crowded hallway he thought Good thing I did my homework. Another satisfied client, another case closed. His reputation as one of the finest criminal defense lawyers in New England was well earned, based on the hard work he did for his clients.

At six-foot-two, two hundred twenty pounds, Thomas was still in great shape for his age at thirty-seven. He had been a linebacker on the University of Oklahoma football team, before going on to law school at Boston College and graduating at the top of his class in 2001. A Cherokee Indian by birth, the crew cut he wore reflected his heritage.

Avoiding the elevator, he took the stairway and methodically made his way to the next floor as he savored his victory. Running three to four miles every morning gave him both the wind and the strength to take the stairs two at a time. Upon reaching the top, the attorney opened the door and entered the corridor. Making his way along the stone-floored hallway, he headed for the door to room 515—the official kingdom of Judge Stanley Lynde.

Before opening the heavy oak door to the courtroom, he peered through the small window set in the door and took notice that court was still in session. Doing his best not to make a sound, Thomas silently entered the almost empty courtroom. Before taking a seat, he quickly scanned the room for his client, to no avail. But none of his classes at Boston College Law School could ever have prepared him for what came next.

“Is there a problem, counselor?” Judge Lynde inquired from his throne.

“No, your honor. Just looking for my client,” Thomas responded politely.

“Either sit down or get out of my courtroom, Mr. Chandler,” the judge demanded.

“Yes, your honor,” the attorney replied, as he sat down on the hard wooden bench next to him.

With a quick glance at his watch, Thomas realized that he was nearly thirty minutes ahead of schedule. Halfway past his early morning breakfast and heading toward lunchtime, his stomach grumbled as he thought about getting a snack in the first-floor coffee shop. No, he decided—since he was already here, he might as well stay put. No sense in raising the ire of the robed man with the God complex at the front of the room.

This courtroom was like every other courtroom in the building. Originally built in 1865, and renovated in the mid-seventies to preserve its historic feeling, the ceilings were high, the windows grand, and floors uncovered to proudly display the hardwood. The public gallery seats were made to be functional first, and comfortable second. Like the pews in an old church, it hurt to sit on them for more than fifteen minutes.

Thomas was thankful that it was early spring, as buildings like this weren’t able to hold the heat in the colder months, nor be kept cool enough in the middle of the calendar to satisfy anyone’s standards. Spring and fall were the only time of the year that anyone was comfortable. Except, of course Judge Lynde. It was rumored that he had a small electric heater beneath his bench to keep him warm in the winter, and a small oscillating fan in the summer to keep him cool.

Realizing that he was trapped, Thomas opted to close his eyes and try to find a comfortable position while he let his mind drift for a few minutes, hoping to push the hunger pangs out of his mind. He placed his leather laptop briefcase on the floor next to him, crossed his big arms across his barrel chest, and let his chin come to rest there. He breathed in and out, regularly and slowly, and began to relax. This worked well for a short period of time, until the judge’s loud voice brought him back to reality.

“Let’s get on with it. Next case?” Judge Lynde commanded.

“Earle Hastings versus Teresa Hastings—case number 2007-FD116456,” the court bailiff responded.

“That’s me. I’m the plaintiff, your honor,” a man said, as he made his way to the front of the courtroom. He was dressed in brand-new blue jeans, a crisp white shirt, and a leather biker vest—the clunk of his boots on the hardwood floor echoing his movements as he headed toward the judge. The man clearly looked the part of someone who was doing his very best to be appropriate, in an environment that he was unaccustomed to.

Thomas opened one eye and focused on the long-haired biker, who had been sitting quietly in the back corner.

“Where the hell is your attorney, son,” Judge Lynde barked.

“I’m doing this pro se, your honor.”

“You’re what? Are you stupid, or just an idiot?” the judge inquired sarcastically.

“I’m neither, your honor,” Earle replied politely.

Thomas instantly sat straight up, for the biker was going to represent himself in front of the king. Laughing to himself, he fondly recalled his law professor telling him many years before that a man who represents himself has a fool for a client.

This ought to be interesting he thought, as he settled in to watch the show.

As the hearing progressed, the biker surprised everyone in the room—he turned out to be quite intelligent, and extremely knowledgeable when it came to the law as it pertained to his current dilemma. Earle had been very well prepared for the courtroom battle he faced that day.

Standing tall and strong before Judge Lynde, with a myriad of detailed exhibits to back up his statements, Earle proved that his wife, and his wife’s attorney, had repeatedly lied about financial assets, withheld documents, and falsified affidavits during the discovery and pretrial stages, as well as during the trial. After a twenty-five-minute presentation, the honorable Stanley Lynde quickly ruled in the biker’s favor, granted the divorce, and sanctioned his now ex-wife’s attorney.

Earle gathered up his papers and folders, turned on his heels, and strode down the center aisle and out of the courtroom—the grin on his face, as he walked by Thomas, as large as the building itself.

Thomas scrambled to his feet and followed Earle out the door, where the attorney caught up to the biker in front of the elevator.

“Nice work there,” Thomas called out.

Turning around slowly, Earle looked at him and replied, “Thanks.”

“My name’s Thomas Chandler,” he said, as he extended his hand.

“Earle. Earle Hastings,” the biker replied, as they shook.

“If there’s anything I can ever do for you, please give me a call. I had a lot of fun watching you. I owe you a beer after seeing you kick Judge Lynde’s ass today,” the attorney said, smiling, as he handed the biker his business card while they were waiting for the elevator.

Earle looked Thomas up and down as he took the business card from his hand, and noticed the Chippewa-brand engineer boots on his feet.

“Do you ride?” the biker inquired.

Thomas was visibly surprised at the biker’s keen observation skills.

“As a matter of fact, I do. I’ve got a Heritage Softail.”

“What year?”

“2006.”

“How do you like it?”

“I like it a lot, but it could use some more power. Right now it’s 88 inches, but I’ve been thinking about upgrading to a 96.”

“Not a bad thought,” Earle replied.

“What do you think?”

“I think that if you ever need someone good to work on that Heritage, give me a call. I own a bike shop over on Flat Street,” Earle said, as he pulled a card of his own from his pocket and handed it to the attorney.

Earle On The Hill—Always On The Level read the front, with just a phone number at the bottom. Thomas turned it over in his hand, and noticed that a graphic of an old-styled Harley Panhead chopper graced the back.

The bell dinged and the elevator doors opened, interrupting the conversation for a minute as both men got in. Thomas punched the button for the ground floor and the doors closed.

“Wake up, Mr. Chandler,” she said. “Here’s the coffee you asked for.”

Thomas looked up, and then thanked the agent standing in front of him.

It’s funny how all the feds look the same in that dark blue suit he thought.

As she shut the door behind her, Thomas rubbed his eyes and tried not to drift back to sleep.

“My name is Smith, and this is my partner Jones,” the shorter of the two men said. “Please don’t start with any stupid comments, we’ve heard them all before.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not stupid.”

“No, Mr. Chandler, we know you’re not stupid. Which is exactly why we were curious enough to ask you to come down here to talk to us today,” Jones replied.

“Ask? Is that what you guys are calling it these days?”

“We’ve had to deal with a lot in the past few weeks. For a whole lot of reasons, we feel you could shed some light on what’s been going on.”

“And I would do this why?”

“Mr. Chandler, you’re a lawyer who has been practicing criminal law for more than ten years. We know that you’re more than familiar with lots of people on both sides of the law. As a result, we think you can shed some light on numerous issues that we are interested in,” Jones continued.

Thomas pushed back his chair and crossed his arms. Although he was guilty as charged—he had been practicing criminal law for more than ten years, and he did know a lot of people on both sides of the fence—he was undecided as to whether he should play the cooperation card.

“Mr. Chandler, we need some answers,” stated Agent Jones.

“About what?”

“Don’t be a smart-ass, Chandler,” Smith snapped. “I think you know exactly what we’re talking about. You can start with why you’re so far from your office in Vermont. And you can tell us how being at the funeral of a member of the Skuldmen outlaw motorcycle club, led you to be found in front of an abandoned factory building that contained a dead body!”

“Oh, I get it. You’re the bad cop,” Thomas said, nodding to Smith.

“Good cop, bad cop—nice guy, asshole,” he motioned with his head, going back and forth between the two agents.

“What’s in it for me?”

“Let’s just say, if you cooperate with us, you won’t get sent to a federal holding facility, where we just might lose you for a month or two. Instead, we’ll protect you. You’ll get put in a safe house until this is all over.”

Thomas thought about it for a minute. He let silence fill the space between them, and then looked at both agents.

“Okay, I’ll tell you what happened.”

“You do realize that we’re going to record this, don’t you?”

“Of course I do.”

“So exactly what transpired?” asked Agent Jones.

“This is going to take a while. You do understand that, don’t you?”

“We’ve got all night.”

“It’s going to take a whole lot longer than that.”

The attorney took a deep breath…

“What’s going on, Earle?”

“A lift at the shop just opened up. We still planning on me working on your new Road King this week?”

“What’s it going to cost me?”

“You’re going to owe me for the rest of your life, Shark,” Earle replied, serious as a heart attack.

“I figured that already.”

Both men laughed.

“You pay for the cams, adjustable pushrods, gaskets, and head work. I’ll take care of the labor, as always.”

“A grand or so?”

“Two fifty for the Andrews cams, a hundred and a quarter for the pushrods, four hundred fifty for the head work, and another hundred for the gaskets and oil. Should come to a little less than a grand, I think.”

“When do you want me to drop off the bike?”

“How about Wednesday evening after you get done with work? I’ll do the work on Thursday, and then take the bike to Hartford on Friday to work out the bugs and make sure everything’s okay. I’ll get it back to you late Sunday afternoon, or early Sunday evening.”

“Sound likes a plan. Same deal as before? I ride yours, while you have mine?”

“That’ll work.”

“Okay. See you later Earle.”

“Bye, Shark.”

Thomas hung up the phone and crawled back into the bed. He figured that he had just enough time for a Saturday morning wake-up call, before he took a shower and went in to the office for a few hours. Sliding through the sheets toward his girlfriend Lori, he kissed her on the cheek to see if she was awake.

“Good morning, Thomas,” she murmured happily. “Do we have enough time, before you have to be at work?”

“I’ve always got enough time for you, baby,” he replied.

“Why don’t you come to Boston for a few days next weekend?” Jake asked.

“I’d really like to, brother, but I already promised Joe Don and Rocky that I’d ride down to Hartford with them for the Connecticut chapters’ anniversary party. And you know how that’s going to go; it’ll last all weekend,” Earle replied.

“I don’t know if you realize it, but Boston’s actually right on the way from Hartford to Brattleboro.”

Both men laughed at the joke. To bikers, if something is within a two-hour detour of your final destination, it’s considered to be on the way.

“I thought about going to that party, but I really need to be around for the marathon,” Jake said.

“The Boston Marathon? You’re going to do it?”

“Yeah, right! Not me, you dunderhead. Angela’s daughter, Lydia, is doing it.”

“All twenty-six miles?”

“Yup. She’s running to raise money for some kid who has cancer.”

“When’s the race?” Earle asked.

“On Monday, the 15th.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“If you’re not going to be here to cheer and watch her cross the finish line with me and a few brothers, then you could send her a bag full of hundred-dollar bills,” Jake replied.

Both men laughed again.

“So what are you doing this week?” Jake inquired.

“Running the bike shop, like always. At the end of the week, I’ll be working on our attorney’s scoot; going to put a set of cams in it, then port and polish the heads.”

“I met him at the Christmas party at your clubhouse. He was riding a brand new Road King, freezing his ass off,” Jake recalled.

“Yeah, that’s him. I want to make sure everything is right with the bike before I give it back, so I figured a couple-hundred-mile shakedown cruise to Hartford and back next weekend would get the bugs out of her.”

“What year is the bike?”

“It’s a 2012 with a 103, but I just did a bunch of work on it. With the Andrews fifty-seven-H cams and the head work, she’ll pull a whore off a piss pot in a New York second,” Earle replied, chuckling.

“Do you think he’ll ever pull the trigger and join the club?” Jake inquired.

“I doubt it. That’s a fine line to cross, you know, brother. From lawyer to outlaw.”

“He’d make a good patch, you know? He’s got what it takes— loyalty, commitment, integrity, guts, and talent.”

“I couldn’t agree more. He’d certainly be a great asset for us. Having someone in house who’s from that side of the street—that we can trust—would be great. He’s got the desire, he just needs to figure out how to do it without completely screwing up the other side of his world.”

“It would be a tightrope walk, that’s for sure. But I gotta tell you, I’d be proud to call him my brother.”

“We all would,” confirmed Earle.

“I was really hoping you’d be there to watch Lydia cross the finish line,” the Boston biker said, changing the subject. “Coming out of Hartford next weekend, you could easily be here in two hours the way you ride. We could hang around together Sunday night and have a good time with some of the local girls. After the marathon on Monday afternoon, you could jam back to Brattleboro and be home before it gets dark.”

“Sorry brother, no can do. I’m committed. Besides, Angela would kick your ass, if you and I went out chasing pussy.”

Both men laughed again.

“It’s been too long, Earle. We really need to get together and have a beer.”

“I know, Jake. I promise I’ll come to Salem in the next month or two.”

“Okay, brother. Love you, bye.”

“Love you, too, brother,” Earle replied. “You take care.”

After putting the cell back in his pocket, he stood in front of the open garage door soaking up the sunshine, before turning around and heading back into his shop.

“Joe Don, Rocky, you ready to roll?”

“Give me ten more minutes, will ya, mommy?” Joe Don, the president of the Springfield chapter in Massachusetts, shouted back. “I need to finish my eggs and coffee.”

Simultaneously the chapter’s vice president, Rocky, gave Earle the finger as he downed what was left in the bottle of beer he held in his hand.

“I’ll be out front waiting, assholes,” Earle replied, smiling.

He grabbed his overnight bag from the chair, and walked out of the clubhouse. As he walked across the parking lot, Earle thought about taking Route 5 instead of the interstate, since it was just two blocks away, and was the same road that ran through his hometown in the state to the north. He could pull out, make a left, and just keep riding on the small two-lane blacktop through a thousand New England towns and cities to get back to his own turf.

Tucked away on a side road off Pitkin Street, the clubhouse structure was situated like so many others in the motorcycle club world— in the middle of a small industrial zone, away from the prying eyes of the general public and local law enforcement. In this case, a square single-story structure, with one large double-width steel overhead door, and one solid steel entry door to the side. There were no windows on the street side. The flat-topped roof was laced with barbed wire that came out at right angles to the building, so climbing over to get to the rooftop was damned near impossible. A twelve-foot-tall chain link fence circled the property—it wasn’t all that pretty, but it sure made the place secure.

The rear of the building had a much narrower overhead door that led to the backyard, and a cut-through driveway to the street that ran parallel directly behind the building, making quick exits a realistic option if need be. In the backyard was a large BBQ pit, with several picnic tables scattered around for cookouts when the New England weather allowed.

From the street it didn’t look all that inviting, but to the patchholders, it was home to one of the Skuldmen’s newest and strongest east coast chapters. And to some members, from time to time, it was just plain home—a safe haven and secure place to rest their heads at times when there was no place else to go.

In the one percenter world, the Skuldmen were one of the most feared and respected motorcycle clubs in the outlaw community. With a penchant for low profile, and a propensity for not taking any shit, you didn’t find the Skuldmen on the front page of newspapers being arrested for the usual things that other outlaw motorcycle clubs were known for.

You also didn’t find them participating in charity rides to benefit puppies with cancer, or hawking T-shirts at events just to remind the general public who they were. The Skuldmen didn’t give a shit about the public, and they didn’t flaunt their colors for all to see—they wore them, but not to the supermarket or the movies.

The blue and silver colors were as sacred to them as the insignia of the fire-breathing wolf that took up the majority of the patch on their back, and as sacred as that symbol was to the Norse warriors from whom they took the imagery. It was a family that members lived and died for— brothers that took care of each other, no matter what. It wasn’t easy to earn the patch, and it was more difficult to keep—once you had it, you treasured and respected the colors.

Earle had worked his way up from prospect to president in a little less than five years—five hard-fought years. When he started the chapter in Vermont from scratch, taking two other Skuldmen from nearby states with him as founding members, Earle had to convince Milwaukee Phil, the national president, that Vermont would be a great place to start a new chapter—and that wasn’t easy. He had eventually built a strong crew of his own, and although it wasn’t a large chapter, he believed in the saying I’d rather have four quarters, than 100 pennies.

Stepping up to Thomas Chandler’s red Road King, he strapped the overnight bag to the luggage rack on the back of the passenger backrest. Turning the ignition to the accessory position, Earle keyed through the iTunes music folder on his cellphone until he got to the Warren Winters folder.

When he found the song “Oh Can’t You See,” he hit the play button and climbed into the saddle. Earle then quietly sang along with his favorite artist while he waited for Joe Don and Rocky to join him.

All throughout the ride, Earle, Joe Don, and Rocky had kept standard formation for a pack of this size. Two up front, tandem, side-byside, as if connected by a steel rod, with the third positioned behind and centered not more than a bike’s length away. Mile after mile, they held tight, and lane switches were executed as smooth as silk. The throaty sound of three engines melded into one mechanical roar.

It was a glorious trip on a beautiful day, and each man was pleased that the traffic on the one-hour blast up Interstate 91 had been light for a Sunday afternoon, for there’s nothing worse than having to deal with a traffic jam on a Sunday afternoon, except maybe dealing with the cops on a Monday morning.

At the bottom of the ramp, just before they crossed Main Street, the two Massachusetts members waved goodbye to the Vermont one percenter. Like he had done many times before, Earle turned north, went fifty feet, and turned right into the Mobil gas station. Joe Don and Rocky screamed straight down Dover Street, headed for the Western Massachusetts clubhouse.

As the sound of their drag pipes disappeared in the distance, Earle pulled up to the pump and shut the engine off. He rummaged through his chain wallet for a usable credit card, and then proceeded to fill up the six-gallon tank of the thirsty Road King.

Twelve dollars and fourteen cents later, Earle put the pump handle back into its place, and patiently waited for the receipt. He started to get back on the bike, but at the last minute realized that the three cups of coffee earlier in the day had taken a toll on his bladder.

Hanging his brain bucket on the handlebars, the biker crossed the parking lot and walked toward the side of the building. There he found a sign on both doors informing him that the facilities were out of order. Everything’s normal he thought.

The chapter president couldn’t take another hour on the road without relieving himself, and didn’t feel like looking for an open bathroom at another store somewhere close by. He continued walking along down the side of the building, and then went around the corner into the brush at the back of the building. Ten more feet and he found a place to take a leak, where he wouldn’t be observed.

As he watered the overgrown weeds and trash that was tossed about at his feet, a beat-up twenty-year-old white Toyota Camry rolled to a stop off to his left in the alley thirty feet behind the old building. Three men got out of the car—they were obviously in the midst of a heated discussion.

From his vantage point, Earle could clearly see the faces of two of the men. One was young, in his early twenties, and the other, late twenties or early thirties. The third man had his back to him, but he was clearly older, by perhaps twenty years.

The older man was leading the discussion as he waved his arms about, and was very aggressive in his stance and posture as he towered over the two—not so much physically, but certainly, in a stature point of view. They didn’t seem to be afraid of him, but were certainly respectful. Could be their father Earle thought, as he drained his lizard. Or maybe he’s their uncle?

Although he couldn’t accurately ascertain their relationship, from the sound of their accents the biker pegged them for being from Eastern Europe. Earle had just zipped up his pants and was about to head back to the bike when he thought he heard the word bomb—it caught his attention, and he froze in place.

The biker noticed that the two younger men both wore light coats and jeans, and the shorter one wore a white ball cap that was turned around backward on his head.

“In three weeks…bigger one…is better,” the older man clearly said, but Earle could only hear snippets of the conversation.

“Two little ones,” the larger of the younger man said.

“Not good…make bigger one,” the older man said, before lighting a cigarette.

“We’ve made our decision. We’re doing it tomorrow,” the taller, younger man replied.

“No! Bigger…bomb…lots more damage…we wait!”

Again Earle could only hear snippets of the conversation.

Earle realized at this point that the smaller younger man with the white ball cap on backward hadn’t said anything; all he did was look at the other younger man, and nod his head whenever he spoke.

Earle made the decision to head back to the bike—he didn’t want to be around when the conversation was over. Two steps into his journey he stepped on an old branch. It cracked, and made a loud snap under his weight. The noise in the brush immediately attracted the attention of all three men. The older man turned around, and stared at Earle intently. The last thing Earle heard before he turned the corner of the building was the older man’s voice.

“Go. Now. Get back to Boston. I’ll take care of this one.”

Now I gotta kick the shit outta some asshole—what a way to spend the afternoon Earle thought, as he walked back to his scooter. Wait for him to come to me he thought. It’s always better to do that. Watch your adversary approach; it gives you a chance to size them up, determine their weaknesses, and assess any skills they might have. Three seconds is all a good street fighter needs.

Earle walked to the Harley, and waited, but nothing happened. The older man appeared at the corner of the building, but just stood there, leaning on the building, as the other two drove away in the beat-up Toyota. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one up, staring at Earle from behind a pair of dark shades all the while.

No car. No weapon. No backup Earle thought.

It was then the biker realized he was being memorized. The guy was remembering every detail of him for later; he wasn’t just staring at him. This guy was dangerous, and not in a bar fight kind of way—he was some type of professional.

In a slow-motion version of a Mexican standoff, Earle did the same—he committed the older man’s height, weight, clothing, shoe style, stance, and mannerisms to memory. And that’s when it hit him: the old man was left-handed. Earle saw it when he struck the match, and saw it again as he held the cigarette.

Earle pulled on his helmet and climbed on board, thumbed the starter, and brought the machine to life. As he rode out of the station, he checked the mirrors. Sure enough, the older man watched the biker ride away.

For a second, the Skuldmen patchholder pondered going to the Springfield clubhouse. He could get a few members, come back, find the guy, and beat him to death, but he quickly realized the better choice was to see Thomas, as soon as possible.

The eighty-mile-per-hour wind that rushed over the handlebars tried to push him off the bike, but he held firm. Even over the roar of the wind and road, Earle easily heard the conversation repeat itself over and over in his mind. The vibration of the motor beneath him couldn’t shake the feeling that something evil was going on. He recalled what was said, and how it was said, and he drew the same conclusion every time—this wasn’t idle chatter, there was something going on.

Just outside of Bernardston, a few miles south of the Vermont border, Earle twisted the throttle on the Road King. The hundred-horsepower motor screamed, the pavement disappeared beneath his feet, the white lane markers looked like dots, and the speedometer held steady at one hundred twenty miles per hour for the last fifteen miles to the state line.

“Hey Earle, how’s my bike running?”

“Like a raped ape,” Earle replied, as the attorney walked his way.

“Great! I can’t wait to ride her.”

“We need to talk.”

“What’s up?” the attorney inquired, standing a few feet from Earle next to the Road King.

“You won’t believe what happened to me a little while ago in Springfield.”

“So what happened?”

“I pulled into an old Mobil gas station off of exit eleven around 3 PM, to get gas.”

“The one on Main Street, about a block north of the post office?”

“Yeah, that’s the one. After I gassed up, I had to piss—my teeth were floating. It’s one of those old stations, where the entrance to the bathrooms is on the side of the building. But both bathrooms were broke, so I ended up taking a leak in the back of the building, in some brush. From where I was standing, I could see the alley, but I couldn’t be seen very well.”

“So what happened?” Thomas inquired.

“While I was pissing, a car pulled up. It looked like an early-nineties Toyota Camry. Three men got out; two were younger and one was older. I got a good look at all three of them.”

“I presume they were doing a drug deal?”

“You’re not going to believe it, but I think they were planning to bomb someone,” Earle said.

“What in the world made you think that?”

“What they were saying, and what they looked like. They looked different, and they had a strange accent. I’m pretty sure they were from Eastern Europe, but I’m not positive.”

“What exactly did they say?” the attorney inquired, intrigued.

“The older guy was the one that was in charge, but the younger ones were the real rebels. It sounded like they were going to do something that the older one didn’t like. The older one wanted to wait. I think he wanted to do a bigger bomb, but again, I’m not sure.”

“Do you remember anything specific?”

“Yeah. One of the younger ones clearly said, ‘We’ve made our decision. We’re doing it tomorrow.’”

“Do you want to call the police?” Thomas asked.

“And say what?” Earle replied. “Oh, by the way, while I was taking a piss out behind a gas station just off the highway, yadda, yadda, yadda. Think how that story would play out. Besides, the cops wouldn’t do shit; they’d just think I was crazy, or that I was making it up.”

“I could call them, and you could describe the guys to the cops.”

“Yeah, we could. But, again, they’d just think that I was crazy, or that I was making it up. You know that.”

“Well, then, I guess there’s not much we can do about it, is there? Let’s just sit back and see what happens, and hope you misunderstood what you heard,” Thomas said reluctantly.

The two men stood still in the early evening air, as the Harley motor ticked while it cooled. Earle pulled out another cigarette from the slightly crushed pack in his vest, and lit it using his chrome lighter. Pushing the smoke from his lungs, he shook his head.

“What the hell we going to do, Thomas?”

There was silence for a few seconds, as both men looked at each other.

“We could call Zipper in Milwaukee; his blood brother is a fed. FBI, I think,” Thomas said finally.

“You know, for a guy not in the club…you sure know an awful lot about the club,” Earle said, smiling.

“I don’t know shit about the blue and silver, other than they pay their bills in cash when I work for them,” Thomas replied, smiling.

“Yeah, right,” Earle said sarcastically, knowing that for all the years that Thomas worked for the club for cash, that cash usually made its way back into the club treasury, and Thomas stayed squeaky clean in the eyes of the state bar association.

“I remember now. He’s ATF, not FBI,” Thomas said.

“How in the world would you know that?”

“It’s a long story, and I shouldn’t be the one to tell you. Ask Zipper about it the next time you see him.”

Earle looked at him for a minute.

“I don’t know about calling the feds, but calling Zipper might not be a bad idea. We could tell him the story, and then see what he says,” Thomas said. “Do you have his new number?”

“Not on me. I can get it to you later.”

“Do that. I’ll call Zipper tonight, and tell him what we know.”

“Thanks, Thomas.”

“No problem, Earle. That’s what I’m here for.”

A thunderous roar filled the air—white smoke made it difficult to see, and the acrid smell that accompanied it nearly choked him. There was chaos, screaming, and crying everywhere. Looking around, he could see people on the ground bleeding, and some walking around in a daze. Some were just standing still—they were obviously dazed and confused. He looked up the street and saw a fallen runner lying motionless in the street. Some runners didn’t stop or even slow down, and were still in the competitive trance that comes from years of training.

A little more than ten seconds later, there was another massive explosion a hundred yards farther down Boylston Street. Again Jake was rocked a bit by the concussion—the sound hit him like a brick, despite the distance he was from the blast.

At first he didn’t know what the noise and smoke was from, but it took him only seconds to realize that it was no accident.

Bombs—two of them, purposely placed, and tactically timed.

Although Jake didn’t live through the biker wars of the late eighties and early nineties, when blowing things up was a favored practice designed to inflict maximum mayhem and terror in a rival club, he knew enough about explosives to realize they were indiscriminate, not target-specific killers. Bombs are a larger version of a sawed-off shotgun; fill them with buckshot and point it toward a crowd, and you’re bound to hurt someone.

Make a bomb large enough, and lots of people will get hurt. And like ripples in a pond when you toss a stone in, the damage inflicted continues out in all directions—it’s worst at the center, and diminishes as it travels. But in the end, when a bomb goes off in a crowded public place, the damage is typically catastrophic.