Kill Shot. Don Pendleton

convicted of any of this?” Bolan asked.

      “Yeah, five of the top guys. They almost beat the rap, though. They presented a pretty good case that they were set up by the Slaves, that the Slaves were really the ones running the prostitution ring. The trial was a genuine spectacle, but in the end the jury didn’t have a lot of sympathy for a bunch of greasy, long-haired bikers.”

      “What’s your take on it?” Bolan asked.

      “You know as well as I do that damn near everyone who’s ever gone to jail claims to be innocent, Striker, but you know better than anyone that the system can be gamed. The Slaves don’t seem like the type of organization that would have the clout needed to manipulate the system to that degree, though.”

      “They could if they had the right people backing them,” Bolan said.

      “You mean like the type of people who could organize hundreds of random assassinations across the country with military precision?” Kurtzman asked.

      “Yeah, I mean people like that.”

      “You think our bad guys are using the Slaves to help carry out their dirty deeds?”

      “It looks that way, Bear. At least we have five less of them to worry about.”

      “I heard about that,” Kurtzman said. “We picked up the chatter on the Minneapolis police radios. They were slow to respond to your afternoon soiree at the Slaves’ clubhouse because they were responding to sniper attacks.”

      “How many were there?” Bolan asked.

      “In the central time zone or in Minneapolis?”

      “Both.”

      “There were sixty-nine in the central time zone, almost all of them cops. There were two in the Minneapolis metro area, one cop and one member of the Minnesota National Guard, an Iraq War veteran.” Again the soldier was silent. “Anything else to report?” Kurtzman asked.

      “Yeah, I need you to get me some information on another Hellion. He goes by the name Animal, but his real name is Neal Trembley. Probably a brother or cousin of our misidentified corpse.”

      Kurtzman didn’t respond, but Bolan could hear him clacking away at his keyboard as he pulled up information. Finally, he said, “Brother. He was in the club, too. You have something on him?”

      “I have him,” Bolan said. “The Slaves I took out were in the process of beating him to death when I tried to scope out their clubhouse. What do you know about him?”

      “He’s a felon, but not for anything serious. He and some buddies stole a car. They took it for a joyride and then they brought it back, freshly waxed and with a full tank of gas. They even left a $50 bill on the dash. It’s kind of funny, really, but the owner of the car didn’t think so. Trembley was convicted of grand theft auto. He did six months in the state pen in Stillwater.”

      “Just six months?” Bolan asked.

      “He got time off for good behavior. Worked his ass off in the prison laundry. The report says he was a model prisoner. He joined the Marines after he got out, served in the Corps for eight years and worked his way up to staff sergeant. When he got out he started a carpet-laying business with his brother. That was fifteen years ago, and except for a couple of speeding tickets, he’s been spotless ever since.”

      “Are you serious?” Bolan asked. “How does a member of the Hellions get by without being busted for something?”

      “It wasn’t for lack of trying. Everyone from the Hennepin County Sheriff’s office the NSA has had him staked out at one time or another. He got in a few fights over the years, but for a member of a motorcycle club, the guy’s practically a Boy Scout.”