No Human Involved - Barbara Seranella Read online

  Mace raced back to his car and got on the radio to call for backup. He paused in midsentence with the microphone in his hand. Something about the girl as she drove off on the back of the motorcycle. What was it that he recognized as so disturbingly familiar? It was the oil, the spray of black oil up the back of her white pants. The grease that had been thrown upward off the unguarded drive chain of the Harley leaving a pattern of drops up the back of her right leg. The oil on Vicky Glassen's leg had been in the same pattern. He threw down the microphone and pulled a quick illegal U-turn, bouncing off of parked cars, but it was already too late. The motorcycles had maneuvered through the traffic and disappeared.

  ***

  The Satan's Pride clubhouse and methamphetamine factory was a wooden structure that had

  served as a lounge for hunters, a place to clean the ducks they had bagged and warm their bodies in the winter. It suited the bikers' needs well. The roar of airplanes taking off and landing masked the sound of the motorcycles. The building was nestled at the base of the Westchester bluffs and only accessible by winding dirt paths. Smaller, low-lying duck blinds attached to the main house on either side formed a wide horseshoe. The adobe-walled duck blinds were where the bikers manufactured their drugs, always mindful of the fire hazard since the unfortunate razing of their last factory. The larger building was camouflaged by a giant cottonwood and the entire complex lay abandoned and forgotten. The Pride made use of what remained there. They had erected their own pennants where the hunters' trophies had once stood. The walls were adorned with stolen freeway signs, souvenirs of places the Pride had visited. Other bike club colors hung upside down from the ceiling, their meaning clear. Several sagging couches with missing legs replaced by phone books and stuffing oozing out through ripped upholstery lined the walls. A black and white sign that said "TURN OUT" tilted so that it pointed upward. The second floor was actually a loft, originally meant for storage and accessible only by ladder. Mattresses lined the flooring in between the ceiling joists.

  One of the Pride's members had worked for Pacific Gas and Electric and knew how to hook up a meter so that it didn't record the pirated usage of power.

  On the ride to the clubhouse, billboards along Jefferson pleaded with people to save the terns and the titmice before the land became polluted beyond redemption. Carcasses of stolen and stripped modes of conveyance, everything from shopping carts to an overturned and rusting Ford Pinto, poked out from the bubbling stew of fecund water. Plastic by-products from a now-defunct limousine manufacturer gave rise to an unpleasant aroma of bondo and resin. Even the salt grass and sea blite struggled to survive. Rising above the mire were black creosote soaked telephone poles stitched together by power lines that buzzed like angry bees. The current hissed across the wetlands on its way to deliver power to posh Marina del Rey a wire dipped occasionally to supply electricity to well meters. The only other sign of civilization was the pay phone by the side of the road. The location of the clubhouse was a closely guarded secret. The women who visited there had to submit to a blindfold first. No one had bothered to blindfold Munch. She read this as a bad sign.

  The bikers parked their motorcycles in the courtyard. Crazy Mike produced two pairs of (handcuffs, which he used to shackle her. He snapped one pair around her wrists and used the second pair to bind her ankle to the railing.

  "Sorry, Bud," Crazy Mike said to a biker with a blue panhead, "the meetings for members only. Stay out here and guard the bitch. We shouldn't be too long."

  As soon as the bikers disappeared inside the clubhouse, Ugly Bud left at a jog for the street. Munch worked her hand out of the cuffs, but could do nothing about the pair that held her ankle. She emptied the contents of the pockets of her coat. Inside the clubhouse, she knew they were discussing her fate. The last thing she wanted was another trip to the upstairs loft.

  ***

  She had been drunk and stoned the last time they took her there. Even then, it was a horrific experience as one biker after another took their turns with her. The worst of the lot had been Crazy Mike, urging his brothers on and watching it all. He came up the ladder when he learned that she was talking some of the more reluctant members of his club out of raping her.

  "It's not rape," he had proclaimed. "This bitch has been paid for."

  That was when she first learned of the deal Flower George had struck.

  In her aborted flight from the Lairs restaurant, she had cleared a table setting from a side booth and dumped what she could grab into the deep pockets of her coat. She felt for the set of flatware consisting of fork, knife, and spoon, any one of which might double as a weapon. She grabbed the knife in her right hand. She'd carve out eyes before she'd let them use her again. She stole a look at the clubhouse and at the road beyond where the other biker had disappeared. The motorcycles lay within reach. She'd hit them where it hurt. The assholes cared more about their bikes than their women. With every weapon in her arsenal, Munch attacked the Harleys. The guys would kill her when they discovered what she was doing. But at this point, she figured, they'd kill her anyway If she were lucky in their rage, they would be quick about it. She knew all about the slow ways to die.

  Once they had had her upstairs, they kept after her for what seemed an eternity Certainly long after the effects of whatever intoxication she was under had worn off. They had kept drinking and snorting speed, all except Crazy Mike, who never took anything. This had made him all the more ominous. The others, as depraved as they were, at least had the excuse that they were operating under the influence of chemicals. Mike was just plain crazy crazy and cruel. He had been the hardest to fool.

  At some point of that awful night, she didn't know what time it was, she had lost all track of time, she just went limp. Some animal instinct told her to feign sleep. When Crazy Mike shoved the steel tip of his motorcycle between her naked legs, she remained impassive. She willed her eyes closed and mouth slack. At length he gave up, and went back downstairs. That was when she overheard their final plans for her and knew she had to escape.

  ***

  The voices inside the clubhouse reached a crescendo, led by their president. She read it as an announcement of the end of their halftime festivities before the conclusion of the big game. The game she didn't want to be in. Her hands shook as she labored over the motorcycles she could reach. Now she was certain that the meeting was breaking up. They were coming back outside to finish what they had started. Sounds of doors closing and boots clomping against the wooden floor of the clubhouse signaled their imminent arrival. Soon the door would open and they would pour out. Primed by wine and speed to do whatever their leader had convinced them they must do for the sake of the group.

  The other biker returned first, the one they called Ugly Bud. She scooted back to the position where he had left her. She put her hands behind her back as if she were still bound by the cuffs, but now her hand clutched the serrated steak knife she had stolen from the restaurant.

  He bent over her and she tensed herself to strike out at him, hiding her time till he got closer. Then he looked over and noticed the massacred motorcycles. Coil wires were severed, tires flattened, and ignition switches ripped out. Gas poured from open pet cocks and fork marks waved through custom paint jobs. "Oh, shit," he said as the rest of the pack approached.

  25

  CRAZY MIKE REACHED THEM FIRST AND TOOK IN the scene. "I told you to watch her," he said to Ugly Bud. Without looking at Munch, he sent her to the ground with a violent backhand slap. The heavy rings he wore cut through her cheek and broke open a two-inch gash along the bone. She fell back, unable to maintain her balance with her ankle manacled and her hands behind her. He kicked her once in the side of her head and she was still.

  Ugly Bud grabbed his arm and pulled him back before Crazy Mike could deliver a second kick. "I only left for a minute," he said. "I had to take a piss."

  Crazy Mike pulled a gun from the pocket of his motorcycle jacket. "Did you get shy all of a sudden? Why didn't you just piss r
ight here?"

  "Shit, I don't know, man. Habit, I guess. Hey, I'm sorry about the bikes. I'll pay for them, okay?"

  Mike approached with the gun, a large revolver. He cocked the pistol and brought it to Ugly Bud's temple. "Are you a cop, man?" he asked.

  "What do you mean, am I a cop?" Sweat trickled down his face. He forced a laugh. "What are you, nuts, man?"

  Mike pulled the trigger and stepped back as the body crumpled to the ground. "Wrong answer, man. Stinky pulled at Mikes sleeve. "We better get out of here, dude."

  Crazy Mike swung around to the other bikers.

  "Everybody double up." He wrapped the chain he used to lock up his bike around the dead DEA agents ankles and then tied the other end to a loop welded to the back strut of his bike. He started his bike with one kick and put it in gear. "I'll dump the body and meet you guys in Topanga Canyon."

  "What about her?" Stinky asked, pointing towards Munch.

  "She'll ride with me," he said. "I've got special plans for her. Undo her ankle." He reached down and grabbed her by the back of her jacket. With one heave, he pulled her limp body across his lap. Wary of the gun still clutched in Crazy Mikes hand, Stinky said, "I don't know about this. Maybe we should all lay low for a while."

  "Yeah," another biker added, "it's too hot. I'm gonna split for a while."

  Mike turned on the second speaker. "Soldier, you will follow orders."

  "What the fuck you talking about?" the man said. "I'm out of here."

  Crazy Mike drew down on him. "We will have no more deserters. This man"—he motioned to the body of Ugly Bud—"aided and abetted the enemy He had to be punished."

  In an ever-widening circle, the other bikers began to back away Foamy spittle hung on the corners of their leaders mouth, and a maniacal light filled his eyes. It was his laugh that chilled their blood. When he threw his head back and opened his mouth, a wild disjointed howl issued forth.

  "Charge!" he yelled and took off towards the swamp.

  They watched him go and shook their heads.

  "The guy is wacked," Stinky said. "I feel a long ride coming on." The other bikers murmured in assent and headed for the road that led to the freeway.

  ***

  Mace's radio crackled. The dispatcher informed him that he was being patched through to Bob Marshall.

  It looks like our cases crossed," Bob said.

  "Have you heard from your operative?"

  "He called five minutes ago from the Satan's Pride clubhouse. Meet me there. He said they kidnapped some girl and thinks something big is about to go down."

  "Where's the clubhouse?

  Bob gave him hurried directions.

  Cassiletti had been at the station when Mace first called and hitched a ride over with the backup units dispatched to help. He brought with him the teletype from Nan. Mace threw it in the back seat and briefed Cassiletti on the kidnapping. They walked around to the trunk and grabbed their Kevlar vests. While they strapped them on, a helmeted officer issued them shotguns. When the call a had come in of a hostage situation combined with Officer Needs Assistance, the Special Operations Bureau was notified. The lieutenant in charge of SOB now set up a command center and deployed his teams of SWAT sharpshooters. He had also brought a hostage negotiator. The lieutenant briefed his men that the suspects were armed and

  extremely dangerous. Within eighteen minutes of the undercover DEA agent's first call, twelve cars of police were on the scene. Ernie arrived in an unmarked Ford. Helicopters were dispatched and local ham radio enthusiasts tuned to police frequencies learned that something big was underway.

  When the officers arrived at the clubhouse, they all found the same thing. Disabled motorcycles, puddles of oil and gasoline, and a smear of bloody mud ending in a trail of swept dirt. No bikers, no hostage, no agent.

  Mace bent down and studied the blood in the. He glanced up and tracked the swept ground.

  The trail pointed towards a thick patch of bamboo. The helicopter radioed that they spotted a single male on a motorcycle, dragging something that looked like a body.

  Mike dragged the carcass of the dead man towards the cover of the bush. The bike fishtailed the sand, and to maintain control Crazy Mike forced to grab the handlebars with both hands. Munch's body fell to the ground. She regained consciousness as the body of Ugly Bud dragged past her. She struggled to her feet and began loping away. Behind her, Crazy Mike grunted as he rolled the body to a spot where it would be concealed.

  The sound of incoming choppers galvanized him. He undid the chain attached to the back of his motorcycle and left it with the body. It was time to retrieve his prisoner and get back to friendly territory He restarted his motorcycle, planted a boot in the ground, and executed a quick turn. It took only seconds to reach the girl. He grabbed her by the scruff of her coat and pulled her onto his lap.

  The wheels of the police cars bogged down in the sand and the officers approached on foot, squatting for cover behind sparse trees. The helicopter hovered overhead, and a sharpshooter leaned out through its open cockpit.

  The dust behind the motorcycle rose like a small hurricane as the knobby rear tire found traction. Heavy with sand, the cloud settled quickly A gale-force wind, created by the whirling blades of the helicopter, flattened the bamboo and the body became visible. The dead man lay there face up. The toes of his Frye boots pointed skyward and his untucked shirt filled like a sail that blew up around his chest. The eyes of the body were opened in shock; half the forehead was missing and caked with dirt and sand. The helicopters spotlight swept the scene.

  Bob Marshall, recognizing his man, spoke into the microphone clipped to the collar of his windbreaker. "Officer down."

  Over the sound of the motorcycles engine and helicopters blades, there was a click as nine shot-gun breeches cocked.

  The movement of Munch's head as it swung around caused the assembled police to pause. In that moment of hesitation, Crazy Mike seized the opportunity to head out for the maze of trees and buildings to the east of the wetlands. If he could make it to the warehouses and hangars, he would have a chance to escape. He threw his head back in a final laugh and pointed his chopper eastward. Crazy Mike headed for a bike trail that wound through a grove of willows. He shifted to fourth gear and the bike lurched forward.

  He had just reached the beginning of the trail when his engine sputtered the first time. He gave the throttle a desperate twist, but it didn't help. The front cylinder quit firing; a second later its rear twin followed suit. He stared down at the motor in disbelief, then hit his brakes. With twenty feet left to go, he made a quick tactical decision to abandon his prisoner and continue on foot. He ran ten feet before the first bullet entered his body just below the Prez patch. He didn't go down. It was as if some part of his brain refused to register that it was time to lay down and die. A deafening barrage of bullets followed, shotguns, assault rifles, and .38 Specials. He ran five more feet before the gates of Hell opened to him and welcomed him home.

  There were a few more sharp cracks. The sand around Munch kicked up.

  "Cease fire," was called out.

  Mace dropped his still cool shotgun and wondered why he hadn't fired. That question, he decided, he would deal with later. His more immediate concern lay curled in a fetal position on the road ahead of him. He reached her first and knelt beside her. Gently he pried her open from the tight ball she had drawn herself into. Working carefully he pulled down the arms that covered her head and encouraged her to relax her knees from her chest. Someone handed him a flashlight, and he searched her for signs of bleeding.

  "It's okay" he told her as he worked over her.

  "It's over. He's dead."

  "I'm all right," she said, coming to a sitting position. "Got a cigarette?"

  He got her a smoke but had to hold her hand still to get it lit.

  "I'm sorry" He brushed the dirt from her hair. "It wasn't supposed to go down like this."

  She nodded at his words, wide-eyed, and looked around her lik
e she had just arrived on the planet. He shined his flashlight in her eyes. Was one pupil larger than the other? Bright red blood leaked to her shirt from a wound on her cheek. Something glinted below her collar and caught his eye. He picked it up and held it in his fingers. It was a St. Jude medal.

  "Did you get religion since I saw you last?"

  She turned to him. He thought he saw recognition there.

  "I guess I did."

  "It was a miracle that his bike quit when it did."

  She pulled an empty sugar dispenser from her pocket and smiled almost shyly: "Sometimes He likes a little help."

  "What else you got in there?" He reached into her pocket. "Do you mind?"

  She shrugged.

  He pulled out some crumpled papers, a motel key a vial of pills, standard fare.

  "Antibiotics," she said.

  He studied the bottle. The label said, "Daisy Signman, Ampicillin, take four times a day until all gone."

  "Don't worry" he told her, "I don't care about drugs."

  "I'm clean," she said, like it was important he know that.

  "Good for you."

  "Yeah," she said. "So far it's been a fucking picnic."

  "We better get that cut taken care of. You're going to need stitches."

  She was shaking violently now, having trouble finding her mouth with the cigarette. He held it to her lips and she took a grateful drag. "But you wanted to know—"

  He wrapped his arms around her protectively and helped her to her feet. He noticed the handcuffs around her wrist. "Somebody give me a key," he yelled behind him. "Hospital first, then we'll talk. You can tell me all about Crazy Mike."

  "And the guy I got the gun from."

  "Yeah, later." Poor kid, that knock to the head had sent her to queer street. He guided her to the waiting car.

  Cassiletti joined him and produced a fresh pair of handcuffs. Mace waved them aside. "We won't need those." He put her in the back of the car and got in beside her. "You drive," he told his partner.