Three of A Kind

I looked out at the team area. All four desks were neat, tidy, and unoccupied. Three agents were on investigations and one in advanced training. I returned to wading through three inches of paperwork piled on top of my desk like dust. My resolve to wade through the paperwork was shattered by a call from my old partner, P.T. He was on his way to the Asheville District Office to meet with me. I asked what about and he said he’d explain when he saw me. Whatever was next would not be boring; that much I knew.

              There was no use trying to get at the paperwork. I began thinking back to earlier days.

P.T. and I became friends in the North Carolina State Bureau of Investigation Academy ten years ago. It was a strenuous 12 weeks of learning how to become investigators and SBI Agents. Upon graduation, P.T. and I became partners. It’s hard to put a fitting description of the term “partner” as it pertains to people who go in harm’s way together. We were closer than blood kin. This closeness was forged by surviving gun fights, bad guys attempting to rob us, and in a couple of cases, trying to kill us, as well as some internal issues with management. Over the next several years, P.T. and I made cases, arrested dealers and suppliers, seized beaucoup evidence, and fancy cars. We slowly developed skills in historical conspiracy cases and even homicide investigations.

In the early part of his career, P.T. was known by his real name, Ron. I had already been given the moniker of Bear because of my long brown hair and bushy beard. Ron simply received no nick name. He had light brown hair, hazel eyes, and a perpetual tan. I looked like a fugitive from the deepest part of the Smokies and he was the epitome of the country club set.

On one Wednesday afternoon, a confidential source told us about a biker named Brick, who was a Nomad for the Outlaws. He was looking to sell some meth and was only in town for a few days. We needed to get moving if we wanted to snag him.

              The source told us Brick was about 6’6”, long red hair and beard, and weighed around 300 pounds. He was a giant modern-day Viking. We contacted SBI Intelligence in HQ and they spent about an hour digging up background on the guy. He had a record that was similar to other bikers: drug possession, drug dealing, assault, and he particularly didn’t like cops.

              We arranged to meet him in a strip mall parking lot around noon. He was riding a red Harley Soft Tail. After introductions, Brick agreed to do business with us but didn’t want our source present. That was perfect for us.

              The deal was set up for the next afternoon at a low-cost motel on the outskirts of Asheville. It had only hourly customers who wanted nothing to do with lingering and lurking. Brick’s plan was to skedaddle with the money as soon as the buy was over.

              The deal went as most dope deals did. I was in the room alone when Brick knocked. I let him in. He looked around and sniffed the air. He turned his nose up to the mixture of mold and Lysol spray.

              “Hey man, you’ll get used to it in a minute or two,” I said, grinning.

              He looked at me and scowled. “Won’t be here long enough for it to matter. Where’s the money?”

              I smiled. “As they say, this ain’t my first rodeo Roy Rogers. Let me see the product then I get my man to bring the cash in here.” He scowled again but turned and walked to his Harley that was in the lot just across from P.T.s car. He opened up a saddle bag, looked around and saw Ron in his Porsche. He stared for a minute, bent over the saddlebag. Then he stood up, holding a small gym bag that obviously had something of weight in it. He stared at Ron for a few seconds, turned, and walked to the motel room. He knocked. I opened the door and let him in. I checked the contents and went to the door, waved, and Ron walked to the room. He came inside and put the paper bag with the money on one of the beds, barely looking at Brick. Ron left and went back to the parking lot. He was leaning against his Porche when the motel room door opened.

              The open door was Ron’s cue to get ready to approach the Harley as Ron got to it. Our plan was that Ron would arrest Brick while he counted the money at his bike. Bad guys tend to let their guard down when they believe there’s little chance of being ripped or busted. Counting large sums of money nearly always seemed to calm them down and divert their attention. Ron was going to ID himself as an SBI Agent/police officer and by that time I’d be close enough to help. Who said, “You can have a great fight plan but the first time you get hit in the face it all changes?”

Before I could get to the steps leading down to the parking lot Ron pulled his badge from under his flannel shirt and let it dangle by its gold chain. The badge fell perfectly across his chest. Brick growled, then howled, then grabbed for Ron. As I got to the steps going down to the parking lot I watched Ron grab Brick’s beard in both hands, yank hard downward, and then fall to the side pulling the big man with him. Brick’s howl became a scream as he grabbed at his beard. When Brick and Ron hit the asphalt the biker was yelling all kinds of cuss words. Then all the yelling abruptly stopped. I watched my partner and listened as he calmly, but through clenched teeth, talked to the biker. Ron and the biker were on the ground face to face on their sides.

              “Here’s the thing big man. Either you relax and act like a real-life bad guy, not some screaming moron, or I’m going to pull the trigger on this here .38 derringer and blow your sinuses all over the parking lot. We’re the POleece and you’re busted.” Brick looked down and then felt the barrels of a derringer go up his nostril.

              He tried to nod his head but that motion just made the derringer go a bit deeper up his nose. He finally relented and went limp. We stood the biker up and used two sets of cuffs to get him properly cuffed.

              Brick looked at us, from side to side, then energetically said, “That’s the plainest talking cop I ever saw! No B.S. just plain talk!”

              From that day forward my partner was P.T. He even had his creds changed to P.T. The Boss started calling him P.T. Usually informants or fellow narcs bestow a moniker but Brick, the Outlaw, gave P.T. his!

              I was standing by my desk knocking out my pipe in the trashcan when P.T. walked in. Both of us had declined to seek supervisory jobs that would take us off the street. Each of us oversaw a small team of senior investigators and still worked cases. Our teams were assigned some of the most difficult cases the Bureau had. It was heaven.            

              “Que pasa,” P.T. inquired, as he strolled up to my desk. He stopped next to the desk, smiled, and picked up my coffee mug. He turned the coffee-stained mug all around and set it back on the desk. He nodded, as much to himself as me.

              “Wonder why people have to send messages or show off vacations with their coffee mugs?” he asked.

              “Shoot, P.T. We’d do the same if we ever went on a vacation.”

              “True,” he nodded and smiled.

               “Coffee maker where it used to be?” He turned and went in that direction. When P.T. returned, he had a fresh coffee for himself and one for me. Mine was in a brand new, sparkling, plain white porcelain mug.

              “I thought it was time to throw that relic out and get a new one. This one’s even a couple of ounces bigger.” P.T. smiled as he put it on my desk.

              “Well, guess it is.” I picked up the old mug and threw it in the trash. I took a sip and set the new one down on the desk. “O.K. brother; what’s up?”

              “Do you remember Tommy D.?”

              “Sure,” I said. “He’s been a Bureau source for over a decade. Been one of yours for what? Five or six of those? What about him?”

              “He got himself snatched off the street last week. The mutts that picked him up would have killed him if it had been anyone else. He was tied up using some kind of flex cuffs and they just didn’t realize who they had. He eventually broke the flex cuffs and busted up their little party. Then he ran out the door and stole one of their Ram pickups. He got to a phone and called me.” P.T. took a swig of coffee and looked out the office window for a few seconds.

              “We went right over and arrested all but two of those so-called tough guys. But the two that got away actually were pretty bad. Combination of attempted murder, armed robbery, felony assault, and dope charges make up their background. Smarter than the others too. As soon as Tommy split they were gone. But we caught one of them the next morning in a hot sheets motel over near Statesville. SRT knocked, announced they were the police with a warrant, then kicked the door in. That old boy suddenly got stupid and went for a sawed off. You know what they say, ‘bad choices have bad results.’ The first Special Response Team agent through the door saw what the bad guy intended. Stopped the progress of his intent. We called an ambulance, medical examiner, shoot team, and did the paperwork. Bad guy- zero, cops- one.”

              “Well that’s good work P.T. That other guy, the last one on the run, must be in California by now. News travels fast if you’re hooked up to the crook pipeline.”

              He nodded, then shrugged. “Tommy started tracking the guy down through biker bars and hookers. He lost his track out in Andrews. His name is Quentin Allen Pitts. He goes by Jethro and he’s supposed to be an Outlaw.” P.T. took a sip of coffee.

              “Son, that’s a lot of mountains and woods out there. Why would this mutt go way out to the hinterlands, especially an Outlaw?”

              P.T. took another sip and nodded. “Yeah that’s what I thought. Then doing a deeper dive on this guy we found he used to live with a grandmother in, of all places, Granny Squirrel. That’s where he was living when he enlisted in the Marines. That’s where he came back to when they kicked his butt out for stealing.”

              “Any idea how he got picked up by the bikers?”

              P.T. nodded, “He met a trio of the nasty boys while he was inside the Department of Correction doing a bit for drug possession. Liked what they were about and became a Prospect then a patched in member in the Charlotte Chapter. All of this association with bad guys with bad attitudes just compounded his criminal abilities.”

              I thought for a minute and sat back down, signaling P.T. to do the same. I picked up the phone and dialed the SAC’s extension.

              “Boss, I think I need to borrow an agent for a few days. Yeah, P.T.’s here and we need to locate one of his fugitives that may be out in Cherokee County.” I listened while the boss rifled through some papers. I knew he was stalling while he thought this through because I sometimes used the same tactic.

              Finally he gave his permission and told me he’d take care of informing her immediate supervisor. He sent his regards to P.T. and I stood up.

              “Let’s get a move on buddy. We’ve got a bit of a ride ahead of us. Boss says hello by the way.”

              P.T. nodded and grinned. He didn’t say anything till we got in the car.

              “Who’s this agent and are we going to give him a heads up about needing to meet?” P.T. asked.

              “We’ll give her a call on the radio when we get to Clay County.” I looked at him and smiled. “Her name’s Debbie Montgomery and she’s been with us for three or four years. Before that, Mitchell County Sheriff’s Office and before that, App. State. Majored in physics and biology. Don’t recall the minor. Her dad was a Highway Patrolman in Mitchell before he got shot and killed by some drunk he’d pulled over. And before you ask, she’s the real deal. As soon as she has another year under her belt, I’m poaching her for my team.”

              P.T. sipped on his coffee, lost in thought as we rode past Sylva, crossed Cowee Mountain, and then past Franklin. We climbed Winding Stairs Gap and at the top I called for Montgomery on the Bureau radio. She agreed to meet at a small park just off U.S. 64 east of Hayesville.

              We arrived first , got out of the car, and stretched. In a few minutes, Montgomery pulled in beside us and waved. She stepped out of her car, walked over to a picnic table, and sat down across from us. She, like most agents, knew of P.T. They exchanged a few pleasantries then she wanted to know the reason for the meet up. P.T. gave her the Reader’s Digest version. She stared out at the highway for a few minutes. I think she was deciding whether to help or plead being too busy. Finally she asked the guy’s name.

              “His name is Quinten Allen Pitts. But he goes by…”

              “He goes by Jethro.” Agent Montgomery said, interrupting P.T.

              “Should go by weasel or skunk.” Montgomery shook her head. “He’s a nasty, ill tempered, piece of garbage.”

              I looked at her and then at P.T. He had the biggest smile of his face. “Well, Special Agent Montgomery, can you help us cage this gentle soul?”

              She looked at me and said, “Am I cleared to miss some report deadlines on open investigations? My ASAC know about all of this?”

              “You are cleared and the Boss said he’d inform your immediate boss. You’re good to go for about a week.”

              “O.K. There’s a source over the next ridge who dislikes good old Jethro about as bad as anybody. Let me see what they’ll tell me.” With that she got up, walked to her car, and drove away.

              We sat there in silence for a few minutes and P.T. shook his head, turned to me, and asked. “How tough is she anyway?”

I grinned and answered, “She’s the toughest five feet four inches you’ll ever see.”

 “You ever worked with her before?” P.T. was still watching Debbie’s car as it crested a hill and went out of sight.

              “Yessir and she has the best grasp of what’s going on in the criminal world in her area than any other copper out here.”

              He looked at me with a grin. “She remind you of anyone?”

              “Maybe.” Now I was grinning too. We each recalled years ago when we were young briar patch agents like Debbie.

“Expect we’ll be here for a while longer?” P.T. asked.

              “No clue. Over the next ridge isn’t a precise distance. It’s more of a direction. But I’d say we could go up the road just a bit where there’s another diner but this one has exceptional coffee,” I said.

              P.T. sat up a bit straighter. “Exceptional coffee?”

              “Well, it’s usually hot.” I shrugged and started the car.

              We rode in silence for the 10-mile trip, parked the car, and went in together. One of the waitresses knew me pretty well. We used to date a bit. Her name is Sara and she’s a looker.

Standing at the back door in the kitchen area I could see, clearly and surprisingly, Sara. She was in deep conversation with our on loan SBI Agent. Debbie was the first to spot us and turned so that Sara’s back was toward us. Debbie never broke stride. Whatever she was saying to Sara was intense. Then we could see Sara’s posture relax and Debbie’s smile returned. Both women walked out of the kitchen into the main part of the diner.

              Sara looked over her diners then saw me and P.T. standing at the entrance. She first smiled then her shoulders slumped. She turned and rushed into the Ladies Room.

              Debbie walked over and told us to get a booth. She went to the Ladies Room door and said something. The door cracked open and Sara walked out. They talked again for a few minutes before Sara went out the back door without looking toward the front of the diner.

              Debbie walked past our booth and then behind the counter. She grabbed three white porcelain coffee mugs, a full pot of coffee, and a wad of paper towels. At the table she made a hot mat out of the towels, poured three cups of coffee, and sat down.

              What I love about diners could fill an encyclopedia but right now I was focused on Debbie. She was looking straight into my eyes with a slightly discernable grin. P.T. cleared his throat and sipped some coffee.

              “Coffee tastes pretty good. You have a side hustle waiting tables Special Agent?” P.T. asked.

              I looked at P.T. and now he was grinning, openly. I shook my head and sipped the coffee. “It’s hot too,” I said.

              P.T. slowly waved his mug between Debbie and me, “It’s like this, boys and girls. I know something’s not quite kosher here. I know that you two know what that is. And being an inquisitive person, I want to know too.” He looked at each of us and motioned “come on” with his free hand.

              I shrugged. “I don’t know what exactly to say here P.T.. It looks like Debbie’s source was that waitress who just left in a hurry. That about right Debbie?”

              “Oh yeah. That’s about right. There might be a bit of a back story but Sara, the woman who left in a hurry, is one of my sources.” Debbie looked at me and added, “Any part of the back story you want to add?”

              I declined with a short shake of my head.

              Debbie looked at P.T. and asked if we could please get on with business. He nodded. She looked at me and I also nodded.

              Debbie continued, “Sara started dating Jethro about three months ago. He was a nice guy at first then started beating on her. Her two brothers took umbrage with his actions and beat the crap out of him. They left him with a warning to leave their sister be or he’d wind up in a mine shaft. At first the boy let Sara be. But in a few weeks he started following her, coming in here, and staying all day, parking outside her house. Well, the brothers had a second meet up with Jethro and he got another dose of close attention and an attempt at remediation of current conditions. Sara’s older brother did some digging around and uncovered troubling facts about Jethro. How he determined that Jethro became a Prospect under the tutelage of an Outlaw who is now both the top boss nationwide for the club and is currently in federal prison is a mystery. That biker’s in the Walls at Big Sandy Federal Penitentiary, Kentucky. Then the brother found out Jethro had become an issue for the club and especially his mentor.

              P.T. stared out the café window into the parking lot. He fiddled with his coffee mug but said nothing. I got up and went to get fresh coffee, taking the pot with me. When I sat back down, P.T. was grinning.

              I looked at Debbie and then at P.T. “We’re going to Big Sandy aren’t we?” I asked.

              “Well of course we are. But Debbie needs to stay here and get with Bureau Intelligence. We need to identify the Outlaw’s national president and have some background on that guy. It won’t do to get there and have to rely on a corrections officer to tell us who we’d like to talk with.”

              Debbie put her hand up in a “wait just a minute” motion. She got up from the booth and went down the short hallway and past the restrooms. She ducked into a room just before the back door. In ten minutes she was out with a piece of paper in her hand. She sat down and handed the paper to me.

              “That’s the guy’s name and BOP (Bureau of Prisons) ID number.”

              I read the name and a big smile appeared. P.T. saw it and asked what was so blazing humorous.

              “Dude, we’re going to Big Sandy federal pen, up in Kentucky to see Brick!” I said as I stood up.

              “No way! That big goof ball is the Man for the Outlaws? Good Lord! There’s no way I’d of guessed that! The boss man…!” P.T. shook his head and grinned. “Well let’s get it on down the road. What’s he doing time for?”

              Debbie looked at the paperwork then back up at P.T. She smiled and said. “Continuing Criminal Enterprise, various conspiracy charges, RICO. No need to hurry. He’s gonna be there just a bit longer. Who’s Brick?”

              “Long story Debbie,” P.T. replied.

              We got on the road and drove to Harlan, Kentucky for the night.

              The next morning each of us had a quick sausage biscuit and a coffee, then hit the road. As we were driving, we decided P.T. should be the lead in this interview.

              We pulled in the parking lot and went into the admin building to see if Brick was in the medium custody unit or inside the Walls. After putting our pistols and pocketknives in a locked box in the sallyport office, we asked about Brick. He was in the Walls, so I asked if they could bring him to an interview room in the medium custody camp. The first C.O. (Corrections Officer) we encountered said we’d have to go inside the main prison to talk to Brick. There were lots of reasons I didn’t want to do that and asked for a supervisor. After identifying ourselves and explaining that we wanted to cause as few problems for the inmate as we could, we were shown to an interview room in the admin building and sat down to wait.

              After a few minutes, the door opened and in walked our guy. He wore handcuffs and khaki pants with a khaki button-up shirt over a white t-shirt. He stopped just inside the door as it closed behind him. At first he had a nasty look about him and suddenly it broke and he walked across the room to the table we were using. He sat down and shook his head. He was older now, of course, but it wasn’t just age. He stood taller, his muscles were more defined, and he had a bunch of tats that weren’t there last time we saw him. These tattoos weren’t typical prison stuff. They were well done, colorful, and some were new. He definitely had some juice now.

              “Holy Hell! They told me someone was here to talk to me but there’s no way I ever expected you two. You know before you guys got me I was small potatoes. I had a rap sheet with the usual biker stuff but after you guys got me I climbed the Outlaw ladder by doing my time and keeping my mouth shut. Now look at me! Well maybe don’t look too close, with me doing life and all. But I’m a big man now even if I am inside.”

              Neither one of us knew what to say to that so we just nodded. He smiled and looked at both of us. Then he said, “Any chance of some coffee?”

              I said I’d go see. It couldn’t have worked out better. I left them to talk and found a coffee maker and a sports magazine in another office. I sat down to read for a few minutes. After a bit I got up, poured three coffees into Styrofoam cups, and managed to carry them back to the interview room. I could hear laughing coming from the inside. When I opened the door and walked in, the two of them were yucking it up like old pals.

              I set the coffees down on the table, and asked, “So you guys catching up?”

              P.T. shrugged, “He wanted to know if I still carried the derringer. I told him it was my American Express card; I never leave home without it.”

              The two of them laughed like Ron White had just told a joke. I took another sip and smiled.

              I looked at P.T. and he said we probably should go. We didn’t want to keep Brick in there too long. Guards talked to inmates and inmates talked to inmates. The prison grapevine was a real item. If we spent a small amount of time with Brick he could make up some story and say he told us to leave unless his lawyer was present. We shook hands and called for a guard to come escort him back to the Walls.

              Neither of us spoke until we were in the car. P.T. was first. “He said he’d give us Jethro but he wanted to put this favor on the books so to speak. Doesn’t need anything right now but will in the near future. I told him as long as murder, mayhem, and other similar nasty business wasn’t involved that we were in. Then I asked him the real, actual reason he would give up an Outlaw. He actually grinned at me and asked, ‘You mean the honest reason?’ I nearly spit my coffee on the floor.”

              “He told me that Jethro was a personal disappointment to him and he felt he needed to try to make things right with the club. The boy wasn’t just stealing; he set up a meth lab and is using one of the club’s cooks. He didn’t know the exact location but would get it to us in a day or so.”

              I nodded and told P.T. we’d just sit back and wait for a few days to see what happened. We stopped to make a call to Debbie and bring her up to speed. After gassing the car we continued back to North Carolina.

              Sure enough, on the third day I received a collect call from Big Sandy. Brick told me the lab was near Canton and gave a location. He said Jethro had picked a spot that he could defend with ease. I asked what he meant. Brick told me and laughed. He added, “Remember the tip ain’t free.”

              I called P.T., told him where the lab was located and asked if he could get with Debbie to take some pictures and gather some intel. He agreed. Both of them came to the office a couple of hours later. P.T. said the crime scene agent was working on the pictures in the District photo lab. Debbie put a sketch of the immediate area of the lab on my desk. She folded her arms and took a step back.

              “This is going to be a bitch Boss,” she said with a frown.

              P.T. and I looked at the map she’d drawn. It wasn’t a sketch. It was nearly a to-scale drawing. She was correct. If Jethro was in the house and wouldn’t leave so we could take him on the road, it was going to be a tough nut to crack. Then there was the lab. We needed to get a warrant to search the place.

              The house was a white clapboard two-story house. It was in decent shape for its age. Debbie found records in the Register of Deeds office that put the age of the place at 78 years. It sat at the very top of a hill with a long-paved road in front. The road rose to a pinnacle from right and left in front of our target. Across the road was a flat field that had been corn earlier in the year. It was all cut down now. Immediately behind this place was about a hundred feet of grass with no trees and an odd azalea with scattered low growing shrubs on the edges. At the end and sides of the yard was a chain-link fence that stood about 5 feet high. Past the fence were scrub bushes then a pine woods. It had nearly a 360-degree view of everything below it. I looked at P.T. At the same time we all three said “SRT.”

              These agents had specialized training in woods craft, high risk building entry, hostage recovery, and all the rest expected of a unit akin to SWAT. But they also excelled at static surveillances.

              The SRT team leader came over, looked at our map, and talked to Debbie. He said he’d put a couple of two-man surveillance teams on the house for a few days to see if they could identify anybody coming and going. They would take no enforcement action, just watch, take pictures, and notes. After a few days he’d get back with me and see if they got what we needed.

              After three days SRT gave us a list of vehicles that had visited the house. The information also included photographs of each one and of people who visited or lived at the house. However, they hadn’t seen Jethro.

The vehicles didn’t stay long on the property. Each time someone from the house came to the car or truck, talked to the occupants, and then went back inside. A few minutes later, returned carrying a package which they gave to someone in the vehicle. Most times whoever was in the car gave something to the person from the house, and then the car left.

              We still needed to know if Jethro was in residence and if the meth lab was in operation. We sat around for an hour or so drinking coffee and throwing out ideas. Debbie’s were as good as mine or P.T.s but we just couldn’t get a good enough idea to pop out.

              We all got quiet. I stared off into space. P.T. sat there with his head back and his eyes closed. Debbie was doodling on a piece of typing paper. After ten minutes or so she sat up straight and said she thought she had a good idea.

              “This Jethro dude doesn’t like us women too much? A Neanderthal?” she asked.

We nodded.

              “Let’s send a marked unit there to answer a bogus call of some sort. I’ve got just the deputy to help. I’ll go with her and we’ll get an ID of the mutt if he’s there,” Debbie said with a slight grin.

              The next day Debbie wore a deputy uniform and partnered up with the woman deputy she told us about. P.T. and I took a position in the underbrush across the road from the front of the house. Another agent placed a vicious dog complaint to the Sheriff’s Office comm center. Debbie and the other deputy were dispatched.

              P.T. and I watched as the two women drove up and got out of the patrol car. We really couldn’t hear much at first. Then somebody inside stared yelling about cops getting off of his property. Jethro stepped onto the porch and added, “Unless you wanna come inside and party.” He gave a nasty leer.

              The real deputy replied loud enough for everyone on the porch and in the front room of the house to hear. “Dude if I come in there to party I’ll be bringing cuffs…” She paused and Jethro started to say something but the deputy beat him to it. “If I come in there with cuffs I’ll be draggin’ your butt out the door if I have to do it by your heels.” She turned and with Debbie began walking to the patrol car.

              The biker got all huffy and started to come off the porch but stopped when Debbie turned around and said, “We came here because of a citizen complaint. We can leave and radio it was unfounded or you can keep jackin’ that jaw and getting all wired up and we’ll be calling in that we have one in custody. Whatcha wanna do bud?”

              One of the men on the porch grabbed Jethro by his arm and they all went in the house and slammed the front door. That action caused a rush of air from inside the house to exhale outside. At the short debrief of the two women cops, the deputy said when the door slammed, she smelled cat urine. Debbie said she smelled something too. That cat urine smell was also a methamphetamine clan lab odor. With the odor, the other information, and the presence of Jethro we had enough for a search warrant. We started forming a plan.

              I typed the search warrant and affidavit. P.T. went looking for a judge this late in the day. We always used Superior Court judges mostly because they really paid attention to the issuing process and because a state warrant signed by a Superior Court judge could be used in federal court. We really wanted this lab charge to go federal. The cooker, any dealers on site, and Jethro would be exposed to longer potential sentences if convicted.

Now we needed a way to get to the top of that hill where the house sat without spooking the people inside. I was scratching my head until Debbie proclaimed that she had it. I listened and agreed. P.T. said he had a judge and would meet her at her house later in the evening.

              Debbie typed up a list of agents we were going to need and notified SRT. Then Debbie began a list of locals we could trust not to gossip about the impending raid. I placed a call to the SBI’s Clan Lab boss and told her what we were going to do. She said she was coming with her group this time. “This is something I gotta see.”            

When Debbie left the room for a minute, P.T. looked at me and said, “That woman is a dangerous soul...a throwback to earlier times.” I nodded in agreement just as Debbie walked back in.

“What’s up you two?” she asked. “You have a pretty guilty look going on here.”

We told her she was mistaken and it was just us old guys thinking about younger days. She looked from one of us to the other and snorted, “Old guys my ass.” Then she went back to writing.

The next morning at 4:00 AM sharp, the three of us set up the raid and it’s components. P.T. gave a synopsis of the probable cause. Debbie provided the job assignments. I informed the group that these were serious bad guys. Surveillance allowed us to identify four members of the Outlaws and a couple of Klan mopes. We wanted a simple no use of force arrest and search. But we also wanted Cop Rule 1 to be fully in force: Everybody goes home! As the cops and agents broke into smaller teams P.T., Debbie, and I walked over to where the SRT agents were kitting up.

When the Team Leader looked up he grinned and asked. “How exactly are we going to do a rapid assault on a house at the top of a hill that has a 360-degree view of its surroundings?” He stopped stuffing extra mags in his vest.

I smiled, “We wondered the same thing but Debbie,” I motioned for her to come over, “had an idea and when P.T. and I heard it we had two thoughts. It was a genius plan and she was old time agent devious. Debbie, brief him on the details of what his team is getting ready to do.”

“I tried to figure out how we could rapidly conduct this raid without a bunch of people getting hurt. There was no way to get the raid team to the house unseen. So we needed to use a direct approach.” Debbie was tracing the road in front of the target house with her index finger.

The SRT agents nodded their heads. After hearing the complete plan they were smiling. SRT loves this kind of operation.

We did one last run through and allowed everyone to see all that were going on the raid. One of my concerns was ensuring none of the SRT agents got shot by one of the locals. SRT was kitted up in blue utilities, at least the ones who would actively go on the raid. The other SRT members going on the raid wore green camo and the sniper teams, Ghillie suits. I hoped no one would even see these agents and wouldn’t, unless runners made it to the woods. But I wanted it known there were other agents out there.

Debbie stepped in front of the convoy that she had assembled. Just like a starter with a checkered flag at a NASCAR race and with a big smile, she waved an SBI raid cap and shouted, “Move out!”

We watched the convoy slowly pick up speed and couldn’t help but smile. These crooks were going to have a really bad day in a few short minutes.

As we watched from behind, a string of three emergency vehicles picked up speed with flashing red lights and sirens squalling. They were headed to target house at the top of the hill, and I couldn’t help but wonder when natural human curiosity would turn to panic at the house. The lead vehicle, a fire truck, was followed by an ambulance, and a second fire truck. Each vehicle turned into the driveway that ran to the front of the house. The first fire truck pulled a car length past the front door and stopped. In turn, each of the others did the same. All the occupants of the house were now either in the front yard or on the front porch...gawking.

As soon as all three emergency vehicles stopped, SRT agents poured from them. Over the loudspeaker, a voice announced they were police with a search warrant and ordered everyone to come out to the yard and assume a prone position. Bad guys went running in all directions. It was pandemonium. Bad guys ran into other bad guys. Deputies and agents ran into bad guys. A few agents ran into deputies and vice versa. We watched as the cops slowly took control of the bedlam.

The sniper team watching the front of the house radioed that two males, one of them Jethro, came to the front porch when the emergency vehicles arrived. As the SRT agents started leaving the vehicles, the two males ran back inside. One went down what looked like basement stairs. Jethro went upstairs for a few minutes then came flying down and was running from room to room. He was holding a blue gym bag.

“What the heck is he up to?” I wondered aloud.

Debbie looked at me and she got a wicked grin on her face. “Watch my back. I think I know what that guy’s doing.” She took off at a sprint.

Suddenly the screen on a side window came flying into the yard. I saw a foot, then a leg, then the rest of Jethro trying to come out of the window but that bag wouldn’t fit through the window at the same time. I watched as he used both hands to throw the bag beside the house. Jethro followed the bag to the ground, picked it up, and started running. He had a look somewhere between panic and intense fear. His head was on a swivel and he was panting heavily and sweating. His red flannel shirt was open, revealing a stained dirty white wife-beater T-shirt underneath.

Jethro and Debbie had seen the same thing. The SRT agents, posted to watch that side of the house, were busy helping another team of agents wrestling with three or four runners. That left the side of the house open and the biker was planning on exploiting that gap. Debbie was sprinting toward him. As he moved, she adjusted so that she stayed at a 45-degree angle to him.

I started running toward Debbie, yelled for P.T. and pointing at the same time. P.T. looked at the scene developing and began running too. We needed to get to Jethro as soon as Debbie did.

Debbie had timed her pursuit perfectly. She dove feet first at Jethro’s legs. Her legs formed a kind of figure 4 which hit Jethro’s ankles. It reminded me of a tackle in soccer. She and the biker collided and immediately he was elbows over knees in the dirt. When he stopped rolling Debbie was sitting on Jethro’s chest. She told him he was under arrest. First he looked shocked, then he snarled, and muttered something I couldn’t hear. He began struggling, trying to buck her off of his chest. Like lightning in a bottle, Debbie put her right hand under her vest and came out with something shiny. She leaned in close to Jethro ’s face and I swear he turned as pale as any dead man I’ve ever seen. He stopped struggling by the time P.T. and I got there.

Panting and with our hands on our knees we just looked at the two of them. Jethro was on his back glaring at Debbie. She looked up at us with what the old timers called a “shit eating grin.” P.T. helped Debbie up and I rolled Jethro onto his stomach, did a quick search, and cuffed him. I radioed for a marked unit to come get him. While we waited for his ride, I opened the gym bag. I tipped the bag so Debbie could see all the packs of white powder it contained.

I zipped it back up and put it beside Debbie. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her put a nickel-plated derringer back under her vest. She looked up at me and winked.

Later that morning when most of the cops and agents had begun to go home, Debbie, P.T. and I were sitting on the bumper of the ambulance in the fire department. We were joking and drinking sodas. After a short silence I said, “Debbie after you got Jethro to the ground he started struggling to get up but he suddenly stopped. I saw the little gun you put under his nose but you were talking to him.”

P.T. was smiling and said, “Yeah I saw all that too. Did he ask you out or something?”

Debbie stood up and with a look of complete innocence said, “I told him that he was a big guy and he had scared me. Then I said, ‘Here’s the thing asshole. Either ease up and cooperate or I’m going to shove this little silver gun as far up your nose as I can get it and then I’m pulling the trigger. You guys want another soda?” Before we could manage to say no she walked away leaving P.T. and me staring at each other. After a few minutes of muted laughter, P.T. and I walked back to the police department. I used the captain’s office to make some calls and P.T. used another office to do the same.

In about an hour I was walking to my car when P.T. came out of the police department. He walked up and shook my hand. “Thanks for the help getting this guy.”

“Dude, it was like old times. We need to get the band back together more often.” I smiled.

P.T. looked toward the parking lot where Debbie was sorting out her trunk. There was gear piled everywhere but she had a couple of local cops offering help. He looked back at me, “You pissed off her SAC yet?”

I smiled and looked at my watch. “He should be getting the call from the Assistant Director any minute. I may have to stay away from the office for a week or two.”

P.T. nodded and said, “If you hadn’t called to get her put on your team, I was going to. But that young agent is scary and smart. You may have your hands full watching over that one.”

“Yeah. It’ll be just like us when we were young and pissing off bosses.” I smiled and turned toward the parking lot. P.T. yelled a goodbye to Debbie. I walked over to her.

“ Hey Bear. What makes you think I’d take a transfer to your team?” she asked. I briefly wondered how she know. I hadn’t told anyone except P.T.

“You’re starting to scare me just a bit. Maybe I better call Raleigh back and rescind that request. Who the heck told you about the transfer? I didn’t get permission till about fifteen minutes ago.” I was smiling as I said it. Debbie was just what the team needed.

I didn’t give her a chance to answer. As I walked to my car, over my shoulder I said, “You and I need to stay away from the District Office for a bit. The Boss is not going to be spreading rose petals right now.”

I got in my Bureau car and left to go home and get some sleep. I hoped Debbie would do the same. P.T. would get some coffee and drive home. As I started the car I wondered what was next.