Bluetick Revenge (28 page)

We were still wearing our ski masks. Scott swept Mongoose’s feet out from underneath him, and Mongoose landed on his side.
Then Scott kicked him in the ribs. Not hard, just enough to remind him that we were in charge. I didn’t feel good about what
we were doing, and I wanted to get it over with.

“Okay, Mongoose,” I said, “You’re miles from town. You’re outnumbered. You have no weapons. You’re totally dependent on us
for food and shelter. You can’t even go to the bathroom without asking. Now, as you can see, this is a big tent. We have enough
supplies for several weeks. And we’re going to stay here until we get the information we want from you.”

“What do you want?” he said.

“Let’s start with how Bugg told you to kill an ATF agent named Lowell last year and you hired a guy named Skull to do the
job.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. Scott kicked him in the ribs again and he curled up into a fetal position.

“That was the point after touchdown,” Scott said. “The next one is going to be the sixty-three-yard field goal.”

“This is illegal,” he said. “You’ll go to prison for this. Cops always go to prison when they step over the line.”

I looked at Scott and said, “He thinks we’re cops.”

Scott laughed and said, “We ain’t cops, Monte. The cops would be satisfied with a conviction and a prison sentence, even if
they never got a word out of you. You’d be in a nice warm prison cell, secure in the knowledge that you weren’t going to die
a horrible death at the hands of Bugg or some of your fellow bikers.”

“If we were cops,” I said, “you’d have the luxury of being able to remain silent to save your own life. But we’re not cops,
so if you don’t want to die a slow, painful death, tell us what we want to know. Then we’ll let you go and you can take your
chances with the Sons of Satan.”

My brother walked into the tent, still wearing his mask. Mongoose tensed up when he saw my brother’s build. “Got a nice fire
going,” Troy said. “I guess I’ll start dinner. If we’re going to be up all night torturing this dickhead, I want to make sure
I don’t get hungry in the middle of the night.”

We continued to ask questions about Skull, Lowell, and Bugg, and he continued to refuse to answer. After forty-five minutes
or so, my brother carried three aluminum plates into the tent. Each one boasted grilled salmon, garlic bread, fresh corn on
the cob, and a tomato-and-mozzarella salad. “Good job,” I said to Troy. “Let’s blindfold this guy so we don’t have to eat
with our masks on.”

Scott wrapped a kerchief around the man’s eyes and secured it with duct tape. Then we removed our masks.

“This is excellent,” Scott said. “On a cold night this really hits the spot.”

“You won’t be eating for a while,” I said to Mongoose. “Too bad, because it’s supposed to get down into the teens tonight.”

When we finished eating, Troy boiled some water on the camp stove and cleaned the dishes. Then the three of us stood around
the fire and allowed the heat to radiate through us. Mongoose was in the tent, covered with duct tape. None of us was entirely
comfortable with what we were doing, and I suspect we were each silently asking how far we were willing to go with it.

“I gotta take a shit,” Mongoose yelled from the tent.

“That was inevitable,” Scott said.

“Let him crap in his pants,” Troy said.

“Are you kidding? I don’t want that smell in our tent.”

“I’ve got an idea,” Scott said.

Scott went to the tent and led the blindfolded Mongoose out of it. Then he took a big log from our pile of firewood—it must
have weighed fifty pounds—and used duct tape to attach it to Mongoose’s leg. When that was done, he cut the tape that secured
Mongoose’s wrists, then handed him a roll of toilet paper and said, “Walk over there ten or fifteen yards. I don’t want you
doing it near our tent.”

Later that night, when it was time for bed, we unrolled our sleeping bags. “This is going to feel good,” Troy said. “I’d forgotten
how cold it can be in the mountains at night. I can’t wait to get into my sleeping bag.”

“Don’t get your hopes up, Monte,” I said. “You’re sleeping outside.” His wrists had already been taped together again. I led
him out of the tent and told him to lie down near the fire pit. “The fire has died down,” I said, “but you might live through
the night if you stay close to the coals.”

Back in the tent we waited. “We can’t let him die,” I said.

“We won’t,” Scott said. “We’ll check on him every so often, and put some blankets on top of him if we have to.”

He survived through the night, but in spite of the blankets he was shivering the next morning. He was still blindfolded and
still had the heavy log attached to his leg. I pulled him away from the fire pit, stirred up the ashes in it, and put more
wood in it. I poured Coleman fuel on the logs, then stood back and flicked a match. Instant campfire.

I made coffee and pancakes on the camp stove. “Good pancakes,” Troy said.

“You have to eat a lot of carbs in this environment,” Scott said.

“They say Lowell died in a place like this,” I said. “Alone and afraid.”

“What do you guys want?” Mongoose said from his position on the ground. He had lost hope and was on the verge of tears. He
looked older than his thirty-seven years and not nearly as tough as he had appeared in the photo the FBI had shown Karlynn.
Scott and I looked at each other. The moment had arrived.

“I told you, we want to know about Skull and the ATF agent he killed last year.”

“I might as well put a bullet in my head if I talk about that,” he said.

“That’s the problem with free will,” I said. “You must constantly make difficult choices.”

“I need water,” our prisoner said. Scott looked at me and I nodded. Scott held a bottle of water up to Mongoose’s lips and
let him drink just a sip.

“That’s enough,” Scott said. “You can have more when you’re done talking.”

“Last year we stole some explosives from a ski area in Jackson,” he began.

“Why?” I said.

“Bugg had a buyer for them.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.” I noticed Mongoose inching his way closer to the fire in order to stay warm.

“Go on.”

“A few months later this Agent Lowell shows up in Jackson and starts asking questions. We didn’t pay much attention, but then
he moved into Lander and was causing trouble for us. I drove down to Colorado to talk with Bugg about it. He said Lowell had
to go and told me to take care of it.”

“So you put Skull on the job?”

“Yeah.”

“How did you know him? He’s not part of the Sons of Satan.”

“I knew his brother in prison.”

“What prison? You’ve been in several.”

“Leavenworth. His brother is in for life. They’re both big into White Power. His brother leads the Aryan Brotherhood at Leavenworth.
Skull lives on some compound up in Idaho with a bunch of other skinheads. I mean, these guys are true believers. They really
believe there is going to be a racial holy war and all the niggers and Jews will be killed.”

“So you figured Skull would be only too happy to cap a black federal agent?”

“He couldn’t wait to do it.”

“Had you ever used Skull on a job before?”

“No, I’d only met him a few times. I promised his brother I’d keep in touch with him.”

“When did you contact Skull about the Lowell job?” I asked.

“Maybe a month before it happened.”

“How did you contact him?” Scott said.

“I called him. He agreed to meet me in Bozeman. I told him what I needed and asked if he was interested. He said he was, so
I gave him two thousand dollars and promised another three when the job was done.”

“How did he do it?”

“I don’t know.”

“How did you know he really did it?”

“He stopped by on his way out of town and gave me Lowell’s wallet and FBI credentials. I gave him the rest of the money and
never saw him again.”

“What did you do with the wallet and credentials?”

“Soaked them in gasoline and burned them.”

I was still hoping to find a thread that the feds could use, but I wasn’t having much luck.

“What did you do with the ashes?” Scott asked.

“I didn’t do nothing with them. They’re probably still in the bottom of the garbage can at my shop.”

“You know anything about the death of a guy named Rankin?” I said.

“I had nothing to do with Rankin.”

“What do you know about it?”

“Bugg thought his bond was too low. He figured Rankin had cut a deal in return for the low bond, so he decided to hit Rankin.”

“Who did it?”

“I don’t know. I hear it was brutal. Bugg wanted to send a message to everyone.”

We questioned Mongoose for the next several hours and obtained a wealth of information about the Sons of Satan in Wyoming,
crimes he and his men had committed, the names of those who had bought weapons or drugs from them, distribution methods, and
so forth.

“Let’s go back to Skull,” I said. “Did Bugg know Skull?”

“No.”

“Bullshit,” I said. “You told Bugg that Skull did a good job on Lowell.”

“How do you know that?” he said.

Scott kicked him in the ribs—hard—and said, “Don’t worry about how we know what we know. Worry about whether you’ll be alive
in few hours.”

“Bugg knew I had hired a skinhead named Skull to do the job. That’s all. He didn’t want to know more.”

“There’s no connection between Bugg and Skull?”

“No. Skull doesn’t even like bikers. He doesn’t think they’re dedicated to the racial holy war, and he doesn’t like that they
sell drugs to white people. He only did the job for me because I knew his brother and it was a chance for him to pop a nigger
and get paid.”

W
E MADE IT BACK
to Nederland Sunday night. Troy and Scott both opted to spend the night with me rather than drive back to their respective
mates. We had left Mongoose blindfolded and tied up off the side of the highway just outside Lander. The log was still attached
to his leg when we dumped him.

We ordered a pizza and discussed our weekend. Our mood was subdued. All of us had wanted more from Mongoose. And we wouldn’t
have been human if we didn’t feel some moral uncertainty about what we had done.

“Look,” I said, “it’s not that bad. We got information that will help the feds. Even if they can’t get Mongoose to talk about
Lowell, they’ll nail Bugg on plenty of other criminal charges.”

“We couldn’t find a direct link between Bugg and Skull,” Scott said. “If Mongoose keeps his mouth shut, Skull just keeps living
the good life up in Idaho.”

“Fuck that,” Troy said. “If that happens, I say we take care of Skull ourselves.”

“You haven’t seen the compound,” I said. “There’s only one road in, and it’s rough terrain. It’s patrolled by some German
shepherds that take their jobs seriously. We can’t just drive in and grab Skull.”

“We could jump in,” Scott said facetiously—a clear reference to Troy’s skydiving accident.

“That’s great,” Troy said. “Jump out of a plane over Idaho in the winter. Our corpses would land in Iowa.”

“Let’s see how it plays out,” I said. “I’ll meet with the feds this week and give them Bugg’s address book. I’ll give them
some of the information I got from Karlynn and some of the info we got from Mongoose, without telling them how I got it. They
ought to be able to take it from there.”

I didn’t sleep well that night. None of us did.

On Monday I followed Troy to his house to retrieve Buck and Wheat, then followed him back to his gym. We worked out, and the
exercise helped me forget the horrible things we had done to Mongoose over the weekend.

Before heading home I decided to call Valeska to see whether she had learned anything about Anvil. She invited me to lunch.

She was waiting outside the Federal Building when I pulled up in front of it. Actually, you can’t pull up in front of it,
because the security people will assume you are a terrorist. Rather than make them nervous, I parked across the street and
waited for her to cross. Sometimes it is better to be prudent than to be a gentleman.

“Where to?” I said.

“Pick a place,” she said. “I’m not big on lunch.”

“Why did you invite me?”

“Because I think you stumbled onto something.”

I pulled into a McDonald’s about ten blocks north of downtown Denver, in what is politely called a minority neighborhood.
“Come on,” I said, “they have good diet Coke here. I’ll treat.”

Inside we ordered food and found a table. “Anvil is not an undercover agent,” she said. “No other agency is claiming credit
for him.”

“Who is he?” I said.

“That’s where it gets interesting. All his public records refer to him as Robert Alton Pugh, but the real Robert Alton Pugh
died three years ago. He was a graduate student at the University of Chicago.”

“Anvil assumed his identity and joined the Sons of Satan?”

“Looks that way,” she said.

“Any idea who he really is?”

“We’re working on it. We have to tread lightly so word doesn’t filter back to him that we’re onto him.”

I sipped my diet Coke. “When are you going to apply for that search warrant?” I asked. The sooner, the better. Until Bugg
was in prison, there would be no such thing as “normal” for me.

“We’re not ready yet. We have to get all our ducks lined up and strike every chapter at the same time. We’re still gathering
information and building an organizational chart. That’s how we do it. You know that. Karlynn’s disappearance really set us
back.” “Remember when we had lunch last week?” I said.

“Yes.”

“You said you heard I wasn’t good with rules.”

“I remember.”

“How are you with rules?”

“What are we talking about?”

“We’re talking about me giving you a lot of information about Bugg and the Sons of Satan.”

“How did you obtain it?”

“Some I got firsthand, like the meth lab on Bugg’s property. Some I got in other ways. It will save you months of work.”

“What do you want in return?”