A Delicate Matter. Don Easton

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      “Think maybe he’ll give us more than he’s pretending to offer?”

      “Damn right. Once he realizes you won’t go along with the bullshit he offered, he’ll offer you something genuine. Likely stolen property or dope to start with, but handle him right and he could be a gold mine for you.”

      “For me?” Sophie sounded doubtful. “You should be the guy to talk to him. I’m smart enough to know that I don’t have the experience to handle a guy like him. The asshole would probably end up running me instead of me running him.”

      “That wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened,” Jack said. “I’d be glad to take a run at him. I’m in Port Coquitlam at the moment, so I could be there in less than half an hour. Maybe we could work him together if you like.”

      “I’ve got all the work I can handle,” Sophie responded. “Besides, I’m still in uniform. This guy’s more your department. If he doesn’t cooperate, I’ll charge him afterwards.”

      “Oh, he’ll cooperate,” Jack said. “I’m sure about that.”

      “Then he’s all yours if you want him.”

      Jack smiled. Oh, yeah, I want him all right. Goodbye Gypsy Devils. You’ve been outtrumped by one weenie-wagger.

      Chapter Three

      Jack and Laura sat in an office with Sophie White at the Surrey RCMP detachment and listened as she recounted the circumstances leading to Mack Cockerill’s arrest. “After that, we took him to the hospital where he received a walking cast. Now he’s in an interview room,” Sophie said, gesturing with her thumb behind her. “Hope he can really do a number on the club for you.”

      “I wish,” Jack replied, “but even if he wants to spill his guts, it won’t affect the club as a whole that much.”

      Sophie looked puzzled. “Why not?”

      “They tend to operate in cells independent from one another to prevent someone from ever doing that. Even if he was willing to wear a wire and testify, all I’d expect to get would be some high-level dealers who score from the club, maybe a couple of prospects, and one or two colour-wearing members. For the moment we need to aim our sights lower. If all goes well perhaps down the road we can convince him to stick his neck out further.”

      Sophie nodded. “Would you mind if I sat in and listened? I don’t have much experience with guys like him and I’d like to see how you do it.”

      “I don’t mind, but let me clue you in about a few things before we see him,” Jack replied. “First of all, these guys are usually extremely loyal. If I push him too hard he may decide to clam up and face the consequences, dire as they would be. I’ll tread slowly at first, then lead him into deeper water, which may or may not be today. If things go the way I want, eventually he’ll realize there’s no turning back.”

      “I see,” Sophie said.

      “First, though, we’ll shake him up a bit. Is he wearing his colours?”

      “Yes. He was wearing a hoodie over the colours, but I seized that as evidence. It matches what the three victims said the suspect was wearing.”

      “Perfect.” Jack rose to his feet. “Let’s talk to him. Laura will wait here.”

      Sophie looked at Laura. “You’re not coming with us?”

      Laura smiled. “Jack discussed a plan with me on the way over. It’ll be more fun for you to watch it unfold than to explain it to you.”

      A moment later Cockerill looked up as Jack and Sophie entered the interview room. He eyed Jack suspiciously.

      “Get to your feet,” Jack ordered.

      Cockerill scowled and slowly got up.

      Jack used his cellphone to take a picture of Cockerill, then ordered him to turn around. After taking another picture depicting his colours, he told Cockerill to sit down.

      The biker obeyed and Jack pulled a chair up so their faces were only an arm’s length apart.

      “Who the fuck are you?” Cockerill asked defiantly. “A narc?”

      “My name’s Jack Taggart,” Jack replied evenly. “I’m not a narc.”

      Cockerill studied Jack’s face, then muttered, “Fuck.”

      “You’ve heard of me,” Jack replied.

      Cockerill nodded. “I didn’t recognize you — but now I do. I saw you years ago when you climbed over the wall behind Damien’s place.”

      The mere mention of Damien made Jack feel agitated. Damien Zabat, the national president of Satans Wrath, was Jack’s nemesis. The two men had been involved in several confrontations over the years. Despite that, Jack had never been able to put him in jail, even though Damien had ordered dozens of murders and orchestrated a wide variety of criminal activities.

      Damien, now almost sixty, was still intimidating. He was a huge bear of a man, as well as highly intelligent and perceptive at reading people. The years had, however, taken their toll. He had recently decided to retire while he still had everyone’s respect. A new national president had been elected to replace him at the end of the month. For Jack, Damien was the one who got away, and it bothered him intensely.

      To make matters worse, Jack knew that Damien’s son, Buck, had been a prospect for the past two years. Soon he, too, will be a full-patch member and the cycle will continue. Like father, like son, and it seems all I can do is sit back and watch.

      “So what’re you doing here?” Cockerill asked, breaking Jack’s train of thought. “This ain’t got nothin’ to do with you.”

      Jack sneered. “I’m here because Constable White isn’t swallowing any of your bullshit about what you’re offering for us to drop the beef — and neither am I.”

      “What the fuck? You don’t think some guy shootin’ up an abortion clinic is worth me being pinched for trying to have a piss in a parkade?”

      “Cut the crap,” Jack said. “You were caught on video, as well as audio.”

      Cockerill frowned. “Okay, okay, you got me on that.” He made a palms-down gesture to drop the subject. “Still, I know this guy, and once he shoots up the clinic, I’ll be able to give him to ya. Bust him quick and he’ll still have the gun to match the bullets.”

      “Which’ll be the gun you’ll have given him after you shoot up the clinic.” Jack shook his head in disgust. “I’m done talking to you,” he said abruptly. “I need to make a phone call.”

      “But —”

      Jack gave a dismissive wave of his hand and placed a call. A female voice, audible over the phone in the small interview room, answered.

      “Hey, good lookin’! It’s Jack Taggart. Remember me?”

      “Jack! You bet I remember you. Are you still working in the Intelligence unit?”

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