"Then if you do bust them they make bond and use their baboons to terrorize or kil your witnesses."

I pictured the shattered flesh that had been the Vail ancourt brothers.

"The Heathens are aligned with the Rock Machine?"

"C'est ça."

"And the Vipers with the Hel s Angels?"

"C'est ça."

"Who are the others?"

"Let's see. The Rowdy Crew, the Jokers, the Rockers, the Evil Ones, the Death Riders ... "

At that moment Martin Quickwater appeared in the doorway He was wearing a navy suit and crisp white shirt, and looked more like a tax lawyer than an organized crime investigator. He nodded at Roy then his eyes swept the room. When he saw me his eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

"Ah, bon. Monsieur Quickwater can give us the FBI perspective.

But that was not to be. Quickwater had urgent news. The body count was about to go up.

Chapter 7

By sunrise the next day I was at the Vipers clubhouse in St-Basile-le-Grand. The building stood alone on an acre of land that was entirely enclosed by an electrified fence. Surveil ance cameras dotted the barrier's upper rim, and powerful floods lit the perimeter.

Gates at the highway end of the road were electrical y operated and monitored from inside the house. When we arrived they stood open, and no one questioned us via the intercom. Though I could see a remote camera focused on us, I knew no one was watching. The warrant had already been served, and unmarked cars, cruisers, coroner transport vehicles, and the crime scene van were parked along the side of the drive.

Quickwater drove through the gates and pul ed in at the end of the row. As he cut the engine he glanced sideways at me, but said nothing. I returned the pleasantry, grabbed my pack, and got out.

In back the grounds were wooded, in front an open field stretched from the house to the highway. The gravel road on which we'd entered bisected the front clearing and ended at a ring of asphalt encircling the building. Waist-high cement cones bordered the asphalt, placed to prevent parking within fifteen feet of any wal . The arrangement reminded me of Northern Ireland in the early seventies. Like the citizens of Belfast, the bikers of Quebec took the threat of car bombs very seriously. A black Ford Explorer was parked at the edge of the asphalt.

Sunlight mottled the horizon, bleeding yel ow and pink into the pale purple of early dawn. An hour ago, when Quickwater had picked me up, the sky had been as black as my mood. I didn't want to come here. I didn't want to deal with his personality. And most of al , I didn't want to unearth more dead bikers.