Free Deep Cover by Edward Bungert

men, brought along for security? I would never be quite sure.
    Iron Man met me twenty minutes after I arrived at the clubhouse.
    "Let's get these crates inside, then ditch this wetback piece of shit."
    "How's Savage?" I asked.
    "He'll be okay. Dog is getting him patched up now.”
    We carried five crates into one of the most fortified buildings I'd ever been in. It had more surveillance systems and weapons than most police buildings. After we'd unloaded the crates from the truck, Iron Man ordered one of the prospects to ditch the pickup.
    "How about a tour, Doc?" Iron Man offered.
    "Why not?" I accepted casually, hiding my excitement. Touring the clubhouse was not only critical to the case, I was personally looking forward to it.
    The clubhouse was a three-story building attached to a double garage. On the first floor the walls had been knocked down, creating a triple-size garage area. Two vans and as many as forty bikes could be stored there at any time. The entire building was surrounded by an iron fence. Motion-detectors and closed-circuit cameras covered the entire perimeter. When the detectors were activated, an alarm sounded inside the club. If no one reset the alarms within one minute, the signals were diverted to the homes of Counsel, Iron Man, and Hank the Skank. The same was true if any of the burglar alarms on any door or window were activated. Every door was steel-reinforced, and every window had steel shutters with openings for gun ports.
    The rest of the first floor was mainly a rec room. It had chairs, some couches, mattresses, a few tables, and a small kitchen. The kitchen had three refrigerators, two of which were stocked exclusively with American-brand beer.
    Next Iron Man took me to the second floor.
    "On this floor there's four crash rooms, Doc," he said. "Any brother can sleep here if he pays twenty bucks for each night. This is the security room." He pointed to the door at the end of the hallway. "Next to that is Counsel's office."
    I remembered from the training manual that each Henchmen chapter had its own security officer. Months before a bike run takes place the security officer plans routes, contacts local law enforcement of the towns they will be passing through, and places scouts, with rifles, along the way. It's up to the security officer to ensure the safety of all riders.
    "The Outcasts are our number-one security problem. Those motherfuckers would love to fuckin' ambush two hundred Henchmen on our way to the mountains."
    Iron Man didn't mention that the security officer also keeps files on all club members and their families, old ladies, mamas; police and feds; and just about anyone else that might at one time or another be an asset or an enemy to the club. So important is he to the club that the security officer often doesn't wear his colors in public.
    The third floor was the weapons and drug stash. In addition to the occasional guard outside the front of the building, the third floor was guarded twenty-four hours a day. Upon entering the third floor, you were immediately greeted by an automatic weapon-toting individual.
    "Hey, Snake. This is Dr. Death, the last living member of the Satan's Saints."
    "Doc." The stone-faced biker nodded. "You gotta have a patch before you can come up here on your own, Doc. Brothers have to sign in before taking anything. Street names will do it. We know who everybody is."
    Any member could take drugs and weapons from the room they called "The Stash." Drugs had to be replaced by cash or by more drugs within twenty-four hours.
    The club had an impressive arsenal. Over a hundred handguns, knives, clubs, and other small weapons were spread out on tables in the stash room. There were also several hundred plastic bags of methamphetamine, in tiny vials, ready for distribution. The Henchmen didn't bother much anymore with small-time, street-level dealing. Except, of course, if something useful could come of it.
    "Everybody gets high, Doc," said Iron Man. "One of our