Sheepdog-32

This is the end. The last of the enemy, holed up in an old cabin on one of the many lakes in the county, keeping a little girl as a hostage as they wait for their man to come to them. Ken—that man—is on his way, and he’s done talking. Before the day is done, either the remaining gangsters will be dead or Ken will be ripped into pieces. But Ken doesn’t even think about that. All he’s thinking about is his dead friends, their dead son, and their little girl now being held by the men that killed them as bait against to trap him. Ken knows it’s a trap, but he doesn’t give a fuck- he’s going in anyway.
They weren’t as many as they were before, but they were mean and brutal- trained and experienced killers, all of them. They’re armed to the teeth, and they’re out for blood. They were also already dead, and they knew it, so they had nothing to lose and no reason to hold back. Ken also knew all of this, and he appreciated these facts as he skirted around the woods surrounding the cabin to get an opening.

He found one on the corner, where those inside couldn’t see and where those outside were on the far end of their perimeter patrols, and ran for the cabin. Within moments, men hidden outside the cabin sounded the alarm; the patrols came running and opening fire upon him. Ken returned fire, and everyone took cover. Ken caught two of them out of cover, dropped them both with the Mozambique Drill—two to the chest, one to the head, each—and hauled ass for a new position. As he ran, he took out another with a fluke shot that caught the gangster’s throat.

Now a pair of SUVs rolled up, with windows down and those inside firing upon him. Ken again took cover and fired back, killing the drivers and causing them to pile up. Bikers following behind tried to swerve wide, only to be caught by gunfire and shot down. More men poured out of the cabin to go after Ken, but Ken rushed them and cut them down with knife work before they could draw down upon him. By then the surviving men in the SUVs and amongst the bikers got to their feet, so Ken took up a dead man’s rifle and shot them down.

Bursting into the cabin, he killed another man by throwing his knife into the man’s forehead, took the shotgun in his hands and then cleared the ground floor and the basement of the handful of men. Alas, this meant shooting a man carrying incendiaries, which started a fire. Without delay, Ken ran upstairs to the top floor where the girl—and the last man—would be. With the shotgun run dry, all Ken had left was an old revolver he took on the firebug. Ready to die, he drew down on where in that room he expected the man to be.

Instead, he found the little girl shaking and the man dead—shot multiple times in the groin by his own gun—as she tried to keep the pistol pointed at the corpse. Fortunately, she recognized Ken; she dropped her gun, Ken stowed his and they went outside. Ken grabbed a pad of paper and something to write with, and together on the stoop he began writing.

* * * * *  Finished, Ken saw that The Sheriff and his men finally arrived. He took the girl’s hand, and he led her away from the now-burning cabin. He handed The Sheriff the pad of paper, and then walked to an overturned bike. He took the keys off the former owner, picked up the motorcycle, started it up and left with the little girl.


The Hell’s Angels were no more. The Zetas were soon to follow. The Syndicate disappeared. The girl, after burying her family, went to live with Reginald’s parents. As for Ken, he got a call. Guiscard needed a favor done in Europe, and figured that Ken would want a change of venue. Ken flew out, flying directly to France, that night.

Sheepdog-31

Guiscard anticipated that, somehow, someone amongst these guys would have the means to shoot him down. What he did not anticipate is exactly what it was; one pair of these guys carried a big box in the backseat of a car, and they fled behind some concealment. Out from that car they took the box, and out of that box they took a man-portable missile launcher. While the fight raged on nearby, they loaded the launcher and took aim at Guiscard; they fired, and to Guiscard’s merit he defeated the first attempt by exploited the superior turning ability of his craft.

The second attempt, now at a further range due to Guiscard seeing that a threat he could not easily deal with was at hand, took much more effort to do. They knew that Ken and his allies on the ground now looked for them, so they had to race against the inevitable to shoot down the plane before they got found. They managed to get that second missile off, and then got blasted into hamburger by a pair of militiamen armed with shotguns. As for Guiscard, he again managed to avoid getting shot down, but this time the missile’s warhead exploded a bit too close and damaged his attack plane; he flew for home- the enemy got their wish.

Not yet conceding defeat, the gangsters—now broken completely—scattered and went wild in a mad flight-forward. Some got gunned down by defending homeowners, some by the militia, but more than enough eschewed further home invasions altogether. However, one of the more tech-savvy of the bunch hooked up with one of the more crook-savvy, and together figured out that their original target was not the one that they needed. The two hid long enough to hook into the Internet and trace traffic flows in the county; they figured out that Reginald’s the man coordinating the action, and doing so from home- a location now known.

Not for long, however, as soon after those two got the coordinates to the others Ken came upon them and ambushed them from above. He made short work of them, and then—noticing what they did—warned the militia and the Sheriff, which meant warning Reginald, and then immediately made for Reginald and Kathy’s home. Fortunately, Ken knew how to get there on foot as that was a direct route. Unfortunately, it was still faster to haul ass there on a bike or in a car.

Ken broke out of the brush into the clear backyard to hear screaming and gunfire within the house. Without thought, he burst through the back door and pummeled the man to death that stood just inside that room. Taking the man’s rifle, he saw a handful of others rushing for the front door; Ken fired upon and shot them down without thought. He now heard more screaming from upstairs, and the trodding of feet above, and just as he ran to climb those stairs himself gunfire from above ripped down through the ceiling and impacted the floor and walls where he just stood.

Upstairs he engaged two more men that briefly pinned him down before they both had to pause to reload, whereupon he rushed them and emptied the remainder of his weapon’s magazine into them; he dropped the empty rifle and picked up a pistol off one of the now-dead gunmen, and then ran into the children’s room. There he found Reginald dead—blasted apart by a shotgun—as well as the corpse of their son. Kathy sat slumped against a wall, mortally wounded, shot multiple times in the stomach. Out the window Ken saw a handful of men scrambling into a SUV with their daughter wriggling, now a hostage.

Ken fired upon the vehicle until the magazine went dry, but could not stop them, and then he threw down the empty weapon in frustration. He could do nothing for Reginald or the son, but before he ran after the daughter Kathy looked over at him. She smiled. She nodded. Then Ken ran, weeping.

Sheepdog-30

This was no attempt at infiltration. This was outright invasion, sudden and brutal, with not one fuck given about consequences or casualties. The remnants of the three criminal organizations, and all of their remaining associates, that could not escape banded together into a single horde and laid waste to law enforcement and citizen militias alike as they advanced on the colony to take revenge upon the men that ruined them.

Ken, Reginald, the Sheriff and all of their faction knew that this last remnant was on their way. They got the word out to the rest of the county, and ensured that only those willing to fight stayed- and made certain that those willing to fight were ready to die. Tracking the carnage left in the gangsters’ wake, Ken and his allies quickly gauged the time to contact at one day. Once they got word of the gang breaking through several state-level attempts to stop them, the call to quarters went out and all of the county took up arms.

The gangsters managed to endure more or less intact, so they hit the county like a hurricane. No one got spared. The men that opposed them got butchered like cattle. Homes got breached, all inside slaughtered, all valuables and provisions looted and the rest put to the torch. As flames rose like pillars, more and more men of the county converged upon them. Each fight likewise ended in blood and bone splattered across the lake country about them, but each fight also slowed them down and bought time for the rest. Soon enough, more than one group attacked at the same time. Then another piled on, and then another, until the movement slowed enough for a final countermeasure to be used.

Guiscard took to the air, following the radio reports and the visual aides to quickly race to the scene. He dove upon the gangsters and strafed them with machinegun and cannon fire, annihilating those too slow and scattering the rest. While Guiscard harassed the gangsters from the sky, the Sheriff and Ken split up and tracked the broken gangster horde on the group. Reginald coordinated efforts as best he could from his home, where the three of them (and Kathy) agreed would be least likely to get attacked due to the opposition not figuring on a private home being Command & Control.

The action in the county soon turned into a repeat of the James-Younger Gang’s raid upon Northfield, Minnesota during the waning days of the Old West, only much meaner. The gangsters that yet endured now took to ambushing militiamen and deputies rescuing their wounded comrades. They did so knowing full well that the manpower siphoned away to deal with casualties would exacerbate by doing so, making it far more likely that they could maneuver freely due to a reduced pursuit force.

But first, they had to deal with that damned attack plane.

Sheepdog-29

Ken assumed the front man position as his group maintained their media campaign, keeping the alternative media in the loop as to the maneuvering going on in the county. They provided briefings on court actions, links to primary documents, lengthy and well-annotated explanations and otherwise push towards an open engagement. This seized the initiative from the mainstream media establishment, and took away their power to shape public opinion by reclaiming control over their own narrative.

The next step, using local citizens, is that to use humor to counter the hit-pieces that came out of the same establishment media, turning the weapons of establishment media behavior against them and showing the public that The Emperor Has No Clothes. Heavy remedial media literacy formed the backbone of the pushback against the mainstream media, exposing common tricks in exhaustive detail to the people. The effects were immediate, as the state legislature soon split with a significant faction going for Ken and his friends; they began sponsoring legislation to disentangle the state from the Federal Government and restore the Constitutionally-demanded relationship between the two.

Then the assassinations began. Not in the county, not at first, but elsewhere as people who spoke out in public about the county’s position and actions being better than the alternatives got shot dead in their homes, in their offices, on the street or on the road. Their cars blew up. The attacks did not discriminate; home invasions butchered entire households in horrific massacres. Those few cops and deputies that responded in time often got killed themselves. This got blamed on Ken and his friends as the killers, where caught or clearly identified, turned out to be Angels, Zetas or Syndicate killers; the Intelligence Community pulled out the stops to demonize Ken and friends in the press.

They failed.

The Zetas, being tied to the narcotics trade, went from “…that Mexican problem…” to “Kill On Sight” across the country. The remnants of the Hell’s Angels went to ground or got wiped out by an irate public, many turning vigilante. The Syndicate, seeing that this was a lost cause, cut and ran- burning whomever was already there. Law enforcement agencies had sudden upturns in incidents where suspects from these groups “resisted arrest” and ended up dead.

The American people had finally hit their breaking point. All of the gun laws went out the window, in practice, because everyone got sick of the violence and knew whom to blame- and they no longer trusted the Feds to protect them. The law enforcement agencies turned a blind eye to people they knew not to be a problem, and focused upon the problem instead; they took the guns, gear, cash and drugs off the Zetas, Angels and Syndicate men—and anyone working with them—to keep their operations going.

Then came the whistleblowers. In a sudden deluge, whistleblowers from through the ranks of the Establishment came forth. Others leaked documents, recorded messages or other damn evidence; this lead to pressure put on Congress to act- and, for reasons fair and foul alike, they did. While the Executive tried and tried to plug the leaks and punish the whistleblowers, Congress opened inquiries into the matter- and that is when Ken and his friends made one last major intervention. Through some proxies, they submitted all of their own documentation via sworn statements and that broke open the connections between the criminal gangs and the Intelligence community.

Arrests swept up those gangsters not yet dead or imprisoned, and the government agents also on the list fled and went underground. The violence stopped, and the people now watched as Congress threw open one large and potent committee to deal with the now-exposed scandal- a scandal that blew open related criminal operations, such as the gun-running scheme by the ATF and its ties to the Sinaloa Cartel. Too big to ignore, and too loud to shout down, the mainstream media got compelled to cover the actions more or less honestly.

The surviving conspirators, backed into a corner, either fled the West entirely or decided upon a final act of spite against the unexpected agents of their destruction. The best of them got out; the rest now converged on the county, heavily armed and bent on revenge.

Sheepdog-28

The first sign that Ken’s online antics had their intended effect came when all of the county’s telecommunications got cut off without warning. The Sheriff, wisely, took a few deputies out to the nearest Comcast office and had a discussion with the manager.

“You got an order from the Feds?” he said.

“Yes.”

“That’s nice. I’m the Sheriff, and I am the top lawman here. They did this without my say-so, so this order is null and void. Turn it on, now.”

“But-“

“The Feds want something done in my county? They deal with me. Got that?”

“So, I refer them to you?”

“You got it, and if Corporate screwed with you then you tell them that we had this talk- and I’d hate to have to bring charges against the corporation for interfering with the lawful operations of government.”

The manager nodded, and within moments most telecommunications got restored- with a free month’s credit added to all accounts. The Sheriff repeated this conversation with the local radio and TV stations, and then he got on the air and exposed this for all to see and hear.

The Sheriff then drafted letters to all of the county’s utilities stating, on the record, what the law was and what to do if similar State or Federal agents gave such orders to them. The State and Federal governments responded by filing suit in their respective courts, but The Sheriff had a good relationship with the county’s attorneys and let them handle the matter- which led, within a month, to both State and Federal suits being thrown out: The Sheriff’s statement of his position within the county, as both the State and the Feds found out, is correct.

The interests in both governments, embarrassed, now retaliated—through the handler—with letting the Syndicate and the Zetas collaborate with the full-scale failsafe that they decided on in their Seattle meeting: a full-scale terror campaign. In other words, a false flag terrorist attack. Ken, ever alert, met with Reginald and The Sheriff at Guiscard’s bar where the three of them met in the back with the old Legionnaire.

“We’re making them look bad.” Ken said, “Worse than any of them have seen ever.”

“You’ve made American foreign policy more difficult.” Guiscard said, “That’s unforgivable.”

“Indeed.” Reginald said, “Your anarchism is showing.”

The Sheriff finished his beer. “It’s long overdue. Lots of wolves as you get higher up the ladder, and fewer sheepdogs.”

Sheepdog-27

At the county hospital, Ken shoved Martin in a chair next to the secured bed where the last hitman now lay chained in placed. Ken then took a photo—using Martin’s camera—and uploaded it to Reddit with the caption “Two captured spies and assassins, so far. Your move- bring it.”

The Internet exploded. The media—traditional and alternative—exploded. Ken followed this photo up with a length go at Reddit’s “Ask Me Anything” subforum, wherein Ken spilled the beans on the entire episode—how it got started, what’s at stake, who’s fucking with them and why—and made no bones that he and the others have just plain shot dead a lot of the attackers when they fought them.

The state and Federal government of the United States flipped their collective shit, as did many other governments—great and small—across the globe. Attention, already constant, became laser-like in focus as Ken and his allies aggressive seized control of the media technology at hand and told their own stories. They uploaded to multiple sites videos explaining what’s gone on, exposing the hidden hands behind events, and successfully circumventing the freak-out reactions of the Syndicate, the Zetas, the Angels and even the corrupt Intelligence community that uses them all.

Ken appeared on InfoWars, the Corbett Report, Global Research, RT, PressTV, BoilingFrogsPost, Freedomain Radio, Media Monarchy and so many, many more independent or alternative outlets out there. They produced sworn confessions, sworn affidavits, presentations of evidence and so much more that they aired or published online for all who seek to see for themselves to do so with ease. Exposed, exposed, exposed- all of the truth, exposed.

In the quiet, secluded offices of a high-rise hotel somewhere in Seattle the leaders of the four parties concerned met face-to-face. Concerned, they talked in hushed tones and referred to each other by pseudonyms lest the staff figure out who they really are. They noted, over lunch and drinks, that the media mainstream are acting as the long-established structure is intended to—to confined opinion, to deride what is not permitted—but there is nothing that can be done about the Internet and alternative media without using government power as a blatant sledgehammer.

The three of them discussed details for hours, but concurred immediately on the solution: that Ken and his allies had made it impossible to deal with this matter in the expected manner, that they had to call upon failsafes that none of them expected to ever need. The handler excused himself and made a phonecall, and said just one thing: “They are in place. We are go.”

Sheepdog-26

“I don’t believe you.” Martin said, “If I get out, they’ll take me back just like all of the other times I got caught.”

Martin, alas, was wrong. This is understandable, as he is in denial at that moment and has those very past experiences he mentioned to support his false belief. When his handler noticed that Martin did not check in at the appointed time, that handler activated another agent under his control and made certain that Martin wasn’t flaking out. This confirmed, the handler immediately burned Martin and put the word up to his boss that their man on the ground got compromised by the opposition.

The handler got orders to escalate and sanitize the situation before the inevitable consequences manifested. To get this done, the handler called upon assets in the Syndicate and in Los Zetas. He fed his assets a carefully-curated briefing, ensuring that his assets would not refuse to act on the conclusion that his briefing led them to- move in and exterminate Ken and his allies. They agreed, and the handler ensured the usual compensation for doing so.

Within hours, men from Canada and Mexico again met at an airport in Chicago. These men, as with the last men gathered, were trained and skilled killers. Unlike the last group, this was a small team that had previously worked together in various operations. Despite their nominal employers being a pair of rival criminal syndicates, both groups maintained ties to the Intelligence Community and thus had both markers and debts with them- and often more of the latter than the former.

Guiscard, again, got a warning from a man he knew there. Again, he passed that on to Ken and the others. Again, the men running the defense in the county passed the warning on—quietly—to the people in the militia. This time, however, the response differed. Instead of flying in on a civilian jet, the killers flew over the area in a conveniently provided C-130 military aircraft. Instead of landing and then embarking on their mission, the killers jumped out of the aircraft and parachuted down—the cover was that it was an exercise, as the aircraft would land at the Air National Guard station—and then get on with their wetwork.

Ken and his allies figured that this time would see an airdrop in a deniable craft, so instead of sending up their attack plane they put the word out to their neighbors and kept a watch for the men as they descended. When the call came in, the spotters fled the scene while Ken and his allies rushed to it; the two parties met as the hitmen commandeered the vacant home, sparking a firefight between them. The hitmen, cornered, fought without restraint; Ken and his allies showed them no mercy. An hour later all but one had been killed or cut down and captured; by the next day, The Sheriff apprehended that one last men when he failed to invade a home a few miles away- the wife of the house shot him down with a waterfowl gun, crippling him.

Sheepdog-25

Later in the day, the man—subdued—now sat in a chair in The Sheriff’s office. Away from the press, away from prying eyes and foolish whims, that middle-aged man sat restrained and confined- and before the very men he photographed just hours earlier. This prisoner now sat without a shirt, revealing well-done tattoos common to the Hell’s Angels and other outlaw motorcycle gangs: “1%”, “Enforcer” and so on. Unlike the many brothers slain, his tattoos are confined to areas on his back and chest that so commonly get covered with shirts that—if concealed—no one would notice him at all.

Just then, Ken comes into the room.

“You have quite the history. Born John Garland Martin in 1955, served in Vietnam from 1973 to 1975 as a combat photographer in the U.S. Army, joined the Hell’s Angels in 1976 after an ambiguous incident that—just the same—left you with an honorable discharge. You then go on to somehow repeat this pattern of ambiguous involvement in shady dealings throughout the world, making contact with all sorts of interesting characters. Some you kill, some you do business with, and the former often were the latter at some point.”

Reginald and The Sheriff looked at each other, nodding.

“Don’t bother denying it. We already have independent confirmation of your activities.” Ken said, “Which agency do you work for?”

Martin looked up at them as if they were children. “Are you fucking retards?” he said, “Do you honestly think that you can win?”

“Well,” The Sheriff said, “that answers a few questions right there."

“Indeed.” Reginald said, concurring. “In short,” Ken said, “we do think we can win."

Martin laughed. “You helped the Mother Club clean out a lot of shit from the system, that’s for sure. So many useless fucks sitting around the clubhouse fucking shit pussy, drinking shit booze, barely getting by despite feeling so superior due to being fully patched. They’re suckers, totally and utterly expendable suckers. You’ve been allowed to go on because it’s been, in the long run, very good for business. Now that I’ve missed a check-in, however, you’re fucking done.”

“You think they’re coming for you?” Reginald said, curious. Martin smiled. “Hell no!” he said, “They’re going to notice that their information flow got severed, will assume the worst and send in the regulators to clean up the mess.”

“Oh, really?” The Sheriff said, “So you’re just the scout.”

Ken stepped in. “You’re still doing the job you learned in Vietnam, aren’t you? You’re the scout, the advanced man, scoping out the scene before the team makes it move.”

Reginald now broke in. “You not only gathered intelligence, you spotted for and called in air and artillery strikes- you gave the military what it needed to conduct special operations with accuracy and precision.”

“You’re still doing it.” The Sheriff said, realizing what’s going on, “You’ve been doing it.”

“Shit.” Ken said.

“You’ve wondered what the trigger for the next phase was, Ken? You got it.” Reginald said.

Martin blanched, and Ken noticed. “Oh? Somehow, in some manner, you failed to connect me with the Ken that’s become fucking infamous in your circles? For a photographer, you’re not that perceptive about anything outside that is not in your lens’ viewfinder.”

“Names and faces…” Martin said, weakly.

“Typical.” Ken said, “You’re getting burned as we speak. You not only aren’t getting rescued; you’re now on their hitlist. They know what happens to men like you when men like me get a hold of you, so they’ve already written you off as lost. Don’t disappoint me and demonstrate atypical loyalty now.”

Sheepdog-24

The Sheriff organized a press conference on the steps of the Sheriff’s Office, where he displayed the weapons, motorcycles and colors of the Hell’s Angels slain so far in their interdiction operation as if he were a conquering warrior of old. Journalists near and far flocked about the scene, with television and still cameras taking pictures of the spectacle. Flanked by Reginald and a handful of deputies, the old lawman engaged the assembled press.

 “What you see here today is the spoils of our operations against the Hell’s Angels outlaw motorcycle gang, and their continued failure to intimidate we—the people of this county—into silence and submission to their criminal will.”

The Sheriff then motioned to the guns, leathers and weapons assembled. Reginald then pulled out a long list.

“This, members of the press, is a list of the entirety of the enemy either captured or killed to date. The leather vests piled here, their ‘colors’, are taken from these enemies as trophies of war- for they have made war upon us, and we are wise enough to deal with that in kind.”

The press weighed in with questions, leading and presumptive questions, regarding the violence and the community response of organized militia violence.

“We are not the would-be tyrants that have neither faith nor trust in our neighbors.” The Sheriff said, “We know, as matters of fact as well as matters of law, that we are the sole guarantors of our own safety. That is why we are armed, and that is why we willingly cooperate to protect ourselves, those that depend upon us and our property- and otherwise leave well enough alone.”

Reginald stepped in at this point: “We also know that, as history demonstrates, barbarians—and make no mistake, the Hell’s Angels outlaw motorcycle club is a barbarian horde—are nothing more than the precursor to today’s criminal syndicates. They are parasites that suck the blood and treasure from the people, using fear and force to scare it out of us. We know better, so we have no problem with seeing them as just monsters to exterminate without prejudice- and that is what we do.”

The assembled press, shocked at the frank assertion, stammered to put forth a follow-up question. The men with cameras, on the other hand, kept silent and filmed or shot photos about all they see. One of them, a clean-cut middle-aged man dressed for a newsroom, worked a still camera with the speed of a master marksman; shot after shot, like a mad minute of volley fire, focused upon the colors and the bikes- and when in view, the list.

One of the press then tried, out of desperation, to reassert the commonly-held claim that one expects out of a media culture focused on networks rooted in places like New York City, Washington D.C., Chicago and Los Angeles. The others joined the dogpile, but Reginald handled them all as if he were an Aikido master being swarmed by a mob.

Meanwhile, The Sheriff noted that one of the men—that very same middle-aged photographer—slipping out of the back of the crowd and leaving the scene. He motioned to a deputy, and the deputy made a phone call.

Moments later, in the men’s room of the bar across the street, Ken walked in and moved up to that same man as he stood at a urinal.

“Get some good footage?” Ken said.

“My SD cards got full, but by then I got what I needed out of that spectacle.”

Ken cocked an eyebrow. “Really? I think you missed the best part of the story.”

The man looked at Ken, curious, as he hurriedly zipped up.

“They announced that they found a spy, here, and they’re about to make an arrest.”

The man now faced Ken. “Well, that’s a shame,” he said, “but I can’t get all the best shots.”

Ken glanced at the man’s hands, and saw one going behind his back. Ken immediately rushed him, knocking the knife out of the man’s hand. The man, without thinking, counterattacked with his off hand. The two men brawled without restraint, without thought, wrecking the restroom- yet Ken won.

Sheepdog-23

Ken and the Sheriff went back to Reginald and Kathy’s place for dinner that night, and after Kathy put the kids to bed the four of them discussed the matter.

“You’re thinking that we’re looking for a photographer?” Kathy said.

Ken nodded. “Would you think twice about a man claiming to work for one of the big news agencies, not talking to many people about many things, but sticking to the big story around here?”

“So, a man who doesn’t go looking for targets? He’s taking pictures of his fellows’ corpses, their ruined bikes, and so on?” Reginald said.

“He’s also taking photos of the militia, my deputies, and no doubt myself.” The Sheriff took a swig on his beer, “So, I assume that, if this guy is as good as we think he is, he already has photos of Ken and likely has some idea of what the territory looks like.”

Kathy looked at each of the three men about her, all combat veterans, and saw the same serious look. “Should I start calling the other ladies, to warn them?”

The men glanced at each other. “Yes.” Reginald said, “Do that. You know that the Andersons’ eldest is up this late, so call them right away and leave a message.”

Kathy got up and made that call. “I think we can still cripple this guy’s operations, but first we need to flush him out.”

“How?” Reginald said, curious.

“This is what I propose.” Ken said, quick to answer, “Let’s have ourselves a media event, where we allow plenty of photography, and show off the evidence of our success to date. All three of us are to attend, demonstrating that a united community—symbolized by the three of us—can overcome far, far larger criminal organizations. We keep the area, inside and out, under surveillance. When we find our guy, we close in and take him.”

“You’re not worried at all about this turning into a firefight, are you?” The Sheriff said.

Ken shook his head. “They’re all adults. They know the risks.”

Reginald sighed. “Given what we’ve got to work with, I can’t say either of us can come up with a better plan.”

“Especially since this guy’s looking for us, and our usual haunts. Taking a chance to get all of us at once? No way he’ll pass it up."

Sheepdog-22

“So,” the Sheriff said, “you think that the Angels’ leadership will do this?”

 Ken handed the old man a cup of fresh coffee, and the two sat down around his desk in the County office.
 
“Sheriff, I think that the leadership isn’t on the same page. Their top men aren’t stupid. They see what’s going on here, and they’re not keen on joining the dogpile.”

“So, you think that these men aren’t engaging us because they think that their bosses will toss them to the wolves?”

Ken nodded. “It’s the most likely explanation. Guiscard’s contacts abroad confirm what various alternative media outlets claim to be the case: Angel clubhouses all over are coming here, turning their coats and abandoning the gang or disappearing and going to ground. That’s got to give those men great pause.”

The Sheriff laughed. “I cannot believe that an old county sheriff, a notorious anarchist and the common people of a rural lake county are responsible for the destruction of one of the world’s most infamous outlaw motorcycle gangs.”

 Ken smiled. “Neither can the leadership or their top enforcers. That’s why we’re not seeing them just yet, but I wouldn’t count on never seeing them either.”

“I agree.” The Sheriff sipped some from his cup. “I’m thinking that at least one’s here, now, and keeping quiet.”

“An observer, in other words, you think?”

 The Sheriff nodded, and sipped again.

“I concur.” Ken said, “If I were one of these men, I’d come into the area under a cover that allowed for a wide range of mobility, plenty of plausible deniability, and openly carrying technology useful for surveillance.”

“You’re talking about a reporter.” The Sheriff said.

Ken shook his head. “Reporters are too high-profile for this sort of thing. They draw a lot of attention, memorable attention, through their actions. Our man’s not going to be doing that.”

“So, if not a reporter, then what?”

“We’re looking for a photographer.” Ken said, “Not a freelancer, not someone tied to a media outlet either- someone here for some other reason.”

Ken flipped through some reports on the Sheriff’s desk, and his eyes fell upon a casualty report complete with pictures.

“We’ve got some Feds around, right?”

“State and Federal agents, actually, but I keep tight leashes on them so they don’t interfere in our operations.”

“You let them go to the hospitals and the morgue?”

The Sheriff nodded. Then the thought hit him. “One of them?”

“No,” Ken said, “but around them. There’s a few private observers around, and at least one photographer is attached to each of these guys. I think our guy’s one of them, one of the employees of these NGOs, that’s moving around—often alone—and using that cover to spy on us.”

“This guy won’t look, or act, like the bikers whose corpses burn day and night at the crematorium. He’s clean-cut, in great shape, doesn’t drink shit beer, talks like a network anchorman- not at all the biker type in word or deed. No visible tattoos either, but I bet he’s inked like the rest- just in easy-to-hide ways. He needs those tats to get ordinary brothers to help when he needs them.”

“I take it that this guy’s also going to be harder to trick into revealing himself.” Ken nodded. “If he’s one of their top men, then he’s no idiot or rookie. He’s high in the hierarchy, and off the books; only a few know who he is and none of those guys are here.”

“But he knows them, right?”

Ken again nodded, and so did the Sheriff.

Sheepdog-21

In Mexico, the heads of Los Zetas made an announcement that would seize the attention of the whole world: they now issued their own currency, the Villa Dollar, and they issued it directly as credit with just the full faith and credit of the cartel backing it. The Mexican government had a fit, as did the rest of the world’s governments and the world banking system. Press attention diverted away from the nasty county guerrilla war far, far to the north in the United States.

The Syndicate signed off on the move, and both cut the Angels out of the loop. The two groups agreed that their ally had become too weak to maintain any longer and thus became expendable. Not that the Angels’ leadership had the presence of mind to understand the significance of the betrayal, as none of them were savvy as to how the world really works to get that this was not more than just your average attempt by a criminal cartel to transition into a rival government. Instead, obsessed with Ken, they focused mono-manically upon the furiously-fist-firing-fellow from the North Star State.

The Hell’s Angels, as an international organization, declared war upon Ken. Observers agreed that this was one of the dumbest decisions ever made by any organization in human history. Word went out that all available Angels are to ride upon Ken and take him out. Dutifully enough, they did; sure, some failed to go for understandable reasons—imprisoned, injured, slain—and for ones less-than-noble alike. All of the world’s governments, as soon as they got word of the decree, facilitated the Angels present into the meat-grinder.

The top hitters of the Hell’s Angels gang, on the other hand, held back. They weren’t stupid; if Ken and his allies showed themselves quite capable of dealing with the brethren, then these top Angels reckoned—correctly—that they would need the aid of their counterparts in the Syndicate and the Zetas. Instead, they managed the operations of the brethren, knowing full well that they sent these men to their deaths. Some infiltrated the county under the guise of being a journalist, an insurance adjuster, or something similar; these men were the best because of their intelligence- not their brutality.

Ken slept at Reginald and Kathy’s home, sometimes alone and sometimes not. He would also spend time there meditating or practicing and it was in that state where he—contemplating events—broke through and awoke from his state with a start. He started the Berglund’s daughter, Ellie, when he did so, but—quick of mind—saw the child’s distress and soothed her swiftly before rushing off. He needed paper and pencil, and found them in Reginald’s home office.

Ken scribbled without thought, letting it flow before it faded, and soon he had three pages full of notes. Then it faded, and he walked into the kitchen to put on some tea while he tried to make sense of what his own hand put down. Ellie followed, now curious.

“Uncle Ken?” she asked, meekly, “What’s that?”

Ken waived for Ellie to come over, and she did as asked. Ken put the girl on his lap.

“I sat down to meditate.” Ken said, “That’s a thing some grown-ups know how to do. It lets me rest without sleeping, so I can think about things in a way that’s not done at school or everyday life.”

“Does this happen ever time?”

Ken laughed. “No. Most of the time, it’s as quiet coming out as going in. This, Ellie, is a big deal because it doesn’t happen that often.”

Sheepdog-19

The first indication that things were seriously amiss in the county came the evening after Ken intercepted a massive ride of Hell’s Angels coming from the annual Sturgis rally, diving upon them from above in the same attack plane that he used to shoot down the Syndicate and Zetas hitters. Without warning he winged over and strafed the bikers, ripping apart their double-column with a volley of big bore machine gun fire and then powered away before the bikers could react. He swung around, did it again from the other side and moments later the highway choked with burning bikes and bleeding bodies bearing big, bold bottom-rockers showing that Angels from across the nation now laid dead or dying on that rural road.

Back at the airport, Ken met The Sheriff as he got out of Guiscard’s old attack plane.

“You got a hell of a plan.” The Sheriff said, “There’s five-score corpses on the highway heading into town west of here. Ain’t no way that the media will ignore that.”

Ken smiled. “Good. That’s just what I need to embarrass and humiliate the bosses. There’s no way the men in charge of these three organizations can afford to back down now, not if they want to save face with each other.”

“Y’know, for a guy who never served a day in the military or ever spied for anyone, you sure know how to start a war.” The Sheriff sighed.

“Oh,” Guiscard said, “by the way. I took some liberties while you two were out. My people in the right places informed me that the Zetas and the Syndicate are, as you people say, astonished- and, also, angrier than they ever were before.”

Ken chuckled. “Excellent.”

“So,” The Sheriff said, “what’s the next step?”

“Call Reggie. Get that militia out, warmed up and ready to roll. All of them. Put the county on a total war footing; tell the women and children to head to the hills, batten the hatches and hunker down until it’s over.”

“That bad, eh?” The Sheriff said.

Ken nodded. “The Zetas play for keeps, and don’t obey decent folks’ ideas of war.”

“The Syndicate isn’t any cleaner.” Guiscard said.

“What about the media?” The Sheriff said.

“Let them be. Stupidity is a self-correcting problem, and as I recall the local managers aren’t a bunch of morons.” Ken checked Guiscard’s computer.

“And if they come from The Cities, Duluth, Chicago, L.A., N.Y.C. or D.C.?”

“Again, self-correcting problem.” Ken said, “Apparently, someone’s already on the scene and has a Livestream report going.”

“Citizen journalism.” The Sheriff said, walking over, “Ah, that’s the Anderson boy. I’m going to have to have a word about listening in on the police band with him. There’s no way that the bad guys are not going to find him first.”

Ken smiled. “Then he just volunteered to be our bait. Put an eye on him.”

“You’ve gotten hard since I last saw you, Ken.”

“Nearly dying does that to you, if it don’t break you.”

Sheepdog-18

In a quiet hanger at a municipal airport in the Chicago area, a handful of well-dressed men met around a table. On that table sat a conference-capable phone.

“Gentlemen,” said a voice, coming from that phone, “we have a problem. Approximately 12 hours ago, one of our pointmen and his counterparts with our associates failed to check in. According to local media, there was a firefight at the appointed rendezvous point and local law enforcement took out our operatives.”

The gathered men looked at each other, nodding their consensus.

“Our associates are not amused. They agree with us that an example must be made. That is why you are here.”

A young woman, attired for the head office, distributes file folders to the men assembled.

“Normally, we would leave this to our rough-and-tumble motorcycle enthusiast friends. This is not a normal situation. As the provided information shows, this incident involves an opponent whose skills and presence demands men of your caliber.”

The men look through the provided photographs and reports, and all of them seize upon the one photo showing The Sheriff with Ken, shaking hands.

“Clean up the mess, gentlemen. The one that brings in Ken’s head gets a $1 million bonus, paid in diamonds. Your luggage is already aboard the plane. You have all that you need to do the job, so get going.”

A similar briefing occurs in Montreal, at another municipal airport, and the Hell’s Angels put out the word of a mandatory ride to deal with the issue. Back at Guiscard’s place, Ken and the man sit in the back office when Guiscard gets a phone call. He listens, and then hangs up.

“They’re coming.” Guiscard said, “All three of them have sent cleaners here.”

“What’s their approach?” Ken got out his phone.

“The Synidicate and the Zetas are flying in.”

“Naturally, the Angels will just ride. The organized groups are being managed, and that photo op I did with The Sheriff will get them focused on me. You still have that old East European plane?”

Guiscard nodded.

“Get it ready. In the meantime, have your boys get my field kit ready.”

Ken dialed The Sheriff’s number, and soon the man picked up.

“It worked. They’re all coming. I want you to intercept the Angels. I have the other two.”

hung up and then hauled ass with Guiscard back to the airport, where the old Legionnaire kept an old ground-attack plane. The two men quickly got it ready to fly, and then up Ken went. He found first the Zetas’ plane.

Ken winged over and moved into an attack position. “Hello, Los Zetas! This is Ken, the man you came to kill. Unfortunately for all of you, I have God on my side and He warned me that you were on your way. If you have a problem with that, you shall soon be able to take up with Him yourselves.”

Then, without mercy, Ken shot the Zetas’ plane out of the sky. He circled a bit as it fell to the ground and collapsed into a flaming pile of debris. Ken repeated this stunt with the Syndicate’s hitmen, and then returned to the airport without incident. It was only after he got back to Guiscard’s hangar that he got any further news.

“The Sheriff reported one ambush while you were out. No causalities for us, so far.”

“The rest of their first wave will be just as easy to handle. Once word gets back to their bosses, then the real pain comes.”

Sheepdog-16

Guiscard welcomed Ken with a smile and a cigar in hand.

“About that big picture,” Ken said, “I just busted up a three-way dance between the Zetas, the Angels and some Canadian syndicate. Mind?”

The old Legionnaire shook his head. “Quick, effective and total- I expected as much from you.”

The two of them walked through an empty common room and over to the bar, where Guiscard poured one glass for each of them.

“The Canadians represented a larger syndicate, with French connections and origins. The man I suspect you encountered was the underboss operating out of Winnipeg, Manitoba. If I am right, then Franklin was one of two links making that meeting happen.”

“The other,” Ken said, taking a drink, “was the Angels, I assume?” Guiscard nodded. “The Legion has a history with this organization, as it’s been a matter of …honor for many of us to do away with it.”

Ken took another drink. He marked Guiscard’s pause; experience told him that it meant a personal, and shameful, encounter compelled the man’s interest. As he let that thought settle, his phone rang. He looked to see who’s calling him, and upon seeing that it was the Sheriff Ken got up and walked away from the bar.

“Ken here, Sheriff. Go.”

“Franklin sang once we got him there. The old man is ex-Foreign Legion, a Colonel Gregor Ballard, originally from South Africa. Retired 10 years ago, resettled in Winnipeg after a brief time in Montreal, and an informal Legion recruiter.”

“Anything else?”

“Ask your man Guiscard.” “Thanks, Sheriff.” Ken said, and he hung up.

Guiscard topped off their drinks. “It was Gregor, yes?”

Ken returned to his seat at the bar and nodded.

“Rotten bastard. He’s typical of what went wrong with the Legion. The French government got too loose with oversight of the Legion."

“Is this like what happened with Los Zetas?”

“Broadly-speaking, yes, but unlike the story with Mexico the problem with the Legion did not arise out of purely internal structural flaws in the government.”

Ken blinked. “You mind unpacking that a bit further?”

“Mexico made the Zetas, but corruption within the government turned them against their masters. It’s purely an internal fuck-up. That’s not what happened with the Legion. Sure, the French government got lazy with its oversight, but the real problem stems from the Intelligence community.”

Ken frowned and took another drink. “You mean the CIA, don’t you?”

“CIA, MI6, NATO and so on; lots of agencies, and lots of factions within and across them, are out there. Many of them are little more than pretentious gangsters, using ‘national security’ and ‘anti-terrorism’ as covers for their crimes. One such group took an eye at the Legion as a convenient place to set-up some operations, and used the regularity of criminal backgrounds as leverage to infiltrate units and take them over.”

This sounds familiar.” Ken said, finishing his glass.

“It’s an old story.” Guiscard said, taking a pull on his cigar, “Not all of us went along with it, and we fought hard to cut them out and restore the Legion’s honor. The fight went all the way to the top of the government, and ended with a purge. To protect the government, as well as the Legion, everything happened out of sight and the records got classified. Everyone that survived, eventually, left- some of us under far better terms than others.”

“Well, Ballard got his.” Ken said, “I shot him several times at point-blank range. None of his men got out alive either.”

Sheepdog-15

The gunfire in the office got the attention of those bikers outside that hadn’t run off to deal with the distant gunfire. They turned, saw that their bosses got shot to hell, and—once the shock wore off—put up their guns and fired upon Ken. The fusillade of firepower shattered the windows and tore up the far wall, but failed to hit Ken. He again ducked, and as the glass fell about him he crawled over to the slain bodyguards and took up their arms.

Ken slammed a magazine home, pulled the charging handle and then guessed where one or more of them stood based on the bullet impacts over his head and the report of the guns. He shifted into a kneeling position, shouldered the weapon and fired three quick shots through the lower wall into the hangar. One of them cried out, and another called Ken’s position. He moved fast, just escaping the return fire, and crawled to the door. He opened the door and leaned out just as two of the bikers made for it and shot them down with a pair of well-placed shots to the chest.

The conscious mind stepped back now, and Ken now ran on experience and training. Feeling the moment shifting his way, Ken went on the attack and assaulted the bikers. He flanked them, cutting three down before they noticed, and kept moving on them without relenting. The violence of action put the Fear of God into his foes, and they turned and ran. Ken didn’t hesitate to finish them all—one shot, one kill—as their retreat turned into a rout. When he finally emptied the magazine, Ken was—again—the last man standing.

Without hesitation, Ken hurried back to the office, recovered his guns and grabbed magazines for them and the rifle from the dead. Quickly loading up, he then grabbed one of the road hogs that the bikers parked in the hanger and road out to meet with his allies. At that same time, the Sheriff and the militia finished off the bikers that intercepted them.

“Here comes the conquering hero.” The Sheriff said as Ken approached, and a few moments later Ken pulled alongside.

“30 dead, including the leaders, Sheriff. The old man is the Canuck, and he knew Franklin. Get him to I.D. the corpse, and some techs to slap a tracker on the plane.”

The Sheriff nodded his head. “Will do. Where are you going?”

Ken smiled. “Off to talk to a man about a picture.” Ken said, and rode off.

Sheepdog-14

Ken, at that moment, was in Franklin’s office. The excuse was to take care of boring shit, but the real reason was to transmit the video to the Sheriff. Hearing the old man call for Franklin, Ken sent out the go-code to move in and then went out to meet the man.

“Someone call for me?” Ken said, and the old man gave Ken the once-over.

“You sounded different on the phone.” The old man’s eyes gave Ken no sense of relief.

"You don’t sound like a doe-eyed teenager.” Ken said, “You don’t hear me crying about it.”

Ken approached the old man. “Now that we’re all here, let’s get the late-comers some beer and brats, and then we can talk business.”

The old man followed Ken, Mark and Pedro into Franklin’s office while the others maintained their loose watch about the hanger. The old man’s bodyguards, in particular, stayed close to their boss and his plane.

“Now, before we get into the details, let’s review what’s on the table. Y’know, just so we’re all on the same page.” Ken said.

Pedro said, “Los Zetas offers to originate fresh product from its manufacturing assets, and to ensure its delivery into the United States and Canada, whereupon it will be distributed to our partners.”

Mark said, “The Hell’s Angels offers to provide security through North America, in conjunction with our partners. We will pro-actively deal with threats to our collective interests, and distribute in the United States.”

The old man said, “We will handle Canadian distribution exclusively, and administer financing issues in conjunction with Zetas counterparts.”

Just then, one of the bodyguards entered the room. The men outside arose in a confused and panicked manner, tipping Ken off that he soon would need to drop this charade.

“We’re getting hit, Franklin.” The old man glared at Ken. “I’ve got it covered.” Ken said, opening a draw in the desk, “I assumed that something like this could happen, and planned for it.”

Mark, Pedro and the old man all looked at him in disbelief. Meanwhile, Ken drew a pair of concealed pistols into his hands.

“And what, Franklin, are you going to do about it?” Mark said, curious.

Ken drew down on them. “This!” Ken opened fire, catching the three of them—and the bodyguard—by surprise.

Mark and the bodyguard caught bullets in their throats and dropped to the floor, blood spraying from their necks. Pedro took two in the chest and fell over in a heap. The old man leaped for Ken, but slumped on the desk after taking four in the face and chest; he slid to the floor, smearing blood and viscera as he slid down.

The door to the office flew open as Ken dropped his empty pistols to the floor, and he ducked under the desk when they dumped the magazines in their carbines into it. A couple of round nicked him, but nothing serious came of it. Ken waited for the shooting to stop, then stood and chucked a chair at them before they could reload. That gave him the opening to close with them, knife in hand, and cut them up. He got one of them right away, slashing open his neck and then stabbing him in the face to end that man’s life.

The other bodyguard dropped his rifle and engaged Ken empty-handed, tossing Ken back across the room, and then drew his pistol. Ken landed on the cooling corpse of his foe’s former boss, and then got back under the desk just as the bodyguard fired upon him again. Ken quickly moved from side to side, knowing that the desk wouldn’t provide effective cover anymore, and pulled his back-up gun out of its holster. Then Ken laid down, shot the bodyguard in the ankle and waited for the man to hit the floor; once Ken lined up a shot with the man’s skull, he put his last two through that big brain pan and ended that engagement. Six dead bad guys, and only a couple of flesh wounds.

Sheepdog-13

The county once boasted of having Hollywood celebrities keeping cabins or summer homes at resorts in the area, and that meant the establishment of a small airport so that those wealthy people could fly directly into the county and then take a short drive to their getaways in this lake-rich land. It was at this airport that Ken found himself that night. Guiscard gave him the name of the man there to find, a feckless opportunist by the name of Frank, and the Sheriff confirmed Guiscard’s intelligence of this Frank as a fixer of sorts.

Ken rode up to the hanger where Frank was said to be, found him and sucker-punched him. A few moments later, Ken beat Frank into unconsciousness- and not one word was said. Ken handed him off to Jackson, who took Frank off to the county jail, and took his place. Shortly after Jackson slipped out of sight, Ken heard the faint rumbling of road hogs; the Angels were near, and closing. Moments later, they pulled into the hanger.

A score in all, each one fully-patched, their bottom-rockers proclaiming their territory as the whole of Minnesota, lined up their bikes and dismounted. Then a handful of trucks and SUVs rolled into the hanger, and out of them stepped a dozen of Mexican gangsters—Zetas siccarios—that mixed with the Angels uneasily.

The eldest of both groups met up and then approached Ken.

“You Frank?” the Angel said.

Ken coughed. “Yeah.”

“Show us.” the Zeta said, “Now.”

“Come into my office.” Ken said, stalling, and he led them into Frank’s office and had them take seats. Seeing Frank’s keyring, and knowing from Guiscard about Frank’s recent activities, Ken figured that Frank arranged for something to keep them boys pacified.

“It’s a long ride from the Cities.” Ken said, “I bet you’re ready for some fun while we wait for the last of our guests?”

The Angel smiled. “You remembered the booze. Good.”

“Grab a couple of the guys, and let’s get this started.”

Ken led the two leaders and a couple of their men to a backroom, kept cool, where Frank had a large cooler filled with a pair of kegs, another with ice and frozen meats, and everything needed to set up a tailgate-style of party in the hanger. Without so much as a word, the guys hauled it all out and set it up. Cups passed around, and soon their guard came down as they relaxed.

Ken learned that the leaders were Mark and Pedro, and let them go on about all the women they fucked, the guys they killed, the scams they ran and so on once the booze loosened their tongues. Ken had his phone on, recording it all, making excuses now and then to swap SD cards or charge up the phone—usually using the Men’s Room—and carefully stashed the recorded conversations for later retrieval.

A few hours later, a plane landed at the airport and taxied its way into the hanger. Nothing unusual about it—it was the sort of twin-engined small jet one expects of successful, ambitious men with means—and out of it came some well-dressed men with a military bearing to them, not unlike Pedro and his siccarios.

Their leader, a white-haired man who seemed out of place without either a military uniform or an operator’s field gear, scanned the room and frowned.

“Where is Franklin Anderson?” the old man said, anger simmering.

Sheepdog-12

Ken followed Guiscard back to the man’s office, and sat himself in a chair.

“I can’t believe that you’re not dead yet.” Guiscard said, his astonishment showing, “Not only did I hear about your little adventure in Brazil, but also the details from my sources down south. You single-handedly destroyed a cocaine processing plant, hacked apart the cartel’s ruling committee with a machete, torched an entire region’s coca plantations, waged a war against its enforcement arm- and that was before they shot you.”

Ken’s ears perked up. “How did you hear about the cartel’s committee meeting? Those details were kept out of the press.”

“Sources.” Guiscard said.

“Intelligence sources.” Ken countered, “CIA sources, specifically, but being ex-Legion you’d not be that picky about your associations now- would you?”

Guiscard gave Ken that look of disbelief, and Ken threw a picture on the desk- one of Guiscard and another man, a Brazilian from the lower classes.

“Stephan would send his regards, if he were still alive.”

Again, the Algerian sighed. “He never could fit into French civil society.”

“And you could? Or do you live closer to Quebec than France or Algeria for kicks?”

“Enough. Why are you here?”

“Los Zetas. They hooked up with an outlaw club, and they’re looking to run dope through this county. The Sheriff’s not keen on that going on.”

Guiscard smiled. “Ah, yes. The Angels club, the chapter based out of the Cities. Ken, that Sheriff hasn’t told you the full picture. Since I value keeping my doors open more than I do making a tidy profit, and I know full well what happens should you come again while doing your man-on-a-mission thing, I’m going to bet on you this time.”

Ken kicked back. “I’m listening.”

“The Sinaloa Cartel and the Zetas fight for control of North America’s drug networks. Both of them are reaching out to American and Canadian syndicates, looking to make strategic alliances that spread their networks across the continent. Los Zetas secured the Texas Syndicate’s allegiance, and that in turn brought in several associated outlaw clubs- including the Hell’s Angels. The Sinaloa Cartel then got an alliance with MS-13 in turn, and now both cartels are swiftly making networks out of associations. They’ll soon sew up firm continental networks, and that makes the current warfare in Mexico nothing in comparison to what will come."

“The Feds?”

“Your Federal Government is less than worthless. They’re involved. They trained the founders of the Zetas. They’re allied to the Sinaloa. They’re playing both sides to screw you out of what freedom you think you have.”

Ken nodded. “Great. Now, how does that work here?”

“The Cities chapter of the Hell’s Angels club are about to link up with a cross-border group that specializes in smuggling across the U.S.-Canada border.”

Sheepdog-11

Just off one of the major highways in the state, on good lakefront property, there stood a bar—The Longhouse—known only to two groups of people: outlaws and lawmen. The bar catered to the outlaw biker world, yet eschewed any affiliations; the owner—a foreigner named Guiscard, said to be an Algerian ex-French Legionnaire—is a true businessman. He took any outlaw’s money so long as the fights stayed outside. This created a few things, now well-known amongst that underworld: outlaws could meet there, and drink, more-or-less in peace and that meant that clubs could do business; the law could reliably stake the place out to find out what’s going on around the county- or even further afield; and others seeking outlaws for whatever reason could reliably make contact there- if they had courage or cunning enough to do so.

Being a bar for bikers, a clubhouse away from one’s clubhouse, outlaw bikers from many clubs stop here to drink—and enjoy themselves, as it were—on a regular basis. Clubs, especially outlaw clubs, are not one big happy family of bikers. There are rivalries, feuds and other levels of conflict between (and within) clubs- but at this bar, it’s all outside or else. Inside, the rules are to keep it as cool as the beer. This is advantageous to the owner, because it keeps profits up and costs down.

It is also advantageous to lawmen, because they usually don’t have to do much but pick up a drunk or two outside and then step in for a brief talking-to before taking their man away for a night in jail to sober up. (This usually leads to a transfer to the county jail for outstanding warrants the next day, but that’s another story.) More ambitious or creative lawmen assume passable personae and become regulars themselves, using the place as a front for intelligence gathering. This was the Sheriff’s idea.

Ken didn’t need any persona. Ken just rode up to the Longhouse, knowing that the Sheriff and the other men would be listening from a close distance, watching over the place with a team ready to go if things went bad. He parked his bike next to a row of your usual Harleys and Indians, road hogs all the way, and walked in without so much as a thought. It was around sunset, soon to be dark outside, and all sorts of action went on in the Longhouse’s common room: drinking, dancing (badly), gambling (poker), chatting up the girls (or worse) and lots of talking.

If not for the jukebox, there would’ve been no sound at all once everyone recognized Ken. Ken, for his part, eyed them all and then just took a stool at the end of the bar—back to the wall—and then got himself a beer. Folks went back to their carousing, slowly, but the tension didn’t release and one of the girls waived to the bartender. He went into the backroom, and a few moments later he returned with Guiscard behind him.

Ken looked up at the foreigner as the man approached. “You’re stocking better beer now.”

Guiscard stared at Ken. “You’ve got balls coming back here.” he said, “I ought to toss you out now, after how you trashed the place last time.”

Ken took a long pull on his bottle. “You won’t. You know why, and so do I.”

The foreigner sighed. “Right. My office, now.”