Page 25 of Snowbirds
All the “real” MCs had colors. For instance, Hell’s Angels colors were red letters on a white background with a skull of some kind, leading to them also being known as the red and white.
Ivan had spent a few years early in his undercover career trying to get close to Gunnar Sinclair, close enough to catch a motorcycle club president doing something they could get him behind bars for. He’d never been caught with the proverbial smoking gun, and Ivan had been called back, the operation dropped.
And then, a few years ago, the guy had dropped off the radar completely. The Velvet Devils MC was still around, but Gunnar Sinclair was not at the helm and they no longer dabbled in sex and drug trafficking. Instead, the MC raised money for children’s hospitals, animal rescues and, randomly, STEM scholarship programs.
“That’s Gunnar Sinclair,” Ivan said. “I’d bet my retirement fund on it. He was on our watch list for years. Murder, drugs, sex trafficking—those are just some of the things he was suspected of, if not actively doing, at least ordering to be done.”
“What the hell is he doing here?” Chris asked. “In broad daylight?”
“Probably what most everybody else is, trying to enjoy his sunset years. That’s a nice bike he’s got there,” Ivan noted. “We were never able to pin anything on him, although we have a few lower-level Velvet Devils behind bars, plus his son.”
“You’re sure it’s him?” Chris asked. “One hundred percent positive?”
Keeping his attention on the rearview mirror, Ivan didn’t bother to reply, just raised one eyebrow and reached for the door handle.
“How about I ask him?”
“Don’t you fucking dare.”
Ivan didn’t open the door, but also didn’t remove his hand. “Here in the middle of a retirement community, I don’t think he means any harm. Does he look like he means harm to you? Do any of them?”
Chris sucked in a bunch of oxygen as if there was a fire sale on the stuff and then released it.
“No, it doesn’t look that way.”
“Look,” Ivan said. “It’s getting hot in Big Blue, so we can’t stay inside here anyway. Who knows how long they’re going to hang around? Let’s just calmly get out and say hello to them like normal people.”
“For one thing,” Chris said sourly, “I do not randomly say hello to people.”
“Of course you don’t, Agent Hatch, but how about just this once.” Ivan pushed the door open and got out of the car.
The thud of Blue’s doors shutting had the riders turning to look at Ivan and Chris.
“Howdy,” Ivan called out as he crossed the street to get closer to them. Behind him, he could hear Chris muttering threats under his breath. “Not my boss,” he said out the side of his mouth.
“I’ll be having a conversation with your boss,” Chris promised.
“Morning,” a rider, younger than the rest, said. “Well, afternoon by now, I guess.”
“Are you looking for”—Ivan turned to Chris—“what’s his name again?” He had kept moving and was now about twenty feet from Gunnar Sinclair himself. Even in his sixties, the man had power, a draw Ivan could feel.
“Cleevus. Cleevus Buckley,” Chris responded to Ivan.
The younger guy abandoned Gunnar, moving to meet Ivan and Chris. “Have you seen him recently?” the stranger asked. “We’ve been by a couple of times with no luck.”
“Chris,” Ivan said over his shoulder, not wanting to turn his back on them just yet, “you’ve been here a bit longer than me. Have you seen Cleevus?”
Chris reached Ivan’s side, standing so they were now shoulder to shoulder.
“Nope. I saw you guys a few days ago though.”
Ivan silently wished Chris didn’t sound exactly like the DEA agent he was.
“Oh yeah, we stopped by.” He stuck out his hand. “Tyrone Duke, it’s nice to meet you.”
Tyrone was possibly in his late thirties or early forties but had one of those faces that made it hard to tell.
“It’s a pleasure, Tyrone. Ivan Morrison, and this guy here is Chris Hatch.”
