Prey

It began on the eve of a severe Alaskan snowstorm. Two men stepped out of their four wheel drive vehicle into the freezing night. Pausing under a glary streetlight to check their watches, they carefully slid fully loaded .45 Sig-Sauer automatic pistols into the pockets of their down jackets.

Seemingly alone, the men looked up and down the block, crossed the street and entered one of Anchorage's sleaziest biker bars.

The man watching all of this from the room above the bar checked his watch. It was exactly eleven fifty-five P.M.

* * * * *

The late-night crowd in the High Horse Saloon was a touchy mix of bikers, fishermen and oil field roughnecks. One of the scruffier patrons, Henry Lightstone, sat by himself at one of the small corner tables.

"Get you a cold one?"

Lightstone put his hand over his glass and shook the waitress off, as he watched two men enter the bar through the double doors. He wouldn't have given them more than a casual glance if one of them hadn't looked like a cop. A cop was the last person that Henry Lightstone wanted to see right now.

He glanced down at his watch again---eleven fifty-six.

In four minutes he had planned to resolve the problem that had been plaguing him for three months. Now he had only two options: stay in the bar and risk getting trapped in an arrest, or leave immediately---and flush six weeks of work down the toilet.

The two newcomers walked over to a wall table, pulled off their heavy jackets, and tossed them onto an empty chair. They ordered drinks from a waitress as they sat down.

Henry Lightstone leaned his chair back against the corner wall and draped his long arms across the wooden arm rests, trying to look like a man who was working on his fifth or sixth beer of the evening instead of his second.

Come on, he muttered to himself, somebody do something.

Two minutes to go.

The waitress returned with the beers and a basket of the bar's notoriously stale popcorn. The man who looked like a cop pulled two folded bills out of his shirt pocket, tossed them onto her tray, then turned his attention back to his companion.

Lightstone watched the stunned waitress stare at the money on her tray. She hurriedly stuffed one of the bills into her low-cut tank top before returning to the bar.

Two twenties, Lightstone told himself. Four beers would have been twelve, and he didn't figure she would skim tips for a lousy five or ten.

Throw-away money. A technique used by insecure people trying to make an impression. Unfortunately, it was also a trick that undercover cops used to throw people off.

Henry Lightstone let his eyes drift slowly around the smoke-filled room. He half expected to see a five or six man raid team taking up positions near the rear exit, but those doors were clear.

Lightstone tried to convince himself that the two newcomers were just a couple of moose hunting tourists grounded in Anchorage by the unexpected storm. Macho types who didn't have enough brains to stay out of places like the High Horse at eleven fifty-five in the evening.

He'd been running across guys like that ever since he'd gotten into town six weeks ago.

He watched as a biker who had been sitting at the bar walked up to the two men. He was classic outlaw, big, with a scraggly black beard, dirty hair, a torn leather jacket and patched jeans. He crashed into the table, splashing beer on the two men.

The newcomers stared up at the black-jacketed figure with bemused indifference.

Conversations began to die out at several of the surrounding tables.

Lightstone watched the biker bring his hands slowly to his narrow hips, his right hand over the leather knife pouch on his belt. The guy who looked like a cop smiled at the biker, shook his head slowly and stared straight into the biker's bloodshot eyes. Lightstone could lip-read what he said from thirty feet away:

Don't even think about it, asshole.

For a moment the outlaw biker appeared stunned by the newcomer's insolence.

Two of the saloon's bouncers took up positions near the newcomer's table. One was black, the other oriental. Neither was trying to conceal the buckshot-filled saps they tapped against their legs.

The biker stepped away from the table to face the two bouncers, the fingertips of his right hand still tucked under the leather flap of his knife pouch. But then he faltered. Clearly out-bluffed and out-maneuvered, he glared at the bouncers; then swaggered back toward the bar as if the episode had been a waste of his time.

A couple of the oil field workers, who'd obviously had their fill of swaggering bikers rose out of their chairs, intent on taking a black leather jacket home as a trophy.

Instead, they found themselves standing nose to shirt pocket with another bouncer, this one a former offensive tackle for the Raiders. Smiling pleasantly, the bouncer placed a courtesy pitcher of draft on the table and shook his head.

"Couple of bad-ass dudes," a familiar voice said next to Lightstone.

Henry Lightstone glanced up at the tall, leather-jacketed figure and motioned for Brendon Kleinfelter to join him at the table.

"You know them?"

"They come here every now and then, have a couple of beers, and then walk out like they don't give a shit that they look like a couple of cops."

"You sure they aren't?"

"Not according to my sources," Kleinfelter shrugged. "Far as we know, they're a couple of import/export guys looking to make some extra money on the side. Popper doesn't like them hanging around here, and he thinks he can run them out. He just keeps forgetting about Larry and Mike."

"The sap-artist twins?"

Kleinfelter nodded his bearded head.

"I assume you don't really give a shit, since you own the place," Lightstone suggested.

"Their money's good," Kleinfelter agreed.

"Know anything else about them?"

"Why, they make you nervous?"

"Damn right they do," Lightstone nodded solemnly. "I didn't set aside much for lawyers this year."

"Names are Paul and Carl. At least that's what they go by around here. Way I understand it, Paul is the money man. The guy with the attitude is Carl. Figure him for the protection."

"Protection for what?"

"That's always the question, isn't it?" Kleinfelter nodded. "Did you remember to bring cash?"

"Yeah, sure," Lightstone said sarcastically. "I left it with the waitress for safekeeping."

"Just as long as we understand each other." Kleinfelter's eyes gleamed maliciously.

"What I understand is that I'm here to check out the merchandise. If I like what I see, I make a phone call. They give me an address, and you send a couple people out to check the money. If everybody ends up happy, your people pick up the cash, I load up the goods, and you guys start setting up bank accounts for your old age. And if everybody stays happy with the deal, we start weekly pick-ups, five hundred pounds a whack. Is that the way you understand it?"

"Sound's right to me," Kleinfelter said. "Back room okay?"

Lightstone shrugged. "Yeah, sure, why not."

"Then let's do it."

Lightstone and Kleinfelter worked their way through the crowd, then stepped into a long narrow hallway that was closed off at either end by steel doors. About halfway down the narrow hallway a pair of support beams stuck out from either side, leaving only enough room for one person to walk by at a time. No lights or buzzers went off when Lightstone walked through the narrow opening, but he figured there was a scanner and men with firearms on the other side of the doorway.

"You getting paranoid in your old age?" Lightstone asked, tapping his knuckles against the solid surface of the second door.

"It's the only way I know to get old in this business," Brendon Kleinfelter said as the second door was pulled open from the inside.

At least half the floor space inside was taken up by stacks of stainless steel kegs and shrink-wrapped pallets containing hundreds of cases of Bud, Miller, Moosehead and Stroh's. It was obvious that the High Horse Saloon would not run out of beer, no matter how long the winter season lasted this year.

"Nice operation," Lightstone said.

"First class all the way. That's the way I like it," Kleinfelter said as a man with a scanner wand came forward.

"Any objections?" the outlaw gang leader asked.

"Be my guest," Lightstone shrugged.

He held his arms up while the scanner ran under his armpits and across his chest. It registered nothing at all. Same reaction for the buttocks, hips, and crotch. No guns, no knives, no beepers, recorders or transmitters. It was only when the device was brought down along the front of Lightstone's long legs that it emitted a shrill beep.

"Right boot," Lightstone said calmly. The man operating the scanner squatted down, lifted up Lightstone's pant leg, and carefully removed the loaded .38 five-shot Chiefs Special from the boot holster. The weapon was handed up to Kleinfelter who glanced at it, then looked over at Lightstone quizzically.

"You always carry a shit-ass piece like this?"

"That's right."

"What for?"

"Handy for bears," Lightstone shrugged, returning the outlaw biker's calm, icy stare.

"Yeah, right," Kleinfelter chuckled. "A thirty-eight's gonna have a serious impact on a thousand pound grizzly. Didn't anybody ever tell you about Magnums?"

"I don't like big guns," Lightstone said. "They make too much noise, and they don't fit in my boot."

Brendon Kleinfelter gave him an evil smile, then tossed the handgun back to Lightstone, who fielded it one-handed then slid the still-loaded weapon back down into his boot holster. The rest of the search turned up nothing of interest.

Kleinfelter opened another door and Lightstone entered a smaller warehouse. A dozen people, most of whom Lightstone recognized from the bar, were surveying at least a hundred and fifty military ammo crates with rope handles on the sides. Standing next to a small stack of the ammo crates were the two clean cut newcomers. The one who looked like a cop was holding a small crowbar in his gloved right hand.

"What are they doing here?" Lightstone demanded, glaring at Kleinfelter.

"You mean Paul and Carl?" Kleinfelter asked. "They're what you might call your competition. You think you're the only guy who ever came up to Alaska looking to make a deal?"

"Are you trying to tell me I've got to stand here in front of an audience and bid for this shit?" Lightstone couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"That's about it," Kleinfelter nodded.

Lightstone nodded toward the newcomers.

"So why don't they have to get their nuts fried in a goddamned x-ray machine?" he demanded.

"I've been dealing with Paul and Carl for a couple of months now," Kleinfelter said. "I know a lot about them. But you're new."

"Fucking incredible," Henry Lightstone muttered.

"To tell you the truth," Kleinfelter said, "I don't think you're really going to be competitors anyway."

"Mind telling me why?" Lightstone asked.

"Take a look at their merchandise."

They all watched as Carl crowbarred open the top of the ammo crate.

"What the hell's that?" Henry Lightstone asked, staring into the open crate.

Carl smiled. "That, my friend, is what Mr. Kleinfelter likes to refer to as Alaskan White."

"But that's a...a..."

"An ivory carving?" Paul suggested as he picked one of the carvings out of the crate.

"I don't believe this," Henry Lightstone said.

"You got a problem with it?"

The voice behind Lightstone belonged to the biker named "Popper."

Turning around, Lightstone snarled: "Fuck off."

He froze when he heard the distinctive click of a six-inch knife blade snapping open.

Spinning to his left, Lightstone shoved the thrusting knife hand aside with his open right palm, brought his left hand up to catch the wrist, and then twisted hard.

The crack was audible above Popper's choking scream.

For a long moment, everyone simply stared.

Lightstone retrieved the opened knife. Closing the blade, he tossed it to the ex-Raider turned bouncer who had stepped in between Kleinfelter and Lightstone.

Catching the knife, the man stared at Lightstone appraisingly, as if trying to decide which limb to rip off first.

"Man, I'm really going to enjoy this one," the bouncer finally said.

"I shouldn't have let it get out of control like that," Lightstone forced himself to say, even though no one seemed to care about the injured biker who thrashed on the concrete.

"Popper'll survive," Brendon Kleinfelter said. He motioned to a pair of his men who picked the man up off the floor and carried him out of the warehouse. "The question is, will you?"

Kleinfelter was still smiling, but his eyes remained expressionless.

"None of this would have happened if you'd have given me some kind of warning," Lightstone said.

"When Brendon offered to sell you a thousand pounds of Alaskan White," Paul said, "you weren't expecting to purchase ivory, were you?"

"Not hardly," Lightstone said.

"I don't suppose your people have any drugs around here that you might offer this fellow instead?" Paul laughed as he turned to Kleinfelter. "Some cocaine, perhaps?"

"We could probably lay our hands on a kilo or two," Kleinfelter shrugged.

"Oh yeah....?" Lightstone started to say. Kleinfelter held up his hand.

"But I don't think it's smart selling cocaine to an undercover cop."

Lightstone's knees sagged.

"Are you sure about that?" Paul asked.

"Oh I'm sure," Brendon Kleinfelter said. "This guy is Henry Lightstone, homicide investigator for the San Diego Police Department. Soon to be ex-homicide investigator."

Lightstone thought about the Chief's Special in his boot, but was suddenly aware that all three bouncers were now holding baseball bats and the eight remaining bikers had all unzipped their black leather jackets to reveal an assortment of handguns.

"Homicide?" Paul said, his eyebrows raised in surprise. "I would have thought narcotics, surely?"

"No, the man's definitely homicide." Brendon Kleinfelter shook his head. "See, about six or eight months ago, some homicide dick named Bobby LaGrange was rummaging around the Harbor area, trying to figure out why some two-bit hooker got herself dead. Somewhere along the line, LaGrange got the idea that some of us might have been involved, so we decided to distract him a little. That about the size of it, Henry?"

Henry Lightstone said nothing.

"And this Bobby LaGrange, I take it, worked with this fellow here?" Paul asked, looking over at Lightstone.

Kleinfelter nodded.

"I see," Paul said calmly. "And tell me, uh, Henry," the man went on, seemingly unfazed by this latest bit of information. "How much time does Brendon face if he's charged for your friend's unfortunate, uh, accident?"

Henry Lightstone decided he had nothing to lose by going along with this man's game. If nothing else, it might buy him more time.

"If Bobby recovers, three-to-ten," Lightstone said.

"And if he doesn't?"

"He'll fry."

"Only three-to-ten years for nearly beating a police officer to death? That's incredible. Don't you think so, Carl?"

"Hell of a deal," Carl nodded in agreement as he continued to rummage through the ivory statues.

"Especially when a person could get ten years and a ten thousand dollar fine just for selling one little carving," Paul went on, holding the statue of a walrus up in his hand. "African elephant ivory. Loxodonta africana. Absolutely prohibited. And of course, Lord knows what he might get if there are any more like this." He gestured toward the pile of ammo crates.

"Ten years for that?" Henry Lightstone said, astonished.

"At least one more," Carl called out as he held up a carved seal.

"Oh good," Paul said. "That makes it twenty and twenty. Oh, and did I happen to mention," he said, turning to Brendon Kleinfelter, who had a thoroughly perplexed expression on his bearded face, "that Carl and I are Federal Agents and that you and your associates are all under arrest?"

"WHAT?" Kleinfelter blinked in disbelief.

"Arrest," Paul repeated. "You know, hands above your head, you have the right, and so on and so forth."

"You are out of your fucking mind," Brendon Kleinfelter said softly.

"Like I told you, I'm with the Federal Government," Paul said agreeably. "Now if you'll all just put your hands above your heads...."

Henry Lightstone was still looking back and forth between Paul, Brendon Kleinfelter, and the ex-Raider bouncer with the bat, when the outlaw leader suddenly came alive and reached for the shoulder-holstered nine millimeter Smith and Wesson under his black leather jacket.

Henry Lightstone was already lunging at Kleinfelter, and he barely saw the bat in time to duck. The hulking bouncer caught Kleinfelter square in the middle of his bearded face, knocking him head over heels in a spray of blood and broken teeth.

The biker closest to Lightstone was still fumbling for his automatic, but now Lightstone was back on his feet, kicking him hard---first in the knee and then in the neck---seizing his gun, then spinning around with the 9mm Ruger automatic pistol in both outstretched hands.

He was too late. A noise like a dozen coconuts cracking together ripped through the warehouse and signaled the end of the fight.

Before Lightstone's astonished eyes, six of the bikers lay sprawled out on the concrete floor while two of the bouncers, down on their knees, were checking pulses and applying handcuffs. Two other bikers were dangling from the huge hands of the ex-Raider turned bouncer who dropped them to the concrete with loud hollow THUNKS.

Henry Lightstone looked up at the hulking giant in disbelief.

Paul nodded to Lightstone. "Dwight Stoner. Ex-offensive tackle for the Raiders." He glanced at the sprawled figure of Brendon Kleinfelter. "Also, fortunately for us, a Special Agent of the United States Fish and Wildlife Service."