Aggressively Undercover

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Authors note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

This story is my submission to the ‘Crime and Punishment 2024’ event.

Aggressively Undercover

Chapter One:

The briefing room had slowly filled up, detectives and patrol officers filing in, many clutching bagels and coffee as they awaited the arrival of the Lieutenant.

New Yarmouth Police Department was small, but they liked to see themselves as utterly professional. Located in upstate New York, it was considered a small, safe city where it’s residents could enjoy life unmolested by the type of crime and criminals their brethren in the New York City police department had to deal with.

Finally Lieutenant Dunne entered the room. He was considered by his colleagues as a good officer although lazy and often claiming sick leave for the mildest of illnesses. He swept to the front of the room, perching himself on the edge of the desk that stood there and waited, gazing out at the assembled cops until finally the buzz of conversation petered out into silence.

“Right, you should all know why you’re here but to avoid any stupid questions, let me recap the situation,” he paused for a moment allowing his glare to inform his audience that he hadn’t the inclination to repeat himself, their complete attention was required.

“The Iron Celts motorcycle club,” he continued his briefing, “started out legitimate and small, stayed small but moved into side businesses like smuggling and some protection deals over the last decade. Minor stuff and not something that we had too much trouble dealing with. Last year or so they’ve decided to embrace the drug trade. Meth mostly, running it for gangs across state lines and even down from Canada. The quantities are small so the bigger agencies aren’t willing to devote time to it. They see this as strictly a local matter. The Mayor’s running for re-election and he is looking for a win on the crime front to use for his campaign. So, he’s been on the Chiefs neck, the Chief’s been on my back and since all this rolls downhill, now I’m on your collective asses to get this done.”

There was a low murmur of discontent, a few choice comments about politicians and re-elections and minding their own business before silence fell once more. Lieutenant Dunne stared hard at a few of the cops at the front of the room, those who had been working as the Department’s Narcotics squad.

“Over the year we’ve been trying to catch these bikers in the act but so far, we’ve had no luck. No evidence means we haven’t been able to get search warrants for their clubhouse, stop and search initiatives while they’ve been out on the road have yielded nothing. Now we finally got a judge to sign off on us getting some wires up into their clubhouse but there we got ourselves another problem.” At this point he yielded the floor to Sergeant Kowalski, a bluff twenty-year veteran who rose laboriously from his seat at the front, turning to address the room.

“These Micks are low tech,” he began, a few of the Irish American cops in his audience pulling faces at his choice of words. “We figured at first they were being cagey. No Internet, no laptops, no smartphones, nothing for us to track, trace or bug. Finally though we’re now of the opinion that the Paddies are just too stupid to use them.” This time the cops, who saw the emerald isle as their place of origin, in the audience glowered and grumbled audibly at Kowalski’s commentary. The big man showed no sign of caring about his choice of words, ploughing on regardless.

“That’s left us with the option of putting some bugs in the clubhouse itself. Since these guys figure technology ended with the combustible engine, we’re pretty confident they don’t sweep for bugs so once we get devices in place, we’re golden. Getting in is the problem. Without cause, we can’t just walk in officially and we tried every ruse we got, pizza delivery, department of health, fire marshal inspections. Either they can’t get in the door or they are escorted the whole time by a member of the gang.”

“What about breaking in?” One of the assembled cops offered a suggestion.

“We looked at that. Problem is there is always at least a couple of them on the premises. If we got caught, well… wouldn’t look good having one of our own getting charged with breaking and entering. Nah we’ve tried stealth, subtlety and sweetness and nothings worked so far.”

“So… thoughts?” Lieutenant Dunne asked, throwing it open to the officers assembled in the room. His face twitched as he watched the cream of New Yarmouth’s police department either stare blankly back at him or down at their shoes.

“Uh, if sweettalking didn’t work. Have you considered aggression?” A voice called out from the back of the room.

“Aggression?” Dunne replied. Slowly, şişli escort every face, including his own, turned to look at a single figure sitting at the edge of a row of chairs, midway in the room. The figure, an African American woman in her early thirties looked up from the coffee she was holding to see everyone staring at her.

“The fuck are you lot looking at?”

Angela Abbott, known to her coworkers as Angie to her face, ‘Angry Angie’ or ‘Triple A’ behind her back, had been a cop for ten years.

She had begun her career as a patrol officer in New York City, moving to Robbery Homicide as a Detective before her natural leanings to action saw her transferring to the Emergency Service Unit. This is the NYPD’s version of SWAT and Angie excelled in this role until her taste for aggressive tactics, her famously short temper and her poor social skills saw her Captain deciding she needed time off the ‘frontline’ of protecting and serving the people of NYC. A temporary transfer was arranged, and so for the last six months Angie had found herself kicking her heels in New Yarmouth’s quiet police force.

Now she was standing in Lieutenant Dunne’s office, Sergeant Kowalski leaning against the closed door.

“You understand the assignment then?”

“Sure, get in, plant listening devices throughout the clubhouse, get out,” Angie answered.

“Without starting World War Three,” Kowalski said from behind her.

“Good point Sergeant. No violence, you go in unarmed,” Dunne said nodding.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Angie blurted.

“No I am not. This is undercover work, it might not be what you were used to doing back in NYC but the NYPD… our NYPD, the New Yarmouth Police Department, doesn’t do mass shootouts with suspects. So it’s this, or back to filing reports. You can always ring your Captain back in New York, see if they miss you enough to bring you home yet? Your choice.”

“Fine. No guns. No violence,” Angie said in irritated agreement.

“And you can’t go dressed like that, you’ll need to change into what you wear off duty,” Kowalski said, looking pointedly at the tactical pants, plain dark t-shirt and combat boots Angie was wearing. A frown crossed her face.

“This is what I wear off duty,” she answered.

“First fucker who makes a comment gets to collect his teeth in an empty coffee cup,” Angie warned, raising a fist towards the cops gathered about her. The three members of the technical equipment department all clamped their mouths firmly shut.

Angie had been convinced to try on some clothing used by Vice officers for undercover, sting operations. Her athletic body, 34F-24-35, had been denuded of her combat orientated apparel for something that made her skin crawl.

Standing behind a screen in the equipment room of the station, she’d gone through a box of clothing, looking for items that didn’t assault her sensibilities overmuch. Selecting some items, she peeled off her own clothes before realising a fresh set of problems. First, the men’s boxers and sports bra she was currently wearing wouldn’t match the new clothes. Second, there was no underwear in the box, not that she’d have worn second hand panties even if there were some there. So, she’d opted to go commando. Her firm body, a punishing daily exercise regime keeping it so, meant that her lack of support wasn’t an issue on that score. Not with the clothes she’d opted to go with.

High waisted, faux leather pants that seemed to act as a second skin covered the lower half of her five foot seven body, a white, long-sleeved ribbed crop top with a plunging neckline took care of the other half.

“I look ridiculous,” she groused, flicking her shoulder length wavy dark hair back.

She looked anything but, however none of the men who worked supplying the department with technical support and equipment were brave enough to say otherwise. Instead, they pushed a small box, containing some flat black discs about an inch in diameter inside it, towards Angie. She crooked an eyebrow.

“The uh, the bugs,” one of the men said lamely. “Wireless, magnetic coated, internal battery life of two weeks. That’s as long as the warrant lasts for. To be sure you get out first, we won’t start monitoring them, so they stay inactive, until you leave the clubhouse.” Angie was still staring at him, so he nervously cleared his throat, well aware of her reputation. “Have you a question Officer Abbott?”

“Just one,” her sweet smile made the man gulp in apprehension. “Where the fuck am I supposed to hide them?” She swept a hand over the skintight clothes.

“Uhhhh… uhhh,” he glanced at his two friends, they pointedly looked away, leaving him to his fate.

Chapter Two:

Standing just down the street from the clubhouse, Angie took a moment to readjust her clothes. The problem with the bugs had been fixed, a small slit in the waistband of the trousers had created a makeshift pouch, a little repair work with some Velcro stopped the taksim escort small disc shaped objects from falling out.

“Remember, we aren’t 100% sure they don’t sweep for bugs, and we don’t put our people at risk. We won’t start monitoring the bugs till you are back in the van, so they’ll stay inactive till then. You got six bugs so try put them in as many rooms as you can,” Sergeant Kowalski said, seated in the back of the panel truck, the side door open.

“Got it,” Angie answered.

“You got any idea how you’re gonna get in there?”

“Working on it,” she replied, true but ‘working on it’ suggested she had even a core of an idea when in fact she had zero clue how she was going to do this.

“Right well work on it fast,” the Sergeant answered. “Just get it and out quick.”

“It’ll take as long as it takes,” Angie retorted, annoyed that this small city cop was trying to tell her how to do the job. “Just don’t go blowing my cover busting in looking for me. You want six bugs in six rooms… that takes time, so you just sit your fat ass here and think about all the overtime you’re gonna make.”

Instead of being offended, the Sergeant chuckled at her outburst.

“Shit, these bikers boys are the ones I’m concerned about, not you.”

Mollified by the backhanded compliment, she gave him a curt nod and walked down the street. Wobbled more than walked. The last part of her outfit had been shoes to replace her combat boots. Even though they only had three-inch heels she still found moving in them a trial, Angie hadn’t worn heels since her junior prom fourteen years previously. She hadn’t bothered with going to the senior one.

As she walked towards the clubhouse, she remembered her high-school boyfriend, the first and last ‘relationship’ she’d been in. Breaking up just before senior prom, she hadn’t dated since. It wasn’t that she disliked men, or sex. She just didn’t see the point of relationships. Angie was all about the job and the adrenaline high she got from it. Sex was good and she had regularly had one-night stands with men when she needed to take the edge off.

Not that she’d had the chance since transferring to New Yarmouth. In a way that was a good thing, between having no social life and being stuck in the station doing paperwork, there was no chance any of these clowns in the Iron Celts would recognise her as a cop.

The clubhouse was basically that, a house. Maybe fifty years before, it had been a grand building but now it was a detached townhouse, an extensive rear garden area had been turned into a yard complete with a lock up, presumably for the motorcycles belonging to the club. Angie had spent about twenty minutes pouring over maps, city plans and photographs of the clubhouse. Externally she knew the layout but the original plans for the house didn’t include any changes the club might have done since they’d become the owners.

She knocked on the door, still unsure what she was going to say or do to get entry. The door opened a mere hands span, through the crack she caught an image of a slightly built man about her age with a wispy looking beard.

“Fuck off,” he said, promptly slamming the door shut.

Angie snapped. She balled her hands into fists, bringing both down on the door in a thunderous deluge that could loosely be called knocking. She kept it up for a full ten seconds before the door was yanked open again, this time all the way, the same man standing there again.

“Jesus Christ, what the fuck are you playing at?”

“Don’t you tell me to fuck off, don’t you play that shit with me,” Angie spat towards him. She looked him up and down, he was probably an inch shorter than her, so four inches now with the heels. The man looked left and right, checking to see that Angie was alone.

“Look bitch, nothing here for you so why don’t you fuck off?”

“Why don’t you learn to grow a beard you shamrock eating mother fucker. Now be a good leprechaun and find me a grown up to talk to,” Angie stared straight through him, daring him to say another thing. He didn’t get a chance, a voice came from within the club and another figure, far larger than the man at the door lumbered into view. Lumbered was appropriate as he had the build of a bear, slab shouldered, broad chested and with a hirsute look to him.

“Problem?” His voice came out like gravel in a washing machine, his hand coming to rest on the other man’s shoulder.

“Crazy bitch trying to break the door in…'” the short guy began explaining. The big guy saw Angie’s face twisting into a snarl and he cut off the smaller man with a bone crunching squeeze of his hand.

“Something we can help you with?” The gravel voice man asked Angie. Improvising wildly, she squared up to the two men, arms now folded beneath her impressive chest.

“Yeah, you fuckers can give me my phone back,” she said angrily.

“Ah, think you got the wrong place,” the large man said in an even, placating tone of voice, “nobody here has your phone.”

“Don’t mecidiyeköy escort play dumb with me, I used ‘Find My Phone’ and it said it was here.” Angie saw the black looks on the men’s faces and remembered the briefing, that these guys were lo-tech in the extreme. “It’s an App… you know… dumb mother fuckers… it’s a magic computer thing, tells me where my phones at. In there.” She pointed past them into the clubhouse.

“I don’t know anything about this… App… and I don’t know anything about your phone. Sorry,” the big guy made to close the door but Angie slapped her hand against it, keeping it open.

“Fine. I knew the minute I saw this mini-me wanna be hard man that you fuckers would try mess me around. No problem, I’m just gonna get the cops instead, see what happens then.”

At this the two man shared a significant look with one another, Angie then turning on one of her three-inch heels, making to storm off.

“Woah, hold on there. Look no need to get the cops involved,” the big biker said hurriedly, Angie pausing and began turning back to them. “Hey, why don’t you step inside. I’m sure we can work this out.

She walked into the house, purposely barging against the smaller biker with her shoulder as she did, the man waiting till she had passed before closing the door and following. The larger biker led them into the clubhouse, through the hallway and into a large room that has a pool table in the middle. As Angie walked along, the soles of her shoes felt the resistance of the sticky floors, the boards grimy from spilt beer and God knows what else.

‘And you’re sure your phone is here?”

“Did I stutter? Yeah, I used my girl at the salons phone to track it. This is where it’s at. So come on, hand it the fuck over,” Angie retorted, one hand on her hip, the other outstretched impatiently.

The two bikers moved away to confer, Angie listening to their hushed whispering.

“Was Billy out today?” The big man asked.

“Yep, said he was going to the store for beers and smokes,” was the reply.

“That stupid prick. Be just his style to rob this one’s phone. Fuckers like a magpie. He still here?”

“Nope, took his bike out on a run with a couple of the others.”

“Fuck!” The larger biker swore before turning to Angie.

“Look lady, maybe someone here did pick up your phone. Accidentally. So tell you what, he isn’t here right now but you leave me your address and I’ll have him run it over to you.”

“Do I look inbred like your friend here? You think I’m telling you where I live? Fuck that. Phone. Now.”

“Okay, how about you give me your number and…,” he winced as he made the suggestion, realising his mistake almost as soon as it was out of his mouth.

“You a fucking comedian now? Phone or cops, choose.”

“Fuck it. Fine.” He pulled out a thick wedge of bills from his pocket, each one a hundred dollars. The biker began peeling off a number of them, setting them on the pool table.

“For the phone,” he then added another couple of bills on top. “And for your trouble.”

“I’ve photos on that phone. Memories. Just give me ten minutes to look around this place, let me find my phone and I’m gone,” Angie countered. She could tell by their expressions though that letting a stranger search their clubhouse wasn’t on the cards. Instead the biker placed more money on top of the growing pile.

“A bit extra, go make more memories,” he said. She shook her head and noticed the two men now looking at her suspiciously. That was a lot of cash on the pool table and they were obviously starting to doubt any phone was worth this much trouble. Angie needed to think fast.

“I’ll tell you what. How about you peel off five more of those, then you and I can make some memories together?” Now it was her turn to regret speaking without thinking things through. She’d sooner just pound on these assholes with her fists than let one of them touch her but there just didn’t seem to be any other way of staying here long enough to plant the bugs. The big guy had a contemplative look on his face.

“What’s your name?” He asked looking her up and down as if noticing her appearance for the first time.

“Angie,” she responded.

“Nice. I’m Steve, this here is Lem.” He peeled off another five hundred dollars, placing them on the pile. “Guess we get to see if you are as bad ass and nasty as you make out.”

Chapter Three:

“Pay for play baby, pay for play,” Angie said, picking up the cash, folding it and making a show of stuffing it into one of the front pockets of her pants. At the same time she managed to palm free a listening device from the hidden pouch. Leaning against the pool table she stuck it discreetly beneath the green baize covered table, feeling it snap on magnetically to a screw near one of the pockets. One down, five to go.

She placed a hand, palm down on Steve’s chest, giving him a half smile while picturing him in cuff’s sometime very soon.

“Well, you want to take this somewhere more private?”

“Nah, here’s good,” Steve replied and he took a half step away from Angie. “Besides, it’s Lem who’s up.” The smaller biker gave a dry chuckle at that and Angie turned her withering gaze on him.

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