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ISBN: 978-0-9880389-6-7 (ePub)
Cover art and design by Carolyn Nikolai
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Chapter 1
Michael rushed into the living room and almost tripped over the coffee table to get to the remote. “There was a prison break north of Montreal. I helped put those guys away, dammit!” He clicked on the TV. “Derrick said the eleven o’clock news is carrying the story.”
As an investigative journalist, Michael always had the inside scoop, this time from Derrick at The Montreal Gazette. I was eager to learn more about this recent development and slid onto the leather sofa next to him.
A breaking-news banner stretched along the bottom as mug shots of two unshaven men splashed on screen.
Two inmates escaped from a medium-security jail north of Montreal this evening, the anchorman announced. Daniel Plouffe and Pierre Favreau, members of the notorious Hells Angels biker gang, are assumed to be heading toward Montreal. They should be considered armed and dangerous. Both men were recently transferred from a maximum-security jail and were scheduled to appear in court on Monday, August 11, on drug-dealing gangsterism and first-degree murder charges.
I studied the mug shots on the screen. Daniel Plouffe’s face was long and narrow. A scar along his left cheek ran down to his mouth. Pierre Favreau had small dark eyes and a bulbous nose set into a round face. Both men were in their early forties. The Hells Angels had a worldwide reputation for narcotics trafficking, violent murders, illegal gambling, intimidation, and theft, among other criminal activities. These two escapees looked every bit the part.
I shuddered involuntarily. “They give me the creeps.”
The coverage over, Michael clicked off the TV. “They’re members of the same chapter of Hells Angels that the cops arrested in a cocaine bust four months ago—thanks to info from one of my sources.”
Michael sometimes provided the police with information he obtained from trustworthy sources. In turn, he protected these informants from unnecessary police scrutiny. “How does anyone manage to escape from jail—even a medium-security one?” I asked him.
“The Hells Angels have contacts everywhere.” He gazed at the floor, a tiny muscle pulsating along his jaw—a sign that something was bothering him.
I’d grown to know Michael well since we moved into the Montreal condo two years ago. I appreciated his calm demeanor in tense situations, his zany preference for fast food, and the way he put his arms around me when I needed a hug. He was passionate about his work, which made me love him even more.
I imagined that whatever was going through his mind right now must be important. “Okay, spill the beans. I have a feeling you’re already planning your next move.”
He shrugged. “I can’t just sit back, Megan. I’ve got to find these guys. I didn’t spend months gathering info against them to have them escape justice. Maybe one of my Quebec sources knows something.” He reached for his phone and tapped through his contact list.