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recently got hold of a process by which we can create a removable tattoo. It was invented by the Japanese government when they were trying to infiltrate the Yakusa. The Japanese Mafia are well known for their colorful tattoos, and none of their agents was willing to have a permanent garden of colors painted on his back either. The paint can be removed by laser. It's painless and leaves no scars."
    "Do I get a choice of pictures?" I asked, only half kidding. I thought the least they could do was let me pick out the tattoo myself.
    "No." Leverick's answer was automatic. "I've already planned which ones you'll wear. And one in particular is vital to your cover."
    He showed me a photo of a corpse. The dead guy had a bearded, almost Christ-like head, and on his chest there was a crown of snakes.
    "Every member of the Saints," Leverick added, "had this tattooed on the left side of his chest shortly after initiation. We'll also put an eagle on your right forearm with 'Live Free or Die' written under it. On your left shoulder, a knife dripping with blood reading `Death is certain, life isn't.' Both classic biker tattoos. We'll take care of that tomorrow morning at the research facility in Harrisdale."
    "Then I go find the Henchmen, right?"
    "Not exactly. One of the members is scheduled to be paroled in two weeks. We're going to send you into Boldero to get to know him. He's sure to recognize the Satan's Saints tattoo. We'll arrange to get you in tight with him. My guess is he'll invite you to come around and see him when you get out."
    "Who knows I'm there?" I asked cautiously. The thought of being inside those prison walls with fifteen hundred rapists, thieves, and murderers, any one of whom would cut my throat in a moment, scared the hell out of me.
    "Besides the Base I group, only the warden, Bill Pierce, and two of his senior guards. You remember the name 'Leo Ryan'?"
    "Senator?"
    "Congressman."
    "Yeah, Congressman Ryan... Killed by the Reverend Jim Jones in Guyana."
    "That's what he's known for. Terrible tragedy. But a couple of years before he developed his hard-on for Jim Jones he had himself placed in Folsom Prison for a week to expose the inhumane conditions there. Pierce was warden then, and Richard Atwood coordinated the whole thing for Ryan. Pierce had himself and the two supervisors transferred to Boldero eight months ago. You'll be in good hands."
    Leverick began to gather up the papers and photos.
    "One of the guards is going to stage an altercation with you in front of the biker so you can make an impression. This guard will have instructions to protect you the whole time you're inside. Are you ready?"
    "I'm ready." For something like this, I had no idea what "ready" was supposed to look like.

 
     
    Chapter 3
     
    I found the handcuffs uncomfortable as I was led through the gates of Boldero Prison by two burly state marshals. The marshals, arranged for by Richard Atwood through the Department of Corrections, stared straight ahead as they led me through the first checkpoint. Seemingly just two obedient employees, transporting another transferred prisoner, ignorant as to my true identity and wary of potential violent behavior.
    We stopped in front of the guard's post, and I could see my reflection in the window of his booth. The vigorous workouts with weights during my training had made my six-foot-two frame more physically imposing than I had thought it could be. That, combined with my long, unkempt brown hair and beard, gave me the appearance of a cross between a healthy (and perhaps a little less crazy) Charlie Manson and some pro wrestler.
    "Prisoner 35288990 from Sacramento," the raspy-voiced marshal stated, as he handed the guard a clipboard with my transfer sheet on it.
    "Just what we need, another troublemaker," the guard said with disgust as he initialled the sheet. He handed it back and motioned with his head. "Straight ahead through Checkpoint B."
    "Thanks, chief. Let's go."
    The marshals escorted me to the