Playing the Pagans: How an undercover federal agent infiltrated and took down a notorious biker gang

Today’s bikers make “The Wild One” look like the mild one.

Those movie delinquents seem quaint compared to today’s biker gangs that run guns, deal drugs, and kill anyone who rats them out.

Given their felonious tendencies, Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives Agent Ken Croke’s plan to infiltrate one by going undercover seemed suicidal.

His “Riding With Evil: Taking Down the Notorious Pagan Motorcycle Gang,” written with Dave Wedge, explains how Croke worked his way into one of the most notorious criminal groups, what he saw, and how he survived.

The country is roughly divided into five major motorcycle gangs: The Hells Angels, the Outlaws, the Bandidos, the Mongols and the Pagans. The Hells Angels are most infamous, thanks to Hunter S. Thompson’s exposé. But, Croke argues, they aren’t the most dangerous bikers – not by a long shot. That title, he explains, belongs to the Pagans.

“You also have Hells Angels who are lawyers and dentists,” he writes. “That’s generally not the case with the Pagans. They were hard-core outlaws, every last one of them. You didn’t become a Pagan part-time. When you became a Pagan, it was a lifetime commitment. They took your life over.”

The gang claims roughly 1,500 members in 100 chapters on the East Coast. They’re white supremacists with a history of extortion, arson and murder. The FBI once dubbed them “the most violent crime organization in America.” And they were the only club never infiltrated by law enforcement – until Croke.

Born in Boston, Croke was in college studying accounting when he took a summer job working security at a T.J. Maxx. Turns out he liked catching shoplifters.

“I became fascinated by the way criminals grifted the system,” he writes. “I loved the thrill of the chase, but even more, I loved catching people who thought they were smarter than anyone else.”

After college, he went to work as a security manager at Filene’s. In 1990, he took a pay cut and joined the ATF. Eighteen years later he found himself working from the bureau’s Boston office when a snitch called, saying he knew someone who might be able to get an agent into the Pagans.

Croke quickly obtained ATF approval. There was a lot of work to do first, though. Croke already had an alter ego ready from his undercover work: Ken Pallis was a shady character with a fake criminal record. Croke added to that, lining up a job as a mechanic and renting an apartment in New Bedford, Mass. He certainly wouldn’t be bringing any of his new friends to the office or home to meet his family.

The informant introduced Croke to his biker pal, who made further introductions. The Pagans liked what they saw. They were expanding, and he would be a full-fledged member if he made it through a six-month probationary period. First, though, Croke had to fill out a formal application. He also had to give the Pagans written permission to conduct a background check — to keep everything legal.

Croke passed the screening and soon hung with tattooed, hardened men like Hogman and Roadblock. On Memorial Day, Croke attended a regional rally on Long Island, where he was put to work setting up tents and tables – and putting up with any abuse a full-fledged member felt like hurling his way. Some prospects didn’t make it, but Croke came through the weekend unscathed, even invigorated.

“Looking out across a stinky sea of outlaws, I was miles away from my cul-de-sac and my beautiful girls … surrounded by killers, drug dealers, rapists, and leg breakers,” he writes. “But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t getting a rush.”

The adrenaline was also a warning. Croke was gaining the bikers’ trust, but he had to be careful. He quietly eavesdropped on them, planning gun buys and attacks on rivals. He memorized names and dates and, when he could, tried to warn their victims – like Tiffany, a young tattoo artist who Hogman was planning to brutally rape. Croke told her to run, no questions asked and was relieved when she did.

But Croke couldn’t prevent every act of violence. Sometimes he even had to participate. The bureau had permitted him to commit crimes, to keep his cover. It wasn’t carte blanche, but he couldn’t risk avoiding a brawl. Once, told to discipline a guy for disrespecting a Pagans higher-up, Croke gave him a beating in an alley. He was able to pull most of his punches but still made it convincing.

When he finally became a full member, it won him his official nickname: Slam.

But who was he, really?

“I spent more time with Roadblock, Hogman, and the rest of the gang than I did with my co-workers or my wife and kids,” he writes. “There were times when we were at events, drinking beers and laughing, that I had some fun and I even found some of them entertaining.”

But even if Croke appreciated the bros, the beer, and the barbecues, “I never lost sight of my mission,” he insists, “or the fact that the Pagans were a bunch of racist, misogynistic, drug dealers, thugs and killers.”

Despite his efforts, though, some of the Pagans grew suspicious. They would go through Croke’s truck when he wasn’t around. They snooped around his place and checked him for wires. Once, they involved him in a “Goodfellas” type scheme to dig up and re-bury a murder victim’s body.

Later, Croke found out there was no body, just a bunch of trash in a tarp. But it had been a test – if investigators had come snooping around the new burial site, they would know Croke snitched.

It was time to get out, given their lack of compassion even for their own. Hogman had “shattered his foot in five places while kicking a former Pagan who was thrown out of the club.”

On Sept. 15, 2010, Croke arranged to buy a pound of meth for $6,000 from a biker named Hellboy. They did the deal just off a Jersey highway. After Hellboy drove off with the money, the police swooped in.

“After Hellboy was in custody, I was whisked off to a hotel where I monitored radios and phones as warrants were served,” Croke writes. “Agents began fanning out across New York, New Jersey, Massachusetts, Pennsylvania, and Maryland, kicking in doors and putting Pagans in handcuffs.”

It was over.

At least Croke’s part of it was. He hadn’t brought down the gang, but he badly wounded it and broke its untouchable legend. Twenty Pagans were taken into custody on charges including racketeering, drug trafficking and conspiracy to commit murder. Sentences ranged from two to 16 years. Word soon went out that there was a contract on Slam. Kill him and make yourself $50,000. The ATF assigned Croke and his family security.

They continue to watch out for him.

Croke, however, left the ATF. He works as a private security consultant. Sometimes he gives speeches about his days undercover in the Pagans. He’ll even show off his Pagan jacket, his colors. The one thing he won’t do is put them back on and pose for pictures.

“I promised myself that I would never wear them again,” he writes. “And I haven’t.”