2
Rain hit the streets of Spokane, Washington, soaking the potholes outside a biker bar called The Sump.
Inside, FBI Special Agent Lennox leaned on the pool table, his thick beard and crusty biker vest locking in his undercover persona, “Charlie from Choctaw.” He’d been running with the Snake Skulls Biker Club for a year and a half, building trust, inching toward a weapons bust the Bureau had been trying to nail for years.
When his connect, “Murphy,” walked in the door with the duffel bag of drugs, only Lennox knew that Murphy was a fellow undercover. But Murphy was too clean, too stiff.
Too fake.
“Charlie,” said Big Red as he pulled Lennox to the side. “Come talk to me in the back . . .” Within seconds, the mood shifted.
Big Red, the club’s sergeant-at-arms, was Lennox’s closest ally in the biker gang. But Big Red didn’t know Lennox wasn’t his ally at all.
“That guy’s not right,” Big Red muttered, eyeing Murphy. “You said he was from Oklahoma. We checked his credentials. We didn’t find him in Oklahoma. We didn’t find him at all.”
Lennox didn’t answer. He stepped away, trying to buy time, but Murphy, new to the gig, made it worse—slyly moving his hand toward his sidearm, hidden under his jacket.
“He’s a Fed!” Big Red barked, reaching under the bar for the sawed-off. Lennox tackled him before he could aim, the shotgun discharging into the wall.
“It’s not worth it, Red!”
Lennox fought for his life, trying to wrestle the shotgun from Big Red, but he knew he wasn’t going to win. He looked to Murphy—frozen—and realized the sting was crumbling.
“Goddamn it, Murphy! Come help me!”
Outside, sheriff cars skidded to their assigned positions, waiting on the signal to enter, clueless about how bad the situation was inside.
They’d get their signal soon enough.
A pair of Snake Skulls members rushed in from the back of the bar, pistols drawn, ready to retaliate.
That’s when Lennox broke.
“FBI! Drop it!” he shouted, drawing his own Glock just as the first shots cracked.
Chaos exploded. Gunfire. Glass shattering. Shards from the wooden bar flying.
Murphy took one to the vest, returned fire. Sirens intensified as the sheriffs finally entered.
Inside, four were down. Three arrested. Two escaped.
But Murphy lived.
And Lennox’s Spokane cover was blown.
The next few days were a blur of gas station maps, burner phones, and motel rooms with the curtains always drawn.
At first, it was hard for me to keep up with Cole.
Every time our engines ran he was testing me, didn’t matter if it was open blacktop or congested city streets.
The more we rode, the more he forced me to be confident on the bike.
The closer I could keep my bike to his, the closer to him I felt.
“I guess we have a lot of catching up to do . . .” he finally said one hot afternoon. “I’m sorry I left you alone there . . . I just couldn’t stay . . .”
“I know,” I said, trying to comfort him.
“You were old enough to remember all that shit I went through?”
“I wasn’t that young. I was right there.”
“It was wrong, man. You were just a kid.” He paused for a beat, reliving something he’d worked so hard to forget. “Just know, I’m not going to leave you behind again, not like that.”
That was all I needed to hear. A feeling of trust that was mutual. Finally. I had my brother. Had a family again.
One by one, Cole brought me along to seek out collaborators.
He called it “the rebuild.”
“You can’t just ask your friends to do this stuff. You have to find the right bunch of people. People who are available. People living an alternative lifestyle. Ya know, not a lot of people who work in offices want to rob a bank . . .”
The first new face was Jules, a lovable scumbag with big eyebrows and bigger theories. We met him in the back of a sorry strip club in Las Cruces. Midday and midweek. Cole said we went there first because he knew he’d be there.
“Billy, this is Jules, our systems guy.”
“Systems, signals, distractions . . . attractions . . .” Jules said over the music playing at a volume unnecessary for how few people were there.
“You name it, I hack it. For a fee, of course.” He grinned wide, teeth yellowed by a Mountain Dew addiction.
As he went to shake my hand, he knocked a half-eaten taco truck burrito off the table, spilling its contents on the same seat so many bare asses had sat on before.
Then, after a handshake you’d expect from a guy like that, he started collecting bits of cilantro and asada off the seat and putting them in his mouth.
A couple of nibbles in, and I guess he could read the disagreement on our faces.
“What? Trust me. I’ve eaten worse things in this place. ”
The conversation lulled as Cole and I considered what he meant by that.
“Hey, are you guys brothers or something?” Jules chomped. “You guys kind of look like brothers. You both got that thing—”
“Are you in or not?” Cole interrupted.
Jules turned away from us to holler at the closest stripper, a nice gal making the most of a bad situation by enjoying the complimentary corndog and fries provided to employees on their lunch breaks.
“Katrina! How much money will it take to get you to run away from here and marry me!?”
“Oh, Jules, baby, get the money first, and we’ll talk.”
“I’m in.”
Next was Dusty.
Caught him hauling rough-stock cattle to a rodeo up in the Four Corners.
The first time I set eyes on Dusty, he was leaning against the side of his Kenworth Aerodyne sleeper rig, a shiny fifty-three-foot double-decker Merritt trailer attached to it.
His arms were crossed, sweat stains on his flat-brim hat low over his eyes, cow shit on his jeans, a sunburned neck, and a silence that carried weight.
Looked like he stepped out of an old Wranglers poster and into a heist movie.
“Why do we need a truck driver?” I asked Cole.
“How are we going to blend in from town to town on superbikes, Billy?” I guess I hadn’t thought that far ahead. A little reassuring that he had.
“Dusty’s not just any trucker. He hauls through mountain passes and snowstorms. And we’re not talking pallets of Beanie Babies.
He hauls stock around the clock that needs to be kept alive.
He’s the real deal. One of the last of the buckaroos from the California/Nevada line.
People talk about disappearing after a job but don’t mean it or can’t achieve it.
Dusty is willing to disappear and actually can disappear. ”
Dusty didn’t flinch after Cole’s pitch.
“How many bikes?”
“Six.”
“I got a trailer that can fit that. How many banks?”
“How many you want?”
“Depends on the plan. Who’s he?” he asked, nodding to me.
“This is Billy.”
“Is he riding in the truck with me? Or is he on a bike?”
“On a bike.”
“Who’s riding with me?”
“Jules.”
“God fuckin’ dammit.” He spat a slick string of tobacco on the ground. “Not fuckin’ Jules . . .”
Finishing the list was Chief.
He met us in a truck stop off I-10, just outside Lordsburg. The kind of place with dead fluorescent light bulbs and two-for-one deals on exotic jerky. Kangaroo. Alligator. Water buffalo. You get the idea.
“It’s hard enough to find someone that can do this work.
Then to find someone who owns a superbike and can ride it,” Cole said, as if I still needed explaining.
“And then find someone who can be cool under the pressure. And can rise to the occasion. It’s not easy.
There’s only a select few to choose from. ”
As we walked up to the door, I noticed a Suzuki Hayabusa parked off by itself.
Part collector’s item, part rocket ship, infamous as a bike so fast that the European Union wouldn’t allow importing them unless the manufacturer installed a speed-governing system—something, of course, every serious bike owner bypasses.
“That’s this guy’s bike?” I asked in awe.
“Yup. That Busa is the fastest bike I’ve ever seen.”
“You think he’ll let me ride it?”
“Not a chance. Chief don’t let anybody ride his bike.”
Chief looked good for a guy his age. I guess, as they say .
. . Black don’t crack . . . He had a little gray at the temples, but was still broad across the chest, arms like weapons under his worn flannel.
Years as a Navy Seal breacher gave him the look you didn’t question, the “testosterone therapy” keeping him close enough to fighting shape.
He didn’t stand when we approached. Just looked at Cole, then me, then back at Cole.
“This him?”
Cole nodded. “Billy.”
Chief didn’t even move. Just stared, eyes sharp as glass, like he was trying to see under my skin, the steam from his cup of dark coffee the only thing between us.
“Used to be the best rider in the Southwest,” Cole added.
“Used to be,” Chief repeated, before giving his coffee a blow. No compliment. No smile. Just an inventory taken, and a verdict still pending.
“Billy, meet Master Chief. He taught me everything I know.”
“I wouldn’t go that far . . .” Chief mumbled. “You’re not wearing a wire, are you? To whoever is listening, I did not teach him everything.”
“We need a door man.” Cole smiled. “What do ya think, Chief? How’s your balance? You got one more ride left in ya?”
“Well. The VA deemed me one hundred percent disabled. All the Agent Orange we breathed in, in the jungle. Not good. So. Check coming in every month. I might have exaggerated things a little to get it. But it don’t pay for everything we gave. Not even close.”
“The banks I scouted will.”
“Who’s stealing the cars?”
“We got Ricky and Sónia on board.”
“Ricky . . . He doesn’t want to do his own thing?”
“He does. But he was game for one more run.”
“But can you trust him?”
“For one more run . . .”
“Who’s modifying the bikes?”
“New girl. Her name is Emily.”
“I don’t like working with newbies.” Chief turned his cold stare back to me.
“I don’t ride like a newbie . . .”
The words just came out of me. All the miles of highway Cole and I had just traversed were starting to change me. To my surprise, and Cole’s, I think Chief liked it.
“I need you,” Cole continued.
Chief nodded reluctantly. “Well, son. One last time. That’s all I got.”