Under and Alone (15 page)

“Right.”

I pulled my snub-nosed blue-steel .38-caliber revolver from under the car seat. I handed Domingo the gun, bullets and all. Domingo took the air filter out and replaced it with our two guns. I’d never seen this trick, and I stood there wondering how many hidden guns I had missed during my twenty-five years in law enforcement.

But then Domingo proceeded to throw the air filter into the trunk of the car, reinforcing my opinion that most criminals are inherently stupid. “Let’s go, dude.”

Domingo was no ball of fire, and being the only guy in the chapter besides me who didn’t snort meth or coke, he lasted about five minutes on the road before he was sleeping like a newborn baby. He snored the entire 160-mile trip from The Rock to Visalia. I gave him a punch when we got there, and he directed me to a house just outside of town. I had no idea whose house it was, but I immediately recognized the characters sitting out front.

I could spot Red Dog’s ugly mug a mile away. Lucifer was there along with an older, dark-skinned Mongol called C.J. I parked the car and got ready for the inevitable pile of shit Red Dog was going to shovel at me.

I walked up to him to extend the traditional Mongol greeting. Red Dog held out his hand. As a Mongol prospect, I acknowledged with the official verbal response: “Order.”

Red Dog didn’t say anything.

“Order,” I repeated.

Red Dog again said nothing. At that point I dropped my hand. Only now did Red Dog respond. He landed a sucker punch dead center to my solar plexus. I heard the thud and felt the air leave my chest as I doubled over, making sure I didn’t give the impression that it hurt as much as it really did. Red Dog turned and walked away, laughing. I caught my breath. I told myself,
Payback is a bitch, brother.

I began to do the prospect slave chores—lighting smokes, fetching brews for the patches. I watched as lines of meth and coke were consumed along with an endless supply of beer.

When Red Dog figured everyone was drunk and high enough, he gave an abrupt order: “Let’s go shoot.”

He walked up to me, looked me in the eye, and said, “Follow me, Prospect.”

Domingo and I got back in my Mustang and followed behind Red Dog, who was driving an old burgundy Chevy Monte Carlo. It was a trashy car and suited him well.

I knew from Ciccone that there were only two legal shooting ranges in the Visalia area. It would be a short ride to either one. One mile went by, then two, three, four, and five—until it was clear we weren’t going to any licensed shooting range.

I began to look in my rearview mirror to see if I could spot my backup. To my relief I caught a split-second glimpse of Special Agent John Carr trailing our small convoy. We worked our way out of town, turning down one back road after another. Mile after mile of California countryside went by, my curiosity about where the hell we were going increasing with each one. Then we made an abrupt turn onto a dirt road.

It wasn’t really a road at all, more like a path. I didn’t know where it would lead, but I did know my backup wouldn’t be able to follow. My heart pounded. I was on my own with a bunch of armed, stoned criminals, and it was starting to look bad.

The dirt path ran for maybe a quarter mile before opening up to an orange grove. At the far end of the grove was a small house next to an open field. The cars stopped, and all nine of us got out. I cut the motor on my car and was painfully cognizant of the fact that I might well be walking into my own death trap. What could I do? I got out along with everyone else. Domingo didn’t say anything about getting our guns out from under the hood of the Mustang.

I watched the scene unfolding around me with an almost surreal detachment. Red Dog was higher than a Georgia pine, clutching a loaded 9mm handgun. Crazy Craig, C.J., Domingo, Diablo, Bobby Loco, and Lucifer were all slapping magazines into their Glocks and Berettas. With the guns all loaded, the Mongols walked toward me, circling me. Red Dog held his Glock loosely at his side. “All right, Billy,” he demanded, “how long was your fuckin’ academy?”

I was too stunned to open my mouth. Red Dog cocked his head to one side and moved even closer, hollering crazily. “I’m askin’ you a fuckin’ question, Billy!”

“Huh?”

“How long was your fuckin’ academy, Billy?” He was yelling as if I was deaf, stupid, or both.

“What are you talkin’ about, Red Dog?”

“You know what I’m talking about, Billy! Who the fuck did you tell you was comin’ up here? Who the fuck did you tell you was gonna be with the Mongols today? Who, Billy?”

“I didn’t tell nobody. Come on, Red, why you acting like this? I didn’t tell nobody I was coming up to Visalia.”

He locked his slate blue eyes on mine. “So you’re saying if I put a bullet in the back of your fuckin’ head right now, ain’t
nobody
gonna know where to start looking for you? Is that right, Billy?”

“Yeah, I guess that’s right, Red Dog.”

He gestured across the dusty, desolate, trash-strewn field and said, “All right, Billy, go out there and set up some targets.”

I looked off in the distance for Ciccone or Carr or any other backup, wondering if they would see or at least hear what I was sure was about to happen. If the shit went bad, I knew they would come in and get me. In Vietnam, we had a pact: We all come out or none of us come out. I felt the same loyalty from my ATF brothers Carr, Koz, and Ciccone. Law enforcement, in many ways, was really just a civilian variation of the military, replete with honor and integrity and selfless sacrifices. If my sacrifice turned out to be my life, I knew my brother agents would come in and shoot it out with my killers. Small consolation.

I glanced back toward the Mongols and saw them talking in a tight circle instead of pointing their guns and training their sights on me. Doing my best to collect myself, I set up a couple of beer cans, an empty milk jug, and some other trash left in the field by some previous gun-wielding outlaws.

“That’s enough, Billy, come on back!” Red Dog yelled.

I wished he’d just tell me to keep walking down the dirt road.

As I walked back toward them, I could hear the group laughing. I wasn’t able to share in their levity. I knew that I was in for a long night.

Before I reached the group, Red Dog raised his gun and capped off a round. I saw the flash and heard the deafening blast. I actually felt the wind from the bullet as it whizzed by me. Everybody laughed. Everybody but me. Then I heard someone give the order: “Fire at will!”

Eight drunk, cranked-up Mongols opened up for all they were worth, emptying one clip after another.

The hit ratio in Vietnam was not all that admirable, but here, among the Mongols, it was downright pitiful. Maybe it was the alcohol and the meth, I don’t know, but the end result was that I certainly didn’t have to run out into the field to reset the targets.

It was starting to get dark when Red Dog again turned his attention to me.

He passed me his Glock, fully loaded. “Here, Billy, let’s see what you can do.”

Behind me, I heard Mongols murmuring. One of them said, “If he hits all the fuckin’ targets, he’s a cop.” Another Mongol said, “If he misses all the fuckin’ targets, he’s a cop.”

With my Special Forces training and decades in law enforcement, I was an excellent shot. I’d put in hundreds of hours at the firing range and knew I could accurately hit all the targets in short order. I assumed an old-time military stance and cranked off a few rounds, hitting a few beer cans and intentionally missing a few others.

After I’d emptied a magazine, I heard Lucifer say: “See, I told you he was a fuckin’ cop.”

I couldn’t help but laugh at him. “Yeah, why, Lucifer? Just because you guys can’t hit shit?”

Red Dog reclaimed his gun, reloaded it, and turned back toward the field. He raised the Glock, and I saw that his hand was riding too high on the grip. He fired and the slide recoiled, slicing open his hand between his thumb and index finger. “Fuck!”

He’d get no sympathy from me. Shouting and bleeding profusely, he dropped the gun. The shooting party was over. At least that’s what I thought.

I was finally starting to relax. Maybe today wasn’t my day to die after all. I told myself that since Red Dog was hurt—probably needed a few stitches in his hand—and it was getting dark, we’d be out of there in no time.

Then reality bit me on the ass. Red Dog strutted up to me, wiping the blood from one hand with the other. He dropped down on one knee and began to wipe his bloody hands on my pants. I wasn’t sure if this was some Mongol ritual. Then, to my shock, Red Dog grabbed one of the legs of my dirty jeans and jerked it up violently. With a small flashlight in hand, he began looking down into my boot, searching for a hidden recording device. I froze.

Then he did the same with the other pant leg and boot. I alternated between mild panic and astonishment at Red Dog’s actions. Finally, momentarily placated, Red Dog stood up, and in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear he announced: “I’ll find out if you’re a cop.” He turned and walked away.

Day turned to night. We were still gathered behind the dilapidated house. From behind me I could hear Mongol Eddie blurting out: “Shit, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

He ran off to the house and emerged with a street-sweeper. He was grinning, like a kid showing off his latest toy. We were all standing in a semicircle, and suddenly, like a maniac, Eddie fired off twelve rounds of 12-gauge buckshot into the ground, dead center in the circle of Mongols, inches from our feet. With an instinctive reaction, I covered my eyes and turned my head to keep from getting hit by flying debris.

What a fuckin’ idiot!
I looked around to see if anyone had been hit. Somehow, despite Eddie’s insane stunt, everybody came through unscathed.

“Yo dude, lemme see that thing!” Bobby Loco shouted.

Mongols passed the massive gun back and forth like a good joint. For the moment, at least, they weren’t paying any attention to me.

But soon the novelty of the street-sweeper wore off.

Out of the blue, Red Dog got up in my face with a new line of questioning. “Yo, Billy, where’d ya go to high school?”

“In North Carolina. Why?”

“’Cause I wanna see your fuckin’ yearbook.”

“Jesus, Red, that was twenty-some years ago. I haven’t seen my yearbook in I don’t know how long.”

“You better see it pretty fuckin’ soon.”

And now, with darkness fully descended on the orange grove, Red Dog decided it was time to sic one of the most dangerous Mongols on me.

C.J. was a deep brown Indian, so dark-skinned that his many tattoos were barely visible on his arms. Within the biker underworld, C.J. could function and gain a measure of acceptance, though he was clearly mentally challenged. I’d seen it before: When drinking hard and snorting meth, he would do whatever Red Dog told him to do, like some psychopathic robot. As Red Dog interrogated me about my school years, C.J. suddenly approached, put his arm on my shoulder, partly for effect, partly for balance, then slurred his sour beer breath into my face. “Billy, I love you, brother,” he said, “but if you turn out to be a cop, I’ll fuckin’ kill you.”

Everyone laughed loudly, and like a sponge, C.J. soaked up his newfound attention. He was now clutching his knife in one hand, and he grabbed my neck in a hammerlock and glared at me with his coal black eyes. “If you hurt any of my brothers, Billy, I’ll track you down. I’ll put a piece of piano wire around your neck, and I’ll cut your fuckin’ head off. I don’t care where you go. If you are a cop, I’m gonna find you—”

“Come on, C.J., lighten up. I’m not a cop.”

Not many things stuck with C.J., but the cop business did. The spotlight seemed to energize him. He was right in my face. “I don’t care where you go, Billy, I’ll track you down and I’ll fuckin’ kill you.”

Red Dog chimed in. “Shit, Billy,” he said, “if I tell him to, C.J. will kill you right
now.
”

I felt C.J.’s grip tighten and tense up. His hand went to his knife again. I could sense him readying himself for the order to kill.

I knew I had to make a move quickly or this moron was going to act on his own and cut my throat. He was a dimwit, blind drunk, and just itching for some knife play.

“Jesus, Red, tell him not to kill me now.” I tried to say it calmly, almost flippantly. Red Dog knew what everyone else knew—C.J. was indeed about to act.

“C.J., don’t kill him right now,” Red Dog said.

I watched C.J. relax, take his hand off his knife.

C.J. would stay on me the rest of the night. He made sure I had a visual image of all the different ways that he was going to track me down and kill me. Hour after hour passed with him following me around, putting his arm around my shoulder, telling me how much he loved me but how much he’d love to kill me if I turned out to be a cop.

We still had a three-hour trip back to L.A., and luckily, Domingo was ready to leave. As we got in my Mustang, Red Dog made his final demands. “Here’s the deal,” he said. “I want to see your high school yearbook before you can patch in.”

Like I gave two shits about trying to patch in now! I’d nearly been executed by these gun-crazed maniacs, and had spent the last several hours listening to a deranged criminal psychopath telling me in excruciating detail all the different ways he was going to hunt me down and kill me.
Fuck patching in, and fuck this investigation.

I don’t even remember saying good-bye to anyone. I only remember getting in the car to leave with Domingo, and the terrible feeling of being alone.