Harleigh Ryder's POV

Orlando, FL

I locked my Freshman Chemistry textbook into the saddlebag of my light blue Harley-Davidson Street Glide and grabbed my leather jacket. It was in the mid-70's, perfect December weather in Orlando. "Harleigh, you going to the party at Julie's Saturday night," Sarah asked.

Julie was the senior shortstop on my University of Central Florida softball team, Sarah was a sophomore pitcher and I was the favorite to be the starting third baseman come spring. "I can't, I've got a judo tournament." I had been competing since I was nine, and last year I was the Under-18 Women's Champion in the 63 kg (139 pound) weight class in Florida. Judo was my first love, but it didn't get me any scholarships. Home runs and a cannon of an arm did.

"Good luck! See you at practice Monday." I waved to her as she walked to her car. I pulled leather chaps on over my jeans and zipped up my Steel Ladies motorcycle jacket before putting my helmet on. I caught the looks from the guys coming out of the Health and Public Affairs building as I threw my leg over my bike. At just under six feet tall with curves, I was used to guys looking at me. When they saw me on my ride, their jaws would drop. I fired up my motorcycle and put it in gear, pulling out of the lot and towards home.

Mom and Dad owned a home with a good-sized yard and detached garage south of Winter Park. The drive was mostly suburban roads and two-lane highway, nothing that would give me a chance to open the throttle. I thought about my classes as I drove, putting the outline of the paper I needed to write in my head. By the time I got to my neighborhood, I had it worked out.

I pulled into the driveway, wondering who the four bikes belonged to. Nobody I knew in the Steel Riders had ape-hangar handlebars like these. I started to back my bike under the carport when the front door slammed open and I saw men rushing out. They were wearing cuts, but not ours; I saw the distinctive Jaguar head on the breast. It was the Sons of Tezcatlipoca, a violent Mexican biker gang that was strong on the West Coast. The lead guy was a big Hispanic dude with a bigger pistol. He spotted me and raised it up.

"FUCK," I said to myself as I put my Harley in gear and twisted the throttle. He started shooting as I tore out of the driveway, and one of them hit me just above the right hip as I turned left. Blood spattered onto my jacket and handlebar as I accelerated away. "Double FUCK," I cursed as I turned onto the road and headed for help.

I focused on my driving, passing cars wildly and driving between lanes where I had to. I could hear their motorcycles behind me. I pressed the button on my handlebar. "Siri, call clubhouse," I said over the Bluetooth headset in my helmet. The phone dialed and a familiar voice answered. "Steel Riders, Speedbump speaking," he said.

"SPEEDBUMP! It's Harleigh. Four guys from Sons of Tezcatlipoca were at my parent's house. I've been shot, and I'm five minutes out with them on my ass. Get everyone to the gate, I'm coming in hot."

"We'll have the welcome wagon out," he said. "Drive fast." He hung up and I focused on staying ahead of the four. I did everything I could; I ran stop lights, swerved into oncoming traffic, and hit seventy in a thirty zone. I heard an accident behind me as they fought to keep up.

I glanced down and saw the blood that had covered the chaps and was soaking into my jeans. I was feeling tired and cold despite the heat of the afternoon. I was losing blood, and I couldn't apply pressure and ride at the same time. "Siri, call Speedbump." He picked up on the first ring. "I'm six blocks out, I can't shake them," I said.

"Drive straight through and into the garage, we're ready."

"My parents..."

"We'll get to them as soon as you are safe."

"Have you called them?" I was afraid to.

He didn't say anything, and that meant something. "Just get here. Doc is waiting for you."

I made the final turn, accelerating the quarter mile towards the gates. I was losing energy fast. I went through the gates at speed, braking hard as I veered right. Pushing down on the rear brake made my side flare up in pain, and I didn't even feel it as I bounced off the pavement into the side of the clubhouse.

--

I fought to clear my mind of the fog as something squeezed my right arm like a vise. I heard a machine beeping, and the squeezing started to ease then went away. The pain was bad, the right side of my stomach felt like it was on fire. I tried to move my head and it got worse, so I just focused on opening my eyes instead.

Everything was fuzzy, but I could see I was in a hospital. There was a machine next to the rail of the bed, and it was the source of the noise. Blinking rapidly, I got my eyes to clear enough to make out the person sitting in the nearby chair. She looked up from her phone, her eyes getting wide as they met mine. "Harleigh, you're awake!" It was Aunt Three Tequila, Mongo's wife, and the two of them ran the Orlando chapter of the Steel Brotherhood and the Ladies Auxiliary, the Steel Ladies. My Mom was her older sister.

I tried to say something, but the pain was too much. She must have seen it on my face. "You're in the hospital, let me call for your nurse," she said. She pressed a button as I tried to talk, but my mouth was dry. "I'm so happy you are with us again," she said. "You gave us quite the scare, you know. You've been out for two days."

I tried to form the words to ask about my parents, but the nurse arrived first. She smiled at me as she stepped into view, taking my vitals and letting me take a sip of water through a straw. I was lying on my left side in the bed, the thin sheet covering my body. "Mom... Dad...."

Three Tequila's face told me the answer even if her lips didn't. I started to cry, the pain of my loss adding to the pain from my injuries. Three T came over and sat next to me, holding my good hand in hers. My right hand was in a cast from just below the elbow down. I don't know how long I just cried my eyes out before the doctor came in. "Hello Harleigh. I'm sorry for your loss," he said.

"Thank you," I whispered. "What happened?"

"You were shot in the lower back; the bullet nicked your liver and intestines before exiting in the front. You lost a lot of blood, but we were able to repair the damage in surgery. I'm told you crashed your motorcycle, and that resulted in a broken right wrist, two broken ribs and assorted other injuries. If you hadn't been wearing your helmet and your leathers, it would have been a lot worse. It saved you from a concussion when you crashed."

"How long will I be here?"

"At least a week," he said. "You body underwent a severe trauma, and it will take time to recover. Even after you leave, it will be six to eight weeks before you can resume normal activities. I'll give you something to help with the pain and rest more comfortably."

"I've been asleep for two days, I don't know if I need to nap again," I replied.

He left some instructions for the nurse, and then I was alone with Three Tequila again. "The police will want to speak to you now that you're awake," she said. "Are you ready for that?"

"What happened to the men who were chasing me?"

She paused for a minute. "I don't have the details, but I know two were killed and one was injured. The last guy escaped."

"Did the Club talk to the one who was injured?"

"Not for long before the police arrive. If you have a shootout, it attracts attention. You'll have to talk to Mongo."

I was hoping they had him in a warehouse somewhere getting answers beaten out of him, but no. "What happens now?"

"My sister, your parents, we will find out why this was done and make sure they pay the price for what they did," she said. "I always looked at you like you were my daughter, and Mongo and I will look out for you now."

"Thank you," I said. "Do we know why?"

"Not yet. We don't know if this is a new beef, or if it's retaliation from decades ago." Dad had spent twenty years in the Drug Enforcement Agency, his first four undercover with outlaw biker gangs in Southern California. It was during the preparation for the trials based on his testimony and evidence that he met Mom, who was an Assistant US Attorney in Los Angeles. They were married a few months later, and I was born seven months after that.

Once his undercover identity was blown, he worked from a desk and then was a supervisor before retiring five years ago. We had moved to Orlando and Mom was hired by the District Attorney for Orange County. Dad joined the Steel Brotherhood, Mom the Steel Ladies, and I was riding with them as soon as I got my license. When I turned eighteen, I was able to join the Ladies. My road name was Crash, after Crash Davis in Bull Durham and my softball skills. It was better than my real name; my biker Dad insisted on naming his only daughter Harleigh Ryder. "Should I tell the cops anything about his undercover work?"

"It was before your time. If they have talked to the Feds, his record will come up."

"Could they have been after Mom?"

She shook her head no. "I doubt it, the Sons of Tezcatlipoca aren't active in Florida yet. Mongo has been calling other Chapters, but our Club doesn't have an active beef with them. They are a 1% club, we're a law-abiding club. They run drugs, protection rackets, guns, kidnappings, anything they can make money on."

"And we don't abuse, deal or steal," I said. Our Charter kept us on the right side of the law, and we had a lot of military veterans and law enforcement that were part of our Club. It was a club, not a gang.

There was a knock on the door and the nurse poked her head in. "The detectives are here, if you are able to talk to them."

I nodded to her, and two men in cheap suits came in. I asked my Dad once why agents didn't wear nice suits; our family was doing well, and he could afford decent clothing. "You can't dry clean bloodstains out of a suit," he said. "Add in any other wear and tear, and it's not worth spending money to look good."

My clothes and jacket were trashed, I bet.

"Miss Ryder, I'm Detective Rosenberg and this is Detective Jackson. We'd like to ask you a few questions." I nodded. "When did you last talk to your parents?"

"Mom left for work at seven thirty, Dad at eight. I went to school at nine."

"Where is school?"

"University of Central Florida, I'm a freshman there."

"Any other contact, text messages perhaps?"

"No."

"What time did you leave?"

"Class got out at three, and it took me about forty minutes to get home." I told them about seeing the four unfamiliar motorcycles, then the men coming out of the house and shooting at me. I gave them descriptions, but they weren't much help. Once I saw the cuts and the gun, I wasn't paying attention to much else. Fleeing for my life didn't give me any chances to look back, either. "Can you tell me what happened to my parents?"

They looked at each other. "That wouldn't be helpful at this time, it is an active investigation. We will be in touch," he said.

The two walked out, and I was losing energy rapidly with the drugs. "What aren't they telling me," I asked Three T.

"Just rest, Harleigh. I'll tell Mongo you need to know." She held my hand as I drifted off to sleep again.

Ch. 2

Detective Marcus Jackson's POV

Orlando, FL

Two Days Earlier

I responded to the Steel Brotherhood clubhouse as soon as the "Shots Fired" call came over the radio. As a member of the Orlando Police Gang Task Force, I figured I might be needed.

As I drove, I wondered what they had gotten themselves into. The Brotherhood was a biker club, not a gang. They loved to go to the range and shoot, but a shootout at the Clubhouse was unheard of. They weren't involved in drugs or intimidation like the outlaw clubs were, and their membership included a number of former law enforcement and military. I was friendly with them because I loved to ride and they were a good group to party with after the ride was over. I wasn't allowed to prospect with the Chapter, as their bylaws wouldn't allow active law enforcement to be members or prospects. Conflict of interest, they said, and they were right. No matter how many friends I had there, my job wasn't compatible with the loyalty the Club demanded.

I parked at the perimeter, almost two blocks from the Clubhouse in an industrial area of Orlando. Getting out, I made sure my shield was hanging from my neck as I pulled on the lightweight suit jacket. The place looked like a cop convention. As I walked to the crime scene tape, I spotted Sargent Grimes directing patrol officers. "Jason, who's in charge," I asked.

"Lieutenant Reynolds," he said. "Stand back, the ambulance is coming out." I saw the ambulance pulling out of the open gates of the Clubhouse as officers held them in place. I didn't see any Club members outside, but there were two bodies on the ground covered with sheets. Two news helicopters were already circling overhead. Three motorcycles were crashed outside, and I caught a glimpse of one more by the Clubhouse. One man, a Hispanic male in his forties, was being loaded onto a gurney by a second ambulance outside the gate.

They watched one ambulance leave, lights flashing. "Who's in there?"

"Teenage girl. Looks like she was fleeing from the three other gang bangers here."

I shook my head, wiping the sweat off my short-cropped hair that was starting to grey. At six-foot-four and two hundred and twenty pounds, I wasn't much heavier than when I played linebacker at UCF in the nineties. I could still play the intimidating black man when I needed to. "What gang?"

"Sons of Tezcatlipoca. You know them?"

Oh yeah, I knew them. A gang out of Mexico, they were active from Texas to California and north as far as Denver. They weren't in Florida, at least not yet. If they were moving in, the outlaw gangs we DID have wouldn't like it. It didn't make sense to go after the Steel Brotherhood, though. They didn't hold territory like the outlaw club did.

Unless they wanted to set up shop close to them?

I thanked him and went to find the Lieutenant. He was standing near the clubhouse entrance. "Mr. Reynolds, could you use my help?"

He looked at me with the disdain of a Homicide detective. They were the top of the heap and they knew it. "Detective Jackson, what are you doing here? Homicide has this, go back to kids standing on the street corners," he said.

"If I could have a moment of your time alone, sir." He sent two of his men inside the clubhouse, which was awful quiet. He walked towards the gate and I followed. "I think it would be helpful for me to be on this case, sir."

"Why? Everyone including you tells me this club isn't a gang, so I don't need you."

"With due respect, sir, you're not going to get a lot of cooperation from them if they don't trust you. They are more likely to clam up, find the guys themselves and take care of it their way." He nodded. "Two things. The guys who are lying dead out there are a gang I know of. They aren't active in Florida, but if they are moving in, my unit needs to know."

"I can keep your boss informed," he said.

"True, but you're not going to be able to get the cooperation of this club that I can. I know them, I've ridden with them and spent time with them."

His eyes got wide. "You're in the club?"

I shook my head. "I'm a hang-around. I know most of them, but active police aren't allowed to prospect. Still, I'm your best chance at getting these men to talk to you. The other benefit is that they trust me, so they are more likely to stay back and let us do our jobs."

He thought about it. "Do you know the victims?"

"I don't know who the victims are, I just got here," I said.

"There's more than one crime scene. It started up in Winter Park, police there responded to shots fired. They entered the house to find two victims. The male was tortured before being shot in the face, while the female was repeatedly raped before she was stabbed to death in front of him. The daughter must have walked in on them, she fled to here and the Club shot the guys up. It's a mess." He looked over to the gate. "The victims were Sean and Kelly Ryder, and their daughter Harleigh. She just left in the ambulance, they shot her once and she crashed into the clubhouse."

Oh fuck. "County Attorney Kelly Ryder?" I had met the couple a few times, they were nice people, and their daughter had just turned eighteen and was a great kid. "You need to get the Feds involved sooner rather than later."

"Why? This is a local thing."

"They raped his wife in front of him, so it's probably him they were after. He's retired Drug Enforcement Agency, and the Sons run drugs. You have to wonder if this had something to do with his time on the job."

His jaw dropped. "Oh fuck."

"Yeah. If this is the Sons of Tezcatlipoca getting revenge, you'll be getting a lot of help you didn't ask for."

He thought about it and made a call to my boss and got me assigned to work the case. "You have contacts in the DEA?"

"I do."

"Good, give them a call. I need to know if this is bad blood from decades ago or something else. When you're done, meet me inside. I'm going to see where we are on the interviews."

I found the contact information for a man in the Los Angeles DEA office I had met at a task force a few years earlier. I hoped his cell phone hadn't changed as I called the number. "Special Agent In Charge Donovan," Frank said.

"Hi Frank, it's Detective Marcus Jackson out of the Orlando Gang Unit. We met two years ago at the San Antonio conference?" We had sat at the same table and had a few beers at night, so hopefully he remembered me.

"Oh yeah, how are you doing Marcus?"

"Good, but this is a business call. There was a double murder in the area today, and it looks like a revenge killing by the Sons of Tezcatlipoca."

"Shit, what are they doing in Florida? They aren't that far east as far as I know."

"It gets worse. They raped the wife in front of him before killing her, and they tortured him bad before killing him. It was Sean Ryder, he's retired DEA, and his wife Kelly. They shot the daughter, too. She just left in the ambulance."

"SONOFABITCH!" I heard him yelling for someone, and I could hear him walking before a door slammed. "Marcus, I'm in the Director's office. Tell us what you know."

I went through what I had so far, with the two crime scenes. "Harleigh got away from her house after being shot and fled to the Orlando chapter of the Steel Brotherhood. Sean had joined after he retired, and Kelly and Harleigh joined the Steel Ladies. She crashed into the clubhouse, and the Club killed two of the Sons and injured one. The last one got away."

"Do we have the dead and injured identified?"

"I don't know, it's still very early. This only happened maybe thirty minutes ago."

"Marcus, this is Director Hank Grimes. I'm catching the next plane out to Orlando." We exchanged information so he could get picked up. "Let your bosses know I'm coming and I'm bringing some people up from Miami. If this is related to Sean's work the way I think it is, this is going to become a Federal matter quickly."

"I understand, sir. Is there anything we can start looking into now?"

"Protect the girl. Jesus Correria vowed to wipe out Sean's entire family after his wife was killed in a shootout with the DEA. I have to find out if he's out of jail now."

This just got worse and worse. Jesus was one of the founding members of the Sons of Tezcatlipoca. He had been given a 40-year sentence in Federal prison. "We'll keep her safe." I thanked Frank and hung up.

The second ambulance had taken off, and the techs were working the crime scene. I walked over to the side of the clubhouse where Harleigh's motorcycle still lay against the brick wall. I could see the skid marks where she tried to stop, and the scrapes where she laid it down. There was blood on the sidewalk, and her jacket was sitting in the rocks where it had been tossed. There was a bullet hole just below and right of the Steel Ladies patch on the back.
I walked out the gate, stopping where the closest dead biker lay, his Harley a few feet away. "What do you have," I asked Tammy as she lifted the sheet for me.

"Single thirty-caliber rifle round to the upper left side of the chest with a large exit wound through his spine. Dead instantly," she said. "We recovered this from the base of tree back there." She held out the bag with the bullet, the bullet had mushroomed out to the point that only the base was still at original size. "Shooter was on the roof of the clubhouse based on trajectory."

"Nice shot," I said. Considering the bikers were approaching at high speed, someone had taken them out almost surgically. It was a far better outcome than the "spray and pray" drive-by shootings I have seen. The exit wound was right out the eye of the jaguar patch on the back of his cut. The motorcycle had Texas plates and a club decal on the tank. "How about the other guy?"

"Shotgun at close range, buckshot damn near took his head off."

I looked at where the body was and where the bike ended up. "They had someone out here?"

"Behind that truck based on the pellets that hit the garage door over there. The guy who was injured was taken out with a small-caliber rifle, multiple shots, likely an AR-15. There was a fourth guy, you can see the skid marks, there are bullet holes in the area we're still mapping. There's blood spray, so they hit him, but he got away."

"At least three shooters, one of which had positioned himself behind cover up the street. They had warning they were coming and set up an ambush," I said.

"It happened quickly, too. The only biker who turned was the one who got away."

The Club could shoot, I would bet that at least one of the defenders was prior military. It was time to go talk to the boss about the help coming his way.

He and the other detectives were coming out of the Clubhouse as I walked through the gate. He waved me over as they gathered in the lot. "The Club is lawyering up," he said. "Four men have stated they fired at the bikers in defense of Harleigh Ryder but refused to say more until they are represented by counsel."

"We have recovered over a dozen weapons so far, but we don't know which were used," a detective said. "They are armed to the teeth."

I just laughed. "You realize for some of these guys, that's the upstairs gun safe." He was one of those 'only the police should have guns' types. The Homicide guys stared at me like I didn't belong.

"Detective Jackson is on loan to this investigation due to the biker gang angle. What did you find out from the DEA," Lieutenant Reynolds asked me.

"Whatever he did on the job, they think it has to do with his death. The Los Angeles division director is flying here personally. He did say we need to protect the daughter. One of the Sons of Tezcatlipoca founders was captured in a raid that accidentally killed his wife. He vowed to wipe out Sean's family."

The group took in the new information. "Jackson, I want you to talk to the guys in there. Make sure they know that this has nothing to do with their Club, and we will not tolerate any retaliation."

"I'll tell them, but I can't promise they will listen."

"I'll set up a protective detail at the hospital. I don't want any bikers hanging out in the hospital," he said.

"I'll work it out with their wives. Harleigh doesn't have other family around that I know of." He waved me off and I walked in the door. It was going to be a long day.

Ch. 3

Detective Marcus Jackson's POV

Next morning

Since I was the one who called the DEA, I was also the one tasked to pick the Director up from the airport and bring him back to meet my temporary boss. I flashed my badge at the airport and waited at the terminal for his redeye flight to arrive. I'd never met Director Frank Grimes before, but I recognized Frank Donovan as he walked out with him. They had the nicer suits of agents who were no longer in the field. "Frank," I said as they both turned to me.

"Hey Marcus," Donovan said as he reached out his hand. "This is DEA Director Frank Grimes, head of the Southern California sector."

"Welcome to Orlando, sir. How was the flight?"

He looked at me, then relaxed. "Not bad for a redeye, no crying babies and less than half full." Neither had checked bags, so we left quickly and got into my car which was parked outside baggage claim in the police-only parking. He spent most of the time talking on the phone with the team of agents from the Miami office that had arrived last night. I'd gotten the call when they had shown up at the hospital to take over security for Harleigh's hospital room. She still hadn't regained consciousness, and the doctors said only her helmet and the first aid she was given after the crash had kept her alive.

The supervisor of the Miami agents, Senior Agent Felix Martinez, quickly worked out a schedule with the Orlando night shift to share the burden of the protection detail. We weren't allowing visitors except her immediate family, and the Lieutenant wasn't happy about who that family was. "You couldn't have told me that the fucking Club President was her UNCLE," he had yelled over the phone when he found out.

"I don't know them that well, no one ever brought it up," I said. "I'd only seen him a few times at parties and rides. The girl, she was watched over by the whole Club, not just her parents. I asked one of the younger guys I was drinking with once why he didn't ask her out, and he said he didn't want to take the beating the Club would give him if he tried."

That was late last night. I'd caught a few hours of sleep, then drove straight to the airport. Along the way, I called one of the other Detectives and was brought up to speed, which was the first thing the Director wanted to know after we pulled out into traffic.

"The man who was injured threw a blood clot last night and coded out before we could interview him. All three of the dead men were from the San Antonio chapter of the Sons of Tezcatlipoca, all had criminal records and were patched members. My contacts in Texas didn't have anything special on them, they were soldiers and had done time for drugs, assault and one for manslaughter."

"I checked on our friend Jesus Correria," the Director said. "His lawyers got one of the charges tossed, and with time served he was released last month. Other than the threat and the Club, do we have any evidence he is involved?"

"If he was, he's the guy who got away," I said. "There was blood spatter from where the mystery man was shot. If he was in the system, you have his DNA, right?" The Director nodded. "I'm pretty sure they have sent it off for testing, but I'll make sure."

"Did the girl see them? Can she identify him?"

"She is still unconscious," I said. "She was shot just before exiting her driveway, we didn't have any evidence she even got off her motorcycle before they were after her." I pulled out the crime scene photos and handed them back. "They're pretty bad. They either wanted something from him, or they wanted to make him suffer."

There was silence as the two men looked through the photos. "You need these?"

"They're your copies. After your call to our Chief last night, we are fully cooperating with any and all Federal authorities on this investigation. We still have the lead unless it ties back to what happened during his Federal time."

"Well, the DEA is taking over the investigation as soon as we arrive," Director Frank said. "No signs of burglary, just straight torture. The Sons are known for their punishments; they kill a man's entire family in front of him before they finally let him die. If they had captured his daughter, she would have suffered greatly before they killed her."

"Why do you think this is related to his DEA time?"

He waited until I was at a stoplight, then handed me one of the photographs. "Do you see what is carved on his right cheek?"

There were three concentric circles cut into the skin, and the gunshot that had killed him had gone through the center. There was also a single slash that went from the 3 o'clock to 7 o'clock position, the line extending about an inch beyond the outer circle at each end. "Yeah, they marked the bullseye?"

He took it back as the light turned green. "No. The symbol is the Aztec eye, the all-seeing eye of God. What it means is that they saw what he did, and he is dying for it. They use it against traitors, informers and cops." I gripped the steering wheel tighter. "It was a message to everyone that even now, decades after he was put in jail, they will have their vengeance."

"Fuck." I was glad we were almost to the police station. I called in and told them we were arriving, and as we walked in the Chief and the Lieutenant were both there. Also part of the introductions were the homicide detectives from Winter Park, the rest of our team and the DEA team from Miami. "Chief Wiggems, Lieutenant Reynolds, this is Director Frank Grimes and Senior Agent Frank Donovan of the Los Angeles Drug Enforcement Agency," I said as I introduced them.

"Let's get into conference, there's a story to tell," the Director said. I had to agree. We all filed into the Chief's meeting room. As the coffee was poured and donuts snatched before sitting down, I made it a point to sit next to my friend Frank along the DEA side of the table. He pulled a laptop out of his briefcase and connected it to the large LED TV on the end wall. The DEA logo came up as he stood and walked to the front. "First thing first, this is now a Federal matter. As I explained to Detective Jackson, there is history between the Sons of Tezcatlipoca and former DEA Agent Sean Ryder from his time as an undercover agent. The method of death shows this is a revenge killing, and since he was one of ours and the Sons are based out of Mexico, it's our jurisdiction."

"Wait a minute, these murders happened in Winter Park, we should have the lead," their Detective said. "The deaths in Orlando were in self-defense, I heard the State's Attorney isn't even pressing charges."

That was news to me, but good news. "They gave statements?"

"Late last night," Lieutenant Reynolds said. "They came in with their lawyers and laid it out. The bartender got a call from Harleigh saying the Sons of Tezcatlipoca had been at her parent's house, she'd been shot and was being chased by them. There were six men there who grabbed weapons and went out to protect her. As soon as she was through the gate, they opened fire on the four bikers chasing her and got three. They provided surveillance camera video that showed it all, and phone records showed Harleigh called the clubhouse twice; once just down the street from her house, the other about a quarter mile away. Given that she had already been shot and was being chased by an outlaw biker gang, the States Attorney agreed the shootings were justified."

"You didn't get them on weapons possession or anything?" The Winter Park chief wanted all bikers locked up, thinking their presence brought trouble.

Our Chief shook his head no. "The firearms were all legally purchased. The Mossberg combat shotgun is kept under the bar, and the Club has a gun safe for member use. We had no reason to hold them. Once the paperwork is cleared, we'll have to return the seized weapons." I had to smile at this, the club was solidly on the right side of the law. Once the story hit the news today, nobody was going to prosecute. Not when a young woman had her family killed and almost died herself. "Hell, I'm going to buy them a drink when this is all over. One guy was a former Designated Marksman in his unit during the Afghan war. He took out a man riding at high speed from 150 yards out with a bolt-action hunting rifle and one shot. The men they killed were hard-core criminals, and our city is safer with them gone."

Hell yeah. The Club felt the same, I bet. The four who had held off the attackers wouldn't have to buy their own beers for a long time.

"Back on topic," the Director said. He passed out the crime scene photo I'd given him showing Sean's face with the carving and the entrance wound as he put a map of the biker gang's chapters on the screen. "The Sons of Tezcatlipoca are a violent motorcycle gang that started in Mexico in 1972. They spread north, reaching California in 1979 and Texas in 1981. They now have fourteen chapters in the United States, as far east as Louisiana and as far north as Denver. The highest concentration of members is in southern California. Estimates are that they have four hundred active members in the USA, and about as affiliated. Numbers in Mexico are slightly higher, and they move back and forth across the border as easily as the drugs they run do. At least two hundred are in prison, where they are affiliated with the Mexican Mafia. The gang works closely with the Sinaloa cartel, providing distribution into the western United States. They are also involved with human trafficking, extortion and all the other rackets you might expect."

"Have you been able to penetrate their organization?"

"No, it's been very difficult. They recruit mainly out of the prisons and local gangs. They are backed by the power of the Cartel, who have impressive intelligence operations and the ability to do complete background checks on prospects. Prospects are also required to take drugs and kill for the Club before being patched, which they know law enforcement cannot do. We lost three agents trying to infiltrate their organization before we gave up. The last attempt was two years ago. Compared to other Clubs, they are smaller and inspire greater loyalty. The ties across the border and in prisons help with this, as does their policy on informers and traitors."

He pulled up another photo, one that made even experienced cops regret the donut they just ate. "This is what they did to one of their members who vouched for the last agent we tried to get into their Club." The scene was horrifying; the man had been nailed to the wall using timber spikes into the studs, his chest sliced dozens of times and his intestines piled on the floor below him. The next photo showed his wife, son and daughter. "The wife and seven-year-old daughter were gang-raped and slaughtered, their twelve-year-old son was blinded and then had his throat cut."

"Fucking animals," one of the men said.

"This is who you are dealing with." He flipped to a close-up of the man's face. "Recognize this?" The man's face had the same three concentric circles with the line, but this time a combat knife was plunged into the center to kill him. "The carving is the same as you found on Mr. Ryder. It's the Aztec eye of the God, the all-seeing eye. It means they saw and know what he did, and by killing him through that eye, they are cursing him for what he has done. It's how they deal with traitors, cowards, informers and cops."

"Shit," the Winter Park detective said. "What did Sean Ryder do to piss them off like this?"

"Sean was the most successful undercover agent the DEA ever placed within the Satan's Riders motorcycle gang," he said.

"Who?"

"Exactly. They were a smaller club out of San Diego in the eighties, heavily involved in methamphetamine manufacturing and distribution. Sean spent two years working his way into the gang, and after being patched in they put him in charge of the books. He'd been patched for eight months when the Club was patched over by the Prussians. The change put Sean in a position to monitor drug trafficking on the West Coast, including product delivered to the gangs by the Sons of Tezcatlipoca."

I thought about it for a minute. "He testified against the Sons?"

"He didn't have to. Using his information, we set up a raid on a safe house the Sons were using before making the transfer to the Prussians. He managed to insert an advanced listening device and tracker into the bag used to carry the money after the buy; it got past their bug sniffer and led us right to the safe house we'd been looking for. The raid was successful but costly; we recovered the money, seized a hundred kilos of cocaine, and arrested fourteen members of the Club, but we didn't know there were Old Ladies there. One of our agents had to open fire, and a round went through the wall and struck Maria Correria in the head as she held their baby daughter. Jesus was convicted of multiple crimes and sentenced to forty years, but he blamed the raid on the agent that infiltrated the Prussians and set them up. The undercover work came out in discovery when we filed charges; his cover was blown, and he was pulled from the field permanently."

"So they've been waiting all this time for Jesus to get out of prison," the Chief asked.

"Maybe. The work he had done made it impossible to keep him safe, and he had started dating his wife during the trial preparations. After the trials were over, both were given new identities and new lives. Sean stayed with the DEA, far from California, and Kelly started working in private practice. The identities were protected at the highest levels for their own safety. Only a handful of people, including me, knew who he really was and what he had done for us."

"How did you know," I asked.

"I was the one who recruited him, trained him and ran his undercover operation. I spent five years working with him, and he was the finest agent I've ever been associated with. He was also a friend, they both were, and he deserved better than this." He tossed the crime scene photo on the desk. Nobody knew what to say to this, he was right.

He told the DEA agents to leave the room, and they reluctantly complied. "Sean and Kelly were smart and careful, and I can't believe this was luck. Someone gave them up for the Sons of Tezcatlipoca to find them here." He looked at us. "This doesn't leave the room. There's a traitor somewhere in the DEA or the Federal Marshalls, and I have to flush him out. In the meantime, I'm going to order that my men pair up with yours during the investigation. Don't let them out of your sight, and don't tell them I told you this. The only chance I have to find the mole is to find out where the Sons got their information."

Ch. 4

DEA Senior Agent Frank Grime's POV

Los Angeles DEA HQ

Fall of 1992

"Thank you, Agent Johnson. You've earned some time off." The bearded biker, still dressed in his leathers and Club cut, nodded and left the room. As soon as the door closed, I looked at my boss, Director Hank Sterling. "We have to do something different, boss. The gangs are getting better at checking out backgrounds. If we hadn't overheard them on the surveillance talking about what they had found, he'd be dead right now."

He nodded; the Prussians had a hatred of cops and would not hesitate to kill our man when they found out he was undercover. "What we are doing now isn't working, that is clear. Two years of undercover work blown, and we don't even know how. The surveillance made it clear they KNEW he was our agent. Not suspected, KNEW. How does that happen?"

I had an idea, it was completely out there and probably broke every rule of Federal employment and DEA policy, but it just might work. "Sir, the issue we are having is that we are taking agents and making them bikers, not the other way around."

"What do you mean?"

"We hire from some of the same pools, especially in ex-military who find the biker clubs give them the adrenaline rush and close camaraderie they miss from the service. We bring a guy in, give him a file, spend almost a year training them, then send them out. They can't explain away the year with us they can't talk about, and it changes them. They go to the field and they have to unlearn the behaviors we ingrain during agent training and ignore the friends and fellow agents they meet along the way. The whole process leaves a paper trail. I don't know whether they are mining our records, compromising our people or just know what to look for, but if we keep doing it this way, we'll be burying agents left and right."
He thought about it. "I hate to think it's our own people, but you're right. They've penetrated our Agency somehow." He looked at me, wondering what I was thinking. "How would you do it differently?"

"Biker life isn't a life you can practice for a few weeks and pull it off, it's something you have to grow up with. What I would like to do is find someone who can live that life and intercept them before they are even HIRED by the DEA. We help this person get introduce to the gang, go through prospecting and become a patched member, all without actually being an agent."

His jaw dropped. "Is that even possible? And why the hell are you going to do it that way?"

"Simple, it's safer for him. No paper trail, no missing time, and they are completely honest when they say they are not and never have been a cop or Fed, because they have never been hired on as one. Only after they are patched in do we make them an agent, and even that will be different. The training will be done one on one, in secret, and the personnel record will be paper only and held only by his direct supervisor. Me."

He thought about it. "What do we do about the time before he's sworn in?"

"We get two pieces of paper to keep in his file. One is to give him retroactive service credit to when he starts is work, so he doesn't miss out on his pay and benefits and gets back pay when this is all over. The other is a pardon for any illegal activities he may have to participate in before he gets sworn in." He looked at me funny. "Look, we know they test Prospects with taking drugs and committing crimes, because they know our Agents can't do that. The best way to fool them is to allow him to be like any other prospect."

"It's a ballsy proposal, Frank." I just nodded; I knew it was, but did we have a better idea? No. "It's a great idea. I'll need high-level people to bless it off. I take it you want to run this?"

"Yes sir. I'd like to be the single point of contact for this operation. Only the two of us will know who he is and what he is doing. I'll report progress only to you." He nodded. "Make sure they understand this is a long play for us. He could be undercover for years, and we won't risk him for anything short of a home run."

"I'm tired of bloop singles and bunts, Frank. I'll get back to you."

A month later, I was scanning through the applications to the DEA, FBI and Customs looking for someone who could do this. I needed someone smart, streetwise and courageous, who rode motorcycles and liked to party. It took another month to find the right man. Captain Andrew Killian of the United States Marine Corps via the University of Minnesota ROTC program.

I had his service record, and he was impressive. Two tours in Iraq, a Bronze Star and two Purple Hearts. His application stated he would be out of the service in six weeks. Recently divorced, he listed riding his Harley among his hobbies. He was stationed at Quantico, a short drive from my office.

We met at a bar outside the gate, taking a booth where we could have some privacy. I laid out what I wanted him to do and why. "So let me get this straight, Frank." He took a drink of his beer. "You want me to work for you in secret. I won't get paid for years, I won't have any official status or support for the first two years while I become a patched member of an outlaw biker gang. After that I'll be a sworn agent with my badge in your office safe. I will be expected to do whatever the club asks, including illegal acts which will be retroactively pardoned by another letter in my file." I nodded. "I give up years of my life working a dangerous undercover assignment, getting close to people I will betray and imprison at the end. When it's all done, you give me a new identity, I get my life and my back pay, and go on to be a normal Federal agent again."

"Pretty much," I said. "For your own protection, I'll be the only person who knows who you are and what your true status is."

"And when you are dead or transferred?"

"I report only to the Director of the Los Angeles Bureau on this. No one else will know we have an agent in place, and there will be no paper trail for anyone to find. You will see and know no one else in law enforcement. For all anyone knows, you will be biker Andrew Killian, kicked out of the Marine Corps and bitter at the world."

He looked at me. "What do you mean, kicked out of the Marines?"

"If you do this, you have to do it right. Your Captain America routine won't fly with an outlaw gang." I looked right into his eyes. "You have a chance to make a real difference here. You could take down an outlaw gang and break up a drug smuggling ring that is flooding our streets with methamphetamine and other drugs. It's a risk for both of us, but mostly for you. The question is whether you have what it takes to immerse yourself completely into the biker life, to make yourself beyond question so you can get into the gang as a trusted member. Once you are in and beyond suspicion, you will officially but secretly become an agent, and work with me alone to build the case that will bring them all down."

He didn't think long. Guys like him lived to make a difference. He came home from deployment to find his wife had used the power of attorney to empty his bank accounts, sell his possessions and greet him at the airport with the divorce papers. The only reason he still had his Harley was because it was in storage; the local Harley dealer stored it free of charge while he was deployed. He had nothing holding him anywhere and nowhere to go. "I get to do it my way, and I only work for you?"

"Exactly. We sign these papers and it goes into my safe. Your recruitment and undercover work have been approved by the DEA Administrator and the Attorney General of California. I've spent two months looking for the right person, and I know it is you. What do you say, Andy?"

"What the fuck, it's not like I had a better plan," he said. We both signed the papers and I put them in my briefcase. "Now how do you get me out of the Marines?"

"I'll take care of it. Just remember, it all goes away eventually, and we have to do this because we want your story to ring true. If they talk to guys you served with, they'll get the same story. Nobody saw it coming until you crashed and burned."

He nodded. "What do I need to do?"

"Take this," I said as I pulled a pill out of my pocket. He didn't say anything, he just popped it into his mouth and washed it down with the rest of his beer. I smiled as I got up. "Stay here, get drunk and get in a fight. I'll take care of the rest."

"I'm a Marine, that's Tuesday," he said with a smile. "Get out of here, I've got a lot of drinking to do."

He was drummed out of the Marines by the end of the week. The fight got him arrested, the drug test came back positive, and a small amount of cocaine was found in his quarters. A week later, he was riding his motorcycle in California and looking for a way to make some money.

Andrew Killian (Sean Ryder's) POV

Los Angeles, 1993

I was three months in and starting to make some headway. I started hanging out at Sneaky Pete's, a biker bar near Long Beach, where the Satan's Riders liked to hang out. It took almost two months before I was invited to visit the clubhouse, and I had graduated to hang-around status. Today, we were riding out to the desert for some weapons training.

The Riders didn't talk much about how they made their money, but they had it. There was an old junkyard they used for targets, setting up cans and other targets. They carried pistols, but few had really learned how to shoot properly. Bikers need to learn how to shoot left-handed too, so they could shoot while riding if needed.

As a Marine, I sure as hell knew how to shoot. I used the opportunity to teach them properly, and by the end of the day they were much improved. "Come on, Drew," Smoke told me. "Let's go back to Pete's and have a few drinks."

I put my pistol and the extra ammunition in a saddlebag and followed them. Since I wasn't in the Club, I rode behind everyone else. We were just entering the outskirts of the city when the cops pulled us all over. I stopped next to Smoke's bike. "Shit, if they search me, I'm packing and with a gang," he said. "I'm on parole, I'll end up back inside for years."

"Run for it?"

"I have to."

I looked at the cops who were getting out of their cruisers. "Go, I'll hold them off." Both of us accelerated hard, steering between the oncoming cars and across the median to head the other way. The four policemen ran back to their cruisers, ignoring the rest of the group to go after us. We had no chance on the freeway, so I led Smoke off an exit. "As soon as they are out of sight, turn and kill your engine, I'll lead them away." The winding canyon roads were perfect, and Smoke turned hard into a driveway and parked behind an RV as I kept going. The cop cars caught sight of my bike and kept going.

I drove for another couple miles before the helicopter showed up and the roadblock stopped me. I braked hard and put the stand down, following their directions as I was taken to the ground and cuffed. I did five months for my little joyride, but Smoke got away. When I got out of prison, the Club was waiting me with my Harley and a cut. My prospecting time had begun.

Ch. 5

Three Tequila's POV

Orlando General Hospital

Harleigh had been tired after the visits from the doctor and the detectives and had fallen back asleep. Mongo poked his head back in the room and saw that and gestured for me to come out with him. "There's a guy here that wants to talk to us," he said.

We followed Detective Jackson as Detective Rosenberg spelled the DEA man standing guard on the room. That was another thing I didn't like; I was fine that she was protected, but I didn't like that the Club had been frozen out. The Steel Brotherhood was still reeling from the attacks, and we didn't like how we were being treated as a warring biker gang instead of a protective family. The Winter Park investigators made it clear they wanted all bikers out of their town, not just the Sons of Tezcatlipoca. We took the elevator to the third floor and went into a conference room. It was already full of suits, and it was clear the Feds were now involved just by the quality of them.

"Thank you for coming, Mr. and Mrs. Lane. I'm DEA Director Frank Grimes, and this is my team. Please sit." We took seats at the middle of the conference table. "I'm sorry for your loss. Sean and Kelly are old friends of mine, I knew them both in Los Angeles when they met."

"Thank you," I said. "Please call my husband Mongo, and I answer to Three Tequila. Mrs. Lane sounds like my mother. Now, what can you tell me about the men who did this?"

"Before we get to that, I'd like to know what you knew of Sean's activities in the DEA around the time your sister met him."

I thought back those two decades. "She didn't say much. I was still in Florida and she was in LA. She told me she met a guy she really liked, and he was an agent with the DEA on a case she was working. She never mentioned his name or what the case was. A few months later, she brings him out to visit. I find out that she had gotten married without telling me and was now Kelly Ryder, and this was her honeymoon! I don't know what I was more pissed about, that she didn't share anything with me, or that she married some suit with a desk job."

Frank started to laugh. "A suit?"

"Yeah. A clean-cut, safe choice suit who probably drove a Volvo for its safety record and played golf on weekends. Kelly had always had a weakness for bad boys, and I thought she'd sold out for the whole white picket fence, two kids and a dog thing. It wasn't until I saw him out of the suit and on a Harley that I figured out he was really her type. I was shocked to find out he had more tattoos than Mongo. The four of us spent a lot of time riding before they had to move to Quantico for his training."

"Did they ever talk about his work in California?"

"Just that it was undercover. Kelly got pregnant, they moved away, and we only saw each other a few times a year after that."

The Director opened a folder and passed us a few photos. The first was of a young Marine officer in his dress blues, the second was a newspaper article showing the same man in Iraq receiving a Bronze Star. "This is your brother-in-law before I recruited him. His name was Captain Andrew Killian when I met him, just before he left the Marine Corps." He went through the whole story of his recruitment and time undercover, as he became a patched member of the Satan's Riders and then the Prussians. He ended by saying how Sean was key in shutting down the drug-running operation of the Sons of Tezcatlipoca.

"Those Clubs aren't even active east of Texas, and the Brotherhood doesn't associate with them," Mongo said. "I've been in touch with all of the Chapters in the cities we both are in, none have any active beefs. We stay clear of them and they leave us alone."

"This isn't a Club beef that got him killed, this is personal. In the raid on the Sons, we didn't know the safe house had some of their Old Ladies in it. The leader's wife, Jose Correria, was killed in the attack. He blames Sean for his part and that's why he is dead."

"I need more than your word," Mongo said evenly. "The Club is taking this as a direct attack on our membership."

He looked at me. "You may not want to see this next part, Three Tequila. It's the crime scene photos from their house."

Mongo took my hand, and I looked at him. "I need to know," I said.

Five minutes later, I was throwing up in the trash bin and wondering why I had stayed in the room. It was worse than I imagined; my sister had been brutally tortured and raped while her husband watched. "Are you all right," my man said as he held my hair.

I just spit and nodded as the Director gave me a bottle of water.

When I sat up, the rest of the men had left the room. "I'm sorry I had to show you that, but I need you to know the full story," he said. "You confirmed to me that Sean never broke cover, never talked about his undercover work. When he was done, he had a new name, a new badge and was out of the firing line. Even during the prosecution, only a few people ever saw his face, and one was your sister."

"Then how did they find him?"

"That's what I have to find out. I have to head back to Los Angeles today, but I'm leaving men here to help protect her. My problem is that Harleigh is still alive, and the Sons of Tezcatlipoca always wipe out the entire bloodline of traitors. Jesus will not stop until she is dead, preferably in a fashion like what happened to her Mom."

"Have you picked him up yet?"

He shook his head. "We ran into a problem with that. He was pulled over by Los Angeles police an hour after the attack on your clubhouse. It was a positive identification, and it gave him an airtight alibi. We brought him in, he lawyered up, and we got nothing. If we can't get someone to confirm he ordered the killings, we have zero case against him. With him free, I'm very concerned about your niece."

I was horrified at the thought. "Can't you protect her?" Mongo sat back at the table and pulled me into his lap.

Frank sat back in his chair. "Until she gets out of the hospital, probably. She's the only eyewitness to what happened to her parents. This doesn't end until we take down the Club and put Jesus back in prison forever."

"And maybe not then," Mongo said. "They won't react well to her being alive, or the fact that they lost three men at our Clubhouse. I need the cops out of there and our weapons back."

"I can't help you, that's a local thing. Use your lawyers." He let out a smirk. "I find it hard to believe you haven't found a way to replenish your armory, despite the police presence."

"We're just law-abiding citizens who believe in armed self-defense, Mr. Director." He leaned forward. "Can you get her into Witness Protection?"

"I could, but I have concerns," he said. "Sean did everything he was supposed to do. He didn't talk about it, he and Kelly assumed their new identities and remained far away. I don't know how he was found, but they did. The Sons are tight with the Cartels, and we think the Cartel intelligence people have penetrated our security somehow. We've lost two other former deep-cover agents, one DEA and one FBI, since Sean was killed; one in Cleveland and one in Seattle. The deaths were the same, brutally tortured with their families and their faces marked with the Eye." My stomach rolled. If this was true, we couldn't trust the Feds to keep her safe. "I've got to find and plug the leak before I trust it to keep your niece safe. Your club needs to protect her. Don't tell me where or how, just find a place to keep her safe until I tell you it is over." "What about the hospital?"

"All I can do is keep an officer at the room. I'm leaving two agents here to keep the investigation going, but the security is going to be local. Do what you have to do." He got up and came around to us, holding his hand out. "Sean was a hero and a friend. Kelly was a good woman. I'm going to find these fuckers and put them away, you take care of Harleigh."

"We will," I said.

There was a knock on the door and one of the DEA agents stuck his head in. "Sir, we got the DNA results back on the fourth shooter."

"Do we have an identification?"

"No sir. It wasn't in the system, but we compared it to Jesus anyway. The lab says it was a familial match, a paternal one in this case."

"What?"

"It was Jesus' son, Jose. We're putting out a warrant for him now."

The Director walked to the door. "I have to go. We'll be in touch."

Mongo pushed me up. "Go back to her, I've got to take care of a few things. We need to have Church tonight to talk about this."

He walked me back to the room, where I nodded at the policeman and walked inside. Harleigh was still sleeping, her arms and the cast on top of the blanket. I sat in the chair, looking at my only remaining family, and held her hand as I cried.

No matter what, I would protect her.

Mongo's POV

Once I had Three T back in the room and had verified Harleigh was all right, I walked quickly to the lobby and turned on my phone. The first call was to the Clubhouse, where Tripod answered. I filled him in on the news about Jesus' son, Jose, being identified as the fourth man. "Make sure we get his photo out to everyone, and send it to all the Chapters as well," I said. "We need to find this fucker and quick."

"What if we find him?"

"He killed two patched members, we do what we have to do," I said vaguely. "Any other news?"

"The Pensacola chapter called ten minutes ago. One of their guys spotted about two dozen Sons of Tezcatlipoca in their cuts heading east on Interstate Ten. They have a guy following them at a distance without his cut on, they are coordinating with the Tallahassee chapter so we can keep eyes on them until they stop." Fucking fuckers, this was going to get bad if they came to Central Florida. "What do you want us to do?"

"Keep the Clubhouse locked down, nobody goes out in their cuts unless they have a brother with them," I said. "Pass the word to the Ladies, have them bring the families to the Clubhouse and send guys out to stock up on what we need. I want everyone inside tonight."

"Is that really necessary? The cops are all over the place still."

"I'll tell everyone at Church, set that up for eight tonight. I'm calling the Regional President, we need some backup."

"That bad?"

"Worse." I hung up, finding the contact for Eclipse. He had been Regional President of the Brotherhood for five years now and lived up in Atlanta, where he had retired and sold his restaurant delivery business so he could ride more. He was called "Eclipse" because the brother was so big, he blocked all the light. "Eclipse, it's Mongo. I've got a problem."
I'd been keeping him up to date on the events and the investigations, since it had bearing on the Club, but what I told him had him incensed. "Just tell me what you need, brother."

"I need two or three dozen brothers to help defend the Clubhouse and Harleigh," I said. "We don't have enough people to do both, too many members have to work. We're on lockdown with the news of the Sons coming our way, and that just makes everything more difficult."

"I'll make the calls, Mongo. Take care of your club, we're coming."

I felt better already. I ran out and got two Raising Canes' combos, bringing them back to the hospital. Harleigh was up, she and Three Tequila were both crying. Handing over the Caniac combos didn't stop it. "How are you feeling, Crash?"

"She won't tell me how they died, Mongo."

I sat on her bed, trying to decide how to do this. I'd never lied to her, I wasn't going to start now, but I knew this would crush her. "What do you know of your Dad's undercover work before he met Mom?"

"Just that they met after he worked a case. They never talked about it."

I told her the whole story, starting with her father's recruitment out of the Marines and the time he spent undercover with the outlaw gangs. When I told her about the raid that ended his undercover work, and how the President's wife was killed, she rolled onto her back and looked at the ceiling. "That's why they came for him."

"Yes. His handler at the DEA put them both through a witness protection style program, changing their names and appearances and moving him across the country. He never worked the field again, and his old name was gone. He thinks someone found out."

She didn't say anything, she just gripped my old lady's hand and cried. "There's more, isn't there."

"Yes. I'm telling you this because we are going to have to do things, YOU are going to have to do things to stay safe. You're lucky you got away, because the Sons of Tezcatlipoca want you dead because you are your father's daughter, not to mention the three people they lost trying to catch you." I put my hand on her knee. "You are under police protection, but the Club is going to protect you too. You can't be alone, and we're going to have to hide you somewhere until the men after you are dead or in prison."

"What happened to my parents, Mongo."

"The Sons raped and tortured your Mom in front of your Dad, then they killed him. They will do the same to you if they get you. You're our responsibility now, I need you to trust me and the Club to keep you safe."

She didn't say anything for five minutes, she just stared at the ceiling, deep in thought. Finally, she reached down with her casted hand and covered mine. "When you catch the fucker who did this to my parents," she said softly, "I want to be the one that kills him. I'm claiming my Club right to vengeance."