I raised my index finger in the air.
“If you’re on your sled, you’re going to be wearing your colors. If you’re wearing your colors, you’ll be a target. We need to always be in pairs.” I pointed to Pee bee, and then to myself. “No exceptions. I realize there’s going to be little short runs where you’re alone, but what I’m talking about is being out on the road alone. Don’t do it.”
“Closest patch is ten miles from where I stay,” Cholo said.
“Meet halfway. A ten-mile run alone on the highway is asking for it. I know some of you don’t like doin’ it, but splittin’ lanes in this state is legal. If you get stuck in traffic, split lanes and get on down the highway.”
I studied the men. Each of them stood in wait. Some for further instructions while others waited for reassurance that everything would be okay. A few probably hoped for an invitation to go bust someone’s head.
“I know some of you are eager to bust heads, and there’s others who would just as soon have this thing end without any bloodshed. Well, I got news for you, fellas. This won’t come to an end without spillin’ some blood. Not now. The Savages have gone too far this time. And if there’s anyone thinking that what I did was wrong, go ahead and turn your patch in now. They came into our territory, walked into one of our bars, and pulled a knife on me. To tell the truth, if that reporter wouldn’t have been with me, we’d probably be burying those two pricks”
“Where’s it end?” Ryder asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Will this be like the Hells Angels and the Outlaws? A never ending battle that lasts a lifetime? If you say no, tell us what’s going to stop it. What’s gotta happen to get this thing to end?”
“Listen up, fellas,” I shouted. “Ryder asked how this thing’s gonna end? My answer isn’t what any of you want to hear, but it’s the best I’ve got. My answer’s this: I’ve got no fucking idea. If these pricks give us the respect we deserve, then I guess it’s over. If they don’t, it’ll continue until they do or they’re all dead.”
The men fell silent.
“Anyone take exception to what we’re doing?”
Silence.
“Anyone want out of this club? Now’s your chance. If you’re not willing to be part of this, I’m going to ask you to turn in your patch. I’d rather have you walk away now than not have my back or one of the fellas backs when the shit gets real. And, believe me, it’s gonna get real.”
Silence.
“Nobody?”
“I’ve got somethin’,” Pee Bee said.
“Listen up, fellas. Peeb’s got something to say.”
Pee Bee raked his fingers through his hair, glanced around the group, and sighed. Although I was the president of the club, the men looked at him as a spokesperson, their protector, and someone who would never bullshit them about club business.
“We might not follow society’s rules, and we sure as fuck don’t abide by society’s laws. But, we’ve got a strict morale code that we live by. Our own set of rules. Each and every rule we follow gets back to the same thing, respect. We don’t ride in San Bernardino County. Because we’re pussies? No. Because we respect the Devil’s Head MC. And we don’t go to the Five Corners in Escondido. Why? It’s a Hells Angels bar. We show respect to these clubs because we respect them. And, in return they give respect. What this is about, with the Savages, is respect. They don’t respect us, and they’re flexin’ their muscles.”
He raised his fist and flexed his bicep. “It’s time we flex our muscles. We’ve got two of their patches in the safe. Far as I’m concerned, we ain’t done ‘till we got twenty-eight more. That’s all I got. I’m droppin’ my mic.”
“Good point, Peeb.” I nodded. “He’s right, fellas. Respect. That’s all we’re asking for. And until they give it, we need to watch our backs.”
Pee Bee’s eyes shot wide and he motioned toward the street. “Fuck. Cops.”
I turned toward the open garage doors. Without lights or sirens, police cruisers pulled in one after the other. After the fourth, an unmarked Dodge Charger parked alongside the last cruiser. In unison, eight uniform officers – and who I suspected were two detectives – got out of their cars at the same time.
The detective driving the unmarked charger stepped a few feet inside the shop and stopped. His partner and the remaining officers stood in position.
“Nicholas Navarro. You can either surrender, or we’re coming in.” He looked at his watch. “I’ll give you fifteen seconds.”
“Nobody do anything,” I whispered. “Don’t fucking move.”
I took two steps forward, separating myself from the group of men. “I’m Nick Navarro. You placing me under arrest?”
He nodded. “I sure am.”
“What are the charges?”
“You’ve got six seconds.”
“What are the fucking charges?”
“The disappearance of Bryan Whipple for starters. Time’s up.”
I pulled off my kutte and handed it to Pee Bee. Having it confiscated by the police and used as a trophy during a news conference wasn’t going to happen. After handing him my cell phone and wallet, I gave my only instruction. “Get the reporter to come see me in jail if they don’t let me bond out.”
“The girl?”
I nodded. “She works for the Union-Tribune. Name’s Peyton Price. She’ll be easy to find.”
He folded the kutte over his forearm and nodded. “You got it, Crip.”
I began walking toward the officers. After the third or fourth step, guns were drawn and commands were barked out as if I were a suicide bomber.
“Do not come any closer! Place your hands behind your head! Interlock your fingers, and lower yourself to the floor!”
Standing twenty feet from the officers, I locked eyes with big-mouthed detective. I slowly raised my hands, placed them behind my head, and interlocked my fingers.
“Get down on the floor!”
“I’m not getting on the floor.”
“Get down on the floor!”
“I’ve got seventeen fucking witnesses. I’m not resisting arrest. I’m surrendering.”
“Get down on the floor!” he shouted. “I’m not telling you again!”
No differently than the issues the MC was having with the Savages, I viewed the detective’s demand that get on the floor as disrespectful. If I were resisting arrest, committing a crime, or attempting to evade arrest, I would have no other choice.
But I wasn’t.
I was peacefully offering myself to them. His repeated commands were for no other reason than to feed his ego. I had little doubt that if it wasn’t for the seventeen witnesses standing behind me, I would have been shot.
I shook my head. “I’m not telling you again. I’m surrendering without incident, detective.”
He drew his weapon and pointed it at me. Nine others followed.
Sorry, fellas.
You’re trying to scare the wrong man.
I’d been shot at far too many times to allow myself to become petrified by someone who was simply pointing a gun at me.
With his weapon pointed at my chest, he nodded his head toward the floor. “Get on the floor, or I’ll shoot!”
I coughed out a laugh. “You got any idea how many of those fellas behind me have cell phones?”
His eyes thinned.
“And idea how many know how to push the record button?” I asked.
He exhaled heavily.
“I’m surrendering.” I cleared my throat. “Now. Be a man, and come arrest me.”
“Lower your weapons.” He holstered his weapon and removed his handcuffs. “Turn around. Slowly.”
I nodded. “Sure thing, detective.”
I turned around, locked eyes with Pee Bee, and winked. He shook his head and grinned.
The detective frisked me, placed the cuffs on my wrists one at a time, and turned me to face the officers. “Nicholas Navarro, you are under arrest in association with the disappearanc
e of Bryan Whipple. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you.”
“I’m under arrest?”
“You sure are.”
“Under the protection afforded me by the Fifth Amendment of the US Constitution, I would like to exercise my right to remain silent. And, I refuse to subject myself to any questioning without having an attorney present,” I said.
“So you’re a gang member and a legal expert?” he asked in a sarcastic tone.
He was doing his best to goad me into a conversation, but it wasn’t going to work. There were only two people I was going to talk to.
The club’s attorney, and Peyton Price.
In that order.
Chapter Thirteen
Peyton
I’d searched the house from one end to the other and couldn’t find my recorder. I remembered having it at the coffee shop and placing it in my purse before we left, but now it was nowhere to be found.
Frustrated, I sat at my computer and began to type, using compiled notes from memory alone.
Although racism is commonly practiced by many similar clubs, the FFMC harbors no such beliefs, nor limits their membership by anything other than opinion. Navarro isn’t a prejudiced man, and regardless of skin color, creed, or religious belief, if a man is capable of proving his worth to the club – an eighteen-month process – he may be voted in by a unanimous decision.
Somewhat of a flirt – and by his own admission a man who doesn’t trust himself in the presence of women – Navarro’s charisma arrives minutes before he does. Be it his confident swagger, his perfectly sculpted cheek bones, or his million-dollar smile, resisting his allure is no easy task.
His only means of transportation remains a vintage Harley-Davidson FLH, void of any options available in today’s competitive motorcycle manufacturing market. While others in the club may ride custom baggers fitted with stereos, fairings, and hard saddle bags, Navarro’s personal selection must be kick-started.
I read what I had written and decided it was an acceptable place to start. Although I was initially eager to investigate and write the piece on Navarro’s club, now that I had an opportunity to spend time with him, doing so seemed strangely out-of-place.
I highlighted everything and erased it.
Finding Nick Navarro attractive and being attracted to him were totally different. Any reasonably sane woman would find him attractive, but being attracted to him – especially after taking time to get to know him – would be foolish, or so I thought.
There was no real reason for me to be attracted to him.
But I was.
I felt my article not only needed to satisfy the expectations of my editor-in-chief, my readers, and myself, but Navarro as well. Leaving him out of the equation seemed irresponsible and insensitive.
And I was neither.
In a perfect world, I would have him sitting beside me while I wrote the article. Being certain to wear my glasses – and my shorts – I would tease him the entire time, leaving him no alternative other than to make sexual advances. Of course I would succumb to his wishes – all the while telling myself I was using him solely for my own personal satisfaction.
I was beginning to wonder if I was lying to myself.
As rough and impetuous as he was when it came to sex, I found his manner desirable in an almost infectious way. In his absence, I yearned for his forceful touch. In his presence, I anxiously waited for an opportunity to provoke him to exercise his lack of sexual control.
I recalled the exact moment his hand pressed my head into the surface of the workbench. I suspected most women would find such an act forceful and far from sensual. I, on the other hand, found it almost necessary.
At least now that I’d experienced it.
About the time I realized my daydreaming had made me horny beyond comprehension, the sound of a motorcycle’s exhaust caused me to jump from my seat. I ran to my window, pulled the blinds, and was surprised to see Navarro’s Sergeant-At-Arms pulling into the driveway of my townhome.
What the fuck?
I rushed to the door and yanked it open, fully expecting Navarro to be right behind him. After he shut of his rumbling motor, the silence that followed made my stomach curl into knots.
The look on his face confirmed my suspicion.
Something was wrong.
He removed his helmet, hung it on the handlebars, and tossed his leg over the gas tank. “Mind if I come in? We need to talk.”
My mind started to race, and my throat went tight. “Yeah, uhhm. Come in.”
We sat across from each other at my breakfast table, his face rather solemn and me on the verge of tears. I hadn’t cried since my mother passed, and I found it almost haunting that Nick Navarro’s arrest caused a baseball sized lump to rise in my throat and my eyes to well with tears.
“Do you know what the charges are?”
He nodded and cleared his throat. “They’ve charged him with everything they can. The attorney said it’s pretty common. They charge him with everything in hope of him cutting a deal--”
“He won’t, will he?”
He looked at me like I was insane. “Crip?”
Navarro’s club name caught me off guard, and my response came slow. “Uhhm. Yeah, Crip.”
“Fuck no. He’d die in there before he agreed to anything.”
“So what are they? The charges? Can you tell me?”
He raised his right hand and extended individual fingers as he named each charge. “Breaking and entry, burglary, criminal mischief, theft, and suspicion of murder. There might be another, I can’t remember.”
Oh. My. God.
My immediate response wasn’t one of wonder. What happened or why never came to mind. Doing any and everything in my power to assist in his release, however, did.
“What can I do to help?”
Thick strands of his long hair had fallen down into his eyes. He lowered his head, raked his fingers through it, and brushed it away from his face. “You got any beers around this place?”
It was late, and a drink sounded good. “Michelob Ultra. That’s the only beer I have. Or you can have vodka and cranberry juice, which is what I’m going to have.”
“No disrespect, but Michelob Ultra tastes like water. If I try one of them cranberry drinks, you ain’t gonna tell Crip, are ya?”
“Not if you don’t want me to.”
He shot me his crazy-eyed stare. Again. “If I wanted you to tell him, I wouldn’t have asked, would I?”
I grinned. “Probably not.”
“Make me one of ‘em, but make it like you were six-foot-eight and weighed two-sixty. You know, not for a girl.”
“I don’t drink like a girl, believe me.”
I mixed two drinks, making them no differently than I would if I were drinking alone. I handed him one of them. “Are you really six foot eight?”
“Barefoot, yeah. In boots, six-ten and a little.”
“Jesus.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Wow.”
“Forty-inch inseam, size sixteen boots, and a double XL shirt. Try findin’ shit that fits. Pain in the ass.”
I took a drink. “Size sixteen? Seriously?”
He took a drink, swallowed, and then stared at the half-full glass. “Yep. And I know you’re wonderin’, so I’ll just say it now. What they say is true. And no you can’t see it.”
I tried to keep from smiling. “I wasn’t going to ask.”
To be truthful, if I had a few drinks in me – and if I hadn’t met Navarro – I would have asked.
“But you were wonderin’.”
I took another drink. “We always wonder. It’s part of being a girl.”
He finished his drink and stared at the empty glass. “This fucker’s good. And gone.”
I extended my hand. “Let me make you another.”
; I mixed him another drink and handed it to him. “Here. And don’t be shy. There’s plenty. It’s a staple here. Kind of like cottage cheese and yogurt.”
He reached for the drink. “Thanks.”
I sat down across from him and sighed. “So, back to what we were talking about. What can I do to help?”
“According to the attorney, you interviewed Crip on the 7th of May. For the first time. Now I ain’t sayin’ you did, and I ain’t sayin’ you didn’t. I’m sayin’ that’s what the attorney said.”
I didn’t have to think about it. The date was stuck in my head. “I did. It was our first interview.”
“The 7th was a Saturday.”
I shook my head. “We started on a Sunday. Sunday night.”
“Sunday was the 8th.”
I grabbed my phone, opened the calendar, and stared at the dates. He was right. Saturday was the 7th and Sunday was the eighth. I had misspoken when the interview started. “Wow. Sunday was the 8th. We started on the 8th.”
“Attorney said that Crip said you started the recording out by saying something like this is Peyton Price and for the record, this is the 7th of May. Crip remembers everything, especially when it comes to numbers.”
He was right, I did say it, and I remembered saying it. His quote was almost verbatim. Confused as to what he wanted from me, I decided to just ask. “So, what does he need from me?”
“He needs you to say on the evening of the interview, you two were tied up until late. From whenever it started until late at night.”
I shrugged. “We were.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “And that the interview was on the 7th.”
Apparently, Navarro needed an alibi. For whatever reason, I was ready to provide it. “I interviewed Navarro on the 7th. We started at roughly six o’clock, and the interview lasted until eleven p.m.”
He shook his head. “It needs to last until 2:00 a.m.”
“I interviewed Navarro on the 7th. We started at roughly six o’ clock, and the interview lasted until 2:00 a.m.”
He took a drink, then studied me for a moment. “They’re gonna get rough with you in the interrogation room.”
“I’m a big girl, I can handle it.”
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