"Saw her once. Looked strung out, heavily medicated, barely functioning. But that ain't the problem, Frank. The problem is the stepdad. " Frank's eyes narrowed. "Give me a name. " Leon took a deep breath.
"It's Gregory Mitchell. " The temperature in the room seemed to plummet 10 degrees. Frank Castellano remained perfectly still, but the sudden, absolute silence in the office was deafening. Gregory Mitchell wasn't just a local abuser. He was a senior deputy for the local sheriff's department. And more than that, he was a long-standing bitter enemy of the Hells Angels.
Mitchell was famously corrupt, a man who used his badge as a shield to terrorize the county. Five years ago, Mitchell had illegally searched a clubhouse prospect's vehicle, planting a bag of narcotics that sent the young biker to prison for 3 years. The club had spent tens of thousands in legal fees trying to fight it, but a deputy's word in Oildale was gospel. Mitchell was violent, untouchable, and deeply protected by the blue wall of silence. "You're absolutely sure? " Frank said, his voice dangerously quiet.
"I watched him pull his county cruiser right up to the dirt patch in front of the trailer. " Leon confirmed. "Mitchell got out. The kid was sitting on the rusted stairs. Mitchell didn't even say a word, just grabbed the boy by the back of the neck, hauled him up, and threw him inside the door like a bag of garbage. I could hear the shouting from the street.
It took everything I had not to kick that door down right then, Frank. " Frank slowly stood up, walking over to a small cabinet, and pouring himself a measure of straight whiskey. He didn't drink it. He just stared at the amber liquid. The situation had just escalated from a moral dilemma into a heavily armed land mine. As a 1% motorcycle club, the Hells Angels operated under intense scrutiny.
The ATF, the FBI, and the local gang task force watched their every move. If a fully patched member laid a finger on a decorated sheriff's deputy, it wouldn't just mean prison for the member. It would mean the federal government utilizing RICO laws to raid the clubhouse, seize their assets, and shut the entire chapter down. If we called child services, Leon pointed out the agonizing reality. The dispatch goes right through the county sheriff's board.
Mitchell will hear the call before a social worker even gets the file. He'll know someone reported him, and the kid will pay the ultimate price for it behind closed doors. We don't call the authorities, Frank said coldly turning around. The authorities are the ones breaking the kid's face. So, what do we do, Frank?
We can't touch a cop, but we can't send that boy back into that meat grinder. He's saving food from our plates just to feed his strung-out mother. He thinks he's hiding it, but I see it. He's dying in there. Frank took a sip of the whiskey.
His mind sharpened by years of outlaw strategy turned over the pieces on the board. They needed to destroy Mitchell without firing a shot, without throwing a punch, and without leaving a single fingerprint that traced back to a leather cut. They had to use the man's own arrogance against him. Mitchell thinks he's a king in this town, Frank murmured. Kings have secrets.
Kings have enemies. We've got eyes in every bar, every chop shop, and every alleyway in Oildale. You tell the brothers to start digging. I want to know where Mitchell drinks, who he sleeps with, where his dirty money goes. If he breathes, I want a record of it.
Before Leon could respond, the heavy, muffled sound of an engine revving violently echoed from outside the clubhouse walls, it wasn't the rhythmic, thunderous pulse of a motorcycle. It was the high-pitched whine of a heavy-duty police cruiser. Leon stepped to the office window, pulling the heavy blinds back a fraction of an inch. His blood ran cold. Parked diagonally across the street, blocking the entrance to the clubhouse gates, was a county sheriff's cruiser.
The red and blue light bar was activated, washing the dusty street and the club's metal walls in flashing, aggressive neon colors. The driver's side door slammed open. Deputy Gregory Mitchell stepped out into the sweltering evening heat. He was a broad-shouldered man in his late 40s, his uniform pressed sharply, his mirrored aviators reflecting the clubhouse. He rested his right hand casually, yet deliberately, on the butt of his holstered service weapon.
Mitchell didn't approach the gate. He just stood there, leaning against the hood of his cruiser, staring directly at the front door of the clubhouse. Out on the shop floor, the clinking of tools stopped. The pool balls ceased rolling. 30 Hells Angels stood up, their eyes locking onto the flashing lights outside.
In the corner of the room, clutching a dirty shop rag, little Leo Bennett froze. All the color drained from his already pale face, his chest beginning to heave in a silent, desperate panic. Leon looked back at Frank. He followed the kid. Frank set his whiskey glass down on the desk.
He adjusted the collar of his leather cut, his face settling into a mask of pure, unadulterated ice. "Let's go say hello to the law," Frank said. Frank Castellano did not run, and he did not rush. He walked with the heavy, deliberate gait of a man who owned the ground beneath his boots. As he reached the heavy oak front doors, he paused looking back over his shoulder.
"Nobody comes outside. " Frank ordered, his voice echoing through the silent tense room. "No weapons. Keep the boy out of sight. Leon, you're with me. " Frank pushed the doors open stepping out into the sweltering California night. Leon followed standing a pace behind his president's right shoulder.
The red and blue lights of the cruiser washed over them casting long erratic shadows across the asphalt. The deafening roar of cicadas filled the silence. Deputy Gregory Mitchell stood by the hood of his vehicle, thumbs hooked into his duty belt. He smiled a cold empty expression that didn't reach his eyes. "Evening, Frank. " Mitchell drawled chewing on a toothpick.
"Quiet night for the local chapter of miscreants. " "It was. " Frank replied, his voice a low gravelly rumble. He stopped at the edge of the clubhouse property line, his boots resting inches from the public sidewalk. "What can the Hells Angels do for the Sheriff's Department tonight, Deputy? " "I'm looking for a runaway. " Mitchell said taking a step forward. He nodded toward the corrugated metal building. "Got a tip he might have wandered into the wrong side of town.
Nine years old, skinny. " "Goes by Leo. " "We don't get many children at the bar. " "Mitchell disser. " Frank said, his face an unreadable mask. "It's bad for business. " Mitchell's smile vanished. He took another step closing the distance until he was chest to chest with Frank. The size difference was vast. Frank dwarfed the deputy, but Mitchell carried the weight of the state behind him.
"Don't play games with me, Castellano. Mitchell hissed, his hand resting aggressively on the butt of his sidearm. That boy is my stepson. He didn't come home from school today. Now, I know he's in there.
You're going to step aside, or I'm going to arrest you for kidnapping, harboring a fugitive, and whatever else I can pull out of the penal code to bury you beneath the jail. Frank looked down at the deputy's hand on his weapon. He didn't flinch. This property is owned by a private incorporated entity, Deputy Tall. Frank stated clearly loudly enough for his voice to carry to the dashboard camera of the cruiser.
It is closed to the public. If you want to cross this property line, you produce a warrant signed by a superior court judge. Otherwise, you're trespassing. And if you draw that weapon on an unarmed man on private property, my lawyers will own your pension by sunrise. Mitchell's jaw tightened.
He knew Frank was right. Without probable cause or exigent circumstances, and without backup, kicking the door in would be a career-ending move, even in Oildale. But the deputy's arrogance demanded the last word. You think you're untouchable because you wear a leather vest, Frank. Mitchell sneered, leaning in close.
I'm the law in this town. You keep that boy, and I will make it my life's mission to destroy this club. I will pull over every bike that leaves this lot. I will raid this building every week. I will choke you out.
Have a good night, Deputy. Frank said, turning his back on the badge, the ultimate sign of disrespect. Mitchell spat on the pavement, climbed back into his cruiser, and tore away the tires screaming in protest. When Frank and Leon walked back inside, the tension in the room was suffocating. Frank immediately locked eyes with Mike Treadwell.
Where is he? Mike pointed toward the back of the shop. Leo was wedged underneath a massive steel work bench, his knees pulled tightly to his chest, shaking so violently his teeth were chattering. He looked like a trapped animal waiting for the slaughter. Frank crouched down near the bench.