Located 20 miles into the high desert, past where the paved roads crumbled into dust and scrub. It sat on 40 acres of flat defensible land. A 12-foot cinder block wall surrounded the main structures, topped with razor wire and security cameras that swept the perimeter with unblinking red eyes. Sarah rode on the back of Frank's bike, her arms wrapped tight around his leather-clad waist. The vibration of the engine had seeped into her bones during the hour-long ride.
When the heavy steel gates rolled open, revealing a sprawling ranch-style house, a large workshop, and several smaller cabins, Sarah realized she hadn't just joined a bar staff. She had been conscripted into an army. Frank killed the engine. The silence of the desert rushed back in, vast and overwhelming. "Welcome to the Alamo," Frank muttered, kicking the kickstand down.
"Sarah slid off, her legs wobbly. " "Is this where you live? " "This is where we survive," Frank corrected. "When the heat is on, the club retreats. It's neutral ground.
No cops, no creditors, no. " Inside the main house, the atmosphere was different from the bar. It was domestic, jarringly so. In the large kitchen, a woman in her 50s was stirring a massive pot of chili. Two toddlers were chasing a pitbull around the living room.
It was a family, a strange, heavily armed family, but a family nonetheless. Frank introduced the woman as Mama Jo, the widow of a former chapter president. She looked Sarah up and down, wiping her hands on an apron. "You the one who burned down the watering hole? Mama Jo asked, her voice like dry leaves?
"I didn't light the match, Sarah said, feeling small. "But you brought the matches," Mama Jo noted. She pointed a ladle at a hallway. Bunk room is third door on the left. Sheets are clean.
Don't dirty them. Sarah retreated to the room. It was Spartan, a single bed, a dresser, and a window with bars on it. She sat on the bed and pulled the flash drive from her pocket. The plastic casing was still warm from her body heat.
This small piece of technology had destroyed a building and nearly killed a man. She needed to know what was on it, really know. She went looking for Frank and found him in the church, a detached building that served as the meeting hall. The room was dominated by a long oval table made of dark mahogany. The Hells Angels logo, the death's head, was carved into the center.
Frank was arguing with Mercerer. Big Mike stood by the door, arms crossed, looking like a statue of a sentinel. "We are harboring a civilian, Frank, Mercerer was shouting, his face flushed. And not just a civilian, a walking target. The Apex Group isn't some street gang.