He poured it out and was making a fresh pot when his phone rang. Unknown number. He answered anyway. Is this Frank Morrison, a woman's voice? Professional clipped.
Who's asking a detective Rachel Torres, Phoenix PD? I need to speak with you about an incident last night at the Hell's Angels Clubhouse. We received a report of a firearms violation. Frank's blood went cold. Who filed the report?
I can't disclose that over the phone. Can you come to the station this afternoon? I'll be there at 2. Thank you, Mr. Morrison. The line went dead.
Frank stared at his phone, piecing it together. Someone had called the cops, reported Cole pulling a gun, and now the police were involved. He called Garrett. We've got a problem, Frank said. When Garrett answered, I know Cole called me 20 minutes ago.
He's the one who reported himself. What? Said he couldn't live with what he'd done. Couldn't sleep. So, he walked into the police station this morning and confessed.
Told them everything. The embezzlement, the gun, all of it. Oh, Frank closed his eyes. Redemption was messy. It never followed the script.
Where is he now? County lockup. They're processing him. His lawyer thinks he'll get probation. Maybe community service given that he turned himself in and nobody was hurt.
But Frank, this complicates things. How the cops are going to investigate the club, our finances, our activities, everything. If they find anything dirty, anything that connects us to illegal activity, we're done. Then we make sure they don't find anything. Frank said, "Because there isn't anything to find, right?"
A pause too long. Garrett, there might be some old records from the '90s. Nothing major. Some protection money we collected from local businesses. It was a different time, Frank.
Different rules. Destroy them. I can't. They're part of the official club history in the archives. Then we turn them over.
Frank said voluntarily. We get ahead of this. Show the cops we've got nothing to hide. That's a risk. So is lying and I'm done with lies.
Frank grabbed his keys. I'm meeting with Detective Torres at 2. I'll handle it. You focus on making sure every current record is clean. Spotless.
If they're going to dig, we give them a clean hole. Understood. Frank drove to the police station with his mind racing through scenarios. Best case, the investigation cleared them. Worst case, it destroyed the club he'd spent 31 years building.
But there was a middle path. A path where honesty, even painful honesty, earned respect. Maybe not from the law, but from the community, from themselves. Detective Torres met him in an interview room. She was 40-something with sharp eyes and the no-nonsense demeanor of someone who'd seen every lie ever told. "
Mr. Morrison," she said, gesturing to a chair. " Thank you for coming in." " Call me Frank." " Frank, I'll get right to it. Cole Blackwood turned himself in this morning.
Confessed to embezzlement and pulling a firearm during a club meeting. He's looking at several felonies. I'm aware of him. He also told us something interesting. He said you talked him down, convinced him to surrender the weapon without violence.
She leaned forward. That true? Yes. Why Pon? Because he's a brother and brothers don't give up on each other even when they screw up.
Torres studied him for a long moment. The Hell's Angels have a reputation, Frank. Violence, criminal activity, turf wars. You're telling me your club is different? I'm telling you, we try to be, Frank said.
Do we get it right every time? No. We're human. We make mistakes, but we're not criminals. We're veterans, mechanics, fathers, grandfathers.
We ride motorcycles and help our community and try to live with honor. Honor? Torres smiled slightly. That's a word you don't hear much anymore. Maybe that's the problem.
She opened a folder, pulled out documents, financial records, photos from the clubhouse, a statement from Cole. I'm required to investigate these allegations, she said. Which means I need access to your club's records. Financial statements, membership rosters, meeting minutes, everything. You'll have it, Frank said.
All of it. I'll personally deliver everything to your office by end of week. Torres raised an eyebrow. Just like that, no lawyer, no push back. We've got nothing to hide.
If there are old infractions, things that happened before my time or outside my knowledge will deal with the consequences. But I won't obstruct justice to protect guilty men. Even if it means some of your members go to jail. Even then, Torres sat back, reassessing him. You're not what I expected, Frank.
What did you expect? Someone harder, angrier, more. She searched for the word. Stereotypical, I guess. I'm 68 years old, detective.
I'm too tired to be angry and too old to play games. You want the truth, I'll give it to you. All of it. Just promise me you'll be fair. Fair is all I can offer.
They shook hands and Frank left the station feeling lighter. Honesty he'd learned in the war was its own kind of armor. It couldn't stop bullets, but it could stop the weight of lies from crushing you. He was halfway to his truck when his phone rang again. Garrett again.
Frank. Garrett's voice was tight. Wrong. Get to the clubhouse now. What happened?
The Scorpions took Travis. The world tilted. What? They grabbed him an hour ago outside his apartment, beat him unconscious, threw him in a van, left a message spray painted on his door. Ironside wants war.
He's got it. Frank's hand tightened on the phone until his knuckles went white. Is he alive? We don't know. They haven't made contact, but Frank word on the street as they know.
Someone told them, "You're president again." And they're making a statement. The Scorpions Motorcycle Club, smaller than the Hell's Angels, meaner, less disciplined. They ran drugs and guns through Fionax's southside, and they'd been pushing into Hell's Angels territory for months. With Cole distracted by his power play, nobody had pushed back.
Now the Scorpion saw an opportunity. " Take down the legend. Prove the ghost was just an old man." " I'm on my way," Frank said. He drove faster than he should have his mind already working through scenarios.
This wasn't politics anymore. This wasn't business. This was war. And Travis was 28 years old with a wife and a baby on the way. The clubhouse parking lot was full when Frank arrived.
40 bikes. Every member who could ride. The atmosphere inside crackled with violence barely restrained. Young members wanted blood. Wanted to ride to the Scorpions' clubhouse and burn it to the ground.
Old-timer stood ready, weapons within reach, waiting for the order. Frank walked in and the room went silent. " Tell me everything," he said. Liam stepped forward. Travis left his apartment at 8:00 a.m. Four Scorpions were waiting.
They jumped him in the parking lot, beat him with pipes. Neighbors saw the van, white, no plates, headed south. Witnesses get anything else. One of them saw a Scorpion painted on the side. Their clubhouse is on South 35th.
Frank looked around the room, saw the rage, the readiness. These men would follow him into hell if he asked. But war had costs. Bodies, jail time, the destruction of everything they'd rebuilt. We need to be smart about this, Frank said.