Being the president of an MC is a lot like being the president of a small country. There are things to consider. Firstly, traffic laws. Convince your constituents to not ride around in their cuts. If they ride around wearing their cuts, people will be able to identify them. And where’s the common sense in that? Secondly, diversity is king. If your entire club is made up of white guys with shaved heads, you start to look suspicious. And besides, no one Widow Maker is better than another, regardless of the color of his or her skin. The only hierarchy we subscribe to is this: Prez’s word is final. If Prez isn’t around, V.P.’s word is final. Thirdly, gender equality. Ain’t a single man born on this planet without the good graces of a woman. Clubs that refuse women in their ranks are fucking retarded. After the cuts, what’s going to attract more attention than a bunch of angry-looking dudes riding around on motorcycles? Nothing. Throw a couple of women in the mix and suddenly you’re a hell of a lot less conspicuous.

The Widow Makers are black, white, Asian, Hispanic, male, female—you name it, we got it. Our bikes aren’t the kind of things you’d see being built on Orange County Choppers. Yes, a good percent of the Widowers’ rides are monstrous cruisers built out of chrome, exhaust pipes fatter than they have any sane reason to be, but we have street fighters too. Sports bikes built for speed and cornering quickly. Tourers built for comfort. Road-legal dirt bikes that can turn on a hairpin and jump a fucking mini van if they have to.

The Widow Makers aren’t your average MC. We’re a bit of everything. We blend into the background. We’re covert. We fly under the radar. We’re the only MC in the United States of America that operates like this. You may be asking yourself why we hide who we are from the prying eyes of the public. The answer to that question is simple:

We’re not just a motorcycle club. We’re criminals. And we’re really fucking good at not getting caught.

******

Julio’s Compound

Rebel

I hear the cars pulling up around four am. Carnie hears it, too. He was sleeping, silent, not one muscle twitching, but the low rumble of tires on hard-packed earth has jolted him awake. His Beretta—he calls her Margo. After his mother—is in his hand, ready to shoot. One of Julio Perez’s employees lifts his semi-automatic, aiming it at Carnie’s face.

“Calmate,” the Mexican says. He has the look of a stone-cold killer about him. There’s nothing going on behind those blank, dark eyes of his. Carnie winces up at the guy, shifting in his chair. Margo goes back into the waistband of his jeans.

“Do I not look calm to you, asshole?” he asks. Carnie hasn’t been prospecting for us for long, but he’s got fucking stones like bowling balls. He’s never really looked the part—tall and gangly, glasses, side parting. He’s basically a thirty-three-year-old hipster redneck. I found him half beaten to death just outside a bar in Midland City, Alabama. I wasn’t going to waste my time scraping him off the ground, but Cade went through his pockets and found out he had his light aircraft license. Not surprising, given that Midland City’s the location of Dothan’s regional airport. He was a crop sprayer for a living before we picked him up. Spent his time dusting fields with enough weed killer to deform an entire county.

After we hauled his ass to the hospital and kept an eye on him for a while, he became our prospect. When we’re outside the clubhouse, the guy is on my hip at all times, learning how the fuck to behave himself. Other times, he’s also a runner. What he runs at any one time depended solely on how we are making our money that month. Pot. Guns. Stolen goods. If it’s illegal, odds are Carnie’s hauled it across state lines in the back of his Cessna 208. There’s only one thing we don’t touch, and that’s girls.

Until now.

Andreas Medina, Julio’s right-hand man, makes a low tutting sound, looking up from the bank of security cameras he’s studying. “What you want with this bitch, anyway?” he asks.

I remain slouched in the leather armchair of Julio’s security center, eyeing the two punks that have been left behind to keep watch over us. Just because Julio’s doing us this favor doesn’t mean he trusts us. Especially since I’m bribing him. “She’s hot,” I tell Andreas. “I saw Hector’s post go live and thought to myself, ‘Now that’s the kind of pussy I need in my collection.’”

Andreas grunts. It’s plainly clear that he doesn’t believe me. News about what happened in that side street in Seattle is spreading fast. Los Oscuros and the Widow Makers are at war. Everyone with enough common sense is battening down the hatches, preparing for the storm to hit. Julio and all of his men must know that this girl we’re paying them to fetch for us was involved in my uncle’s death somehow. That’s why I’m paying the fat old fuck a hundred grand to do this job for me.

The sound of approaching vehicles grows louder. Andreas doesn’t ask me any more questions about the girl; he’s too busy verifying that the cars slowly rolling into view on the security cameras are the same seven cars that left the compound four hours ago. A burst of static erupts from the radio sitting on the desk in front of Andreas. “La tenemos. Abre la puerta,” a voice advises. We got her. Open the gates. Doesn’t sound like Julio, but Andreas does as he’s told. On the grainy, pixelated screen, a set of huge, high gates swing outwards, letting the cars drive slowly, one at a time into the compound.

Carnie shoots me a stern look, and then stands. “Time for us to be going then.”

We should probably stick around inside and observe etiquette. After a business dealing with Julio, it’s customary to sit with the man and have a beer. We can’t afford that luxury tonight, though. I’m bone tired, and we need to get this girl as far away from California as possible. If we loiter here too long, the likelihood of her being murdered by Los Oscuros grows by the minute. I get to my feet, stretching out my body.

“Been a blast as always. Boys.”

Andreas jumps up too, holding out a hand. “Why don’t you just slow your roll, ese? Julio might want to confirm the exchange.” I pull out my cell phone and pull up the transaction confirmation. One hundred thousand dollars, cleared into the account details Julio gave me.

“Merry fucking Christmas,” I say, pushing past him. The guy who threatened Carnie with his semi-automatic a moment ago steps in front of me, blocking my way. He lifts his chin, daring me to do something. “What do you think happens if I don’t walk out of here?” I whisper. “What do you think happens if there’s even a scratch on me when I leave?”

The guy blinks at me. He doesn’t move.

“It’s okay, Sam. You can let him by.” Andreas places a hand on the guy’s shoulder, which seems to descale the threat level somewhat. They both move out of the way so I can exit, swiftly followed by Carnie. “Hey, Rebel,” Andreas calls after us. I glance over my shoulder. “There will be an end to this, y’know. You can’t hold it over him forever. Julio ain’t just some punk you can fuck with. We will get the files back.”

I give him a lazy smile, flashing teeth. I’m not afraid of you. “As always, such a pleasure doing business with you, Andreas. I’m sure we’ll see each other again soon.”

As Carnie and I hurry out of Julio’s villa, three half-naked women run down the corridor in front of us, screaming. They vanish through a side door, tits and ass flashing everywhere, and then they slam the door closed behind them. “Working girls?” Carnie murmurs.

“I doubt they’re here for the free tacos.”

Carnie spits on the ground, shaking his head at another guard as we exit though the front door. Outside, Julio Perez is heaving himself out of a dark sedan, groaning with the effort. He’s wearing fucking shades at night. Carnie elbows me, jerking his head at the fat fucker, as though he can’t believe what he’s seeing.