Free Under and Alone by William Queen Page A

territory as ours. We all began to stake out our particular spots. Assuming my rightful position, I had to defer to all the patches and their women before choosing any leftover spot. I laid claim to an area underneath a scrub tree.
    While laying out my camping gear, I noticed a black Chevrolet El Camino driving into the SFV area. A woman who looked to be in her late thirties got out and approached the group. She was definitely a typical biker chick. Then I heard Bucket Head, as casual as could be, tell Domingo and Rocky that the guns had arrived.
    Bucket Head was our chapter’s sergeant at arms. He told Domingo that he was heading for the sergeants’ meeting. I would have given my right nut to go with him, but instead I headed to the common area with Rocky.
    Music blared and the barbecue was fired up. Mongols were milling around, booze was flowing, and the smell of marijuana filled the air. Domingo, Rocky, and I had moved to the parking lot when a guy named Evel rode up on a black Harley Wide Glide. He smiled as he pulled up next to Domingo.
    “Here it is,” he said. He shut down the engine as a group of Mongols started to gather around the motorcycle. “Stolen last night—right out in front of the bar. I told the prospect to take it.”
    What bar and what prospect I didn’t know. I was surprised that this frankly criminal conversation was taking place in front of me, since I had no official standing in the gang. They were usually very cryptic around me. I think Rocky had the same thought because he shot a glare in my direction and told me to go away for a while. I did, but not before getting a good look at the stolen motorcycle. I would see it again later at Domingo’s house.
    The run was shaping up well. I was gathering solid intelligence on the Mongols’ firearm and stolen-motorcycle activities—intelligence that would prove valuable to a federal racketeering prosecution down the line.
    I filled my plate with carne asada and moved to the common area near the barbecue, where Rancid, a talented tattoo artist, was putting the finishing touches on a full-patch tattoo that covered the entire surface area of Crazy Craig’s back. As I watched Rancid work I realized that Crazy Craig would now have to be a Mongol for the rest of his life, because if he went out in bad standing with the club, the Mongols would insist on burning that tattoo off—customary practice for outlaw motorcycle gangs—and a burn that big would surely kill him.
    Daylight had given way to night. I was drinking a cold Bud in the common area with six or seven Mongols, exchanging war stories, when a Ventura County Sheriff’s unit rolled into the parking lot not fifty feet from where we were standing. No big deal. We’ll be cool. He’ll be cool. He’ll drive away, no trouble. But for the Mongols, a jubilant and carefree atmosphere turned deadly serious. They began to stash their firearms. Drugs were being discarded everywhere. Like a pack of wild dogs, the Mongols had zeroed in on the deputy. But two Mongols didn’t hide their guns. I heard one of them whisper that there was no way he could take a shakedown. If he got picked up, he’d be going to prison for a long time. He looked at the other armed Mongol and said something that would rock my night: “If he comes up here, we’ll take him.”
    I was adrift, back on an exploding hill just outside the Cam Lo Valley surrounded by the enemy. How could I possibly warn the deputy? Nightmare scenarios ran through my brain as the two Mongols talked casually about the cold-blooded murder of this unsuspecting officer.
    The plan to take out the deputy became more specific. The deputy stopped his car now and looked over in our direction. In my head I was shouting at this officer to keep moving, to hit the gas and, whatever he did, to not step out of that car. I heard one Mongol say, “You talk with him. Keep his attention and I’ll take him from behind.”
    I looked around desperately for an out. There was