Free The Rampage of Ryan O'Hara by James R. Pera

horror-filled eyes, Pablo said, “Take a good look at us,
cabrone
, because we are the last thing you will ever see.”
    Antonio went to work with the arc welder, melting metal into the eyes of Bad Bob Matulski as Oscar set about amputating his ankles with the acetylene torch. The car thief squirmed violently and moaned but soon went limp.
    Pablo cursed as he thought back to that night. “Fucking cops. Why the hell did they have to be on Florida Street on that particular occasion? Christ, we hadn’t seen any fuzz on that block for a week. The one time they drove by had to be when Oscar, Antonio, and I were exiting the garage.”
    In the ensuing gun battle, Pablo and one of the cops were wounded. Oscar and Antonio were killed.
    Pablo was tried and convicted for the murder of his two fellow gang members, who’d died as a result of the felonies they had been committing together. He was also convicted of the attempted murder of the two police officers and the mutilation of Bob Matulski.
    Now he sat in the exercise yard at San Quentin prison, where he would be spending the remainder of his life.
    Glancing over to the group of convicts from the White Alliance, he caught the eye of their leader, Grady Milsap, a blonde six-footer with a body covered in tattoos. Like Pablo, he was a lifer. They’d helped each other out in the past and would do so again today.
    Pablo ran his hand through his thick black hair and Grady nodded. It was time.

CHAPTER
8
    R yan was at peace. Holding Carol close to him at the edge of a World War II bunker on the southern slope of the Marin Headlands, he marveled at the windswept panorama that lay before him, convinced that he was standing at the center of one of the most spectacularly breathtaking vistas in all the world. Spread out before him in all directions was a natural canvas that combined the creative magnificence of God and man.
    To the west were the Farallon Islands, home to great whites and their prey, the sea lion. To the north lay Mount Tamalpais and Point Reyes. To the south, along the northern shore of San Francisco, the exclusive SeaCliff neighborhood and Presidio were perfect backdrops for sailboats moving in and out of the Golden Gate.
    Alcatraz and Angel Islands basked in the shadows of the eastern hills and graced the waters of the bay, standing watch over the Golden Gate Bridge, which in turn stood as a sentinel to the west of Coit Tower, the Trans American, and other architectural icons that silhouette the San Francisco skyline.
    This beautiful and peaceful place was where Carol and he always began the last day of every visit. It was where they came to speak tenderly to one another while fantasizing about how their lives might have been had their paths not pushed them in opposite directions.
    The sight of fishing boats chugging toward Fisherman’s Wharf with their catches of the day mirrored times long since past when the city was defined by the ethnic communities that made it special. Days when Italians, Irish, Chinese, Latinos, and Russians all occupied their little areas of the city and where if one wanted to experience the culture and food of a certain community of immigrants, one could. Those were the days before social engineers and politicians made this type of community cohesion among ethnic groups a cause for leftists with the mantra that everyone had to mix or the society was somehow corrupt.
    Ryan broke the silence. “How’s the Jib sound?” The Jib was one of their favorite restaurants along the bay in Sausalito, just north of the Golden Gate.
    “The Jib’s fine.” Carol sighed. She really didn’t want to leave the serenity of the little perch they’d occupied for the past hour or so. Leaving always meant thebeginning of the inevitable farewell—a farewell that became more difficult each time. She wasn’t yet ready to let go of the intimacy and passion of the past two days. Neither was Ryan, but this was how it would be until he finally broke free from the