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  With those resources already in place, Billy or any of his colleagues working under the same jefe could take advantage of that hole in the net the Rattlers had provided. Throw a few extra immigrants in the truck, drop them off before they meet our guys from the club, and voilà—no splitting profits for that part of the load. Easy money for work you’re already doing anyhow.

  The second key service, providing the drop-off locations, or safe houses, was a convenience but not all that difficult to duplicate. The club had ears to the ground throughout Southern California, with contacts in every city and shitstain town. Even the Indian reservations. Plus we had the manpower to scout the locations, stake them out, properly vet them for such use. But none of that was especially unique. I figured most any outfit who had deep enough roots in the area could cultivate similar networks. And California had belonged to the Mexicans long before it had become the 31st state of the Union. They had deep roots here too.

  Nope, they didn’t necessarily need the Rattlers for drop-off points or safe houses.

  But that third bullet point was a riddle. The ID’s. Sure, you could get fake ID’s just about anywhere these days. You could even buy them on the dark web with Bitcoin, and have them mailed right to your house. But the Rattlers had built a well-deserved reputation over the years for not just providing a card or piece of paper, but full identities, complete with backgrounds, driver licenses, even an established bank account with a small starter balance. And we were good at it. Ours were indistinguishable from real, state-issued ID’s, backed by clean social security numbers and verification data. It wasn’t cheap, but for the quality of the work it was a bargain. The coyotes we worked with had learned to capitalize on that aspect of our service, as part of their marketing to hopeful immigrants from deep inside Mexico and Central America. It was a premium service. Package deal.

  This was the part of what the Rattlers brought to the table, that I was pretty sure couldn’t be easily duplicated. And I doubted the coyotes would risk their stellar reputation on securing poor, cheap identities for their “extra” customers.

  While it wasn’t definite, because of the ID’s I could only suspect that someone from inside the MC was working with the coyotes in their little side business.

  Tillman, I thought to myself. Tillman had to be behind this. The fucking president of the chapter, running some business on the side, using the MC resources but going around the club to put more of the proceeds into his own pocket. He probably had a couple of his close cronies in on it with him. Like Sunny, that psycho sergeant-at-arms who always seemed to be up Tillman’s ass. Maybe the rest of the 601’s too.

  Fucking typical.

  Nine

  Twenty minutes later I had my britches back on and was riding south on the 91 toward I-15. I knew I’d never be able to sleep while turning everything over in my mind. And I couldn’t simply barge into the clubhouse and confront Tillman with such a devastating accusation, of a charge that I myself wasn’t even sure of yet. I needed to look into it a bit more.

  I remembered that Tillman owned a small, secluded piece of property out in the sticks near Fallbrook. It was on a dirt road, surrounded by avocado groves, situated a few miles from the nearest house. It was a perfect spot, and we had used it years back for the same types of drop me and Frosty had worked a few hours earlier, over on the Indian reservation.

  But the club had stopped using the place a while back. Tillman had said he didn’t want the heat it might bring him, doing business on his personal property. He had decided to give up the modest bump in his cut of the take from each load that passed through that property. I never questioned it—it was a reasonable ask, given the abundance of other usable spots that didn’t have potentially problematic ties to the club. We had simply taken Tillman’s piece in Fallbrook out of the rotation, and over the last few years most in the club simply forgot about it.

  But I remembered it now. So I thought I’d ride on out and take a look around.

  I exited I-15 and headed west toward Fallbrook. A few miles and several turns later, I found myself on a narrow lane twisting my way up a ridge. It was a familiar route; it was all coming back to me now. I killed the headlight as the road topped out along the ridgeline, and rolled to a stop a quarter mile further, at a wide turn-out where the road twisted around a spur in the ridgeline. I climbed off the FLH and left it leaning on its kickstand, and fished the small pair of binoculars I’d brought from the saddlebag.

  The edge of the turn-out was ringed with a cluster of granite boulders. Beyond the rocks there was a steep drop-off toward a small valley below. I crept through the boulders to a familiar spot I’d been to several times, years before. I settled into the lookout position the club had used to watch over those drops years ago, and focused my binoculars on a small clearing among the avocado trees below.

  I wasn’t surprised to see there had been some changes since the last time I’d been out here. Part of the space was faintly illuminated by a sodium vapor security light mounted high on a pole. In addition to the small corrugated tin shack that had been there before, there were now several large shipping containers sitting on the property, each forty feet in length. Three of the rusty metal containers sat parallel, in a row. Two of these were brown, with the letters CLX in large block letters on their sides. The third one, closest to me in line, was gray with YING WOO in faded blue letters. A fourth container, painted clay red with a large DYNASTY SHIPPING LINES logo across its length, sat apart from the others, at a 90-degree angle to them. Through the binoculars I could see a small array of solar panels attached to the roof of the Dynasty container, and realized it must be charging a battery bank that powered the security light, as the property was situated well beyond the reach of the nearest power lines.

  The chain-link fence that encircled the property was also a recent addition. There was a gate in the fence where the faint dirt road entered the property. I adjusted the binoculars a little closer and could see a security camera mounted on one of the fence posts, pointed at the gated entrance. Scanning the rest of the compound, I noted several more cameras. Two were mounted on the roof of the Dynasty container, trained onto the swing doors at the ends of the three parallel containers. There were no vehicles visible in or near the compound, and no sign of people or movement.

  The view below me raised more questions that it answered. What was Tillman up to out here? If he was using the compound as a waystation for illegal immigrants he was routing around the Club’s normal business, why the security? The immigrants were willing customers, with no reason to run. And the fences and cameras would do little to keep law enforcement at bay, if they suspected such activity was happening here. Those measures only made it appear even more suspicious to an outside observer.

  “Fuck it, I can’t sleep anyhow,” I whispered to myself, and decided to stick around for a while and see if anything happens. I walked back to my motorcycle, rode it a quarter mile up the road, and parked it a few rows back into the avocado trees. I returned to the lookout spot and worked my way past it to a clump of boulders at the far end of the turn-out. The granite rocks here were large and numerous, so I picked my way through until I found a small cleft where I could sit with my back leaned against a granite wall, with a clear view of the compound below. From my new perch I could also look to the right and see the usual lookout spot the Rattlers had used in the past. I didn’t know what to expect, but if someone showed up there to watch over any activity below, I wanted to be able to see them as well.

  I pulled a Backwoods cigar from my vest pocket, lit it, and settled in for what might be a long wait. Morning was still a few hours off.

  Ten

  The far-off but familiar sound of big V-twin engines jarred me from a light doze. I cursed myself for falling asleep.

  The surrounding hills were now bathed in morning light. But the valley below was still cast in shadow as the sun hadn’t yet risen above the ridgeline. As I watched, the vapor light mounted on the pole in the clearing below cli
cked off for the day. I looked to the right to confirm that the road turn-out and lookout was vacant. I trained the binoculars back down on the compound below, and waited.

  The sound of motorcycle engines continued to rise, until two riders appeared moving up the dirt track. I watched as they stopped at the gate. One of them stepped off his bike, unlocked the chain and swung the gate open.

  The gate was at the left end of the compound from my vantage point, but I didn’t need to see their faces clearly to know who they were. Each of the bikes were instantly recognizable, as well as the size and shape of their riders. Tillman, president of the Riverside chapter of the Rattlers Motorcycle Club. The other was his sergeant-at-arms, Leon Sunderland. Leon went by the nickname “Sunny,” but I knew he was anything but. The motherfucker had a dark presence to him.

  I watched through the binoculars as Tillman and Sunny rode into the compound and parked next to the Dynasty container, the one that sat at odds to the other three. Tillman stood by and lit a cigarette as Sunny unlocked the swinging double doors. A few minutes later, Tillman crushed out his cigarette and the two stepped inside the container.

  Tillman and Sunny had been inside the container for about ten minutes when I heard another motorcycle engine coming up the road to approach the compound. I swung the binoculars around in time to see a third Rattler appear coming up the lane, followed by a Ford Econoline cargo van. The van was white with no side windows or markings.

  The van rolled to a stop as Sunny and Tillman stepped out of the container. I tensed when I saw they were both carrying rifles. I focused the binoculars and saw that the rifles were Brazilian FAL’s, probably pilfered from a shipment the club had recently brought in for a customer up in Utah.

  The third rider climbed off his bike and removed his half-helmet. Stringy black hair fell across his face, which he swept away with one hand as he hung the helmet on his handlebars with the other. He stepped over to join Tillman and Sunny, drawing a pistol from his waistband. I didn’t recognize him, though he wore the coiled snake of the Rattlers MC on the back of his vest. He kept pushing that stringy black hair out of his face, so I’ll just call him Blackie for lack of a name.

  Two men stepped out of the van, both clean cut, wearing gray pants and blue work shirts with name tags that I couldn’t make out at this distance. Both also had weapons: the driver had a handgun while the passenger held a shotgun. This ain’t looking good, I thought. But I relaxed a little when I saw Sunny, Tillman and Blackie lower their weapons. The driver from the van did likewise, while the passenger tilted the barrel of his shotgun upward and leaned it against his shoulder.

  The five men stood in a circle talking for several minutes. I couldn’t hear their conversation other than the occasional high note, but the atmosphere seemed to be more relaxed than the abundance of weaponry would suggest.

  After a minute the small talk seemed to be over, as Tillman turned and walked toward the middle of the three parallel ocean containers, the one marked CLX. The others followed.

  Sunny stepped up to the door, fished a key from his pocket, and removed a padlock from the door. The other men stood around the end of the container in a semi-circle. I noticed that they each brought their weapons to a ready position.

  Sunny swung the doors open. He and the Blackie stepped inside while the others waited. The two men in the work uniforms shifted on their feet uneasily. Tillman lit a cigarette.

  After a few minutes, Blackie stepped out of the container followed by three people, with Sunny stepping out last. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stiffen as I watched Sunny poke the last of the three people in the back with the barrel of his rifle, urging the person forward. He and Blackie herded them into a line, three across.

  It was obvious, from the weapons and treatment of them, that these weren’t ordinary illegal immigrants coming to America in search of a better life. I focused on each of them in turn, and determined that all three were female, they all appeared to be Asian, and seemed to be fairly young. They were dressed in soiled, ill-fitting clothing and stood slump-shouldered, stepping slowly as if in a daze when they moved. Through the binoculars their faces looked expressionless—a complete absence of emotion. They didn’t seem to be either happy or sad. They were just…there.

  The driver from the van stepped forward and examined each of the prisoners (at this point, I was sure that’s exactly what they were—locked up, drugged, and held at gunpoint). The driver stepped slowly around each of them in turn, occasionally reaching out and touching them. Testing the muscle on a bicep, checking the firmness of a breast, lifting the hem of a shirt to examine the bare midriff beneath.

  As the driver was going over the last girl in the group, the one on the end of the line closest to my position, she turned her body slightly in my direction. I could see her a little bit better now, through the binoculars. She was scrawny, probably undernourished. Her narrow legs poked downward from the cuffs of her frayed gym shorts like popsicle sticks. She was wearing an old t-shirt with the tragically ironic word “JOY” printed across the front. The shirt may have been baby blue at one point, but now it was splotched with filth, probably her own. Her thin arms hung limply at her side as the driver probed and prodded. I panned up to her face—and nearly dropped the binoculars.

  She was looking directly at me.

  I nearly jumped out of my skin in surprise. Only, she wasn’t looking at me. She was just staring in my direction, blank-faced, perhaps drugged, maybe having given up hope long ago, probably both.

  After a moment I told myself it had to be only a coincidence. I was over a quarter mile away, hunkered down behind a jumble of boulders, peering through a narrow crevice between them. Besides, there was no focus in her almond-shaped eyes. Only emptiness. And resignation.

  There was no way Joy had actually been looking at me.

  Wait—’Joy?’ Fuck me! I thought, shaking my head. Now I’m putting names on them.

  She jerked slightly and her head turned away. I widened my view and saw that the driver’s examination was finished. Apparently satisfied, he looked over his shoulder and nodded at his companion, who swung his shotgun back up onto his shoulder and walked back to the van.

  Shotgun-man slid the van’s side door open, reached inside, and produced a lime green gym bag. He walked back and handed the bag to the driver. The driver unzipped the bag, peered inside, and handed it to Tillman.

  Tillman also looked inside the gym bag, poked a hand inside and sifted through the contents. He looked up, nodded at the driver, zipped the bag shut, and said something to Sunny.

  Sunny and Blackie herded the three girls toward the van, where the shotgun-man roughly pushed them through the side door, then climbed in after them. Sunny slammed the side door shut, the driver climbed in, and the van started to back away.

  As the van exited the compound and disappeared down the dirt track, I swung the binoculars back toward the Rattlers. Blackie was at the CLX container that had been used as a holding cell, swinging the doors shut and locking it back up. Sunny had disappeared back inside the other container while Tillman stood in the center of the compound and lit another cigarette.

  Sunny re-emerged from the container and handed each of the others a bottle of beer. “Never too early,” I said to myself as the three Rattlers popped tops, wishing I had one myself. They bullshitted for a few minutes. I heard laughter a couple of times. Just another day at the office.

  Finally Tillman crushed out his cigarette and unzipped the gym bag one more time. He reached inside, pulled out two banded stacks of green bills, and handed one each to Sunny and Blackie. Sunny held his up in thanks, and then slipped it into his vest pocket. Blackie did the same.

  They finished their beers and tossed the empties into a rusty burn barrel sitting next to the container. Sunny swung the container doors shut and re-locked it. Finally, the three Rattlers climbed back on their bikes, donned their helmets and rode out of the compound, pausing at the gate to wait for Sunny to lock it.

&
nbsp; And then they were gone.

  Eleven

  I fished around in my pocket for the pack of stogies, and was disappointed to find only one left. I pulled it out and lit up, savoring the rush as nicotine flooded my bloodstream. I watched the compound below as I smoked, though it was now still, and it was doubtful anyone would be back there soon. But caution dictated that I wait a bit before making a move.

  The nicotine was necessary to calm my nerves, as my mind was racing over what I had just observed, my anger rising by the minute. Tillman and his cronies had taken one aspect of the club’s business and pivoted it into a completely different direction, one that I was immediately disgusted with.

  Human trafficking. Sex slaves, most likely.

  I can hear you mewling already, “But Austin, you run a titty bar, you’re also exploiting women.” Bullshit. My employees all work under their own consent. I’ll gladly have that argument with you, some time over a few beers. This was slavery, whether it was of a sexual nature or not. People were being bought and sold. Imprisoned. Trafficked.

  And god dammit if ‘Joy’ hadn’t been looking right at me. Well, staring blankly in my direction, more likely. But what if she had seen me? What if she had noticed a distant flash off the lens of my binoculars? I suppose it was possible, albeit unlikely. I was a quarter mile away. Hidden in good cover.

  But still. There’s a huge chasm between possible and probable. And what is that chasm full of? Doubt. The kind of doubt that can make you start second-guessing your initial, reasonable conclusions. Until the doubt starts to gain legs, and the unlikely possibility starts to seem more probable. Doubt begins to eat away at reason like a rat gnawing on a wedge of cheese. Pretty soon you’re telling yourself it could have gone either way.