circumstances would be up to me. I went back over the last couple of days in my mind, looking for something that might have given me away. I couldn’t think of anything. Neither could John. We kept bouncing scenarios past each other on the phone: What little mistake might I have made? Ciccone was thinking a bit more clearly than I was. “Billy, it might not be anything at all,” he said. “We just don’t know.”
We hadn’t gotten any phone calls from any of our background people; we knew the Mongols were looking at me hard—but so far, so good. The club’s private investigator, Jan Tucker, had so far turned up only what we’d wanted him to turn up. He’d run a credit check and turned up my UC credit report. He contacted my supposed relatives with some questions and was satisfied. He contacted school officials in North Carolina who were played by ATF agents. He contacted my supposed avionics company and verified my employment there. The one hitch was when he ran my driver’s history with the California Department of Motor Vehicles and, even though my bike and my UC car were registered to Billy St. John, it didn’t list a motorcycle endorsement under that name. (The endorsement, meaning I could legally ride a bike, rather than just drive a car, was on my real driver’s license.) Luckily, the Mongols figured it to be a typical DMV fuckup.
I wasn’t sure what was up with Rocky today, but something was. I didn’t have to go see him. I could tell John that this was the end of the road—the case would be over, but I’d still be alive. No one could fault me. The UC always has the last word in these situations. I’d been through some tight places, a lot tighter than this, and come out alive. I could do it.
As a prospect, I didn’t carry a gun. I didn’t wear a wire—that could have been suicidal given the constant scrutiny I was under. I never wanted too many agents following me around because they could do more harm than good. But this time, I’d put it all on the line. I’d go in armed. I’d wear a wire. I’d get the best backup the L.A. Division had to offer. If it was a setup, I’d be ready for it. I’d take the Mongols on in their own backyard.
I told Ciccone that besides Carr, Koz, and Hardin, I wanted Chuck Pratt and Mike Dawkins there. Pratt and Dawkins were both proven gunfighters and good friends of mine. I had no doubt they would all risk their lives to save mine. Ciccone would roll by Rocky’s place on surveillance, and if he saw any of the known Mongol gunslingers there—Red Dog, Woody, Diablo, or Lucifer—we’d call it off. If it looked like no one other than Rocky was there, I would go in. If I was met with a gun, I’d shoot first and ask questions after my backup entered and cleaned up. Ciccone agreed. I even thought about wearing a vest. But that would clearly give me away. I had to calm down. I had to take the risk and make the best of it. The plan was set. I knew what I had to do.
I picked up my five-shot revolver, wondering if five shots would be enough today. I tucked the gun in the pocket of my jacket where I’d have my hand when I walked into Rocky’s place. I thought back to undercover deals that had turned into shoot-outs. I’d seen more than my share of that kind of action, and I had listened to tapes of undercover deals that had gone bad where cops had been shot and you could hear them breathe their last breath. It weighed heavy on me as I fired up and rolled out to meet Ciccone.
John had rallied the troops. Everybody that I wanted was there on backup—guys I had put my life on the line for, guys I trusted, guys who would make this op easier. Ciccone told me they were gathering near Rocky’s place and putting together their plan. I felt better as I taped the wire to my leg.
The backup team had checked out the target location. There were no other cars or bikes at Rocky’s place. Ciccone and I both understood that we were about to roll the dice on the biggest stakes
We hadn’t gotten any phone calls from any of our background people; we knew the Mongols were looking at me hard—but so far, so good. The club’s private investigator, Jan Tucker, had so far turned up only what we’d wanted him to turn up. He’d run a credit check and turned up my UC credit report. He contacted my supposed relatives with some questions and was satisfied. He contacted school officials in North Carolina who were played by ATF agents. He contacted my supposed avionics company and verified my employment there. The one hitch was when he ran my driver’s history with the California Department of Motor Vehicles and, even though my bike and my UC car were registered to Billy St. John, it didn’t list a motorcycle endorsement under that name. (The endorsement, meaning I could legally ride a bike, rather than just drive a car, was on my real driver’s license.) Luckily, the Mongols figured it to be a typical DMV fuckup.
I wasn’t sure what was up with Rocky today, but something was. I didn’t have to go see him. I could tell John that this was the end of the road—the case would be over, but I’d still be alive. No one could fault me. The UC always has the last word in these situations. I’d been through some tight places, a lot tighter than this, and come out alive. I could do it.
As a prospect, I didn’t carry a gun. I didn’t wear a wire—that could have been suicidal given the constant scrutiny I was under. I never wanted too many agents following me around because they could do more harm than good. But this time, I’d put it all on the line. I’d go in armed. I’d wear a wire. I’d get the best backup the L.A. Division had to offer. If it was a setup, I’d be ready for it. I’d take the Mongols on in their own backyard.
I told Ciccone that besides Carr, Koz, and Hardin, I wanted Chuck Pratt and Mike Dawkins there. Pratt and Dawkins were both proven gunfighters and good friends of mine. I had no doubt they would all risk their lives to save mine. Ciccone would roll by Rocky’s place on surveillance, and if he saw any of the known Mongol gunslingers there—Red Dog, Woody, Diablo, or Lucifer—we’d call it off. If it looked like no one other than Rocky was there, I would go in. If I was met with a gun, I’d shoot first and ask questions after my backup entered and cleaned up. Ciccone agreed. I even thought about wearing a vest. But that would clearly give me away. I had to calm down. I had to take the risk and make the best of it. The plan was set. I knew what I had to do.
I picked up my five-shot revolver, wondering if five shots would be enough today. I tucked the gun in the pocket of my jacket where I’d have my hand when I walked into Rocky’s place. I thought back to undercover deals that had turned into shoot-outs. I’d seen more than my share of that kind of action, and I had listened to tapes of undercover deals that had gone bad where cops had been shot and you could hear them breathe their last breath. It weighed heavy on me as I fired up and rolled out to meet Ciccone.
John had rallied the troops. Everybody that I wanted was there on backup—guys I had put my life on the line for, guys I trusted, guys who would make this op easier. Ciccone told me they were gathering near Rocky’s place and putting together their plan. I felt better as I taped the wire to my leg.
The backup team had checked out the target location. There were no other cars or bikes at Rocky’s place. Ciccone and I both understood that we were about to roll the dice on the biggest stakes
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