Page 12 of Reno

“I’ll do whatever you need me to,” I assured him.

“You’re going to watch my bike.”

I stared at him in disbelief. “Huh?”

“I’ll drive the truck and my buddies will follow me. I’ll have to leave my bike here. I don’t want anyone fucking with it, so...” He glanced around the restaurant. “I’ll be parking the fucker in here, and you’re going to watch it until I get back.”

I expected much more. Like helping him burn the bodies or using a chainsaw to cut them into pieces. If Mister Hernandez saw the motorcycle in the dining area, I’d have some explaining to do, but nothing compared to him finding two dead bodies in the parking lot.

I offered a smile of appreciation. “You’ve got a deal.”

“You’re going to owe me when I get back,” he said, undressing me with his eyes as he spoke. “Big time.”

4

Reno

Before I went to war, I would have considered myself a thrill seeker. Not to the point that it was unhealthy. Just enough to be recognized as being slightly more adventurous than average. When I returned from war, I was a much different person.

Trying to live a normal life after nearly ten years of being shot at was impossible. The thrill of war kept my adrenaline level at an all-time high. Upon returning to the mundane free world, I yearned for the rush that war provided.

Deemed unfit to continue to fight by a team of psychiatrists determined to prevent combat vets from ever reaching retirement, I slipped into depression. After learning a colleague from the military was starting an outlaw motorcycle club in Southern California, I left Texas and pointed my Harley toward the west coast.

His name was Nick Navarro. He was a Navy SEAL who saved my life when I was overrun by Taliban soldiers in Afghanistan. Disappointed with the treatment of returning war vets, he felt starting an outlaw MC was a way to thumb his nose at the government.

When I arrived, I found out his club was still in the inception stages. I couldn’t wait for him to write bylaws and recruit men. I realized if I didn’t feed my adrenaline itch, my depression would become unhealthy. The twenty-two suicides a day that war veterans were committing suddenly made sense.

To save myself from becoming a statistic, I turned to fast-paced crime. It wasn’t a conscious decision I made, it just happened.

My first crime was robbing a shit hat that I witnessed rob a 7-Eleven. While he was running to his car, I tackled him. Then, I took his money, his gun, and his pride.

The monster in me was fed. Satisfied that I could survive in the slow-paced world of day-to-day life, I rode my motorcycle up and down the coast, taking the salty air into my lungs and enjoying the picturesque views.

A week later, I sat in my living room with the barrel of my gun in my mouth. For me, the only answer was to continuously feed the monster. So, I robbed payday loan center. The place was filled with people hoping to either get a loan or pay their weekly installment on a loan they already had.

Every one of them took exception to me taking their money.

After barely escaping by the skin of my teeth, I decided I needed to upgrade my crimes to something a little less risky and a little more rewarding.

I chose to rob a bank. My first was haphazardly planned, but very rewarding—mentally, at least.

I decided to rob another. I spent two days establishing employees’ routines, shifts, and patterns. While doing so, I noticed someone else doing the same. That was the day I met Ghost.

He was parked in a Mc Donald’s parking lot, across the street from the bank. Sitting in the most gorgeous 1965 Ford Falcon I’d ever seen, he was taken by surprise when I told him he needed to find another bank to rob.

“You a cop?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “But unless you’re planning on robbing this fucker before tomorrow, you’re going to be a day late and a dollar short.”

He laughed and invited me to take a seat beside him.

We laughed about his poor reconnaissance skills and my poor bank robbing skills. Afterward, we had a few beers while discussing our futures. As fate would have it, he rode in an outlaw motorcycle club that specialized in robbing banks.

The rest, as they say, is history.

Committing crimes with the Devil’s Disciples proved to be exactly what I needed to keep my adrenaline level elevated. The men became my brothers. A decade quickly passed. The criminal activities of the six-man club satisfied my urge for a rush, but we weren’t a conventional motorcycle club. I felt the desire to ride with an MC that was more focused on riding than committing crimes.

So, I began weekend rides with Navarro’s MC, the Filthy Fuckers. Through my involvement with both groups, my needs were met, entirely.