A FEW MONTHS earlier during a trip to the States, a series of unfortunate incidents led me to discover evidence that took down the president of The Sons, Clay Warfield, as well as the majority of the Southern California chapter. They all went to prison for life because of me. I had enlisted an unwilling participant, an ex-outlaw biker by the name of Karl Drago, and with the help of my friend John Mack, we attempted a robbery of The Sons of Satan’s clubhouse. A stupid, foolhardy move that got all three of us caught and severely beaten by The Sons.
Now they wanted their pound of flesh, and they’d conveyed that message by sending some members of the club to Costa Rica. Those members had waited for their opportunity and somehow caught Toby alone. They sent their message to me in the form of a phone number written in black ink on the back of poor little Toby.
I stood at the table in the entrance hall of our house, the phone in my hand, the dial tone loud in the quiet room. Was this the best path to take, the best solution for the problem? What good would calling these animals do? Why play their game, call them, let their smugness further enflame my rage? I should walk straight into the bedroom, pack my bags, and take off after them. Go handle this the BMF way.
As detective on the Violent Crimes Team, I’d made my bones, proved my loyalty, and the team bestowed upon me the team logo in the form of a BMF tattoo on my upper right arm. I’d been proud of it in a time when I was young and dumb. Later on, after I shot and killed Derek Sams, my son in-law, and saw the law from its ugly backside, I became ashamed of that tattoo. I kept it, though, as a reminder of how the misguided could think and act.
Now I wanted to channel those wild days working on the Violent Crimes Team, where I’d crossed the line into the gray area of the law again and again, and did whatever it took to take down a violent asshole. Took them down the BMF way.
Because back then we were Brutal Mother Fuckers.
I had no intention of treading lightly with these assholes, men who’d hurt a child like that, and worse, one of our children. These men who’d threatened my family.
My past experience told me to take a step back and think it through—that same experience that had kept me alive through some pretty hairy violent confrontations. I tried to force down my rage in order to think more rationally but couldn’t. All I wanted was to get my hands around the throat of the man responsible for this.
A member of The Sons had to be in Costa Rica, right there in our village. That put my family at risk. How could I leave to go take care of this problem and still protect my family? Who could I trust for such an important job?
My brother, Noble.
He owed me, and I could trust him. Sure, I’d call Noble.
With that problem solved, I got right back into my unchecked rage, a comfortable place to be. I let the rage creep back in and slither around in my gut. I dialed The Sons’ number. The phone on the other end rang once.
Someone picked up, a male with a raspy cigarette voice. “Took you long enough, Mr. Watermelon Man. Oh, but I forgot. Mud People are none too bright. Ain’t that right, Mr. Bruno The Bad Boy Johnson? You’re of the mud persuasion, right? Negroid.”
I took a deep breath and checked my anger. “What do you want?”
“Let’s not pretend I’m some kinda fool here. You know exactly what we want, nigger. We want you back here so we can lynch your lying black ass. That’s what we want. And if you don’t make the trip, we’ll be glad to bring it to you. We’ve already proven we can do that. The Sons have put up a twenty-thousand-dollar reward on your sorry ass. And believe me when I say someone’s gonna try and collect it no matter where you go to hide.”
“You’re making a big mistake. I come back there this time, there won’t be one swingin’ dick in your organization left standing. That’s not a threat, that’s a promise. And this time I won’t be nice and use the law. You understand my meaning here?”
Raspy-voice laughed. “You’re threatenin’ me? They said you had a set a balls on ya. If you’re dumb enough to bring ’em here, I’ll make you eat ’em.”
I lowered my voice so Marie couldn’t hear. “Just tell me where and when and I’ll be there.”
“When you get here, you call, and we’ll set up a nice little meet and greet, if you know what I mean.”
“I’m on my way.”
He hung up.
No scenario existed where this would end any other way but violent.