Author's Note – I am not well versed on organized crime in Latin America during this time period. However here I reference the kind of lawlessness and violence that would eventually give rise to the formation of the Medellin Cartel in Colombia by Pablo Escobar in the 1980s, and the Mexican drug cartels in the 90s.

CHAPTER 12: THE BLESSINGS OF DEATH

WAHEWA INDIAN RESERVATION

The road flattened again as they approached the Indian Health Service clinic at the center of the reservation, which also included a small grocery store, the community center, the reservation high school and the main tribal offices. This had to be one of the most forlorn looking places JT had seen outside of Southeast Asia. The clinic was a cinder block building painted green on the outside except for a mural depicting some noteworthy chiefs from the Wahewa tribe's history.

"What's going on here?" a young nurse said as Lenny and Thomas were helped out of the van in the parking lot.

"These men have gunshot wounds. We need you to stabilize them and do what you can to help them," Wally Glazer said as Otto Moran helped Thomas out of the vehicle. At that moment, a large Jeep also pulled into the parking lot and a tall Indian man came out and approached.

"Wally, I know who you all are but we're not allowed to treat non-Indians here. It's not us, it's the BIA. They'll do anything they can to…"

"Well they don't need to know about it," said the man from the Jeep. "There's no Feds on our land at the moment and the officers at the gate have been instructed to call us immediately if any were to show up Let's get these guys patched up."

"Yes, Chief," the nurse said with a deferential nod and motioned for several of her colleague to bring forth the gurneys and wheel the injured Sons into an operating room.

"Gentlemen, this is Chief Raging Bull," Wally said. One by one, the men made their introductions.

"The news is making an even bigger deal out of this than the Lodi mess," Raging Bull said, "Are you sure you weren't followed?"

"I'm certain," JT replied, "Unlike the Mayans who got into that shootout with the cops by the tunnel, I've been trained for this kind of stuff. I've done covert ops in Vietnam in addition to combat. No heat is going to fall on you, and we're grateful for your hospitality, Chief."

"We and Charming are neighbors," Raging Bull replied, "We understand each other. Much easier to deal one on one with people we know than some government suits who show up a few times a year from Washington and act like they own this place. When I deal with Lenny, Thomas, and Wally and their crew, they treat us as true equal partners. And by the way, the government doesn't just feel they're better than us. They feel like they're above everyone in this country."

"Ain't that the truth," JT replied, thinking bitterly to how he was treated in the courtroom and how the Veterans Affairs system and the self-righteous civilian bureaucrats who ran it did everything they could to refuse treatment to soldiers who had fought in Vietnam.

"And I'm sure you saw our, um, business ventures on the way here to the clinic," the chief said, "Better to help ourselves, that's the American way after all. You depend on the government, they own you. If we make our own living, don't get all that aid from Washington, we're in control of ourselves. Obviously the government hates that. This operation, though, can always be expanded. Your friends were involved here before they joined the club."

"No rules in our charter against other personal enterprises," JT said. Most other MC presidents would have added…..as long as it didn't conflict with club business, like owning your own strip club when the club itself was pimping hoes on the street. That would come years later. At the same time, JT also knew that they might be in for more trouble with the Mayans, and with Professor Rogers still on the loose and no doubt out for some payback over the Weathermen they had killed in their ambush.

Another car pulled up to the clinic and a Wahewa woman in her mid-20s went in, almost hysterical, demanding to see Thomas. "He told me anyone who's hurt would be brought here. I can't believe he's one of them! I need to see him now!"

"Megan, it's okay, he's being treated here now. We need to let the doctors work in peace," Lenny said. It was clear that they also knew each other, and that she was at least somewhat aware of the club's planned action on this day.

"How badly is he hurt?" she asked, looking at all of the bikers gathered there.

"It's not bad," JT replied. Sensing her skepticism, he added, "I've seen dozens of gunshots wounds in Vietnam. He'll be good as new in a few weeks. No permanent damage. If this was the VA hospital, they wouldn't even allow a follow-up visit for this."

JT realized that Megan was the Native American girlfriend that Thomas had mentioned. Megan worked in Charming at a steakhouse, though she actually wasn't waiting on Thomas the first time they met. She was actually just getting a few beers at her own bar after she got off while Thomas was waiting for some food to go. Eventually he began going there for drinks and food just to hang out with her and they eventually hit it off.

JT assumed Megan must know about Thomas's involvement with the day's events or else she also would have questioned why they came all the way out here to this clinic. With nothing to do but wait, they all went into the small waiting area and did their best to get some rest after a harrowing afternoon.

UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA – BERKELEY

The radio was on in Professor Rogers's well apportioned department chair office in Wheeler Hall as junior philosophy major and Weather Underground terror operative Mike Grayson stepped in. While he came from a white Episcopalian family, Mike wore a t-shirt depicting Elijah Muhammad rallying his Nation of Islam supporters at a mosque. Mike was one of those who believed that Malcolm X had betrayed the Black Muslims and that Elijah Muhammad was justified in ordering his assassination.

"Once again, these may only be rumors that the Weather Underground was involved, but authorities are saying they will leave no possibilities unexplored as they seek answers for the bloodshed that occurred at the Sunvalley Mall earlier this afternoon. Many residents in the outer suburbs are questioning whether there should already have been more attention given to the Weathermen after they claimed responsibility for the bombing in Lodi last month…."

Normally, Rogers would be talking back at the radio saying it was the injustice of the Vietnam War and American society in general that provoked that attack but right now his top concern was Deanna's obvious capture and what the authorities may learn about his own involvement.

"Anything new at all?" he asked with a deeply concerned expression on his face.

Mike shook his head.

"So none of them have checked in yet? Are you sure?"

"Yes, professor," answered Mike, "I checked my messages less than ten minutes ago, nothing. No answer on Jimmy's home phone, and Deanna's roommate said she hasn't returned yet. Nobody at Antonio's house could speak English but he clearly wasn't there."

Rogers put his hand against his forehead. "This is bad. This is a fucking disaster! How the hell did this happen? Who the fuck were…."

"Professor?" another voice said. Rogers looked up and saw that it was his secretary holding a yellow envelope. She looked shocked at hearing that kind of language come out of Rogers's mouth. "This came in for you as priority mail today. It's strange, but they mailed it from Charming, of all places, and put it in priority mail yesterday to ensure you got it today. The mailroom even had to sign for it."

Rogers took the envelope. "Thanks….it's….it's a private matter. Thank you."

"Of course, professor," the secretary said and left. Charming. Not far from Lodi where their previous attack had taken place. There was no way this could be good. Rogers ripped open the envelope and saw a Sons of Anarchy patch, with a typed note.

"Forecast for Professor Walt Rogers. You will be experiencing some inclement weather very soon," the note said simply with the word "weather" highlighted.

Rogers hurled the note and the patch against the wall, then angrily swept everything off his desk, including the framed picture of himself and Saul Alinsky together. He then picked up his chair and through it against the bookcase, sending piles of books falling down.

"Get...get the fuck out of here, Mike," Rogers stammered.

Mike stood there frozen for a moment. "What is it, sir? Can I..."

"I said get the fuck out of here! And lay low until you hear from me again!" Rogers yelled at Mike, who nodded sheepishly and always tripped over himself as he left the office.

BEST WESTERN INN AND SUITES, LODI / SAN FRANCISCO FBI FIELD OFFICE

Special agent Mark Tasker cursed the small size of the indoor swimming pool, the feel of the Jacuzzi jets and the lack of a sauna and steam room as he dried himself with the bath towels provided by the hotel. The average tourist would certainly be impressed by this new property compared to many of the other lodging options in the area – primarily motor courts and smaller historic hotels – but Tasker had a government expense account and like so many high ranking federal employees was accustomed to splurging on the taxpayers dime. He was sick and tired of this place, even if he was able to visit his family in San Francisco several days at a time. Never mind that a private industry employee might have even commuted here several times a week, but of course Tasker was too good for dealing with the traffic and commute time. He also wanted to always be here to make sure the local police, including the ones in Charming, weren't stepping on his toes in the credit union bombing investigation that he was desperately trying to close.

"Agent Tasker, sir," the young receptionist called out as he walked across the lobby toward the bar.

"What is it?" Tasker asked impatiently. At least she had learned he wasn't one for any friendly chitchat

The young woman maintained her cheery attitude. "You got a call from a Mr. Smalls from your home office in San Francisco. He says it's extremely important. His number is…."

"I know what it is," Tasker interrupted her and went to the elevators instead of the bar.

Bradley Smalls was one of the junior agents at the San Francisco field office, one of the few go getters in Tasker's demanding opinion. He wished Smalls wasn't just overreacting to something. Of course Tasker was aware that a new investigation was now opened due to the events at the Sunvalley Mall, where the death toll was now 17 and still rising.

"What is it, Brad?" Tasker said into his room phone. "This better be important."

"It is, sir…."

"Well? What do you have for me? I'm about to get myself a drink. This couldn't wait until I stop by the office this Friday?" He didn't mention that he was still going to drink something from the minibar, only its selection wasn't up to his satisfaction. At least the lobby bar was better.

"Agent Tasker, this….I feel this is time sensitive and may pertain to your investigation."

Tasker didn't reply and simply waited for Smalls to continue.

"Yes, sir. See as you know we've also been investigating the shootout between the Alameda County police and the Mexican bikers on the 24, where that Weatherman activist was also arrested. That incident was allegedly first triggered by a traffic accident where one of the Mexicans rear ended a pickup truck. Well, for one thing they identified the dead bikers as being members of the Mayans MC out of Oakland. Unfortunately there's still deniability about whether the club was present in Concord. But there's something else that just felt wrong, like there's more to it. Just my instinct, sir."

"And you looked into it, Brad." More of a statement than a question.

"Yes, it all felt too random to me. So I looked through the state records for the pickup truck and its license plate. It's registered to an officer in the Charming Police Department by the name of Wayne Unser."

Tasker spit out the wine he was drinking. "Say that name again, Brad?"

"Um, Wayne Unser, sir," Smalls even spelled out the last name. "Charming PD, part of the investigation you were in. That's why I figured you should know this. Maybe it's all connected."

"Jesus Christ! I know that son of a bitch. Good work, Brad. I'm very impressed. I'm going to get to the bottom of this. Whatever fucking games these yokels are playing, they'll be over pretty soon."

WAHEWA INDIAN RESERVATION, LATER THAT EVENING

JT heard Piney calling his name as he walked along a dirt trail leading away from the clinic. It was now dusk, and the scattering of lights around the main tribal buildings was just beginning to come on. For once, it was peaceful and quiet, JT thought as he felt a refreshing breeze on his face and heard the sounds of owls and crickets in the approaching night. "Hey, man. Hell of a day."

JT paused and took a deep breath.

"I know what you're thinking brother," Piney said, making a sweeping motion across the hilly landscape of the reservation. "I don't like this either. We had no idea Thomas and them are in so deep in this shit. If shit really goes down, the Indians have some kind of protection because of their status, but we're screwed. The cops, the DEA, all of them are going to come after this entire club. None of us may be totally insulated from that."

"Yeah, brother. I'm glad I'm not the only one, but we needed their help today. We couldn't have gone after the Weathermen and escaped the Mayans all by ourselves," JT reminded his friend.

"I'm honestly starting to wonder if some of these had had ulterior motives for organizing this club with us. I know this club is not supposed to be about those kinds of illegal activities." Of course their war with the Weathermen was also technically illegal.

"And I'm going to make it perfectly clear to everyone next time we hold chapel. At least right now we're different than most clubs out there. When this is over, I may not even be part of it anymore. Let Thomas and them continue it. But we got more immediate things to worry about first. Do we know how many Mayans we killed today? The Oakland chapter's most definitely going to respond in some way. How much do they know about us?"

"They just know about our existence, and that we're based in Charming. We'll stay here for a couple more days. I've already told our buddies in town including Unser to be on the lookout for any Mexicans riding through town on foreign bikes," said Piney.

"You think the Mayans are really onto us?"

"There's no way Rogers wouldn't tell them after what went down," JT said. If he had even suspected the Mayans would be at the meet that early, they would have never been so open about openly mailing that threat to Rogers, but hindsight was always 20/20.

"We'll definitely be on the lookout for anyone snooping around town," Piney said with determination, "I'll spread the word to everyone we know." With the exception of Keith, all of the other Sons had lived in or around Charming their entire lives and was on a first name basis with at least a couple people in every local business.

MAYANS MC NATIONAL HEADQUARTERS, EAST LOS ANGELES

The Mayans MC may be one of the most powerful outlaw biker gangs in the country, but that was definitely not obvious from their national headquarters. While its national leaders had considerable assets and often lived in some of Southern California's swankiest suburban gated communities, their meetings always took place in Montebello, the violent, impoverished, and drug infested section of East L.A. where they first set up shop upon their arrival from Mexico. The gang had actually started in southern Mexico and took their name from the ancient civilization whose historical ruins dotted that region. National meetings were held in a large warehouse filled with narcotics, illegal weapons, and counterfeit currency.

The Mayans national president Geraldo Morales was already waiting outside as Frisco Martinez's Suzuki motorcycle pulled up to the warehouse in a cloud of dust. Benito Chavarria and the Oakland master at arms, Alejandro Santana, accompanied him. Jorge was under specific instructions to not leave the grounds of Plaza Maya given that the police have already announced a statewide manhunt for him.

Gathered inside were the Mayans national officers and the charter presidents from throughout the Southwest. It was extremely rare for a senior member in a Mayan charter to meet a violent end, so a regional summit had been called to discuss what happened to Juan Martinez. Over a dozen armed guards were posted outside the industrial building where the meeting was being held.

"You are sure you know exactly who was responsible for this?" Geraldo asked, taking a puff on his Cohiba cigar, one of the less dangerous things the Mayans smuggled into the United States.

"Si, Geraldo. They are a new motorcycle club that calls themselves the Sons of Anarchy."

"You know I have eyes and ears everywhere. Why have I not heard of these Sons of Anarchy before?"

"Geraldo, por favor, con respecto" Frisco said, maintaining a careful tone of voice toward his presidente nacional. "They are as we are trying to tell you, a new club. We are as surprised as you are. There was no indication that they were about to organize themselves into a club."

"Y quienes son estos gringos? And who are these gringos? If what you tell me, and what I hear on Univision is true, these people have far more cajones y machismo than the typical gringo." Despite living illegally in the U.S., Geraldo and most of the other Mayans looked down on Americans. The Americans were weak and cowardly. Even many inner city gangsters were unaccustomed to the level of brutal violence the Mayans brought from south of the border, which allowed them to quickly establish themselves.

"We think they are soldiers who recently came back from Vietnam," Frisco Martinez informed the men gathered around the national table. "The Weathermen had attacked many military targets in Northern Cali, including the bombing in Lodi that was in the news."

National Vice President Pablo Hinojosa spoke up. "So these Sons of Anarchy, they were targeting the Weathermen, not us."

"I…" Frisco hesitated, "Si. They clearly wanted revenge for the Weathermen attacks, especially the ones in Lodi and Charming. The Sons are believed to be based out of Charming, in the San Joaquin Valley, about forty minutes east of Oakland."

"So it was not an attack on the Mayans then," Pablo pointed out. "Remember the Weathermen are not part of our brotherhood. They are not our allies, simply our business associates. Your brother was simply present when the Sons attacked them. Of course all of us around this table share your grief over Juan's death, but this was simply an unfortunate tragedy."

"But they killed my brother!" Frisco shouted, slamming his palm down on the table, jolting all the senior members. He was unable to keep his composure any longer. "Juan's spirit cries out from the grave for revenge! His soul is not at peace! I can feel it! What the fuck do you expect me to do?"

"Cuidado, Juan You will speak with respect at this table!" Pablo cautioned him, but Frisco was too riled up for any advice to sink in.

"Many people in America hate the soldiers," Geraldo said, "La policia will investigate. They may bring the Sons to justice."

"They are not even in the news for that," Benito Chavarria pointed out, "We checked all the way down here. They covered their tracks well. Also, they must have friends in the police. There's no fucking way what happened to Jorge was just a coincidence. Our chapter wouldn't be here if we felt we had any other choice. Those fucking baby killers are never going to pay unless we make them."

Frisco spoke up again. "You expect me to worship and honor Juan on the Day of the Dead, and tell him that we will never avenge his death? That those redneck soldiers are still walking about freely in Charming, bragging about how many of us they killed? They must pay for what they did! I hope all of you remember it was Juan and I, together, that started this chapter in Oakland. Even back in Mexico, Juan was willing to do everything that you asked. Without him, the Colombians would be in control of Merida right now. We owe it to him! And I want it done before the Day of the Dead, so Juan's spirit can rest in peace with our ancestors."

Pablo paused. "So you are asking us to approve a motion to go to war with the Sons of Anarchy over this?"

"Yes, Pablo!" Frisco replied passionately. "I need permission from this table to devote our entire charter to this task. We can easily crush these people! All they have is a few weapons they are probably out of by now! They are a bunch of worthless country gauchos who fuck their cows and sisters."

"That is what the Colombian maricones said about our fathers before they learned to never set foot in Yucatan again," cautioned Pablo Hinojosa.

Frisco ignored that comment. He detested Pablo and wondered how he ever became the national VP. Perhaps he had machismo when he first helped the club carve out their territories in L.A. but he was becoming soft, Frisco thought. Living in America for too long can do that to someone. "In addition to revenge, this is about business!" he said loudly, looking around the table. Deep inside, Frisco didn't expect the Sons to actually compete with the Mayans over control of the East Bay drug and weapons trafficking trade, but overestimating the enemy was far better than underestimating them, plus he needed to make his case right now.

Frisco continued speaking. "We have controlled drugs and guns in the East Bay for muchos anos now. We are trying to seize our part of San Francisco before the Hong Kong Triads grow too powerful there. We cannot allow any distractions like a new club forming in our own backyard."

"And how will this end, in your view?" asked the president of the Las Vegas charter.

"We will destroy the Sons. I will find out who is in that club. It was their president John Teller who planned the events at the mall, and Piney Winston and Clay Morrow who helped him organize the attack. I will make sure those three men are killed, and every other Sons and suspected Sons member if possible. We will wipe out the club, and in doing so, we will send a message throughout Northern California that we will not tolerate the formation of another club that challenges our authority. We get revenge for Juan, and make this statement all at once."

"He's right on that point," Geraldo said. "We cannot allow another MC to operate in the area. Even if they do not threaten our interests at the moment, there is no guarantee that they won't be in the future. We have no reason to believe the Sons of Anarchy will simply disband themselves after some time."

"And also, Juan's death cannot go unanswered!" the representative from the El Paso charter said loudly. "Juan and I also knew each other since our days in Merida. But it is not only about what Juan did for this club. The fact that these gringos dared to attack a meeting where us Mayans were present, that in itself shows they do not respect our power. The other gabachos, the Chinks, the niggers, everyone will think we are a bunch of hueyputas maricones. This cannot stand. We will not be soft like the Americans! If this was Mexico, we would not even be having this conversation! We must strike! If we do not, everyone will be questioning our cajones and our machismo!"

Heads nodded around the table at his argument. Soon thereafter, a vote was called, and a clear majority voted in Frisco's favor.

Pablo and several other dissenters began to speak, but Geraldo Morales slammed the gavel, the sound echoing across the otherwise quiet room, with only the sound of outside traffic heard. "We have heard the arguments, and have come to a decision. The discussion is over."

"Mano, for obvious reasons I believe it would be most appropriate that you lead us in prayer for the success in this war," Geraldo said to Frisco.

Francisco Martinez nodded graciously as they faced the two statues displayed in a place of honor within the room. One was the Virgin of Guadalupe, Mexico's official Catholic saint. The other was Nuestra Senora de Santa Muerte, who was best known as the patron saint of the Mexican criminal underworld.

"Juan was my brother, and a brother to this club. He was everything to me. Be with us as we seek nuestra venganza, our revenge, and may the holy curses of Santa Muerte fall upon the Sons of Anarchy and everyone associated with them in any way."

First Frisco, and then the other Mayans around the room performed the Catholic sign of the cross one by one. "En el nombre del padre, el hijo, y el espiritu sancto. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit." The irony of how far from the Bible each of them had strayed was completely lost on them.