CHAPTER 21: A MATCH MADE IN HELL

OCTOBER 18, 1970

CHARMING POLICE DEPARTMENT

"Wayne, why the hell couldn't you just tell me who it is?" JT asked. The moment he stepped into the Unser's office, Unser was already out of his chair and motioning JT back toward a door. Unser had called JT at the garage saying that it was urgent, and that there was someone important he had to meet.

"I can't blame you for being suspicious after all the shit that's gone down lately," Unser said as they walked out into a clear bright autumn day, the maple and oak trees that lined Charming's historic downtown streets already in their colorful glory. "But if I told you who it was, you probably wouldn't show up. Well here you are. I'm, um, going to step back and observe from a distance. Make sure nothing gets out of hand, Mr. Teller."

Sitting next to the fountain was a well-dressed Mexican man in a collared shirt and khakis. "I figured this would be an ideal place. So none of us will make any foolish moves." His English, while accented, was smooth and polished. Sitting next to him was a younger Mexican who looked like he was in his late teens, who was dressed more like a suburban high school student than a gangbanger from the barrio.

"And who might you be?" JT asked.

"Geraldo Morales. National President of the Mayans Motorcycle Club."

JT didn't say anything, but maintained a tough smirk to keep him off balance.

"Yes, you can be assured we're alone. If I wanted to ambush you we would have. I personally came all the way up here from L.A. to meet with you," Geraldo told JT.

"I get it. Now's the time when you tell us that you've had enough. That you're going to back off."

"More or less, but not quite as simple," Geraldo said. "A true end to this war requires a lot of negotiation, with many factors taken into account. But for the time being, as we sort things out, I hope we can agree on a cease-fire. I'm sure as a soldier you understand how that works."

"What kind of 'cease-fire'?" JT said.

"First, you no longer have to worry about Frisco Martinez. Our national leadership has given him very clear orders to stand down and stop his attacks against the Sons of Anarchy. None of his men are even to enter San Joaquin County." Geraldo introduced the man to him. "This is Marcus Alvarez, he's the new man in charge in Oakland. I've tasked him with ensuring that Frisco respects this deal, that he understands he's had his chance at revenge and failed. In return, we ask that you keep your club out of Oakland and everything west of the bay."

"After what y'all did to Megan? And Wally? Otto?" JT said angrily. "Everything you've done in this town?"

"Frisco was right about one thing, Mr. Teller. We were not the ones who started this war. You gave the orders that led to Juan Martinez's death. That fact will never change."

"And the long-term?"

"Like I said, that remains to be decided by our national charter. But I hope you agree with me that we've both had enough."

"In that case, I must hold chapel in our clubhouse and bring this to my table for a vote," JT told Geraldo.

"No, JT, you may agree to your future terms later, but for now I'm giving you a chance to walk from this in peace." His tone became just slightly threatening. "The alternative is that we send more men to help Frisco until your club's destroyed. We can defeat you, Mr. Teller. The only question is whether you want to spare yourself and your town from something worse than they've ever seen before."

Geraldo held out his hand. "If you walk away from this, you will regret it."

JT knew that there really wasn't much of a decision at this point. He just hoped that the blow he'd dealt Frisco's charter had truly made the Mayans' national leaders decide this Charming war wasn't worth it anymore.

He shook Geraldo hand then looked him in the eye. "If I find out you're fucking with me, we're going to fight like we've never fought before, and we're going to show you what war's really like."

CLAY MORROW'S RESIDENCE, CHARMING

Clay and Keith McGee were raking the fall leaves in the backyard of his ranch house and putting the tarp over the small backyard swimming pool for the season when they heard the rumble of Thomas's Harley pulling into the long driveway.

"Come on in this way, mate," Keith said in his Northern Irish accent, walking up to the patio as Clay went into the kitchen to grab a six-pack of beer and some scotch.

"I'm glad you came," Clay said. "I know it can be intimidating, bending the club rules and discussing business decisions away from the table."

In fact it was a tough decision for Thomas and he had gone back and forth with himself for over a week. "JT was the one who broke the rules in the first place. He has no fucking right to sue for peace. Did he even care about my input? He doesn't even have an old lady!" Thomas slammed his fists into the table so hard some of the beer came out of the bottles.

"And let's not forget Wally and Otto. They made this club what it was. Without their money and connections, you think JT would have been able to take it this far?"

"We've all sacrificed too much for things to just go back to the way they were," Keith said.

"In fact we've already acted behind JT's back," Clay said. "The truth is, we and our Irish friends are part of the reason Geraldo met with him yesterday. They needed to get the issue of the Weathermen arms shipments resolved too."

"What about that?" Thomas inquired curiously.

"Remember how the IRA helped smuggle the weapons to the Weathermen via the Mayans? The Mayans don't want to deal with guns anymore, but the Irish still want to. Word in Belfast is that if the Conservative Party gains seats in Parliament in the next UK election, the British authorities will step up their efforts against arms trafficking in Northern Ireland, and they want to get rid of some of their excess stockpiles." The IRA already had enough weapons for their own terrorist activities. While they certainly did engage in shootouts with British soldiers, their modus operandi was car bombs.

"This way, Geraldo gets to wash his hands of the gun business without the IRA breathing down his neck. They rather focus on the drugs due to their connections in Mexico."

"JT will never agree to this," Thomas cautioned.

"That's the only way to keep this club intact," Keith said. "We're going to find a new market with the anti-government militias operating here in the Valley, and with the black gangs in Oakland. In exchange, the Irish Kings will take me off their hit list, and we stay in business. And we wash our hands of the Mayan business for now."

"And Frisco?"

"Story is, the Mayan bosses are quite pissed off at Frisco. When everything dies down, they're willing to deliver him to us quietly, Thomas. For your sake, I made sure Geraldo promised that."

"But in exchange, we make sure this war otherwise ends on the Mayans' terms?"

"Yes, but they're really our own terms. You just wait and see."

"I can live with that."

NOVEMBER 1, 1970

MARTINEZ RESIDENCE, OAKLAND

A day after Americans celebrated Halloween, Mexicans celebrated the Day of the Dead. El Dia de Los Muertos competed with Cinco de Mayo and Mexican Independence Day for the biggest celebration in the Oakland barrio. The atmosphere on this day was so contagious that some of their brethren from other Spanish speaking countries joined in the festivities.

Despite the celebratory mariachi, salsa, and ranchero music being played from the parade snaking its way through the Latin barrio, Frisco's mood was as far from festive as can be. His mother urged him to join the parade, but he ignored her and walked into the living room, where the shrine to his brother Juan was still displayed in a place of prominence, including a large Mexican flag and the Mayans kutte he had worn the day he was shot and killed in the exchange with the Sons of Anarchy.

Diego opened the paper liquor store bag and took out a large bottle of tequila, as Oscar came with a six-pack of Dos Equis. They all poured out the alcohol they had brought and looked at the shrine, then upward.

"Salud, a nuestra hermano en el cielo," Oscar proposed the toast.

"To Juan," Diego and several of the other Mayans and their prospects repeated as they drank up.

Frisco, however, remained silent through the toast, his head bowed at the altar that the Martinez family had built for Juan.

"Juan, mi hermano," Frisco said, his voice beginning to shake as he looked at his brother's picture, "I failed you, my brother. I swore before Santa Muerte that we will kill John Teller and his crew who did this to you so you can rest in peace with our ancestors. You….you must know how hard I tried. The other charters, they don't have the cajones or machismo that you had. And because of this, your soul still wanders this Earth in torment for another year."

He then turned to the shrine to Santa Muerte where the fragrant smelling incense was still burning. "I worship you every day, and still you have not answered my prayers!"

Tears of both sadness and rage began falling from Frisco's eyes. He let out an anguished cry, then a scream of fury as he grabbed the tequila bottle out of Diego's hands and hurled it against the wall. He then grabbed a wooden chair and broke it in half, then proceeded to smash the lamps, TV and coffee table in the living room.

"Frisco, listen to me…." Oscar began. "I also seek the same revenge for Alejandro, and I…"

Frisco shoved Oscar hard into a grandfather clock, shattering the glass on it. "Cayate! Shut the fuck up!"

"I failed you, brother!" Frisco screamed again, taking out his pistol and pointing it at his own head. He could not escape the shame of his failure to avenge his own brother's death. His family and charter would lose all respect in the barrio.

"No, Frisco! There is a way! It's not over yet!" Oscar shouted.

"How is it not?" Frisco screamed, punching the wall so hard that his fists left an imprint on it.

"We are not the only ones who want revenge on them," replied Oscar . He then proceeded to lay out his entire plan.

"The Weathermen? They're the ones who got us into this shit!" Frisco said.

"But they have the manpower and the resources, and they have connections in Charming. I think we've all learned we can't go into Charming unless we have connections there. And remember, John Teller chose to attack us knowing we were there. It was as much an attack on our club as it was on the Weathermen."

"And why will they help us?" Frisco asked.

"We are undocumented immigrants of color!" Oscar said cynically, "We use this to our advantage, si? We tell them we want social justice, like Antonio did. That we are fighting for the Reconquista of Aztlan. I have friends in the Brown Berets of Aztlan who can vouch for us. That bunch of gringos will fall right over for that." Aztlan was a radical leftist movement supporting open borders and claiming that the Southwest still rightfully belonged to Mexico.

"You and I both know none of us give a shit about La Reconquista."

"But they don't need to know that. We just need to convince them we want the same thing. I do know people in college. They told me how students like the Weathermen think. So many of these rich gringo kids at Berkeley gave speeches supporting the undocumented students who took over the student union at UCLA and demanded they create a Chicano studies program."

Frisco thought for a long time and finally nodded. "And you are sure we can make this work?"

"Si, patron. Though I must warn you, if we do this, we turn our backs on everything we know. Can you live with that?"

"Of course. What I can't live with is Juan's death unavenged. Diego, you in or out?"

"I will follow you to the grave, patron," the thug replied.

NOVEMBER 3, 1970

RENO, NEVADA

It was supposed to be a typical meet in a nondescript alleyway in between two industrial warehouses. This was the "normal" part of the Biggest Little City in the World, far from the glittering casino hotels by the Reno Arch. The Mayans were supposed to pick up a delivery of counterfeit U.S. greenbacks produced by a local criminal outfit. There was no reason to believe law enforcement was suspecting anything, but the Mayans always erred on the side of caution, so these meets always took place quickly in a different location every time. Back in Mexico, just about any cop could be bribed, but this was America.

Several times a year, the Mayans Oakland charter would drive over to Reno and pick up several bags of counterfeit cash to be transported not only back to Oakland but to the sister chapter in Fresno, where an outlaw biker presence was beginning to form among the illegal immigrants working in the citrus fruit business. They crossed the border illegally to make money. Why can't they do other illegal things to make money, many of them asked themselves, and the Mayans were happy to oblige. Multiple bikers always came and took separate routes to their various destinations, so the entire shipment would not be lost if there was a run-in with the law.

The counterfeiters showed up right on time, Frisco saw as he, Oscar, Diego, and several other Mayans observed from the parking lot of a laundromat. The van their associates came in had the markings of a baked goods company that sold its products in the Reno area, as this was their cover. The delivery vans allowed them to transport the counterfeit cash, while the industrial nature of their legitimate operation helped mask the energy usage of their counterfeiting machines that would otherwise be glaringly suspicious.

"Vamo," Frisco said as he revved his bike and drove down the block and into the alleyway.

"Como estas, amigos?" said the leader of the outfit, a man who indeed looked the part of a typical gringo businessman. That was probably the only Spanish he knew. He left the rest of his talking to the one native Spanish speaker on the crew, which was helpful as the Mayans had lost their most skilled translator following "Benito Chavarria"'s betrayal.

"I just want to make sure there's no mistake. You said you need $300,000 this time." He spoke Spanish with a very obvious Cuban accent.

"Yes, you heard us right," Frisco replied.

The leader of the counterfeiting outfit said something in English to the Cuban, who then continued to translate.

"That's much more than usual. Just want to be absolutely sure. We do know your club has run into some challenges these past few months."

"Nothing we aren't in the process of handling," Frisco told them. "I assure you that you can continue to count on our business. We have the money right here." Frisco opened up a carrier bag. "I promise you this cash is real." He forced a smile, pretending to have a sense of humor.

The leader laughed loudly and took the bag to further examine it, taking out some of the wads of cash and looking at it carefully.

As he was doing so, Frisco pulled out a silenced machine pistol from inside his leather jacket and shot him in the head. Before the Cuban and the other counterfeiters realized what had just happened, the other Mayans did the same and gunned them all down in a matter of seconds, their bodies slumping against the van or against the walls of the alleyway.

The Mayans quickly loaded the bodies into the van, and one of them got into the driver's seat. Six hours later, all $3 million in the van were in the Martinez Imports Trading Company in Oakland. The van itself was driven off the dock and into the waters of San Francisco Bay.

MARSH CREEK DETENTION FACILITY, CONTRA COSTA COUNTY

Deanna Lunsik truly felt abandoned the several long months she had been here at one of Contra Costa County's largest detention centers awaiting her trial, which was still four months away. Her parents had completely disavowed her following her arrest in connection with the events at the Sunvalley Mall. The only outside contact she had since her arrest was the court appointed public defender, who thankfully was a do gooder type who recently graduated law school and still a self –described "raging liberal". The only silver lining, the public defender had said, was that the government had a very weak case against her, that they couldn't prove anything beyond illegal possession of explosives. That, he told her, was why the bulk of the FBI investigation was still focused on the Sons of Anarchy MC, the ones who had initiated the attack and done the most damage.

In addition to her parents and extended family, her comrades in the Weather Underground had also broken off all contact with her, but that was to be expected. What happened in Concord had been a fiasco, and they couldn't afford to be linked to it. They only expected her to keep her mouth shut through the questioning and trial and not implicate them in the events that took place. After all, while the authorities had suspicions the Weathermen were involved, they lacked hard evidence. Deanna understood this, and that she, like Comrade Jimmy and the other Weathermen, were expendable. The cause was all that mattered. She knew that Professor Rogers and the other activists missed her but dared not make contact.

She knew that if she was in any of the communist nations she idolized, she would be mercilessly tortured and all her family and friends threatened with death. She smirked at the laws about human rights and "cruel and unusual punishment", how America's own laws were being used against it. Her best hope, in her mind, was to spend 5 years in prison, after which other organizations would probably start seeing her as a political prisoner unjustly held by an oppressive fascist government, like Martin Luther King, and start clamoring for her release.

So it was a complete shock to her when a group of guards came up to her cell and opened the door, some of them standing by to make sure her cellmate didn't try to make a run for it.

"What the fuck do want now?" she asked with an attitude and a glare to match it.

One of the guards grabbed her roughly. "Someone paid your bail."

"Who? My father?"

"Just shut up and follow us."

The guards had her moving before she could say goodbye to her roommate, though the other prisoners looked on with envy as she was led down the cellblock and into the warden's office where several San Joaquin County sheriff's deputies were waiting. They motioned her over to a table with an official document on it with stamps from the sheriff's department and the state judicial system. A door opened and Frisco stepped into the room.

"Who the hell's he?" Deanna asked.

The cop eyed her suspiciously. "I figured you'd know. Senor Francisco Martinez. He's the one who posted your bail, in cash." In an adjacent room, more officers were looking at the case of fake greenbacks that Frisco had dropped off.

Frisco exposed his upper arm, where the Mayans tattoo along with their slogan "El Asesinos de Dios" was clearly visible.

"Here are the terms of your bail," the cop said, "Your trial date remains March 23 of next year. Your passport has already been confiscated, of course, but the terms also stipulate that you not leave the state of California. Now sign here."

Deanna quickly signed the document and followed Frisco outside, where Oscar, Diego and several other Mayans were waiting.

"Did the Weathermen reach out to you?" she asked.

"No, we're reaching out to them," Frisco replied. "Get on the bike."

UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA – BERKELEY

Within 48 hours, Deanna had contacted Professor Rogers and the rest of the Weathermen on the UC-Berkeley campus and an emergency meeting was held. Deanna felt a sense of belonging as Oakland's endless ghettos suddenly gave way to the comfortable, ivory tower atmosphere of Berkeley. The transition was quite sudden upon leaving the city limits. Campus police glanced at the Mayans as the bikes entered the wide open gates but made no attempt to stop them. With left-wing political violence and outside protesters at an all-time high, a bunch of Mexicans in motorcycle jackets didn't seen that threatening in the grand scheme of things anymore. Plus if the police confronted them, there could be accusations of racial profiling resulting in further unrest from student activists.

Deanna couldn't believe she had been gone from the campus so long. She checked her watch and told Frisco to follow her up the steps into Barrows Hall, where Professor Rogers, Mike Grayson, and six other Weather Underground members were gathered. Mike placed a sheet of printer paper against the small slit in the door, making sure their meeting wasn't visible to the outside as Rogers double checked that the blinds were down. It was only then that he embraced Deanna warmly.

"Deanna, thank God! I'm so sorry we couldn't do anything to get you away from those pigs," Rogers said, referring of course to law enforcement.

"I understood that from the beginning."

Rogers nodded solemnly. "I've always known you were willing to make whatever sacrifices our struggle required. I see Frisco Martinez himself has decided to partner with us."

"Yes, he paid my bail."

"Hmmm, so you have that kind of money?" he said in Spanish, looking at Frisco.

"The court simply believes we do. By the time they find out, if they find out at all, it will be too late," Frisco answered.

"You must have a proposal for us, I assume?" Rogers asked curiously.

Frisco told Deanna to explain and she did. "An operation that gets us all what we want. We combine forces and target Charming in our next operation. I'm familiar enough with that area for us to not do any additional surveillance."

"The major attack we've all been talking about, that'll finally serve as a wake up call for America," Mike commented with a eager look on his face.

"Yes," replied Deanna. "This will either also force the Sons of Anarchy into action when we attack their turf, or we attack the Sons first as a diversion so the rest of the attack can happen. Or we hit simultaneously and keep the police in disarray. We can flesh out the details later, pending your approval of course, Professor."

"You must already have something in mind," Rogers said.

Deanna took out a newspaper clipping from the San Francisco Chronicle indicating that after rigorous debate, the Charming city council had voted 3-2 to go ahead with the annual Veterans Day parade in spite of threats from several left-wing terrorist groups. It was going to be one of the largest such events in Northern California. Some of the councilmen who voted for it mentioned the need to prove that Charming could stand strong in spite of the increased criminal and political violence in the region. The mayor of Charming was even quoted as saying it was a message to the rest of the state that the people of Charming still believed in traditional American values and were willing to "stand up for what's right" by honoring the men and women who had served honorably in the military.

No, Deanna and Professor Rogers thought. It would be the perfect time and place for them to send their own message, that America was never going to be the same again. And it was going to be message washed in blood.