They were coming down the highway, revving hot – but no fucking lights. I couldn’t tell how many there were, but it sounded like a lot.

“Who the fuck is that?!” Rodrigo shouted as he and the rest of the Santa Muertes drew pistols and assault rifles.

“I got no fuckin’ idea,” I yelled back, although I was worried it might be Jack. Maybe even Sloane double-crossing me.

Rodrigo looked like he was about to breathe fire. “If this is you tryin’ to fuck me, Lou, I swear to God – ”

“I got no fuckin’ clue!” I roared.

And I didn’t.

Not until the headlights came on and the blue and red lights started up.

Oh God, NO.

A voice came over a loudspeaker as the cop cars roared up from all directions.

“This is the police – you are surrounded. Throw down your weapons and put your hands in the air.”

The police cruisers stopped out in a perimeter about three hundred feet from me, the Riders, and the Santa Muertes. Sixty cops leapt out of the cars and positioned themselves behind their doors, guns aimed.

All my guys were behind their rides, and all the Santa Muertes were behind theirs, guns aimed at the cops.

This was fucked UP.

Rodrigo screamed, “You said you had the cops nailed down tight!”

“I do!” I yelled. “Don’t worry – hold on, I got this!”

I put my hands up and stepped forward. “Dan?”

“Stop right there, Lou,” Dan’s voice rumbled over a bullhorn.

“What the fuck, Dan?” I yelled.

“Get down on the ground, Lou, and tell everybody to put down their weapons, or it’s going to get ugly.”

“Dan, this is bullshit – look, let’s talk this out – ”

“You get ONE warning shot, Lou. ONE.”

“Dan – ”

BLAM.

The dirt kicked up at my feet.

“Whoa, whoa, WHOA!” I screamed. I ran for my Harley and crouched down safe behind it.

“I told you – one warning shot, Lou. You’re not gonna get a second one.”

I saw my guys all looking at me to see what to do. I held my hand out at them.

“Don’t shoot!” I yelled.

In my mind, though, I added one word: yet.

I pulled out my cell phone and sent a text to Sloane:

At the gasworks

Dan and cops are here

need help NOW

As I texted, Dan prattled smugly over his bullhorn. “That’s right – listen to Lou and play it smart. All you Midnight Riders and all you damn Mexicans, lay down your weapons or – ”

Rodrigo apparently didn’t care to play it smart.

“VAMANOS!” he screamed as he cranked his engine while standing next to his bike, then jumped on. His entire gang followed suit.

“STOP,” Peters yelled, “or we’ll open fire!”

The Santa Muerte with the duffel bag – the only one of Rodrigo’s men not standing next to his ride – ran for his Harley.

Shit – there goes my fuckin’ money –

One shot rang out from the cops, and the bag man went down.

Or maybe not.

That gunshot was like somebody starting a race. The Santa Muertes took off in a dozen different directions, a blur of chrome and leather.

As I hunkered down with my back to my Harley, I glanced over at the duffel bag, just twenty feet away. A dozen motorcycles sped between it and me, cutting me off from the prize. Three and a half million dollars – so close, and yet so fucking far –

Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw my screen move as the text came in from Sloane. I couldn’t have been happier, until I read the one-word reply:

Naaaaah.

My eyes widened.

WHAT THE FUCK?!

Another text came through immediately after the first one:

Spa day, bitches.

I about went nuclear.

That fucking bitch – SHE’D FUCKING SET ME UP –

“Lou, what do we do?” Doc yelled from the Midnight Riders side of the line.

“GET OUT OF HERE!” I screamed, waving them off.

My guys got on their bikes and took off.

Me, I still had my eyes on that money.

Since nobody was firing at the cops, they weren’t shooting back. At first I thought it was just restraint on their part – until three squad cars roared in and surrounded the pickup with the meth in it.

At the same time, a lone patrol car skidded up right by the dead guy with the duffel bag.

The Santa Muertes were all trying to get away, and they sure as hell were going to avoid any patrol cars.

Dan Peters opened the driver’s door of the cruiser. While staying inside, he reached down and started to haul in the bag. It wasn’t easy, because Dan grunted and strained. If all the money was hundreds, then the bag probably weighed about 70 pounds. If there were 50’s and 20’s mixed in, it could run up to 80 or 90 pounds, easy.

It was an extraordinary risk for a police chief to take, and I wondered why the fuck he was doing it – but there was a simple explanation:

He didn’t trust anybody else to handle that money.

Fifty feet away on my left, Gunner came out of the truck cab with his hands up – and a cop promptly shot him, then took his place behind the wheel.

I finally realized that this wasn’t a drug bust.

This was a rip and run.

Mother FUCKER – they knew about the meth and the money! That’s all they were after!

But how did they know…?

They would have gotten away with it, too, except that was when we all heard the sound.

whup whup Whup Whup WHUP WHUP

Helicopters. And gettin’ closer by the second.

Dan looked up in surprise, the bag half in, half out of the car.

Spotlights went on and flashed across the field as bikers roared through them in clouds of dust.

“THIS IS THE D.E.A.,” a voice boomed out over a loudspeaker. “STOP WHERE YOU ARE AND DROP YOUR WEAPONS.”

Hahahaha! I thought as I glared at Dan from behind my Harley. See how YOU fuckers like it.

Now there were sirens, too – far away, but pouring in from the highway and headed right for the cop cars.

I could see Peters practically shitting himself as he stared up into the sky, a look of pure terror on his face.

He was only twenty feet away, and he was watching the helicopters – not me.

That was when I pulled out my gun, aimed, and shot him in the head.