We never know who we truly are until we have nothing. Losing everything and recovering from it causes a man to emerge from the tragedy a more understanding, humble, and appreciative soul. After having nothing, a man is appreciative of everything. For those who have everything, the fear of loss causes a select few to react in a manner contrary to what they - or anyone else - believed were their true moral beliefs.

Being faced with adversity and finding the courage to hold your chin high enough to see a life beyond the ruins defines a man who is satisfied with simply living life. 

To think I voted a man into the club who I believed to be capable of laughing in the face of adversity, only to learn he would become an enemy, risking my life and the life of other brothers for a small potential monetary gain, was inconceivable.

“What was he riding? What color was his bike?”

El Pelón turned to the two men bound to the steam lines in the boiler room and jabbered some Spanish shit. After they responded an unintelligible answer, El Pelón glanced in my direction.

“They said he wasn’t riding a motorcycle. He was in a red truck. A four door Ford with chrome rims,” he said.

I shifted my gaze from the floor to Toad.

Toad shook his head and raised his hands to his face. “I know you don’t want to hear it, and I don’t either. But they picked out his picture off the website. They know what he drove. I hate it too, Slice, but it is what it is.”

I spit on the concrete floor. The room was easily thirty degrees hotter than it was outside, probably at least 120 degrees of utter humid hell. I was covered in sweat, aggravated, and felt betrayed. El Pelón’s scouts had found the two local Mexican gang-bangers who orchestrated the attempted robbery. Pelón’s people heard the information through friends of friends of the two dead members of the gang, and the information was traced back to the two men now strapped to the steam lines. I guessed the Mexicans didn’t adhere to the club business is club business belief. Hell, who was I to talk, one of my own brothers had stabbed me in the back and betrayed the club.

After a short interrogation of the men in Cortez’s boiler room, they gave an accurate initial description of the Sinner, and picked him out of a photo off of the website on Toad’s phone. Describing his truck and the chrome rims was icing on the cake. No one could possibly know what he drove short of someone who actually saw him driving the truck. He probably hadn’t driven it a few hundred miles in the last year. As I tried to digest what happened, more questions came to mind.

“The split. I want to know what this cocksucker was going to gain. What were they going to get, and what were the two dead motherfuckers going to get? What was his fucking cut? My guy?”

After exchanging a few words, El Pelón spoke over his shoulder. “Thirty mil.”

“What the fuck? It was a sixty grand deal?” I snapped.

“Thousand, my bad homie. Thirty grand,” he said as he wiped his brow.

I smeared the sweat from my face with my forearm. After wiping my arm on my cut, I glanced at Toad. “Anything else”

Toad nodded his head. “Ask the motherfuckers what he was wearing when they met him.”

I scrunched my brow and stared. “What the fuck for?”

“I want to know,” Toad responded. “Ask ‘em what he was wearing.”

When they answered, they both nodded toward Toad and me. Pelón turned toward Toad and responded. “They said he was wearing a vest like yours with two crossed rifles, wings and a calavera. A skull.”

“That motherfucker,” I snapped.

“I knew it! That cocksucker! He disrespected the colors, the club, hell, he wore his fucking cut in a cage, he…”

Toad paused and reached into his cut. “What about these two fuckers?”

I gazed at El Pelón and shrugged. “Well?”

“These two? They’re mine. Homie here and me are going to cut off their heads and play soccer with them on the playground where their kids go to school. They disrespected me, the MS, and their families. I’ll take care of these two. You take care of yours. You got anything else you want from these two fuckers before I saw their heads off?” he asked calmly.

“Mother…fucker,” I stammered, “No, I guess not. I just need to get out of this hot motherfucker. I’ll be in touch.”

He nodded his head once and turned toward the two men. Thinking of what was next for them brought the reality of my own problems to the surface. As Toad and I walked out to our bikes silently, what bothered me more than anything was the fact Hollywood was Road Captain of the club. He was not only a member, but the fucking Road Captain. Hell, he helped put the gun deal together with Otis, acquiring the AK-47’s. Son-of-a-bitch probably knew all along he was going to steal the cash. As I sat down onto the seat of the bike, I felt absolutely sick.

“How you wanna handle this?” Toad asked as he dropped his pistol into the saddle bag of his bike.

“I don’t know. Nothing’s ever happened like this before. I want to keep it quiet, but I want everyone to know what happens when someone makes a move like this against the club. Let me think about it while we ride back to town,” I responded as I fired up the bike.

Toad nodded his head and fired up his bagger. As he climbed into the seat, I sat, staring, as numbness washed over me. A brother willing to sacrifice the lives of two members of the club, two people who considered him a brother, all for a little money. The thought of it caused me to question the sincerity of many of the other members in the club. We needed a come to Jesus meeting, and we needed to have it quick.

As I glanced over my shoulder to check oncoming traffic, I noticed the lick ‘n stick seat on the fender. Strangely, I came to realize the one person who I knew had my back in a life or death situation wasn’t a brother, but a bitch.

And a damned good bitch at that.