Gods of Mischief by George Rowe Page A

suggested a daylight rendezvous in Bee Canyon, a remote area of dirt trails and scrub brush ten minutes from the apartment, which I knew like the back of my hand.
    Heading into the parched foothills east of Valle Vista, where nothing much lived but snakes and buzzards, I passed the ranger station and turned up Bee Canyon Truck Trail. Not long after I pulled off the road and parked in that empty place, a silver Ford Expedition came lurching up the dirt track and pulled in behind me.
    I stepped from the cab and started toward it cowboy style, cigarette dangling from my lips and a .380 revolver tucked into an open shoulder holster. I wasn’t supposed to be carrying a firearm—I was a convicted felon—but I figured I was one of the boys now and could get away with it.
    Kevin Duffy popped from the passenger’s seat, snapping, “Hide that thing!”
    Guess I figured wrong.
    He gestured for me to take his place up front, and I did as ordered while he climbed in back. I slipped into the seat and nodded to the man behind the wheel.
    My first impression of Special Agent John Carr was that he looked like he belonged on a surfboard off Redondo Beach. Carr was in his late thirties, with a muscular build, slightly Asian features and jet-black, shoulder-length hair. During his time undercover with the Mongols MC, the members gave him the road name “Hollywood.”
    The ATF agent who would become a partner and confidant through my three grueling years as a federal informant was a former athlete who loved the camaraderie of the team and the thrill of eighties crime dramas like Miami Vice. He found both in law enforcement, where he’d discovered an affinity for undercover work. Only a week after graduating the academy, Carr was out in the field buying illicit machine guns. It would have been a short-lived career, except the weapons dealer, sniffing a mole, executed the wrong man.
    Back in the day, I’d get high on coke and meth. John Carr got high on the action. By the time we met in the wilds of Bee Canyon, he’d worked over two hundred drug and weapons cases, infiltrated the Mongols, handled scores of undercover agents and informants (including Koz and Hammer) and been involved with some of the biggest motorcycle gang takedowns in United States history.
    Within law enforcement circles, Special Agent Carr was one of the true rock stars.
    Kevin Duffy had heard of John Carr through a sheriff’s deputy working with the One Percenter Task Force, a group Carr had formed with the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department two years earlier. Now here was the ATF special agent sitting next to me, sizing me up—curious to know if I’d make a legitimate candidate for undercover work.
    Right away Kevin wanted assurances I’d be safe in government hands. To his credit, Carr didn’t bullshit him.
    â€œDetective, if we go forward with this,” said the agent, “my only guarantee is that I’ll have your man’s back for as long as he’s under.” Then he turned to me and said, “Fair enough?”
    â€œFair enough,” I answered.
    Agent Carr was a straight shooter. I hadn’t known what to expect, but I liked the man immediately.
    He asked about my background, my experience with one percenters and whether I’d ridden with any biker gangs—which I hadn’t.
    â€œBut you do ride?” he asked.
    â€œPretty much all my life,” I told him. “My old man bought me a scrambler when I was a kid. But I couldn’t reach the brake pedal, so the only way to stop was by jumping off the fuckin’ thing.”
    Carr grinned. “What are you riding now?”
    I sheepishly glanced at Kevin, who answered for me.
    â€œGeorge doesn’t own a motorcycle at the moment,” he said.
    Sad, but unfortunately true. And I was still kicking myself for selling that beautiful machine. I’d custom built a Harley shovelhead old-school. She had a big