Vagos, Mongols, and Outlaws: My Infiltration of America's Deadliest Biker Gangs

by Charles Falco

  “Everything’s fine,” JD lied, and his hand shook as he waved the cop away. Keep moving, I mentally shouted, floor it, get the hell out of this neighborhood. Whatever you do, stay in the fucking car. Thankfully, the deputy listened and slowly disappeared around the corner.

  We didn’t need cops. We needed reinforcements. We called members from the Devil’s Grip, a Pagans support club. We needed backup and fast. The Hells Angel would soon finish his pizza and our situation had not improved. Within a half hour, members from the Devil’s Grip rolled up, apparently without the Pagans’ blessing.

  Across the street, the troops huddled: Hells Angels, Merciless Souls, and now a smattering of Desperados. Tensions mounted. Meanwhile, we paced our clubhouse, weapons loaded, thoughts racing. What would we do if someone actually fired the first shot? The Devil’s Grip strutted on our porch, pumped at the specter of war. They were soldiers waiting for their general’s command. But after two hours of posturing, the crowd dispersed. We “celebrated” our victory by inviting the Devil’s Grip inside and opening up our bar. The oppressive heat gave way to sheets of rain tap-tap-tapping on our roof. The night had just begun.

  As the drinks flowed, tension electrified the atmosphere. Forced laughter punctuated conversation. Strain worried our brows as outside the street glistened with fresh rain. A neon sign, with one missing letter, cast dull red shadows over our walls. Then I heard it, a low rumble that at first mimicked thunder and evolved into a distinct roar. All of us instantly sobered as gold headlights swished through the dark. They had returned, Hells Angels and Merciless Souls. They parked in front of a neighborhood bar and dismounted. We called the Pagans. And waited, separated by glass, until someone dared to move his bishop.

  But as the hours ticked by, nobody moved.

  * * *

  The standoff only fueled tensions between the Outlaws and Hells Angels support clubs. They hunted us, we hunted them, and it was only a matter of time before one side produced casualties. We rode for hours, sometimes several hundred miles a day through congested neighborhoods, lonely freeways, commercial zones, searching for the elusive enemy. I never stopped to think what I would do if I found one. But smartly, the Merciless Souls hid, and in those rare moments when they did emerge crazy bold, we ducked. And so the war games continued.

  * * *

  The threat of violence increased. Outlaws arranged to ambush the Merciless Souls one afternoon at a local Harley-Davidson shop in Richmond. The owners hosted a public event—raffles, a barbecue—and they invited the Merciless Souls. But as Outlaws descended the night before to stake out the local bars for stragglers, their presence served as deterrence. A light drizzle fell over plainclothes police officers who surrounded the shop the next morning. Undercover detectives set up surveillance at the gang’s clubhouse, hoping to follow members foolish enough to head toward the dealership. They enlisted the help of local police to pull gang members over for real or imagined traffic violations.

  Rain fell harder, and I waited hours in the parking lot of the Harley-Davidson shop, knowing that no Merciless Souls would ever appear.

  When the afternoon proved a bust, the Outlaws regrouped, determined to continue their hunt. They convened the following afternoon at a local Hooters, propelled by rumors that Merciless Souls dined inside. But when we crowded the entrance of the restaurant, prepared for a confrontation, ordinary people stared back at us, their plates full of burgers and french fries, their mouths gaping with curiosity at our costumes.

  “They must have changed their plans,” an Outlaw grumbled. Plans always changed. The Outlaws, unfamiliar with the Richmond and Virginia Beach area, often revised their murder plots based on errors in direction. We stayed one step ahead of their bungled efforts, and because we knew the area well, no matter how many times the Outlaws rode through unintended neighborhoods or targeted the wrong restaurants, the surveillance team followed not far behind.

  The support clubs propagated quickly, nearly tripling in size in a matter of months. Membership attracted the young street fighters, paramilitary types who lusted for blood. Soldiers already, the Hells Angels dispensed with further “training” and simply recruited them.

  “What’s the plan?” Claw whimpered, clearly uncomfortable with all the hunting.

  “We play,” Gringo replied.

  “We scare them,” I tempered, knowing we first had to target their puppeteer. “Let’s put an Outlaw sticker on the asshole’s front door.”

  We drove to the Hells Angel’s home and I left him the Outlaws’ signature, a skull-and-crossbones emblem. It had the effect we wanted, like a stalker who leaves dead roses on his victim’s windshield. We let the Hells Angel know we saw him, watched him, and waited for him. After that, the Hells Angel never messed with us. He didn’t want trouble. He had a family, a job, and now he knew we knew where he lived. He played the game well. Both sides did. We continued to move around our pieces on the board, mindful of the king and checkmate.

  * * *

  But the Hells Angels and Merciless Souls weren’t our only threats. The following week, Alibi paid us an impromptu visit. He rumbled into our neighborhood blasting racist country lyrics, which was strange since he looked half Puerto Rican himself. I marveled that no one attacked him or deflated his tires or spray-painted something profane on the curb. He dismounted his motorcycle, bulking his shoulders like the school bully, mean and hard in his costume, but alone on the playground I suspected he would wilt. All of us could take him in a fair fight. But nothing about this game was fair. We played on his turf, by his rules, his interpretation.

  He lumbered inside our clubhouse and ranted about the Hells Angels threat. At the bar, he rolled a joint stinking like sour cabbage. A squatty version of Snuff, Alibi inhaled and passed the joint to Gringo. It wasn’t the first time in the investigation the agents and I had faced the specter of drugs. But even so, spontaneous deflection was difficult. Excuses, without corroboration, could get an agent in trouble. The Outlaws had spies who would investigate and unravel any unrehearsed story. Never mind that ATF policy strictly prohibited ingestion unless the agent deemed his life in danger. But even that option offered little consolation; if the agent did consume the drug, he would have to emerge from his personality as soon as possible and utter on tape his reasons for ingesting and why he had perceived his situation “life threatening.” Gringo’s face reddened and I could tell he hesitated, debated his options—paper or bullet, neither was attractive. Alibi studied Gringo through a billow of smoke. His eyes watered slightly. Seconds counted in his nonverbal play, and I grabbed the joint.

  “He doesn’t do weed.” I laughed, hoping I sounded convincing. I balanced the joint between my lips and inhaled deeply. A veil of smoke hung between us. Alibi looked guarded. I was a stoner, a recovering meth addict. That was my story.

  Gringo lowered his gaze. I had no doubt he would have played along, would have fake inhaled the weed just to dodge Alibi’s bullet. But it was easier for me to take the fall. I had no ATF repercussions.

  Claw didn’t get it. “If he can do weed, how come I can’t do coke?”

  * * *

  There was a lot that Claw didn’t get. In fact, we worried early on that his recklessness might compromise the investigation. Stumbling home from an Italian restaurant in our neighborhood one night, he spontaneously whipped out his extendable baton and nearly whacked the shins of a civilian.

  “What the hell’s the matter with you?” Gringo snarled at Claw, pulling him aside like an insolent child.

  “I’m an Outlaw.” He slurred his words.

  It was time for an intervention.

  “You’re not getting this role thing, are you?” Gringo snapped.

  “Sure I am,” Claw said. He dropped into our clubhouse couch. Bloodshot eyes blinked at us. His cuts swallowed him.

  “No, you’re not. You’re not really an Outlaw. You’re a fake real prospect.”

  “Sure.” Claw picked his nose with his pinkie and I worried that he had done
a line of coke.

  “And I’m not an ATF agent,” I said.

  Claw’s eyes widened. “No shit?”

  “We are.”

  He blanched, leaned forward on the couch. Fear etched into his face.

  “You fuck up and we’re going to know about it,” Gringo warned.

  Claw sobered. “I haven’t fucked up.”

  * * *

  Our Petersburg chapter fell into the Copper Region of Outlaws, but few members actually lived in our area. We had to travel over 250 miles to North Carolina in order to participate in Outlaw functions. The distance proved challenging as we rode in torrential rain, sleet, hail, and sometimes snow. Rain knocked our helmets like rocks. Most times I sped through slick streets behind the smear of red taillights into mist and fog and cold. By now I had become an expert at riding, but I never got used to the speed or the ape hanger handlebars.

  “We should split up,” I once suggested to Gringo. With Outlaws spread thin in so many states, it made sense to stretch our resources, widen our net. But the brass balked at the idea—too expensive, too dangerous, and logistically too difficult to provide government protection for us in multiple states.

  “But I don’t need a cover team,” I offered. And though the agents supported my proposal, the bosses were emphatic. We compromised and participated only in mandatory national runs. War, after all, necessitated travel. It also required reconnaissance missions. And just as we gathered intelligence on Outlaws, they checked us out as well.

  * * *

  One night, Norm, a ranking Outlaw from a North Carolina chapter, joined the agents and me at the Southern Star for drinks. The agents guarded Norm’s bike in the parking lot and chatted up members from the Devil’s Grip while I entertained him inside. Conversation mostly focused on hunting Hells Angels but sometimes bounced, like a bad radio frequency, between discussion of chopper parts and Norm’s latest cocaine trip. Just as the evening waned and I debated my escape, a large civilian blew into the bar, matted hair like seaweed, bold tattoos bordering his arms. His face, red and sweaty, looked crazed. Two women huddled nearby at a table; one, distracted by the human storm, flicked a panel of blond hair over her shoulder and jutted her chin into the man’s waiting fist. He moved like a machine, snapping his hand back, punching the woman in the head, blackening her eye, cracking the bridge of her nose. Blood smeared his knuckles. The woman’s wails resounded in the bar like a wounded animal’s yelps.

  Norm barely flinched as the scene unfolded like sport, a flash of aggression between mismatched athletes. He swiveled on his stool to watch, gulped his beer, and absorbed the fight as mindless entertainment. The woman’s girlfriend sprang from her stool like a windup toy and pummeled small fists into the man’s back. He shrugged her off like clothing, then wrapped his hands around her throat. Instinct propelled me forward as I yanked the beast off her and leveled a blow so hard the man stumbled backward into a table and flattened the legs. Wood splintered. The man, now down on his knees, shook his head as if he had dislodged reason and picked through debris on the floor to find it again. My fist struck his temple.

  The agents, distracted by the commotion, rushed inside but didn’t interfere. Instead, they watched in stunned horror as I grabbed the civilian by his coat and tossed him through the front door.

  “Fucking bitch is my wife. She’s mine,” he snarled. I kicked him hard in the ass, watched him grovel on all fours on the curb.

  Norm didn’t move. He studied me carefully, sipped his beer. Silence settled over the bar like fine dust. Fans clicked overhead. I wondered if I had not intervened, would Norm have simply allowed her to die, allowed the man to squeeze her throat until she passed out, bluish and pale, on the restaurant floor? The thought chilled me. And so did another: Had my actions perplexed Norm? I reacted with conscience, like any human being unwilling to watch an innocent die. But compassion did not compute in the Outlaws’ world. The woman was property; another man’s. I hoped I hadn’t blown it.

  Wood chips blew around me. No one moved. No one said a word. Like a tired cowboy in an old western, the Outlaw shifted, unfazed, quietly sipping his beer. The agents, winded, slowly backed outside. I waited for the fade-out, for the scene to change. My one impulsive act—being a decent human being—may have cost me my cover. But soon the tableau changed as patrons righted the splintered table and the bar sprang to life again. I hoped Norm had disappeared into an alcoholic stupor and the images he saw distorted and rippled across his memory like a mirage.

  “He almost bumped us.” Sweat trickled down my cheek. No Outlaw would ever rescue a woman, but an Outlaw would appreciate a prospect protecting a ranking member. Norm bought it, and after that incident, every chance he got he bragged about the “prospect who sacrificed” for him.

  * * *

  Later, I collapsed into the puffy pink chair in our clubhouse. Norm’s presence lingered over me like a foul odor. Exhaustion enveloped me. The moment provided pause, space between the ugly and the light. I so rarely sat, so rarely said nothing. I needed to decompress, to process the night. I needed to go home. We all did. I said my good-byes, altered my route, zigzagging down broken streets with graffiti-sprayed stop signs. Restaurant signs with missing neon letters flashed through my car windows. Gold headlights blinded me. Panic sometimes rushed at me like a dark wave, drowning me in its force. I took a moment. At traffic lights, I idled until cars beeped, until I thought I could breathe again.

  I arrived home to a dark house and the smell of grilled hamburger. My wife had wrapped a patty for me on a plate and left it on the counter. Hunger stabbed at me. I shut the front door, slid back the dead bolt. But instead of sleep, I settled onto the couch, flipped on the television, and lulled to white noise. In a few hours, I would return to that lonely place, to the underworld, inhabited by undercover operatives, where my life completely transformed. My clothes, the pictures in my wallet, even my favorite CDs in the family car would all be left behind. And as I turned the corner of my sleepy suburban neighborhood, I would become Chef—Outlaw, Renegade, Hunter—mentally tough enough to lie without losing my mind.

  23

  Dignity

  The night we visited Big Mike’s clubhouse in Hickory, North Carolina, Brian, a fat, short, newly patched member, proudly displayed his colors. He looked like an accountant. His reward: twenty-four hours of reprieve. No rules. No consequences. No random beatings. Normal was his privilege. And his celebration began in earnest. Beer flowed, music blared. Probates hustled behind the bar, some already with black eyes and others with fresh shine. Brian’s success inspired them. As the night wore on, a dull ache pressed against my temple. I thought only of sleep. It was well after midnight. I had been on my feet for more than seven hours.

  Brian, drunk and exhilarated, cradled a beer in his hand; gold liquid spilled onto his lap. A wet stain darkened his jeans. His cuts were still clean, still crisp. Addicts draped his arms, kissed his neck, dragged long nails through his cropped hair. Brian smiled, chuckled, enjoying the attention. Finally, he begged off and dozed asleep in a back bunk.

  The crowd thinned. Harry; Johnny, the chapter’s enforcer; and his sidekick, Rocket, disappeared periodically into a private room to do lines of coke. The agents and I continued to serve the three well into morning; Brian’s snores punctuated Johnny’s agitation. He sniffed, brushed fine powder from his nostrils, and looked ready to burst. His studded rings glittered in the dim lights. He nudged Rocket and Harry, and their whispers reached a crescendo. The trio disappeared into a back room and returned minutes later, laughing. But the sound reverberated like a threat. Brian had dozed off still wearing his colors. No self-respecting one percenter ever fell asleep with his cuts on. The Outlaws messed with Brian, tugged at his vest, punched him in the head as he slept. I heard the thuds, the grunts, the whispers. I knew what they were doing to Brian and I could do nothing.

  Finally, Johnny emerged from the dark back room, sweaty and flushed, and snapped his fingers at JD and me. “You two, go to slee
p.” Bobby and Gringo stayed to work the bar. Dread followed me into the hallway as I headed toward the bunkers. An icy chill lingered in the room. Four bunks lined the far wall. No blankets, just bald mattresses. I sprawled fully dressed across the top cot, reversed my cuts, threaded my arms through the sleeves, and shut my eyes. On the upper level I figured I was safe from Johnny’s abuse.

  JD settled into the bunk below me. A pall of apprehension hung between us. Brian flashed in my mind’s eye. He looked every bit the pasty-faced rotund accountant dressed in violent costume. But stripped, he still faced himself. Predators like Johnny pounced before they abandoned prey. I recalled Johnny’s rings, the size of my wrist. One strike could easily slice open flesh. Darkness enveloped me and I fell into a restless sleep. I dreamed that Brian’s face melted.

  “Get the fuck up,” a voice boomed.

  Shortly before dawn, the beating began. Sound penetrated the thin drywall. JD shifted below me, his legs slid over the side of the cot. Hard thumps shook the room. Neither of us said anything. Brian’s screams rattled the silence. I envisioned his blood streaking the wall, his face shredded by Johnny’s rings, Johnny’s hand a swollen mitt.

  “I love my colors,” I heard Brian sputter.

  “I can’t hear you,” Johnny boomed.

  “I love my colors,” Brian shouted.

  “You don’t give a shit about your colors.” I recognized Rocket’s disdain.

  JD’s breathing labored. He dropped to the floor, his hand skimming his gun. The clubhouse, filled with sleeping Outlaws, was an arsenal of automatic weapons. Johnny, Rocket, and Harry, each armed with his own revolver, could simply pull the trigger and sound the alarm. We would be dead in an instant as we rushed to protect Brian. Gringo and Bobby would have no time to react. The cover team would never know what happened. Our room grew suddenly darker, smaller. Sounds amplified: moans, softer thuds, like listening to wolves devour a rabbit. A wave of nausea roared in my throat. Separated only by plywood, our room shook with each punch. Rocket panted from exertion. Harry egged on the beating. JD and I inched toward the door, our shadowed faces taut with tension. Mentally we reviewed our options—listen and do nothing; react and risk a firestorm; react and blow our cover; react, investigation over. We opened our door.