The precision and organization of this seemingly rag tag group of bikers was absolutely incredible. They worked together like highly trained commandos. No one uttered a word, as if operating strictly on a need to know basis, and no one needed to know a damn thing. Two hours later we landed at the Palm Springs airport and were met by a fleet of Hummers and ferried to an expansive estate overlooking the desert floor. This place looked like Bob Hope lived there, circa old Hollywood, a real dichotomy filled with bikers flying their colors.
Everyone was overtly hospitable and fed and watered my hungry ass. Several hours later half dozen more Hummers rolled in; this was obviously a pow-wow of biker top brass, a major church. There was a call to order, and a big henchman escorted me to a leather seat right up front. First, the Oregon safe house bikers recounted supportive events, and then I was told to tell my story. I didn’t have much to corroborate my story, although fragments of the Corridor of Death episode were broadcasted on the news. The top brass seemed extremely pissed off that they were now involved and a raging discussion ensued about how to proceed.
Suddenly the big biker who saved my life yelled out from the adjacent kitchen to come and look, several bikers respond. They called me in.
“Is this is the remains of the dude I blew in half?” He asked me as he’s poked at the pile of guts and parts in the plastic container with a broomstick.
“Yeah, I guess so,” I said and gagged. He pushed around the bloody pile of guts and bones in the plastic container and exposed two hearts, a double heart.
“What the fuck is that!” the other bikers blurted out. “Is that two guys in there?”
“Just one man, I shot him and I shoveled him in here myself,” replied the big biker.
Sure enough, plain as day there were two separate hearts, connected to the same main arteries. Suddenly the sentries on the lookout charged into the house demanding everyone come outside.
The property overlooked the entire valley and as we scanned the horizon it looked as if the entire Twenty Nine Palm Marine base was heading our way. Dozens of choppers rattled the air; rows of military vehicles on every access street sped up surrounding streets leading to the estate. It looked like D-day in the desert. This was not a confrontation these bikers could fight. Top brass made the call to send me to the bunker.
“Hey if they want this guy give him to them,” one of his henchmen blurted.
“We need a bargaining chip. I want to know what’s happening so we can stay out of their way,” Brass responded. Two bikers lead me briskly into a basement bunker obviously designed for such events and fully stocked for world war three.
“Nobody can get in after I shut this door,” stated one of the henchmen, “and there is only one way out.” He flipped open the keypad cover. “Pound 666…pound 666?” I nervously echoed. “Yeah, and don’t forget it pal.” He turned to leave and I blurted, “You’ve got back-up generators for all this?” He smiled, “I wish,” and slammed the massive steel door.
Fifty bikers stood in front of the estate as the phalanx of militia surrounded the estate.
‘Who’s in charge here?” bellowed the Marine Commander in charge.
“I am,” responded the biker top brass and he stepped forward.
“We are going have a peaceful discussion,” demanded the Commander
“Were a bit out gunned, I certainly hope so,” biker brass replied
“Let’s move this talk inside then” the marine Commander and twenty-five fully armed and combat ready marines escorted the bikers into the house. With every one inside the Commander queried the biker leader about the whereabouts of the journalist.
“You didn’t think we would bring him here?” The biker brass replied. With a nod of the marine commander’s head 25 live gas canisters hit the ground and the marines don gas masks. Within 15 minutes the Marines scoured the entire estate and loaded unconscious bikers and every scrap of evidence.
“What about that Journalist” someone asks the Commander. “I don’t care about him, his damage is done. Right now we have larger containment issues.” The bikers and the battalion of Marines vanished into the desert dust.
Sitting in the hermetically sealed bunker for hours, I can hear my heart beat. I can’t stand it anymore, punch in the code, and open the door. The ransacked mansion reeks of chemical odors, every closet and cupboard door hung open. All the searched biker vehicles still remained, but the building is completely abandoned. The setting suns fire red hue fills the desert sky.
I still have Lisettes phone and called her.
“Where are you right now?” She barked harshly?
I didn’t like the sound of her voice, she immediately instructed me to leave, get away from the house and hide in the desert until dark, and then get to the truck stop off the 10 freeway only a handful of miles away. “Look for an unmarked all white big rig with confederate flags flying on cabin,” she ordered. “It will be near the main restaurant. Just open the passenger door and get in…. and before you leave, smash your phone to bits,” she continued like a drill sergeant instructing a recruit. “Remove the main chip next to the battery and pulverize it, and get the hell out of there.” She was gone.
At that very moment power to the house went off.