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witnesses to the Piru shooting. Our boy Chooch Millan was gunned down on a quiet road at the city outskirts. They stripped his originals, left muchacho in an undershirt."
    "Why take the jacket?" Bear asked.
    "An outlaw's originals are his ultimate symbol of pride--more than his bike, even. Once they're awarded, they're never washed."
    "Never?"
    "Not even after initiation ceremonies where the jackets--and their proud new wearers--get baptized by oil, piss, and shit. The hard-core dudes even leave their jackets under their bikes at night to collect crankcase drippings. Yeah, it's sacrilege to wash the originals. Punishable by death, even."
    Knowing that Bear's fascination with the lurid would likely lead to a conversational detour, Tim steered Guerrera back on track. "What else did Haines get?"
    "Looks to be an AR-15, same they used in the break. Sheriff's devoted a lot of units to the area, but nothing doing. Bikers are too fast. Those boys were long gone before Sheriff's even got the call."
    Bear gestured ahead, to where the road wound down through the hills. "Piru's less than ten miles from the Sinner clubhouse."
    The truck veered close to the high-rising canyon wall, and Tim could see where people had etched graffiti into the rock. SEAN + SUZIE. MICKEY P IS NO STRANGER TO THE HOG. SINNER TERRITORY: GUARD YER WOMEN. "Chooch Millan," Tim said. "He an officer?"
    "Not according to Haines."
    "Nomad?"
    Guerrera shook his head. "No one important. Just a regular Cholo. What's up?"
    "It seems odd. The Sinners risked a high-profile break. If the motive was revenge for Nigger Steve--the first Sinner nomad to be killed--why wouldn't they waste someone higher up the food chain? Or pull off something bigger in scope? Shooting a regular member on a deserted road? That's chickenshit. It doesn't add up."
    "Maybe they just wanted to punch someone's clock," Bear said. "Get the ball rolling."
    "I'm with Rack," Guerrera said. "It's not how these guys think. They usually want to go bigger, you know? Their egos are built for escalation."
    "How do you know so much about all this shit?" Bear asked.
    Guerrera shrugged. "I grew up in a crap town outside Miami. Me and my brothers rode with a junior club out there, the Vatos. That's all there was to do. Tool your sled and follow the asphalt. So we did. The motherfuckers graduated to the Cholos."
    "And you?" Tim asked.
    "I bailed out. Went to the Corps."
    A half-burned tree barely maintained its clutch on a ridge, and all three took a moment to admire its tenacity.
    "I hate those guys. Ate up my barrio. Left a lot of mis hermanos horizontal."
    "Your actual brothers?"
    "Nah. We all got out. Mama's too tough to put up with that shit."
    They were in the Fillmore flats now, weaving through a gone-to-hell neighborhood. Guerrera took in a Confederate flag waving atop a lawn-stranded car up on blocks. "We don't need backup, huh?" He tried to strike a casual tone but fell short of the mark.
    "The nomads aren't dumb enough to be there," Tim said. "We have to draw them out. And we have a better shot at watching them if they're trying to watch us."
    "Or trying to kill us," Bear offered.
    "That, too."
    Bear idled up to the curb, parking behind an endless row of Harleys. Set back behind a jagged fence loomed a sprawling, dilapidated house. At one point it had been farm style, but it was burdened with so many build-ons and repairs that it had surrendered any show of unity. Bike parts littered the front yard, half buried in dirt where a lawn had expired. The Sinners had enough money hidden in various accounts to tear the place down and erect a castle, but the road-grit theme seemed more suitable. Sandbags were piled thigh-high around the walls, and chicken wire guarded the already barred windows from grenade lobs.
    Guerrera dabbed the sweat off his forehead. He checked the clip in his Glock and reholstered it. His hands were trembling, ever so slightly. "You should see the shit they've done to hispanos."
    "It's okay,"