The Devil's Elixir

23

The Babylon Eagles.

That’s what the bastards called themselves.

Kudos to the guys at ATF—it took less than ten minutes for them to come back with the name after Villaverde sent them the shot of the tattoo I sent him. They also had an address for the Eagles’ local hangout, which was the mother chapter of the club. The gang’s clubhouse was adjacent to a bike garage that acted as their front, on a side street off El Cajon Boulevard in La Mesa. That address didn’t mean much to me, but I punched it into my GPS and was already on my way there. Villaverde would be meeting me there, along with backup—SWAT, ATF, and local PD.

I was back on the freeway, charging north with a full clip in my Browning, a blue light spinning on my car’s roof, and the gas pedal crunched down as far as it would go.

Hoping I’d get there before everyone else.