Two weeks later, Snake called. His voice shook.
“Mike’s gone,” he said.
My chest tightened. “What do you mean?”
“Heart attack. He was under too much stress. He didn’t want to bother you.”
I dropped the phone.
For the first time in years, I rode back to Guadalajara. The garage shutters were closed. A wreath of flowers leaned against the door. Inside, the bikers sat in silence, rough men with tears running down their cheeks.
They looked at me with something between sorrow and anger.
“You weren’t here,” Snake said.
I had no defense.
