Gods of Mischief: My Undercover Vendetta to Take Down the Vagos Outlaw Motorcycle Gang
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This harrowing, no-holds-barred true story is the “brash account of a reformed bad boy’s decision to help the federal government take down Green Nation, the Vagos outlaw motorcycle gang” (Kirkus Reviews).
Gods of Mischief is the harrowing, no-holds-barred true story of a bad guy turned good who busted open one of the most violent motorcycle gangs in history.
George Rowe’s gritty and high-octane story offers not only a clear window into the violent world of the motorcycle outlaw but a gripping tale of self-sacrifice and human redemption that would be the stuff of great fiction – if it weren’t all true.
After witnessing the Vagos, one of the most dangerous biker gangs in the country, brutally and senselessly beat his friend to near death over a pool game, Rowe decided to pay back his Southern California hometown for the sins of his past by bringing down the gang that was terrorizing it. He volunteered as an undercover informant and vowed to dismantle the brotherhood from the inside out, becoming history’s first private citizen to voluntarily infiltrate an outlaw motorcycle gang for the U.S. government. Along the way, Rowe lost everything: his family, his business, his home – even his identity.
and Joe appeared shirtless and wearing jeans. “Hey, man, sorry to wake you.” “Not a problem,” said Joe sleepily. “What’s up, brother?” “Could we talk?” “Sure. Sure. Come on in.” He opened the door wider and stepped back. “Out here’s fine, if that’s okay with you,” I told him. It was a warm evening in August, and I wanted to talk under the big night sky. Guess it felt like a more suitable stage for the large questions I’d been wrestling with. So I took a seat on the tattered couch Joe kept
Quick Draw plenty of indictable material. In July, just a few months earlier, two Victorville Vagos had walked into a meth dealer’s home in the Lucerne Valley intent on robbery. Both those boys were spun on crank, armed with revolvers and acting on a tip that a buyer with six grand in his pocket was coming over to score some dope. But the only person in the house was a forty-three-year-old tweaker named Little Jimmy, who freaked out when the Vagos walked in and ran for the door. One of the
Vago announced. Iron Mike scrambled into a pickup driven by Junior, the Winchester sergeant at arms, and the truck roared off with Mike ready to blast away from the passenger’s-side window. The Sons of Hell patch saw them coming as he started his truck. He slammed into gear and veered sharply around the oncoming pickup, then sped past us like a frightened rabbit. In a moment came the hunter, tires screeching against the asphalt as the truck turned the corner and disappeared. I never heard
odds?” Bubba spotted me. Oh, shit. He walked up to the table, hovering above it, and offered me his big paw. “Hey, George. Good to see you, brother.” “What are you doing here?” I answered as calmly as I could, pumping the big biker’s hand. “Working, brother. Always working.” Then he extended his hand to John Carr. “How goes the battle, John?” I was floored. John slid over, and Bubba pushed into the seat beside him. “Wait. You two know each other?” I said. Bubba turned and smirked at
the driveway to meet them and demanded I be hauled away for assault. Now from across the street came cockeyed Pete in his jeans and T-shirt. Pete was one of those neighbors who always seemed to know what was happening around the hood. You could fart and that dude could tell you what time it went off. We’d been friends since the day I’d saved him from a Vagos beat-down at an Italian restaurant in town. Iron Mike had resented the way Pete’s lazy eye had been looking at him, so I’d been forced to