Under and Alone : The True Story of the Undercover Agent Who Infiltrated America's Most Violent Outlaw Motorcycle Gang
In 1998, William Queen was a veteran law enforcement agent with a lifelong love of motorcycles and a lack of patience with paperwork. When a "confidential informant" made contact with his boss at the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, offering to take an agent inside the San Fernando chapter of the Mongols (the scourge of Southern California, and one of the most dangerous gangs in America), Queen jumped at the chance, not realizing that he was kicking-starting the most extensive undercover operation inside an outlaw motorcycle gang in the history of American law enforcement. Nor did Queen suspect that he would penetrate the gang so successfully that he would become a fully "patched-in" member, eventually rising through their ranks to the office of treasurer, where he had unprecedented access to evidence of their criminal activity. After Queen spent twenty-eight months as "Billy St. John," the bearded, beer-swilling, Harley-riding gang-banger, the truth of his identity became blurry, even to himself. During his initial "prospecting" phase, Queen was at the mercy of crank-fueled criminal psychopaths who sought to have him test his mettle and prove his fealty by any means necessary, from selling (and doing) drugs, to arms trafficking, stealing motorcycles, driving getaway cars, and, in one shocking instance, stitching up the face of a Mongol "ol' lady" after a particularly brutal beating at the hands of her boyfriend.
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April 05, 2005
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Excerpt from Under and Alone by William Queen
Somewhere near Visalia, California
All right, Billy, how long was your fuckin academy
Red Dog pressed his ruddy, windburned face three inches from mine. I smelled that thick mix of Budweiser and crank-fueled sleeplessness on his breath. The words he spat felt hotter than the midday Southern California sun. He cocked his head to one side and pushed closer. I m askin you a fuckin question, Billy!
Red Dog, the national sergeant at arms of the Mongols Motorcycle Club, stood six feet tall, with long, stringy hair and a rust-colored handlebar mustache that drooped below his chin. From his pierced forehead, a silver chain swept down ominously past his left eye. His powerfully muscled arms were sleeved out with a web of prison tattoos, and his right hand clutched a loaded 9-mm Glock semiautomatic. Behind him, six other Mongols Evel, C.J., Domingo, Diablo, Bobby Loco, and Lucifer all in various states of drunkenness and methamphetamine highs, were slapping magazines into their Glocks and Berettas. More than one had his Mongol colors decorated with the skull-and-crossbones patch, boldly announcing to the world that he had killed for the club.
Here at the end of a long dirt road, in an abandoned orange grove a 180 miles north of Los Angeles, what had begun as a typical Southern California day that perfect golden sun beating down on a ribbon of black highway had quickly turned into my worst nightmare.
For several months now, working deep undercover on assignment for the Department of the Treasury s Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms (ATF), I d been posing as a Mongols prospect a probationary member of the club, a position that allowed me to wear my black leather vest with the lower rocker reading california but not yet the official black-and-white center patch and top rocker that distinguished a full-fledged member.
As a prospect, you re a slave, the property of the club. You have to do everything a member tells you to do, from hauling drugs and guns to wiping a member s ass if he orders you to. Some members were good for simple orders like Prospect, go get me a beer, or Light my cigarette, or Clean my bike. But other members, guys like Red Dog, took inordinate pleasure in making a prospect s life a living hell.
Prospecting inside the Mongols was a dangerous game. According to intel developed by ATF, the Mongols Motorcycle Club had assumed the mantle of the most violent motorcycle gang in America, a tight-knit collective of crazies, unpredictable and unrepentant badasses. With 350 full-patch members, the gang was a small fraction of the size of the Hells Angels, their hated rivals, but the Mongols had wreaked more than their fair share of havoc since they were founded in the early seventies.