Chapter 76: Twists and Turns

Ao Xi and more than twenty police officers rushed to the Twin Peaks Restaurant. He glanced into the restaurant from afar and immediately understood why it was called Twin Peaks—the twin peaks indeed were grand and dazzlingly white.

This Twin Peaks Restaurant was a well-known American chain, and its main draw was the staff: all waitresses, with big bouncy curls, tight low-cut tank tops, denim shorts, and knee-high socks. It didn’t matter if the food was any good; the guys flocked here just for the atmosphere.

The place was always bustling with patrons, and plenty of people felt tempted to stir up trouble, but most ended up regretting it.

Yet Ao Xi saw that inside the restaurant, aside from the waitresses and a few people who didn’t look like gang members having a meal, there was no one else.

“Wasn’t there supposed to be a gang negotiation today? Where is everyone?” he asked.

Wally scratched his head. “You think they’re like us? We showed up early to set up. They’re probably not even out of bed yet. We’ll be waiting a while.”

“Damn, we’re basically just standing guard here?”

Wally tilted his head, shrugged, and spread his hands.

Ao Xi sighed. “Alright, I’ll sleep in the car for a bit. Call me if anything happens.”

He didn’t know how long he slept before Wally woke him.

Grabbing a bottle of water, he turned to look out the window and saw a group of Mexicans approaching from behind.

One of them, likely the boss, drove an old Cadillac. The others surrounded the car as they walked down the street, not seeming to mind the effort.

Ao Xi got out to study them closely. The Mexicans all dressed similarly: oversized baseball or basketball jerseys, work pants, baggy T-shirts, plaid shirts, and vague chains around their necks. Some wore sunglasses, some didn’t.

Their gazes were fierce—clearly no strangers to trouble. Then there were the tattoos: arms inked so densely they looked like those of Black gangsters. Some guys went shirtless, tattoos covering their entire torsos and even their faces, so thick you couldn’t tell them apart from the Black guys. Who knew what they were thinking.

Approaching from the other direction was a group of Black men, dressed much the same—loose tops and shorts. The difference was the Black gangsters always carried themselves with a certain swagger. They, too, were covered in tattoos, which, on their dark skin, seemed to suggest that maybe they weren’t quite dark enough.

They said gangs used tattoos to mark their affiliations and rank, or indicate their roles within the organization. Tattoos were a language these men had mastered.

The two groups slowly drew together, staring coldly at one another, no one speaking. The air grew increasingly tense.

Ao Xi watched from the sidelines, itching to stir things up. He grabbed a shotgun from the car, climbed onto Wally’s hood, and shouted, “No causing trouble on the street! Or I’ll blast your asses with this! You hear me, you bunch of punks?”

All heads turned to look at him.

“What are you staring at? Either eat, get arrested, or get lost!” Surrounded by over two hundred people, Ao Xi didn’t flinch.

A Mexican stepped out from the old Cadillac and walked straight into the Twin Peaks Restaurant, his men following.

Some of the Black men and Mexicans, unwilling to back down, made throat-slitting gestures at Ao Xi. He tried to memorize their faces to get even later, but quickly gave up—they all looked alike, and with all those tattoos, he couldn’t tell one from another.

Wally wiped the sweat from his brow, grumbling, “Why not stand on your own car? You’ll wreck mine. You’ve got guts—aren’t you afraid they’ll lose it and charge you?”

Ao Xi lifted the shotgun. “Of course I’m afraid, that’s why I brought this. I picked up ten boxes of twelve-gauge shells before we left—one hundred rounds.”

Wally rolled his eyes. “You’re a real genius.”

As they chatted, the two gangs filed into the restaurant, taking seats on opposite sides. The dozen or so waitresses at Twin Peaks remained consummate professionals.

No matter why you came, once you sat down, you had to order, had to pay—no free rides here.

The tense atmosphere began to dissipate, the waitresses flitting between tables like butterflies. The men on both sides couldn’t help but steal glances, eyes following the waitresses wherever they went.

Still, ogling was one thing—no one was actually placing an order, not even a Coke.

Over two hundred men poured back outside, forming up in the open space in front of the restaurant.

Most rank-and-file gang members were broke; any money made selling drugs belonged to the gang and had to be handed over. Keeping any for yourself meant death if discovered.

Some of them cared about their pride, not wanting to lose face in front of the women.

The bosses, at least, remained calm. They weren’t short of women, but seeing their underlings like this, they sensed trouble brewing. They needed to negotiate quickly—who knew what might happen if they waited any longer.

The Mexican side was led by the head of Lomas 13. He took off his sunglasses, ready to speak, when a thunderous roar from outside interrupted him.

Everyone turned to see a group of bikers roaring up on motorcycles, hands raised high in classic biker fashion. Their look was iconic—think shirtless, wild dancers from those crime movies.

American biker gangs were notorious. Outwardly, they were motorcycle enthusiasts who liked to ride with their hands up, but most were just gangs in disguise. The big names included the Hells Angels, the Psychos, Wheels of Soul, and the Mongols.

With their leather jackets, they looked similar at first glance, but each gang’s jackets bore different insignias, and their tattoos set them apart.

Biker gangs didn’t have fixed territories—or rather, they considered the whole city their turf—so they often roamed in tight packs. This fostered extremely close bonds: they rode together, ate together, slept outdoors together.

With so much idle time on the road, they developed strict initiation rituals. For example, to join the Hells Angels, you needed a license and a 750cc bike—if you couldn’t afford one, you stole it.

Then you faced a year-long probation to prove your loyalty, after which you became a prospect—basically an errand boy, doing all the dirty work, driving, cleaning up after fights, working eighteen hours a day, with maybe one or two hours of sleep.

Rumor had it that an FBI agent once tried to infiltrate the Hells Angels, but during his prospect period, was worked so hard he had to take a dozen pills a day just to stay awake.

Only after making a grand gesture of loyalty could one join.

The bikers who’d just arrived were Hells Angels—over a hundred of them, roaring up to the Twin Peaks and parking right outside. The two gangs inside reacted instantly, each suspecting the other had called in reinforcements.

A few of the Black men, on edge, slid their hands into their waistbands, who knew what they were reaching for.

A shootout seemed imminent, but the Hells Angels didn’t care. Instead, they laughed and joked, settling under the awning at a table as if settling in to watch a show.