Club headquarters was an auto garage that specialized in repairing foreign cars. At least, on the surface that was what the shop was known for. It was actually a chop shop. We boosted cars, then dropped them off at the garage to be stripped down, torn apart, and reassembled as new, untraceable cars. Sometimes, we just sold the parts. Either way, it was as illegal as f**k, and if Spin had been traced back to the shop and the feds found out what actually went down here, we’d have all been hauled in.
But Spin wouldn’t talk, not even to save his own skin. It was what made him a good leader and what kept the rest of us loyal. Hard not to trust a man who was willing to take a hit for everyone else.
It was late when I drove up on my bike to the warehouse. The lights were dim, but definitely on,
