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Michael Cunningham was on the run. Not from the police, although he knew there was a slim chance they might be looking for him, but from his colleagues—if, in fact, fellow members of an outlaw motorcycle g**g could be referred to as colleagues. But then, Cunningham was no longer a member of the Sons of Satan Motor Cycle Club, at least he assumed he was no longer a member.
It was not that he officially handed in his resignation; leaving the fold once accepted into it was not that simple, but he believed he was entitled to the assumption that by now they would have cancelled his membership anyway. That was the expected outcome when you skulked away in the middle of the night with two-hundred-thousand dollars of club funds.
Cunningham knew they were never going to report the theft to the
