The young deputy heard motorcycles, then voices. The glass of the office's front door shattered.

"Mayday, Mayday. This is Santa Catalina Island. We are under attack by a motorcycle gang. They are killing..."

Shotgun blasts rocked the outer office. As he spoke into the microphone, the deputy took out his speed-loaders and laid them on the table in front of him. Then he cocked his .38 service revolver and aimed it at the closed inner office door. He heard the front door being kicked open. He heard the sickening shock of rifle fire and shotgun blasts. Slugs punched through the office wall.

"...This is the Avalon Sheriffs Office! We are under attack by a motorcycle gang. Contact the mainland. All communications here are dead. Please contact the..."

Sections of the wall exploded inward. Plaster, framed photos and certificates, books flew through the office. Deputy Fletcher felt a slug rip across the top of his thigh. He fired his .38 at the door. The pistol made only a pop-pop-pop against the noise and chaos.

Then a shock literally threw him against the radio.

As he lost consciousness, he raised his pistol to fire at the silhouette in the doorway.

Howling and laughing, the Outlaws swept down from the hills, islanders sprinting in panic before them. The bikers fired their weapons into the night sky as they herded groups of residents to the beach. Forming bike lines of chrome and steel where the side streets met the beach walkway, they blocked any escape.

From the south, a line of Outlaws pushed the crowd toward the old Casino. Shouting commands, firing weapons over the heads of their prisoners, the bikers rode handlebar to handlebar. Other men on motorcycles criss-crossed the beach, their wheels throwing sprays of sand and salt water, cutting off the few islanders who had attempted to dash to small boats moored only a few yards offshore in the calm bay.