"We're out of the harbor."

"Anything following us?"

"Nah."

Horse pocketed his radio and turned to the other Outlaws in the trailer with him. "We're on our way."

The fifty-odd bikers were packed shoulder-to-shoulder in the tangle of motorcycles and weapons. They cheered, shoving into one another. Some beat their fists on the aluminum sheeting of the trailer. Horse stepped up on a customized chopped Harley, raised his arms for order:

"Shut the fuck up! Trailers full of tomatoes and soda pop don't scream, remember? You want to come this far and get busted? QUIET!"

The trailer fell silent. From the second trailer beside them on the barge, they heard the cheering of the twenty other Outlaws. Horse pulled out the hand-radio and hissed:

"Charlie! Shut them up! Now!"

"Sure, boss. Can we smoke now?"

"No smoking."

"Not even tobacco? I'm having a nicotine fit."

"Cigarettes okay. But no grass, no PCP. And no lights, no cigarettes once we start unloading. You know the plan."

Then he glared at the Outlaws in front of him.

"You heard what I told Charlie. Everyone stays straight until we take the Island. No one leaves the trailers until we dock.

"No cigarettes, no noise, no shooting. Only knives. Me and the guys with silencers will do any shooting. You see one of the Catalina pigs and you don't have a silencer, you let him go. No noise, no alarms, nothing! Understand?"

The bikers murmured their compliance. But one of them, Stonewall, the one in the Confederate cap, raised his parkerized Remington 870. The riot weapon had been modified with a magazine extension and a bayonet mount.

"When we start the round-up," Stonewall asked, "what happens if the locals..."