We sit on the porch for hours, watching ATF agents comb through our clubhouse, searching every nook and cranny for something to bust us for. They searched high and low and everywhere in between. And only when Rollins walked over to where we’d posted up that morning, a look of miserable defeat on his face, did I allow myself a small breath of relief. As thorough as his men had been, they’d come up empty—as we knew they would.
