"I Took Bullets for the Club, But My Son’s Signature on a Piece of Paper Killed Me. Chapter 1 The sound of a police raid is something you never forget. It’s not the sirens. By the time you hear the sirens, it’s usually over. It’s the boots. The heavy, synchronized thud of distinct rubber soles hitting the pavement, moving with a rhythm that screams authority. I haven't heard that sound in twenty years. Not since I cut my patch off my vest, buried my past in a box in the basement, and promised my