When you’re young and high on a crest of happiness, fate is just behind your shoulder.

The Black Horseshoe Club was one of the most despicable motorcycle clubs that ever wore black leather jackets. Their leader was Carlos.

Carlos had opened the club in 1946 along with three fellow war veterans, which he called his Devils. There was Big Norman, Harvey “Golden Gloves” and Jack “Coco Head”. Five other trusted members had joined them since then.

They did a job about once every two months, each time in a different State. They all had money; each rode a Harley. Robbery was never the motive. The Black Horseshoe Club were middle-aged men who had a thing for teenage girls.

For that particular job, the agreed-on date was November 15th and the target was near a town called Riverdale in New York State.

They just had a close call with the Highway Patrol in California, so they went North East. The weather being cold over there at this time of the year, they drove in cars to the log house they had rented at a secluded spot. That log house was near a small lake called Devil’s Mirror.

Like he had learned to do as a soldier fighting in France, Carlos did a full recon on Thursday. The spot was located way out of the town by a country road that led to the Appalachian hills.

It was a popular spot where teenage lovers would go and park. Their plan was to wait and strike when there would be only two or three cars left. November 15th was a Friday.

Carlos picked the hiding places. Six or four men would hijack the cars while the others would bring back the band’s own cars to the cabin. They drove a 1956 Chevy station wagon, a 1948 woody Ford station wagon, and a 1957 Ford Fairlane. No red cars; all displayed popular colors—forest green for Ford, teal and white for Chevrolet.

As an added precaution, they screwed stolen licence plates just prior to swinging into action. None of the victims would see their true plates. They never killed; rape did attract some police attention, but the murder of youths would stir a red-hot, devilish kind of rap that Carlos was unwilling to trigger.

On that Friday night, the waning crescent of the Moon illuminated a clear sky. Carlos and his men were hidden behind bushes on a ridge overlooking the spot, where four cars had been parked for nearly an hour.

One motor got ignited. As the Chevy 1952 started to move away from the other cars, Carlos ran to the Ford Fairlane and the Chevy station wagon. He ordered them to move in and set a roadblock near the trail junction to keep these kids from driving away.

Six men in black denim trousers and leather jackets made their swift and stealthy descent on the three unsuspecting couples, who were kissing and making out in each other’s arms, oblivious of the world outside their American wheels.

Carlos had his pistol trained on a red-haired guy who was kissing a long-haired brunette. She screamed “Archie!” when she saw the menacing silhouette emerging from the night and taking hold of their window frame as well as their lives for the immediate future.

All three cars got similarly hijacked. Carlos and his Devils didn’t waste time and drove them to the log house.

Since the weather was gentle, the nine-man gang decided to make a campfire and remain outdoors.

They took a closer look at their captives.

Six teenagers were lined up in a headlight beam. One of the guys tried to fight and he was unmercifully pummelled and kicked into a bloody mess while his blonde girlfriend screamed “Reggie! Oh, Reggie ... Please, don’t hurt him!” The other lads stayed put.

All three girls were seventeen years old, which was confirmed by their papers inside their wallets. Carlos and his Devils loved to call a girl by her name when they were raping her. It added a personal touch to the fun.

“So, raven-haired beauty, you’re Veronica ... And what size is your bra?” Carlos asked as he noticed her perfect hourglass figure and her average-sized breasts that seemed to look up at him in defiance as she shook her pretty head in refusal.

“Don’t tell them you wear C-cups, Veronica!” bellowed the ginger-haired genius.

“Thanks, Archie!” Veronica said with a sarcastic tone.

The blonde whose boyfriend was still out cold was a Betty. She was as American as apple pie—simple clothes and perky assets with sunlight in her ponytail.

The third couple was interesting. The guy was a glass-wearing type named Dyson; he was short with a diminutive frame, but his driver’s licence said he was born in 1938, so he was nineteen. His girlfriend was Sabrina, a sparkly blonde wearing a black ribbon above her golden bangs while the rest of her hair plunged down to her shoulders and encased her highly kissable face, adorned with a nearly childish nose and subtle freckles.

Sabrina remained surprisingly calm given her predicament while the other girls started to panick and scream as it dawned on them that these men were not there to talk about the weather.

“Archie!” Veronica said in alarm. “Archie! Do something!”

“Yeah, Archie, do something!” said Harvey to the ginger-haired tough guy, who wore a stupid-looking bowtie with an indigo sweater adorned with a capital “R” that obviously stood for Riverdale.

Harvey, a former Golden Gloves runner-up and the only colored man in the Black Horseshoe Club, gave the lad a killer punch to the liver. Archie went down like a sack of beans and men quickly tied up his hands and ankles.

Other men did likewise with the nerdy guy and the half-unconscious lad named Reggie.

Then came the moment Carlos perhaps enjoyed the best. The teenage girls stood in front of them, each one with her arms restrained. The men were all drooling over them in wild anticipation.

Veronica, the sophisticated-looking girl, wore an expensive dress that went a couple of inches under her knees; it was royal blue with a thin belt that emphasized her slim waist and her slender, yet curvy hips. She wore black stockings and half-heel shoes. The jewellery around her neck spoke of a wealthy father. Veronica was a classy chassis.