[SAMCRO Chapel — October 2, 2008, 7:00 PM]
Church was called with three words.
"We vote tonight."
Clay sat at the head of the reaper table, gavel in front of him. His face was stone—the ashen grief of the hospital replaced by something colder, harder. The grief was still there, buried beneath layers of rage that had been building for a week.
Every officer was present. Jax to Clay's right, jaw tight. Bobby to his left, expression grim. Chibs, Tig, Opie, Piney, Half-Sack, me—all of us arranged around the table that had seen decades of decisions, but none quite like this.
"We all know who hurt my wife." Clay's voice was flat, dangerous. "Ethan Zobelle and his League of American Nationalists. They came to our town, set up shop, and attacked our family."
No one spoke. The silence was agreement.
"I'm calling for a vote on war." He looked around the table. "Full mobilization. No restraint. We find them, and we end them."
Bobby raised his hand first. "Before we vote—what's our evidence? If we go to war and we're wrong—"
"We're not wrong." I spoke without thinking. Every eye turned to me. "I've been watching them for weeks. Surveillance, documentation, pattern analysis. I have names, faces, locations. And Chief Unser confirmed off the record—physical evidence at the scene points directly at AJ Weston."
"Why didn't you bring this before?" Tig's voice was sharp.
"I brought it two weeks ago. Bobby and I discussed increased security." I kept my voice steady. "The club decided to wait for provocation before escalating."
The words hung in the air. We'd waited for provocation. Now we had it.
"Vote," Clay said. "All in favor of war against LOAN."
Hands rose around the table. Jax. Bobby. Chibs. Tig. Opie. Piney. Half-Sack.
I raised mine.
Unanimous.
"War is declared." Clay's gavel came down like a gunshot. "Now—how do we fight it?"
---
[SAMCRO Chapel — 8:15 PM]
I spread my intelligence across the reaper table.
Weeks of surveillance, transformed into weapons. Photos of every LOAN member I'd identified. Maps of their locations—the cigar shop, Weston's residence, the warehouse where they held after-hours meetings. Schedules, patterns, vulnerabilities.
"Zobelle is the head." I pointed to his photo. "He's the strategist, the money, the political connections. But he never touches the violence directly. He maintains plausible deniability at all times."
"Then we take his deniability away," Jax said.
"It's not that simple. He's connected—politicians, business leaders, people who'll ask questions if he disappears." I moved to the next cluster of photos. "Weston is different. He's the enforcer. He does all the dirty work, and he does it because he believes in it. He's the one who—"
I stopped. Couldn't say the words.
"He's the one we want," Clay finished. His voice was murder.
"Yes."
"Where do we find him?"
"He keeps a regular schedule. Morning meetings at the cigar shop, afternoon recruitment runs, evening planning sessions at his house or the warehouse." I pointed to addresses on the map. "He's predictable. Arrogant. Doesn't think anyone's watching."
"We hit him first," Jax said.
"Agreed." I turned to the tactical layout. "His house is isolated—rural property outside town. Limited neighbors, good approach routes. We can take him there without witnesses."
Bobby leaned forward. "And the rest of LOAN?"
"After Weston, we dismantle their infrastructure. The soldiers scatter without leadership. Zobelle loses his weapon." I met each man's eyes in turn. "But we need to be fast. Once they know we're coming, they'll go to ground or call for backup from their prison connections."
"How fast?" Chibs asked.
"Tonight fast. Tomorrow at the latest."
The room was quiet for a moment.
"Cole." Clay's voice cut through the silence. "You've been watching them longest. You know their patterns better than anyone." He stood, walked to my end of the table. "I'm assigning you tactical lead for operations against LOAN."
The weight of it settled on my shoulders.
"Understood."
"Jax will be your second. You plan, he executes. Any questions?"
None. The table was unified in a way I'd never seen before—grief and rage channeled into purpose.
"Rules of engagement," I said. "Weston is the primary target. The soldiers are secondary—disable or eliminate based on threat level. Civilians are avoided where possible." I paused. "Zobelle is a problem. He's too connected to disappear without consequences."
"We'll deal with Zobelle after," Clay said. "First we take his teeth. Then we figure out how to take his head."
---
[Cole's Apartment — 11:30 PM]
The weapons spread across my table.
My personal pistol—the one I'd cleaned before the IRA run, the one that had seen me through fights with Nord thugs and LOAN soldiers. A shotgun borrowed from the club armory. Ammunition. Tactical gear.
I field-stripped each weapon, cleaned every component, reassembled with practiced efficiency. The ritual was calming—something to do with my hands while my mind raced through tactical scenarios.
Weston's house. Three approach routes. Estimated four to six guards based on surveillance patterns. Entry points at front door, back door, garage. Best approach is rear—less exposure, better cover.
Sarah watched from the bedroom doorway.
"You're really doing this."
"Yes."
"Tonight?"
"Soon."
She crossed to the table, looked at the weapons laid out in neat rows.
"I knew this was part of it. The club, the life. I knew there'd be violence." She met my eyes. "But this feels different."
"It is different."
"Because of what happened to Gemma."
"Yes."
She was quiet for a moment.
"Will you tell me about it? Someday?"
I'll tell you that someone hurt a woman I care about. That I couldn't prevent it despite knowing it was coming. That the guilt of that failure will follow me forever.
"Someday. When it's over."
"Okay." She stepped closer, wrapped her arms around me. "Come back to me."
"I will."
"I mean it, Cole. Whatever you're about to do—come back."
I held her tight, breathing in the scent of her hair, memorizing the feel of her against me. In a few hours, I'd be leading men into violence. Some of us might not come back.
"I promise."
---
[Teller-Morrow Automotive — October 3, 2008, 1:00 AM]
The war party assembled in the back lot.
Five men besides me—Jax, Chibs, Tig, Opie, and Happy Lowman, who'd ridden in from Tacoma when word went out. All in black, all armed, all carrying the cold focus of men who knew exactly what they were about to do.
I laid out the final briefing on the hood of a van.
"Weston's property is fifteen miles northeast of town. Isolated, rural, minimal neighbors. Surveillance suggests four to six guards at any given time, rotating shifts."
"Armed?" Jax asked.
"Assume so. These are Aryan Brotherhood connected—they don't go anywhere without hardware."
"Entry points?"
"Three. Front door is exposed, longest sight lines. Garage gives some cover but limited access once inside. Back door is our best option—approach through the tree line, minimal exposure."
Happy studied the map. "What about Weston himself?"
"Master bedroom, second floor, southeast corner." I tapped the location. "He's the target. Everyone else is incidental."
Chibs checked his weapon. "Rules of engagement?"
"Weston doesn't walk out of that house. The guards—neutralize, don't necessarily kill unless they force it. We want this clean, fast, surgical."
"And after?"
"We disappear. Rally point is the cabin outside Lodi. No phones, no communication until we're clear."
The men nodded, absorbing the plan.
"Any questions?"
Silence.
"Then we move." I looked at each of them in turn. "Tonight, we send a message. You hurt SAMCRO family, you die. No exceptions. No mercy."
Jax clasped my shoulder. "Lead the way, brother."
I climbed on my bike, felt the others fall into formation behind me.
The engine roared to life. The night stretched ahead, dark and full of violence.
This is for Gemma. For every moment of fear and pain they caused her. For the silence that's killing her from the inside.
And this is for me. For the guilt I'll carry forever. For knowing and not being able to stop it.
Weston dies tonight.
I twisted the throttle and rode into the darkness.
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