[Charming Streets — October 20, 2008, 6:15 AM]
Polly Zobelle's white Mercedes pulled out of the family compound at exactly 6:15.
I'd been watching for three days now, establishing patterns, documenting movements. The woman was meticulous—gym at 6:30, coffee by 8:00, then the real business began. Daddy's little princess, running the operational side of LOAN's drug enterprise while Ethan maintained his clean public image.
The Mercedes turned onto Main Street. I followed at a distance, one of several morning commuters who wouldn't draw attention.
She's the weak link. Zobelle keeps his hands clean, but she gets them dirty. Break her, you break the family.
Juice's voice crackled through my earpiece. "Got her on the traffic cams. She's heading toward the industrial district."
"Same as yesterday?"
"Same route, same timing. This woman runs like clockwork."
That predictability would be her undoing.
---
[Industrial District, Charming — October 20, 2008, 9:30 AM]
The warehouse was unremarkable.
Gray walls, rusted doors, the kind of forgotten building that dotted the edges of every small town. But Polly's Mercedes looked wrong parked outside it—too expensive, too clean, a diamond in a junkyard.
I positioned myself on a rooftop three buildings away, telephoto lens ready. The distance was good—close enough to capture detail, far enough to avoid detection.
Polly emerged from her car, checked her surroundings with the casual paranoia of someone who'd learned to be careful. She walked to the warehouse's side entrance, knocked twice, waited.
The door opened. A man I recognized—Darby's lieutenant, one of the Nords' main drug distributors. He looked both ways before stepping aside to let her enter.
Click.
The camera captured everything.
Inside the warehouse, I could only imagine what was happening. Money changing hands, product being inspected, the business of hate funding itself through addiction and desperation.
Twenty minutes later, Polly emerged carrying a small duffel bag. Different than the designer purse she'd arrived with.
Click. Click.
She handed something to the lieutenant—an envelope, thick with what had to be cash.
Click.
He handed her a package wrapped in brown paper.
Click.
They shook hands like business partners concluding a deal.
Click.
[EVIDENCE ACQUIRED: POLLY ZOBELLE — DRUG TRANSACTION] [+75 XP]
I lowered the camera, heart pounding with something that felt almost like joy.
Got you.
---
[TM Garage — October 22, 2008, 3:00 PM]
Juice spread the photos across his workstation.
"This is good. Really good." He tapped one image—Polly handing over the envelope. "Clear exchange of money for product. Identifiable faces. Time stamps from the camera metadata."
"Can you enhance the package she received?"
"Already working on it." His fingers flew across the keyboard. The image zoomed, sharpened, revealed details that had been blurry in the original. "Based on the shape and size, that's either cash or drugs. Given the context..."
"Drugs."
"Drugs." He pulled up another image. "And this guy she's meeting with? Marcus Hennessey, Darby's number two. Three prior convictions for distribution. Anyone seen with him is guilty by association."
I studied the photos—evidence that could destroy Polly's carefully constructed image as a businessman's innocent daughter.
"What about financial trails?"
"That's where it gets interesting." Juice switched to a different screen. "I've been tracking her personal accounts. Small deposits, irregular timing, but consistent with money laundering patterns. She's running drug profits through her own finances."
"Sloppy."
"Arrogant. She thinks daddy's connections make her untouchable."
They don't. Not anymore.
---
[SAMCRO Clubhouse — October 23, 2008, 7:00 PM]
Bobby examined the evidence file with the careful attention of a man who understood consequences.
"This is leverage," he said finally. "Real leverage. Question is how to use it."
"Two options." I leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "Give it to local police, let them build a case. Or give it to the feds and let federal ambition do our work for us."
"Local police means Unser. He's been covering for us, but this is beyond his reach. Zobelle has county politicians in his pocket."
"So feds."
"So feds." Bobby set down the photos. "Which means Stahl."
The irony was sharp enough to cut. The woman who'd framed Opie, who'd threatened Abel, who'd spent months trying to destroy SAMCRO—using her ambition against our mutual enemy.
"She's hungry," I said. "Taking down a white supremacist princess connected to drug trafficking? That's career-making territory. She'll jump at it."
"And then we're giving the ATF ammunition."
"Against Zobelle. Not against us." I met his eyes. "Stahl's dangerous, but she's predictable. She follows evidence wherever it leads. We give her evidence that leads to LOAN, she goes after LOAN."
Bobby was quiet for a long moment, weighing options.
"It's a risk."
"Everything's a risk. But right now, Zobelle's winning the PR war. He's playing victim while we look like criminals." I gestured at the photos. "This changes the narrative. Proves he's not an innocent businessman—he's running a criminal enterprise through his daughter."
"If it works."
"If it works."
Bobby nodded slowly.
"Do it. Anonymous tip, untraceable source. Let Stahl think she discovered this on her own."
---
[Cole's Apartment — October 25, 2008, 11:00 PM]
I stood in the shower for twenty minutes.
The water ran hot, steam filling the small bathroom, washing away three days of surveillance grime. When had I last showered? Changed clothes? Eaten something that wasn't grabbed between stake-out sessions?
War makes you forget the basics.
I dried off, pulled on clean clothes—the first fresh shirt in days. The simple act felt almost luxurious. Human. Like something normal people did without thinking.
The evidence file sat on my kitchen table. Photos, documents, financial records—everything Juice had compiled, sanitized of any trace that could lead back to SAMCRO.
Tomorrow, I'd mail it from three towns away. Anonymous. Untraceable. A gift-wrapped present for an ambitious federal agent who wouldn't be able to resist.
The enemy of my enemy is still my enemy. But useful enemies have their place.
I began preparing the package. Careful. Methodical. The same precision I'd brought to months of surveillance, now applied to the final step of this particular operation.
Polly Zobelle would fall. And when she fell, her father's empire would crack.
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