[Residential Area, Charming — November 4, 2008, 12:15 AM]
The street was quiet as death.
I sat in the driver's seat of a borrowed sedan, engine off, lights dark, positioned three houses down from the target residence. The dashboard clock glowed faintly: 12:15 AM. Nearly three hours until Weston's expected arrival.
Three hours of waiting. Three hours of anticipation. Three hours until the man who hurt Gemma stopped breathing.
The radio crackled—two clicks. Jax confirming his position at the north end of the block. Two more clicks from Chibs at the south. The net was set.
Tig and Half-Sack waited in a van around the corner, backup if anything went wrong. Five men, three vehicles, one target. Overkill for most situations.
But Weston wasn't most targets.
---
[Same Location — 1:30 AM]
The neighborhood slept.
Lights off in every house. Cars parked in driveways, their owners dreaming of ordinary problems. None of them knew what was about to happen on their quiet suburban street.
I checked my weapon for the fourth time. Habit. The pistol was loaded, safety off, ready. The backup piece sat heavy against my ankle. The Nord's knife—the one I'd taken months ago and never used—pressed against my ribs in a makeshift sheath.
Tonight it might finally taste blood.
The thought should have bothered me. It didn't.
Chibs's voice came through the earpiece, barely above a whisper. "Movement on the main road. Pickup truck, heading this direction."
My pulse quickened.
"Wait for visual confirmation."
Thirty seconds later: "Negative. Wrong vehicle. Passing through."
I let out a breath. Too early anyway. Weston's pattern was consistent—he arrived around 3 AM, stayed two hours, left before dawn. We had time.
Patience. You've waited this long. A few more hours won't kill you.
But those hours will kill him.
---
[Same Location — 2:30 AM]
The stars were beautiful.
I noticed them through the windshield during a moment of stillness—pinpricks of light scattered across the black sky, ancient and indifferent. A beautiful night for killing.
The thought formed without emotion. Just observation. The way you might note that it was a nice day for a picnic or a good evening for a walk.
That's what you've become. Someone who looks at stars and thinks about murder.
Chibs had asked what would happen after. Jax had warned about being hollowed out by revenge. They were right to be concerned. The man sitting in this car, watching a house, waiting to execute another human being—he wasn't the same person who'd arrived in Charming nine months ago.
But that person couldn't have done what needed doing. Couldn't have watched Zobelle's operation for weeks, built intelligence, led raids, burned businesses. Couldn't have held a dying Nord while bullets flew overhead.
You became what the situation required. Whether you can become something else afterward... that's tomorrow's problem.
Tonight, there was only the mission.
---
[Same Location — 2:45 AM]
"Vehicle approaching." Chibs's voice was sharp. "Dark SUV, matches the description."
I sat up, every nerve suddenly alive.
"Visual on driver?"
"Negative. Tinted windows. But the vehicle... that's the one from our surveillance."
The SUV turned onto the residential street, moving slowly, headlights dimmed. Cautious. Professional. The driving style of someone who'd learned to watch for tails.
It pulled up to the target house, parked in the shadow between streetlights. Engine cut. Silence.
A figure emerged—tall, muscled, moving with the particular confidence of a man who'd spent his life causing fear in others.
[TARGET CONFIRMED: AJ WESTON] [THREAT LEVEL: EXTREME]
I watched through binoculars as Weston scanned the street. His gaze passed over my vehicle, paused, moved on. I didn't breathe until he turned toward the house.
He approached the side door, produced a key, let himself in. The door closed behind him.
"Target is inside," I reported. "Clock starts now."
"Copy," Jax responded. "Positions hold."
The next two hours would feel like forever.
---
[Same Location — 3:30 AM]
My leg cramped.
Too long in the same position, muscles protesting the confinement. I shifted carefully, not wanting to create movement that might catch attention, and worked the cramp out with my fingers.
Small imperfections. The body doesn't care about your revenge schedule.
Inside that house, Weston was doing something human. Spending time with children who probably didn't understand why daddy only visited in the middle of the night. Maybe reading them stories. Maybe just watching them sleep.
Even monsters love something.
The thought didn't generate sympathy. Weston had made his choices. He'd chosen to hurt Gemma, to violate her, to leave her broken and silent. Whatever love he felt for his children didn't erase what he'd done.
Monsters who love their kids are still monsters.
And monsters die tonight.
---
[Same Location — 3:55 AM]
Five minutes.
I checked the pistol one final time. Adjusted my grip. Controlled my breathing.
"All units, five minutes to estimated exit. Report status."
"North position ready." Jax.
"South position ready." Chibs.
"Backup standing by." Tig.
"Copy all. On my mark."
The house remained dark except for a single dim light—probably a bathroom or hallway. Weston was preparing to leave. Following his pattern, predictable to the end.
This is really happening. In a few minutes, you're going to kill a man.
Not just any man. The man who raped Gemma. The man who's haunted your nightmares for weeks. The man you failed to stop.
This is the end of that failure. This is justice.
Or revenge. You're not sure there's a difference anymore.
I positioned my hand on the door handle. Ready to move.
---
[Same Location — 4:02 AM]
The side door opened.
Weston's silhouette appeared in the doorway, backlit by the dim hallway light. He paused, scanning the street with the paranoid attention of someone who'd survived by trusting no one.
His gaze swept across my vehicle. Lingered. Moved on.
He stepped outside, pulled the door closed quietly behind him. Reached into his jacket—checking his weapon, probably. Standard procedure for a man who lived in violence.
He walked toward his SUV.
"Target is moving. All units, prepare to engage."
My hand tightened on the door handle.
"Wait for him to reach the vehicle. We take him at the driver's door."
Weston walked slowly, still scanning. Halfway to the SUV. Two-thirds. Almost there.
His hand reached for the door handle.
"Now."
I was out of the sedan before the word finished, pistol up, moving fast across the street. Jax's vehicle roared to life, blocking the SUV's exit path. Chibs appeared from the shadows to the south, weapon raised.
Weston spun, saw the trap, and did exactly what I expected.
He went for his gun.
"Contact!" I shouted. "He's armed!"
The street exploded into chaos.
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