[SAMCRO Clubhouse — November 8, 2008, 10:00 AM]
Juice's keyboard clicked in rapid bursts.
"He's moving money. Fast." The screen filled with transaction records, bank statements, financial trails that painted a picture of a man preparing to disappear. "Zobelle's liquidating everything—property, investments, shell companies. Everything's being converted to cash and offshore accounts."
I leaned over his shoulder, studying the data.
"How much?"
"Hard to say exactly. At least three million in the past week. Probably more through channels I can't track." Juice highlighted a cluster of transactions. "He's not just running. He's erasing himself."
Of course he is. Zobelle's not a fighter like Weston. He's a strategist. When the game turns against him, he leaves the board.
"Can you trace where the money's going?"
"Some of it. Cayman accounts, Swiss banks, the usual rich-guy disappearing act." He pulled up a map. "But here's what's interesting—he's also moving physical cash. Large withdrawals from local banks, routed through intermediaries. That kind of liquidity means he's planning to travel light and fast."
"When?"
"Based on the pattern? Soon. Days, not weeks."
He's going to run. Vanish into some country without extradition, rebuild his hate empire somewhere else. And Gemma's justice dies with him.
"Keep tracking. I want to know the moment anything changes."
---
[Charming Streets — November 10, 2008, 2:30 PM]
The news came through the radio.
"—federal authorities today arrested Polly Zobelle on multiple charges related to drug trafficking. The daughter of Charming businessman Ethan Zobelle was taken into custody following a months-long ATF investigation—"
I pulled over, turned up the volume.
"—evidence suggests Ms. Zobelle served as a key connection between white supremacist organizations and narcotics distribution networks. Agent June Stahl, lead investigator, called the arrest 'a significant blow to criminal enterprises operating under the cover of legitimate business'—"
It worked. The evidence package, the anonymous tip—Stahl took the bait and ran with it.
Polly's in federal custody. Zobelle's lost his daughter, his enforcer, his infrastructure. Everything he built is crumbling.
I should have felt satisfaction. Instead, there was only the cold calculation of next steps.
He'll run faster now. Polly's arrest removes his last reason to stay. If we don't find him soon, he's gone.
---
[Bobby's Office, TM — November 12, 2008, 4:00 PM]
"Unser's contacts came through."
Bobby spread papers across his desk—unofficial police reports, surveillance notes, the kind of intelligence that flowed through backdoor channels between law enforcement and the club.
"Zobelle's been meeting with a lawyer named Hartman. Immigration specialist. Handles passport issues, visa problems, that kind of thing." He tapped one document. "Hartman's got connections to private aviation companies. The kind that don't ask questions about flight plans."
"He's arranging safe passage."
"That's what it looks like." Bobby's expression was grim. "Word is he's got a window—sometime in the next few days. After that, he's in the wind."
"Do we know where he is now?"
"Moving between safe houses. His political connections are sheltering him—people who don't know or don't care what he really is." Bobby leaned back. "He's smart, Cole. He's been doing this a long time. If anyone can disappear, it's him."
"Then we don't let him disappear."
"That's the plan. But we need to find him first." He met my eyes. "Juice is tracking the money. I've got Unser's people watching known associates. Sooner or later, he'll make a move. We need to be ready."
Sooner. It has to be sooner. Every day he's free is another day Gemma's justice goes unfulfilled.
And another day you carry the weight of failing her.
---
[Cole's Apartment — November 14, 2008, 9:00 PM]
Sarah watched me from across the kitchen table.
I'd been staring at my phone for twenty minutes, waiting for updates that hadn't come. The food she'd made—some kind of pasta—was getting cold on my plate.
"Will it ever be over?"
The question was soft, tired. The voice of a woman who'd spent months watching her partner disappear into a war that seemed to have no end.
"This part." I set down the phone, met her eyes. "Yes. Soon."
"And then?"
And then I figure out who I am without revenge to define me. If there's anything left worth finding.
"Then we figure out what comes next. Together."
She nodded slowly. Didn't ask what "this part" meant, what "soon" looked like, what the violence had cost me. She'd learned not to ask those questions. Whether that was wisdom or resignation, I couldn't tell.
"I'm still here, Cole." Her hand found mine across the table. "Whenever you're ready to come back. I'm still here."
But am I still here? Or did the man you fell in love with die somewhere between the safehouse raids and the desert grave?
"I know." I squeezed her fingers. "I know you are."
---
[TM Garage — November 15, 2008, 11:30 PM]
Juice's call came just before midnight.
"Found him."
I was off the couch before the second word finished, already reaching for my keys.
"Where?"
"Private airstrip outside Lodi. Small operation, handles corporate jets and wealthy clients who want discretion." His voice was tight with excitement. "Zobelle chartered a plane. Departure scheduled for 6 AM tomorrow morning."
"Destination?"
"Argentina. Non-extradition country. He's got contacts there—old LOAN connections from the European networks."
Argentina. He was going to disappear into South America, rebuild his operation, and never face consequences for what he ordered.
Not if we get there first.
"You're sure about the timing?"
"Flight plan was filed two hours ago. The plane's already at the airstrip, being fueled. He's coming, Cole. This is our window."
I was already dialing Jax.
"Get the team together. We move tonight."
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