[SAMCRO Clubhouse — September 12, 2008, 7:45 PM]
The folder was heavy in my hands.
Two weeks of surveillance. Dozens of photos. Pages of notes, connections, patterns that painted a picture most people wouldn't want to see. I'd organized everything—made it presentable, undeniable, the kind of evidence that demanded attention.
Now I had to sell it.
Jax, Bobby, and Chibs sat around a table in the back of the clubhouse, away from the main crowd. The party noise was distant enough to allow conversation, close enough to cover it from curious ears.
"What's this about?" Bobby asked, eyeing the folder.
"The cigar shop. Zobelle. Everything I've been watching."
I spread the contents across the table. Photos first—Weston meeting with tattooed men, vehicles with out-of-state plates, the parade of faces that cycled through the shop after hours.
"This isn't just a business." I pointed to the key images. "It's a beachhead. Zobelle is League of American Nationalists—organized white supremacists with connections to Aryan Brotherhood, Darby's Nords, and political money I haven't been able to trace yet."
Jax picked up one of the photos. Weston's face, captured through a telephoto lens.
"AJ Weston. Did time in Arizona for hate crimes. He's Zobelle's enforcer—handles all the dirty work while Zobelle keeps his hands clean." I pulled out Juice's research. "These license plates trace back to prison system employees and AB-connected individuals. They're not hiding in plain sight—they're building an operation right under our noses."
Bobby examined the documents, his expression shifting from skepticism to concern.
"You did all this alone?"
"Didn't want to bring nothing to the table. Wanted something solid before I wasted anyone's time."
Chibs leaned forward, studying the photos. "These are serious accusations, brother. If we're wrong—"
"We're not wrong." I met his eyes. "I've been watching them for weeks. The pattern is clear. They're not here to sell cigars. They're here for us."
The silence stretched. Bobby set down the papers, rubbed his face.
"Even if everything you're saying is true—and I'm not saying it isn't—we can't move on this without provocation. We hit them first, we're the aggressors. We lose the moral high ground, we lose community support, we give law enforcement an excuse to come down on us."
"I understand that."
"Do you?" His voice was sharp. "Because what you're suggesting is war. And wars have casualties."
"So does waiting." I kept my voice controlled despite the frustration building in my chest. "When they throw the first punch—and they will—someone's going to get hurt badly. Maybe killed. Is that the provocation you need?"
Jax set down the photos. His expression was thoughtful, calculating.
"What do you suggest?"
"Increased security. On club assets, on family members. Don't announce why—just do it. Watch them while they think they're watching us." I took a breath. "And be ready. Because whatever they're planning, it's coming."
---
[SAMCRO Clubhouse — 8:30 PM]
The compromise wasn't enough.
But it was something.
Bobby agreed to quietly increase patrols around club properties. Chibs would coordinate with the prospects to maintain eyes on key locations. Jax would brief Clay on the intel—carefully, without revealing the extent of my investigation.
"You did good work," Jax said after the others left. "Bringing this forward instead of trying to handle it yourself."
"Doesn't feel like good work. Feels like warning people about a fire while they argue about where to put the extinguisher."
"Welcome to politics." His smile was grim. "The club doesn't move fast. Consensus takes time. But you've planted seeds. When something happens—if something happens—we won't be caught completely off guard."
"Is that enough?"
"It has to be." He clapped my shoulder. "Keep watching. Keep documenting. And next time they make a move, we'll have everything we need to justify a response."
He walked away.
I stood alone in the back room, surrounded by evidence that should have been enough and wasn't. The frustration needed an outlet before it consumed me.
---
[TM Garage — 9:15 PM]
The punching bag took everything I had.
Left hook. Right cross. Body shots that made the leather sing. I didn't bother with gloves—wanted to feel the impact, the pain, something real to ground the anger that wouldn't let go.
They're not listening. They think they understand but they don't. They don't know what's coming.
Gemma. The warehouse. Weston's men. The violation that changes everything.
Another combination. My knuckles split on the third punch, blood smearing across the bag's surface.
You tried. You did everything you could. And it's not enough because you can't tell them what you really know.
The bag swung back. I caught it, held it still, breathing hard.
So you keep watching. Keep positioning. And when the moment comes—if you can get there in time—you stop it yourself.
My hands shook as I unwrapped the tape I'd belatedly applied. The knuckles were raw, bleeding. Tomorrow they'd be swollen and painful.
Good. The pain would remind me what was at stake.
---
[Gemma's House — 11:30 PM]
I parked down the block, lights off, engine quiet.
Her house glowed warm through the windows. Gemma moving past the glass—putting dishes away, talking on the phone, living her life without knowing how close danger was circling.
She's the target. That's what the show made clear. They go after Gemma to hurt the club, to destabilize everything.
And you still don't know when.
The original timeline was fuzzy. Season 2 covered months of story time. The assault happened somewhere in the middle—after LOAN established themselves, after tensions escalated, but before the full war broke out.
Could be weeks. Could be days. Could be tomorrow.
I watched until the lights went off. Until Gemma's silhouette disappeared from view. Until the house went dark and quiet.
Then I sat there for another hour, watching the street, watching for vehicles that didn't belong.
Nothing.
But that didn't mean anything. LOAN was patient. Zobelle was strategic. They'd wait for the right moment—when Gemma was vulnerable, when the club was distracted, when they could strike without immediate consequences.
You can't be everywhere at once. You can't watch her twenty-four hours a day.
But you can try.
I started the engine and drove home, knowing I'd be back tomorrow.
To supporting Me in Pateron .
with exclusive access to more chapters (based on tiers more chapters for each tiers) on my Patreon, you get more chapters if you ask for more (in few days), plus new fanfic every week! Your support starting at just $6/month helps me keep crafting the stories you love across epic universes .
By joining, you're not just getting more chapters—you're helping me bring new worlds, twists, and adventures to life. Every pledge makes a huge difference!
👉 Join now at patreon.com/TheFinex5 and start reading today!