[Teller-Morrow Automotive — January 8, 2009, 2:00 PM]
The black SUVs pulled into the lot like a funeral procession.
I spotted them from the garage bay where I'd been working on a customer's transmission, hands freezing mid-motion as three federal vehicles rolled to a stop in the TM parking lot. The lead SUV's door opened, and Agent June Stahl stepped out like she owned the place.
Here we go.
She looked different than I remembered from the surveillance photos during the Opie situation—sharper somehow, more polished. The kind of predator who'd learned to dress like the prey. Two agents flanked her, both young, both carrying the eager-to-prove-themselves energy of recent academy graduates.
"Cole." Bobby's voice came from behind me, low and controlled. "Go find Jax. Tell him we have company."
I set down my tools, wiped my hands on a rag that didn't get them clean, and headed toward the clubhouse. Behind me, I heard Bobby's voice shift into its professional register—the one he used for negotiations and lawyers.
"Agent Stahl. To what do we owe the pleasure?"
Jax met me at the clubhouse door, already aware of the situation. Someone had texted him the moment the SUVs appeared.
"Stahl?"
"In person. Bobby's stalling."
"Good." His jaw tightened. "Let's see what she wants."
---
[TM Parking Lot — January 8, 2009, 2:15 PM]
By the time we reached the lot, a small crowd had gathered. Tig and Chibs stood near the garage bay doors, arms crossed, radiating the particular hostility they reserved for law enforcement. Half-Sack had positioned himself near the office entrance, trying to look casual and failing.
Stahl noticed our approach, her smile widening into something cold and professional.
"Jackson Teller. And..." Her eyes found mine, paused, catalogued. "Cole Ashford. The club's newest full patch. Quite the year you've had."
"Do I know you?"
"You should. I've been studying all of you." She pulled out a folder, let it hang in her hand like a prop. "Especially the operational changes since the LOAN situation. Very impressive. Almost professional."
"We run a legitimate automotive business," Bobby interjected. "Whatever you're implying—"
"I'm not implying anything." Stahl's voice stayed pleasant, reasonable—the tone of someone who knew they held cards they hadn't played yet. "I'm stating facts. SAMCRO has connections to the Real IRA. Guns move through Northern California with your help. And I'm going to prove it."
The words hung in the air. Around us, the club's collective tension ratcheted up another notch.
"You're fishing," Jax said flatly. "Same as always."
"Am I?" Stahl tucked the folder back into her jacket. "The gun runners I'm investigating in Oakland have interesting friends. Friends who do business with friends who do business with you." She smiled. "It's a small world, Jackson. Everything connects eventually."
"Then connect it. Until you have something real, we've got work to do."
Stahl didn't move. Her eyes swept across the gathered members, landing on each face, memorizing, evaluating. When her gaze reached me again, it lingered.
"Mr. Ashford. You've been handling a lot of the club's... logistics... lately. We should talk sometime. Privately."
"I'll have my lawyer call your lawyer."
"Of course you will." She turned back toward her SUV, pausing at the door. "Gentlemen. We'll be in touch."
The vehicles pulled out as smoothly as they'd arrived. We watched them go, no one speaking until the last SUV disappeared around the corner.
"Church," Clay's voice came from the clubhouse doorway. "Now."
---
[SAMCRO Chapel — January 8, 2009, 2:45 PM]
The chapel doors closed, sealing us in with the weight of what had just happened.
"She's not bluffing." Bobby spoke first, laying out the situation with his usual directness. "Stahl's been building something. The Oakland runners she mentioned—they're connected to suppliers who are connected to Cameron's operation."
"How connected?" Clay demanded.
"Two, maybe three degrees of separation. Enough to build a conspiracy case if she can find the right pressure points."
"The IRA is our biggest vulnerability," I said. "If Stahl can flip someone in the chain—a runner, a middleman, anyone who can testify about where the guns go—she's got leverage."
"So we cut the chain." Tig's solution, as always, was direct.
"We can't cut the chain without losing the business." Chibs shook his head. "The Irish account for thirty percent of our income. Walking away isn't an option."
"Then we protect the chain." I leaned forward, mind racing through options. "Compartmentalize. Right now, too many people know too many pieces. We restructure so that each part only knows its own role. Stahl can't find connections that don't exist on paper."
Jax nodded slowly. "Go on."
"We create cutouts. Intermediaries who handle specific segments without knowing the full picture. Payment moves through separate channels than product. Communication happens through isolated systems." I looked around the table. "It's how intelligence agencies operate. Cells, not networks. You can compromise one cell without compromising the whole structure."
"Can you implement this?" Clay asked.
"With Juice's help, yes. It'll take time—maybe two weeks to restructure everything. But once it's in place, Stahl would need to flip half a dozen people to build a case. And even then, she'd have gaps."
"Do it." Clay's gavel struck the table. "Cole, you're running point on this. Whatever you need, you get."
"Understood."
The meeting continued—logistics, assignments, contingencies. But the core decision was made. We were going on defense, building walls that Stahl would have to breach one brick at a time.
---
[TM Back Lot — January 8, 2009, 4:30 PM]
The cigarette tasted like stress.
I'd quit smoking months ago—Sarah's influence—but kept a pack in my jacket for moments exactly like this. The nicotine hit my bloodstream, smoothing edges that had gone ragged during Stahl's visit.
She knows. Maybe not everything, but enough to be dangerous.
And she looked at you specifically. Remembered you. That's not random.
The federal SUVs were long gone, but I could still feel their presence—the weight of institutional attention that had settled over TM like a fog. Stahl was patient, thorough, and motivated by something personal. The Opie situation had made her look incompetent. She'd be looking to restore her reputation.
Which makes her predictable. Ambitious people always are.
Use that. Give her something to chase that leads nowhere. Burn her resources on dead ends until she makes a mistake.
My phone buzzed. Chibs.
"Cole. We need to talk to Cameron. Tonight if possible."
"I was just thinking the same thing. The IRA needs to know what's coming."
"Aye. I'll set it up. Oakland, eight o'clock."
"I'll be there."
I crushed the cigarette under my boot, watched the last wisps of smoke disappear into the January air.
The federal snake returns. This time, you're ready.
Time to show her what happens when the mouse fights back.
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