[TM Garage — February 12, 2009, 9:00 AM]
Tig arrived with two cups of coffee and a folder thick with paperwork.
"SAA handbook," he said, dropping the folder on the workbench. "Not official. Just my notes from the last ten years."
I took the coffee, opened the folder. Inside were pages of handwritten notes, diagrams, protocols—the accumulated wisdom of a man who'd held this position through every crisis SAMCRO had faced.
"Security protocols for the clubhouse. Shift rotations for protection details. Procedures for discipline issues." Tig's voice was professional, stripped of the awkwardness that had colored our interactions since the vote. "The armory inventory. Weapons maintenance schedules. Contact lists for when things go bad."
"This is comprehensive."
"This is survival." He pulled up a stool, sat across from me. "SAA isn't just about fighting. Most of the job is thinking about fighting before it happens. Anticipating threats. Eliminating vulnerabilities." His eyes met mine. "You're already good at that part. Better than I was, honestly."
"Different skills, same goal."
"Maybe." He finished his coffee. "But there's another part. The discipline side. That's harder."
"Harder how?"
"Brothers are going to screw up. Prospects are going to step out of line. Old ladies are going to get disrespected. And you're the one who has to handle it." Tig's expression was complicated. "Fair but firm. Memorable but not cruel. It's a balance most people never find."
I thought about the war, about the executions, about the cold efficiency I'd developed when violence was necessary.
"I can handle it."
"I know you can. That's why I abstained instead of voting no." He stood, headed for the door. "There's more in that folder than you'll read in a day. Take your time. Learn it. And when you have questions, I'm here."
"Tig." He paused. "Thanks. For this."
"Don't thank me. Prove me right."
---
[SAMCRO Clubhouse — February 15, 2009, 7:00 PM]
The prospect's name was Tommy.
He was young, eager, exactly the kind of raw material SAMCRO looked for—tough enough to handle the life, hungry enough to prove himself. But tonight, he'd made a mistake.
"She was coming onto me," Tommy insisted, though his voice wavered. "I didn't mean any disrespect."
"Coming onto you." I kept my voice flat, controlled. "You're saying Chibs's old lady was coming onto you. In front of witnesses. At a club event."
"I mean... not exactly..."
"What exactly?"
The silence stretched. Tommy's face went from defiant to worried to genuinely scared as the seconds ticked by.
"I made a comment. About her... you know." He gestured vaguely. "It was just a joke."
"A joke." I looked around the room—the bar area where this was happening, the witnesses who'd reported the incident, Chibs himself standing in the corner with murder in his eyes. "And when she told you to stop?"
"I didn't think she was serious."
"So you kept going."
"I..."
"You disrespected a member's woman. After being told to stop. In front of people who would obviously report it." I stepped closer. "That's not a joke. That's contempt. Contempt for the rules, contempt for the club, contempt for the man whose protection you want to earn."
Tommy's face went pale.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"
"You're going to apologize to her. Personally. Then to Chibs. Then you're going to spend the next month on the worst details we have—cleaning toilets, midnight runs, every job nobody else wants." I held his eyes. "And if I hear about anything like this again, you won't be a prospect anymore. You'll be a memory. Understood?"
"Understood."
"Then get out of my sight."
Tommy fled. The bar remained silent until he was gone, then slowly returned to normal conversation.
Chibs approached, face unreadable.
"That was well done."
"It was necessary."
"Aye. But well done nonetheless." He extended his hand. "You'll do fine in this role, brother. Better than fine."
I shook his hand, felt the weight of what I'd just done. Not violence—something harder. Authority, wielded with precision, leaving marks that wouldn't show but wouldn't fade.
Is this who you are now? The enforcer who makes people afraid with words instead of weapons?
Maybe. Is that better or worse than the alternative?
---
[TM Gym — February 18, 2009, 2:00 PM]
Happy Lowman hit like a truck.
The Tacoma SAA had arrived that morning for a "visit"—the kind of professional assessment that happened when someone new took over an important role. We'd circled each other verbally for an hour, then he'd suggested we "work out."
"Working out" meant trying to kill each other in the makeshift gym behind TM.
His fist caught my ribs before I could block, driving the air from my lungs. I twisted away, created distance, reset my stance.
[COMBAT ASSESSMENT: HAPPY LOWMAN] [THREAT LEVEL: SEVERE] [RECOMMENDATION: CAUTION]
No kidding.
"You drop your left shoulder before you punch," Happy observed, voice flat. "Telegraphs your intention."
"Thanks for the tip."
He came again—fast, brutal, the economical violence of someone who'd spent decades perfecting the craft of hurting people. I blocked the first strike, ate the second, managed to land a body shot that actually made him grunt.
"Better."
We went for another twenty minutes. By the end, I was pretty sure several of my ribs were cracked, one eye was swelling shut, and my respect for Happy Lowman had increased substantially.
"You'll do." He handed me a towel, barely breathing hard himself. "Most guys who take SAA, they think it's about being tough. Willing to hurt people."
"It's not?"
"That's the easy part. Anyone can hurt people." His dead eyes held something that might have been wisdom. "The hard part is knowing when not to. When to talk instead of fight. When to let things slide. When to be patient."
"Patience wasn't in Tig's handbook."
"Tig's good. But he runs hot." Happy shrugged. "You don't. That's why you'll be better."
Better. High praise from a man who'd killed more people than most wars.
"Thanks."
"Don't thank me. Stay alive long enough to earn it."
---
[Cole's Apartment — February 18, 2009, 9:00 PM]
Sarah's face when she saw me was carefully neutral.
"What happened?"
"Training." I lowered myself onto the couch, wincing as my ribs protested. "With someone from another chapte r."
"Training that leaves you looking like you lost a fight?"
"I did lose. But I learned something." I accepted the ice pack she handed me. "The guy I was sparring with—he's the best at what I do. Was. Learning from him is worth a few bruises."
"A few bruises." She sat beside me, examined my face with professional attention. "That eye needs ice, not just the ribs. And you should get X-rays tomorrow."
"Yes, nurse."
"Don't be cute." But she was almost smiling. "Is this what SAA means? Coming home looking like you went through a meat grinder?"
"Sometimes. Hopefully not often." I leaned into the couch, let the ice do its work. "The sparring was a test. Making sure I could handle myself. Once they're satisfied I can..."
"Once they're satisfied you can what?"
"Protect the club. Discipline the prospects. Handle the security that keeps everyone safe." I met her eyes. "It's responsibility. Real responsibility. Not just following orders—actually making decisions that affect people."
Sarah was quiet for a moment.
"You wanted this," she said finally. "I can see it in how you talk about it. Even battered and bruised, you're... energized."
"Is that a problem?"
"I don't know." She leaned against me, careful of the injuries. "The man I fell in love with was already complicated. An outlaw who thinks like a strategist, who plans like a general, who carries weights he never talks about." Her hand found mine. "Now he's officially the club's enforcer. I guess I'm still figuring out how I feel about that."
"Fair enough."
"But I'm not going anywhere." She squeezed my hand. "Whatever you're becoming, I'm here for it. Just... try not to come home looking like this too often."
"Deal."
---
[SAMCRO Clubhouse — February 20, 2009, 10:00 AM]
The security review took most of the morning.
I walked through every protocol, every procedure, every system that protected the club and its assets. Some were solid—years of Tig's careful work building defenses that worked. Others had gaps, vulnerabilities that hadn't mattered during quieter times but could be exploited by someone determined.
"Front gate needs camera coverage," I noted, adding to the list. "Blind spot on the east side of the lot. Clubhouse back entrance has a lock that's been broken for months."
"Money," Bobby said, reviewing the list over my shoulder. "How much to fix everything?"
"Maybe fifteen thousand for the priority items. More if we want to be thorough."
"Write up a proposal. I'll present it to church."
I nodded, continued the review. Armory next—weapons inventory, maintenance records, ammunition stocks. Tig had kept meticulous records, but some of the inventory was aging. Replacements would need to be sourced.
This is the job now. Not just fighting—thinking about fighting before it happens. Building defenses that prevent violence instead of responding to it.
Different from the war. Different from revenge. But maybe better.
The clubhouse was quiet, most members elsewhere on legitimate business. I sat at the bar, spreading out the security assessment, planning improvements that would protect the family I'd joined.
[QUEST UPDATED: SAA RESPONSIBILITIES] [OBJECTIVE: IMPLEMENT SECURITY IMPROVEMENTS]
Cameron's still out there, building toward whatever he becomes in Season 2's finale. Stahl's in Seattle, but Unser was right—she has a long memory. And somewhere in the future, Half-Sack dies and Abel gets kidnapped.
You're SAA now. The club's protection is your responsibility.
Don't waste the authority. Use it to prevent what's coming.
My phone buzzed. A text from Jax: "Church tomorrow. Cameron wants a meeting about expansion. Your area."
The Irish connection. Still building, still developing. And Cameron Hayes at the center of it—ally for now, potential threat later.
Watch him. Learn him. And when the time comes, be ready.
I pocketed the phone, returned to the security assessment. The work continued. The weight of the SAA patch on my kutte reminded me what I'd accepted.
Enforcer's weight. Responsibility for every brother's safety. Authority to discipline, to protect, to prevent.
Heavy. But you've carried heavier.
Time to prove you can carry this too.
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