'So it comes full circle once again,' Ethan Zobelle thought to himself. He was sitting in the VIP lounge of the charter airline he preferred for his many travels. He'd done this many times before in the last three years, in many different cities. The biggest difference was that his beloved daughter, Polly, wasn't with him this time.
Polly had chosen to go visit the Irishman she was infatuated with as opposed to stay with him and be safe. She had paid for that with her life. Just as had happened to him when his beloved wife was killed, Zobelle wasn't able to stay long enough to bury his loved one. The county would take care of the burial. Someday in the future he would return to visit her grave and say goodbye.
For now, he was lucky to be able to escape with his life intact and the few thousands of dollars he'd stashed away in his carry bag. Just an hour before, he had been trapped in a deli/grocery store as Clay Morrow and his motorcycle gang waited in the parking lot. Morrow wanted to kill him in revenge for his orchestrating the gang rape of his wife, Gemma. Zobelle had mistakenly thought that harming her would destroy the club. He hadn't taken into consideration the possibility that Gemma Morrow wouldn't co-operate with his plan by keeping silent about the attack. That lack of planning on his part had led to this. Now that it was out that he was an informant for the FBI, the Charming Police Department, currently headed by Deputy Chief Hale, had no interest in protecting him any longer.
Just twenty four hours earlier, Zobelle had been the toast of the county and setting up a grand scheme to control the drug traffic to the prisons, using the Mayan motorcycle club to do so. He was also looking forward to wiping out the Sons of Anarchy motorcycle club, which was the only real obstacle in his way. Despite his forced affiliation with the FBI, he had the means and the opportunity to do whatever he wanted and no one could punish him. It had been ideal, twenty four hours ago.
The fragmented segments of the Sons of Anarchy came together again and they turned his lieutenant, Weston, against him, by telling Weston of Zobelle's providing guns to the Mayan gang. Weston had broken off his ties with Zobelle, calling him a race traitor. Weston was just too narrow minded, seeing only the racial war, and not the overall picture. Just as Noah Beatty said in the movie Network all those years ago: 'There are no races, no religions, no differences in cultures. There was only economics.' Money, that was all that mattered. By controlling cities, controlling the money, the League of American Nationalists would eventually win, but Weston couldn't see that.
Polly had also disappointed him. What was supposed to have been a one time thing, a diversion to keep the Hayes men guessing had blossomed into something more. Polly loved the young Irishman, and when it became apparent that the Zobelles needed to leave, she had chosen to say goodbye to her lover instead of adjusting and adapting.
The last three years should have taught her that goodbyes should never be said. Leave and leave quickly while you could, there might be no second chance. He could have prevented her from going, barred her from going to him somehow. But Polly was a grown woman, and he had no real authority over her. He couldn't stop her from going to him any more than Zobelle could quit breathing.
He'd had no time to really process his loss, standing in the deli/grocery after Hale had broken the news of Polly's death. Not with the motorcycle club waiting for him to come out. They'd already succeeded in getting the busload of children out of harm's way, and the clerk had mysteriously disappeared. Obviously, more of the Sons' work.
Zobelle had been prepared for the showdown, though he held out some hope that the Charming Police would show up to protect him, despite Hale's behavior on the phone. . He'd been forced to hole up in that little shop when the front wheel of his car seized up. That was another gift from the Sons, who'd ambushed him on the highway, and scared off the Mayans that had protected him. Alvarez, the leader, had leaped from the sedan, leaving Zobelle to fend for himself. He'd used the confusion to drive away, fighting the car the entire time as the front tire had been shot out.
He'd just about given up hope that the Charming Police would rescue him when a miracle occurred. Clay Morrow received a phone call and took off on his bike, followed by his four other riders. Zobelle didn't question his luck, but immediately called a cab to take him to the charter airline.
Mr. Zobelle?
He realizd the steward had been calling his name a couple of times. I'm sorry?
The steward's facial features changed from mild concern to courtesy. Mr. Zobelle, we're ready to let you board, now.
He rose from his seat and picked up his carry bag, then followed the steward to the plane. The first leg of the journey would be across the continental US, then onwards to Europe and eventually Budapest. Once he was airborne, there was nothing Clay Morrow and his gang could do to him.
He settled in the large leather airplane seat, setting the carry bag underneath him. He was the only passenger on the flight.
The usual, Mr. Zobelle? the steward asked.
Yes, please, he replied. His voice was so steady, so assured, as if his soul hadn't been torn to pieces inside.
The steward departed to fix his beverage, leaving Zobelle to stare out the window. He'd told Polly as he packed at the shop that they would adjust and adapt, just as they always had, and wait for God to provide the next opportunity. That was the plan, but the plan hadn't quite worked out the way it should've.
The steward brought his drink and laid it on the cup holder in Zobelle's chair. Will there be anything else, Mr. Zobelle?
No, thank you. I'd like to be left alone for awhile.
The steward nodded. Certainly, sir. The steward walked to the back of the plane and disappeared behind a door.
The airplane began taxiing to the runway that would signal the start of his long journey. He looked out the window without really seeing anything. He was seeing instead what he'd lost. His wife, his home, his business, his country, and now his daughter.
The plane picked up speed and slid gracefully into the air, continuing to climb until it reached it's assigned position. The pilot turned off the seat belt sign, and Zobelle unbuckled his seat belt, rose, and removed his coat. He folded it carefully and placed it on the back of the seat he'd just vacated.
Then he fell to his knees, great sobs racking his body. Tomorrow, he would adapt and adjust. Today, right now, he was a grieveing father.