Disclaimer: I do not own Sons of Anarchy. I do, however, own Marlowe and any other OCs that appear in the Two Sons Universe.

A/N: I really miss hearing from my readers, so I hope posting this chapter early will spur you to post a review. I would like to know how you guys are feeling about Marlowe and Happy and, finally, Jax makes his first appearance in this chapter. I don't usually like to post on Fridays, but I hope you will make my weekend a happy one with reviews on Chapters 3 and 4 if you have the time. Love, Harlee.

Stockton State Penitentiary, CA – March 2009

Stockton State Penitentiary was a sprawling institutional complex spread out over 2500 acres some 20 miles north of Stockton's city limits. Comprised of four cell blocks, the more than 3600 inmates that called the prison home were sequestered into groups based on the nature of their crimes and their potential for violence.

Minimum security inmates, those incarcerated for non-violent offenses, were housed in Cell Blocks A and C and were allowed to work within the secured perimeter of the prison. With the exception of protective custody inmates held in individual cells, these inmates were housed in large dormitories, their time on the inside considered the easiest by their more hardcore counterparts. With medium security inmates housed in Cell Block B, it was Cell Block D that housed California's most violent offenders, including those living on borrowed time as they waited out their appeals on Death Row.

With its large yard used for inmate recreation surrounded by the four cell blocks and several administrative buildings, Stockton Prison was an impenetrable fortress. Built in 1941, the prison boasted a reputation of being inescapable. Thanks to its four-foot thick concrete block walls and two-story high barbed wire fences, no inmate had ever managed to make an unauthorized exit. This was a fact that provided some comfort for the residents in the surrounding area who deemed the inmates as little more than animals; murderers, rapists and thieves being the worst of the lot.

Life inside the prison was a rigid set of regimented activities designed to remind an inmate that they had given up the right to exercise their free will once they crossed the threshold into the penitentiary. However, despite the armed guards that roamed the cell blocks ready to crack skulls if necessary, the reality was that the convicts were the ones in charge of how they lived their lives in prison. They existed in an alternate universe of their own creation where women didn't exist except in the contraband pages of Hustler magazine and where paper money had been replaced as the currency of choice by cartons of cigarettes.

In this environment, the pack mentality thrived and the only way for an inmate to survive was to align himself with one of the segregated groups that ran the prison and the yard. With a number of Hispanic, Black, White and Asian gangs populating Stockton, if an inmate didn't have affiliation with any of the gangs by ethnicity alone, then he needed the hook-up for protection or life on the inside could quickly become deadly.

For the six members of the Sons of Anarchy Redwood Original, that fact had been made crystal clear the day Jackson Teller almost died.

Wednesday, March 25, 2009

Almost two weeks in the prison infirmary and Jax still couldn't get himself into an upright position.

Moving slower than a man his age should and with a considerable amount of pain, Jax finally managed to approximate what from a distance might look like sitting up. He wasn't a pussy, but the searing pain in his punctured lung and gut made breathing almost impossible while trying to move. Taking short, shallow breaths, Jax allowed his eyes to wander around the small dank ward of the prison infirmary before he attempted another go at sitting upright.

St. Thomas it sure as hell ain't, he noted grimly, taking in the depressing gray paint on the walls and the small but high barred windows that kept the sun's rays from penetrating the gloomy room. The only plus that had come from having a machine breath for him when pneumonia had set in about a week after almost dying was being spared having to breath in the stale stank air of blood, piss and vomit, lightly masked by the stench of industrial-strength bleach.

The room's only other occupant was another inmate named Frank. Frank was 65 years old and had end-stage prostate cancer. Having served only four years of a 25-year sentence for killing his estranged wife by running her over several times with his car, Frank had been denied his request for a compassionate release. With no family willing or able to see to his round-the-clock care during his final days, Frank had recently slipped into a coma. Jax couldn't help but feel bad for the man. Instead of being surrounded by his loved ones, it was only a matter of time before Frank slipped away permanently and Jax would be the only one around to witness it.

The fact that he had come close to sharing a similar fate with Frank just twenty-six days into his stay in Stockton was not lost on Jax. The plastic i.d. band on his left wrist identified him as Inmate T33714, a constant reminder that he was nothing but a number within these walls. As such, all he could expect was to be treated like less than an animal if the fact that he had been kept shackled to the railing while on his death bed was anything to go by.

Jiggling the handcuffs on his left arm that kept him attached to the bed, Jax sighed. Sitting up would have been so much easier without them and with no one around to lend a hand, Jax resigned himself to staying only semi-upright. Leaning his head covered in blond fuzz against the metal bed frame, Jax tossed his pencil onto his lap in frustration and used his right hand to stroke his growing beard restlessly.

Jax had known that doing this stint in Stockton wasn't going to be easy. Short time, long time, it didn't matter. Any time in the joint never was. Separated from the world he knew in Charming, life on the inside always felt like he was living in suspended animation while his brothers and loved ones back home continued going on with their lives. As he almost bled out by the pay phones, Jax couldn't help but think that even though he would be mourned if he died, eventually life would go on without him. Tara and Abel had been at the forefront of his mind. Now that he finally had something truly worth dying for aside from the Club, Jax wasn't ready to die and let life go on without him.

When it came to doing what needed to be done, Jax may have seriously underestimated the results but the decision to turn the tables on the Club's enemies had been a pretty easy one to make. Standing in his mother's hospital room, Jax had watched the strongest woman he had ever known break down after being threatened by Special Agent June Stahl with life in prison without her family. Faced with fifteen years in a federal prison himself, the realization of all he would ultimately end up losing—his mother, his son and his Club—had spurred Jax into taking action fueled by the need for vengeance. He had been determined to find a way out of the bind they were in to save everyone he loved.

The plan to get his mother out of having to serve time and getting a reduced sentence for the Club while giving Agent Stahl and Jimmy O'Phelan a healthy dose of outlaw justice had come to Jax in a blur. The tricky part had been convincing the Club that any of it was at all possible, much less all of it. Clay had been the most vocal dissenter, believing that there was a real risk in Jax dangling himself on a hook in front of the unbelievably suspicious and savvy ATF agent. The crazy gash had proven herself to be off her rocker and was capable of anything, including murder, but she wasn't stupid.

It didn't matter what Jax promised in return, it was going to take the performance of a lifetime to convince Stahl that the Prince of Charming would turn rat on his Club in order to save his mother and son. A lot of shit had gone wrong before they had gone right. The Club had lost some SAMBEL brothers along the way, with Keith McGee's betrayal hitting them the hardest, but in the end, Jax and the Club had come out on top. Having succeeded in retrieving his son from Ireland, the Club had managed to wipe clean their roster of current enemies, including Hector Salazar. Unfortunately for Jax, his efforts to save his family had put SAMCRO on the radar of a new set of extremely powerful enemies. Enemies who, apparently, had a long reach.

The decision to double-cross Victor Putlova, head of the ROC's Oregon crew, had been made on the fly. The intention had never been to cheat Putlova, but he had forced their hand when he demanded $2 million for Jimmy O. They knew the Russians would come at them hard, but no one had anticipated that they'd come at them so fast, less than a month into the Club's 14-month stretch. With no way of knowing for sure how his brothers were doing, Jax could only hope that the fact that he was alone in the infirmary—aside from Frank—meant that they were alive and well.

In his mind's eye, Jax remembered the nervous anticipation he had felt while waiting his turn on line. At the time, Jax had convinced himself that he was just anxious to speak to Tara and hear her voice. He should have known better than to confuse that feeling in the pit of his stomach for anything other than his instincts warning him of the potential danger. Clay had made it clear that they were to stay close together at all times and watch each other's backs. At the very least, they were to always move around in pairs.

What he should have done was take Happy's advice about leaving the outside on the outside and just concentrate on staying alive. He had seen Jax brooding over a picture of his old lady and his son one too many times and had warned him that, if he wasn't careful, that kind of distraction could prove to be his downfall. Of course, Jax had taken offense, chalking up Happy's flippant attitude to the fact that he didn't have an old lady waiting on him to come home. In hindsight, Jax made the resolution to never disregard what his brother had to say ever again. He wasn't much of a talker but when he did open his mouth, Happy had proven time and again that he had the instincts and the smarts to back it up.

The more Jax thought about it, however, the more convinced he became that had it not happened that day at the pay phones, it was bound to happen anywhere. In the yard, on the chow line, in the showers or maybe even in his cell. Jax had no clue what the hell the inmate that had repeatedly plunged the homemade shiv into his gut had said in guttural Russian. For all he knew, it was something along the lines of "Eat shit and die, muthafucka", but his intention had been crystal clear.

Putlova had wanted him dead.

With his left lung punctured, had any of the knife wounds been an inch closer to another vital organ, dead he would have been and that fact plagued Jax's every waking moment. As he slowly recovered, all Jax had was time to think about his life and all the choices he had made that had brought him to this moment in time. The Life was all he knew, all he had ever wanted since he was barely out of diapers. Jax had always known that living the Life came at a high price. Only difference now was that he was no longer certain if that was a price he was willing to pay.

Especially not when the price for my crimes is the blood of innocents, Jax thought about Tara and the child she had lost during the Salazar kidnapping ordeal.

Now, Jax had to figure out where he was going from here. Getting a second chance at living, Jax wasn't so arrogant as to not learn from his past mistakes. The simple fact was that if he continued on this path he would only end up in prison for the rest of his life or dead and neither option worked for Jax. His rational mind, however, was telling him to first concentrate on recovering and then making it out of Stockton alive. There was still plenty of time between now and then and a lot of thinking to do before making a decision that could drastically alter the rest of his life.

With not much else to do, Jax had no choice but to reexamine his life, including his time spent in Belfast looking for Abel. His time there had opened his eyes in ways that deep down he wished it hadn't. He may have been young in the months before JT's death, but those final memories of his father were making a whole lot of sense to Jax in light of his conversations with Father Kellan Ashby.

Out of disappointment and frustration, Jax had declared that he was done listening to dead men. If he was honest with himself, what he had really been saying was that he wished he had never found JT's manuscript in the first place. The outlaw life had been much less complicated for Jax while he had been living with blinders on. But now, in the aftermath of McGee's betrayal and in spite of the fact that Jax still believed JT to be a weak man, his father had been right about the direction in which the Club was headed. No longer a club based on the love of brotherhood, it was now ruled by fear and greed and was quickly heading down a path of self-destruction.

As Jax had read his father's manuscript for the first time, he more than once had to suppress the voice in his head that asked why JT had wasted his time writing about all that had gone wrong with his vision instead of getting up off his ass and fixing it. As soon as those thoughts would pop into his head, Jax would remind himself that JT had run out of time. That he had died before he got the chance to right the wrongs. After learning about JT and Maureen Ashby, however, the real answer was now crystal clear.

JT had written the book with the intention that someone else fix the Club. And in spite of dedicating the book to the hope that Jax never know this life of chaos, Jax now understood that even that had been bullshit. What other life could he have possibly known if his own father had been unwilling or unable to make the changes himself? The sense of obligation and duty that Jax had felt as he read his father's words were real because that's exactly what JT had intended, that Jax be the one to save it.

According to Kellan Ashby, JT had wanted nothing more than the chance to start over. Jax now believed that maybe that do-over meant starting a new life for himself in Ireland with Maureen and their daughter Trinity, not fixing what was broken back in Charming. His father, the man he had worshipped like a hero had been responsible for bringing Jax into this life of chaos and then had tried to back away, leaving behind a collection of words with the hope that Jax would be able to find his own way out of it.

And Jax knew that the greed that running guns had introduced into the brotherhood would ultimately end up killing him if he didn't figure a way out for the Club. He loved the MC, had come close to sacrificing his life for it, but even Jax knew that it would be arrogant of him to believe that one man was capable of refocusing the Club's vision away from the money the guns brought in.

But with the Club at a crossroads, Jax knew that more than their livelihood was at stake. Brains Before Bullets still meant something to Jax and he knew his brothers well enough to know that they were still good men. He just needed to find a way to make them see once again that their brotherhood didn't have to be drenched in blood in order to work.

Picking up the pencil that lay in his lap again, Jax continued to write down his thoughts in the notebook he constantly kept at his side and hoped to one day share with his son. Journaling helped with his thought process. Seeing his thoughts down in simple black and white helped him keep what needed to be done in perspective and at the forefront of his mind.

Because Jax was determined to get out of Stockton alive in order to start and finish what his old man hadn't had the balls to do himself.

Jackson Teller was going to save SAMCRO.

Lying on a narrow bed on top of a thin mattress, the stretched out figure lay silently composed as the long minutes of the days stretched out before him. Doing a stretch in the hole wasn't a big deal. Even though it had been more than eight years since his last stint in prison and he was no longer a young man, he had done time in solitary many a time before this.

Clarence Morrow slowly managed to turn his large frame onto his side in the pitch darkness. Flexing hands he could barely see in front of him, Clay grimaced as near-paralyzing pain shot through them. This time, however, it wasn't just the arthritis that was bothering him. He rubbed his rough hewn fingers across the scabs that had formed over his knuckles. These served as trophies earned by the 60-year old biker after Clay and his brothers had beat the ever-loving shit out of a Russian goon squad in the Chow Hall. It wasn't meant as retribution. That would come later, but the very spirited melee between SAMCRO and the agents of Victor Putlova had gone a long way in calming Clay's fury.

The anger and rage Clay had felt upon learning that his son had been brutally attacked had been nothing short of overwhelming. As much as the Sons' President was enraged by the audacity of the Russians for going after SAMCRO's VP, a lot of Clay's anger was directed at himself. The well-being of his men was his responsibility and Clay had known that landing in Stockton at this particular time would be dangerous, but he had hoped to secure protection for them once on the inside. And because he hadn't worked fast enough, and because the attack had come without warning, Jax had ended up paying the price.

When Tig and Happy had questioned him about retribution soon after the attack, Clay had told them to stand down until he had a chance to think rationally. All intentions of doing some rational thinking flew out of his fuckin' head, however, the moment a crew of Russian inmates taunted them as they sat having a meal only hours after the attack. Needless to say, Clay lost his shit and, before any of his brothers could stop him, he had plowed right in with his huge meat hooks and pounded on the nearest and biggest Russian.

With adrenaline pumping through his veins, Clay felt a fury like no other that allowed him to beat on the Russian prick with the strength of two men. His brothers had joined in and for a while nothing was heard over the yelling, grunting and cursing. In his peripheral vision, Clay had seen Bobby kick a much younger man in the balls; Happy had gleefully busted another in the face with his own skull before twisting his assailant's dick in a knot and heaving him across the room to crash into a table; Tig—his brother from another mother—had blood dripping from his mouth as he spat out a huge piece of some gulag's ear; and Juice had slammed his opponents face onto the hard metal surface of a table repeatedly until the man's nose erupted in a shower of blood.

It had been glorious, that is, until the guards had come storming in. Armed with riot gear, including batons, the bulls quickly subdued the battling inmates and Clay and his brothers found themselves tossed into the hole for two weeks. Not only had Clay managed to get himself some payback for what had been done to Jax, but by the same stroke he procured the Club temporary protection from further attacks by landing them in solitary confinement.

Judging by the rumbling in his stomach, it was clearly chow time and Clay wondered when the hell the guard was planning on stepping up with his very shitty food. He winced as the rectangular slot in the door suddenly opened and allowed a bright beam to shine in, making his light-deprived eyes water.

"It's about damn time," Clay muttered to himself. Sitting in an upright position, Clay was about to stand to grab the small box of food when he heard the locks of the door click open.

A tall bristly-haired guard stood in the open doorway, his baton at his side. "Times up, Morrow."

"What the fuck?" Clay muttered with a slight smirk. "It's been two weeks already?"

"Yep. Looks like you're sprung." Bill "Parce" Parson pulled the door wide open. "Your buddies are being cut loose today, too."

Clay rubbed his hands over his face thick with stubble as he stepped out of the hole. "I guess I lost track of time."

"Well, you are getting old, geezer. It's to be expected," Parce smiled as Clay eyed him irritably. "Got something for you though. Make wise use of it. Minutes are limited."

Reaching out Clay took the burner from the guard's grasp and tucked it into the waistband of his pants. "Thanks. I owe ya."

"I know you do," Parce replied easily as he led the man through the doors of the solitary confinement section and headed towards Cell Block D.

"Any word on how my boy's doing?" Clay asked.

"Still in the infirmary. He's alive, but won't be back in Gen Pop for a long while. He's still recovering from a bout of pneumonia and the Doc thinks he might be bleeding into his stomach. Could need surgery again." Entering the Cell Block, the guard navigated Clay through several long dark hallways of cells currently unoccupied before stopping in front of his. "But don't let that setback stall you in securing protection and quick. Word on the block is that there's a kill order out on him, so make your call now. Inmates won't be back in their cells for another thirty. For your sake, I hope you get what you need," Parce said grimly, "and that includes my money."

"Don't worry," Clay assured the guard. "You'll be taken care of."

Walking inside, Clay sat down on his bunk, the bottom one. He had been counting on having to switch bunks with Jax. With his son still recovering, there was no way Jax was going to manage hauling his ass up there. Now it looked like it was going to be a while before he could lay eyes on his VP once again.

Before that happens, I need to get down to business, Clay thought grimly. Discreetly pulling the burner out, he sighed before gingerly punching in the numbers he needed. Time to make a deal with the devil.

"So how's your boy?" Marcus Alvarez asked as he blew several smoke rings.

"He's alive and I wanna keep him that way," Clay replied smoothly. Whether that happens or not is gonna depend on you, he thought with a little bitterness.

Considering the bloody history between the Sons and the Mayans, having to reach out to Alvarez for help was a big pill to swallow. It was a necessary evil, one that Clay needed to tolerate if he had any hope of obtaining protection for Jax and the rest of their brothers. Clay had initially reached out to Alvarez just a few days before they had ended up in solitary. The fact that Clay was using a burner provided by Alvarez himself meant he was interested in talking. It was a step in the right direction, but Clay couldn't help but wonder what it would end up costing him in the long run.

"You know what they say, ese. You scratch my back and I'll scratch yours."

"Well, just how hard am I gonna have to scratch there, Marcus?" Clay asked silkily.

"I have an acquaintance south of the border that needs a shit load of hardware," Marcus replied, "and I would appreciate your help in finding a way to procure it for them."

Raising an eyebrow, Clay leaned back against the wall of his bunk. "How much hardware we talkin'?"

"All you can sell," Marcus replied. "And not just your usual inventory, either. My acquaintance has a really big need for really big hardware, that is, if you can get access to the kind of shit they're looking for."

Clay was glad that Marcus couldn't see the shit-eating grin that had spread across his mug. Just before going inside, the Sons had brokered a deal with the RIRA for access to a higher quality of merch. The Club's coffers were threadbare, so the idea of being able to earn while in Stockton and garner protection was just too good a deal to pass up. The only problem Clay could foresee was that it was too good a deal, as in too good to be true. He couldn't afford another misstep that would end up with the Sons paying a heavy penalty for it.

"I think we might be able to help them out. What exactly am I looking to get my hands on for your friends?"

"I'll let you work those details out with them, but you helping them helps me and I will help you, Clay. I figure I can get my boys in the Double M to give you and your brothers some protection."

Clay nodded to himself. The Double M, also known as La Eme or the Mexican Mafia, was one of the biggest crews in Stockton, second only to the Aryan Brotherhood. If the Sons could have them covering their backs, they should be able to keep an arm's length between them and several of the much smaller Russian gangs that were under Putlova's thumb.

Which should give me enough time to broker some kind of a peace treaty with the ROC.

"How soon can you have our backs?"

"In the spirit of cooperation, I'll put the word out today. And that protection will continue throughout your stay," Marcus responded.

"Thank you, Marcus," Clay replied with genuine gratitude. "And I look forward to doing business with you real soon."

"We'll see, ese. We'll see. Expect someone to make contact in a couple of days," the Mayan President grinned. "Don't let me down."

Friday, March 27, 2009

March in Stockton wasn't exactly feeling like springtime. Although the sun was shining bright, there was still a definite chill in the air. Clay massaged his hands, cursing the shitty meds he'd gotten from the infirmary that morning. He had told the asswipe that called himself a doctor that the pain meds he kept giving him barely took the edge off. Made him wonder just what kind of care Jax was getting in that hellhole. The only good thing to come from getting meds that might as well be sugar pills was that Clay had been able to get some word on how Jax was doing.

Despite the cold, the yard was crowded with inmates getting their daily exercise. Looking beyond the groups of men lifting weights, Clay made his way over to the table where the rest of his crew sat waiting for him. Today would be the first time that the five of them would be able to meet since getting out of solitary.

Happy was the first on his feet to welcome his brother. After hugging it out, he pulled away to eye the older man with an approving nod of his bald head.

Looks good. Clay may be getting up there, but he sure can still handle his shit, Happy thought proudly.

"Good to see you, brother," Happy growled.

"Likewise, brother." Clay looked him up and down. "Shit, Hap. What the fuck were you doing in solitary? Looks like you packed on some serious muscle."

The tall man's grin was more like a grimace. "Exercise doesn't just keep the body in shape. It keeps the mind sharp." Happy eyed the rest of his brothers. "I gotta be ready to protect my brothers in this shit hole at all times, especially with our chances of surviving without a color crew backing us up are slim to none."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Quit bragging about your physique and get the fuck outta the way," Tig said loudly as he shoved his way to Clay's side and slammed two heavy fists on his shoulders. "You doin' okay, old man?"

"Call me old man again, Tigger and you won't have to worry about eating the shitty food since you won't have no fuckin' teeth," Clay warned good-naturedly before returning the hug.

"Nice to see that you're still alive and kicking," Bobby chimed in as he slapped a hand on Clay's back. "Juicy Boy here was starting to think you'd croak in solitary."

"Shut up, asshole!" Juice complained as he bumped shoulders with Clay as his President ran a hand over his newly-grown in hair. "I was just concerned is all."

"Hey, at least that break from you served a purpose. Now I won't have to look at that crazy Mohawk of yours," Clay kidded. "Sit your asses down, brothers 'cause I got a lot of knowledge I need to drop on ya."

The group of men settled around the table with Clay sitting at its head. For all intents and purposes, they might have been sitting around the Redwood table back in Charming instead of the middle of a prison yard. Despite the chronic pain of his hands, Clay slammed a fist down on the metal table to signify the start of an official Club meeting.

"First, I was up at the infirmary earlier getting some meds for my mitts and was able to score some news on Jax," he said quietly.

"How's he doing?" Happy asked, his dark eyes gleaming.

"He's alive, but recuperating slowly. As a matter of fact, he needed another surgery yesterday to stop some internal bleeding."

"Shit!" Bobby cursed.

"That's fucked up, brother," Tig added. "What's the prognosis?"

"Good, for now, but this ain't St. Thomas we're dealing with," Clay replied. "The care here is mediocre at best but his doctor believes that, barring any other complications, he'll recover just fine. It just won't be for a while."

"What's 'a while'?" Juice asked.

"A month. Maybe more."

"Well, look on the bright side, brother," Bobby started. "Without us securing protection, Jax is just a dead man walking when he gets released into Gen Pop. With Putlova using his clout to get the Russians to strike against us, he's better off in the infirmary."

"For how long, though?" Happy questioned. "Who's to stay that Putlova's reach can't extend into the protective custody ward of the infirmary?"

"That's where I come in with the good news," Clay replied. "I was able to reach out to Alvarez and secured us protection from the Double M."

"What?!" Tig exclaimed in disbelief. "With all the bad blood between our crews, why would Brown suddenly agree to watch our backs? That shit with Zobelle—"

"Is water under the fuckin' bridge," Clay declared. "We live in a tit-for-tat world, brother, you know this. Why else would Marcus agree to help the Sons out?"

"He wants something in return," Happy supplied confidently. "And it ain't money."

Bobby was shaking his head. "Good because as Treasurer I can tell you unequivocally, we have none. That's what got us in this mess with the Russians in the first place."

"Yeah, I kinda got that part already," Clay said with a smirk.

"What then?" Juice asked. "It's not like we're in the best position to do much of anything for Alvarez right now."

"That's not quite true, Juicy," Clay replied as he wagged a finger at him. "What Marcus wants in return is a service we already provide, brothers. Not only will we have a chance to stay alive in here but once we get out, we'll gonna have a new customer with really deep pockets."

"Who?" Tig asked, still not convinced that Marcus Alvarez was at all trustworthy.

Succinctly and in a low tone of voice, Clay downloaded to his brothers the deal that Marcus was brokering on behalf of a business associate from south of the border. "I'm supposed to meet with someone from his organization in the next couple of days. In the meantime, Marcus has put the word out to the Double M that we're to be protected. That should go a long way in keeping the Russians off our collective ass."

"Shit, Clay. I'm all for making money and staying alive, but this just sounds a little too good to be true. What kind of deal are we talking here?" Bobby asked.

"Don't know for sure and I won't know until I sit down with their guy. Whatever it is, we may have to be prepared to take it, at least in the interim. It'll buy us some time to reach out to Otto, who can then reach out to Lenny. Lenny's still tight with the Russian Old Guard and maybe he can convince them to broker a peace treaty with Putlova."

"Nah, I ain't feeling that, man," Tig said in a harsh whisper. "Those assholes tried to kill Jax, a brother and an officer of this Club. That shit can't go unchecked no matter what kind of a deal we make."

"And I agree, Tigger," Clay's blue eyes resembled hard crystal marbles. "We'll get our pound of flesh for that shit, but not here, not now. Our goal is to survive what time we've got left in here and to do that we may have to make a couple of hard choices. Ultimately, the only thing that matters is protecting our own first. Our reputation can handle itself until we're back in a position where we can effectively deal with everyone who took part in attacking Jax. Agreed?"

The patches around the table nodded soberly.

Clay was about to say something else, when Happy nudged him. "Looks like we're about to have some company," he growled as he nodded toward a group of inmates heading their way.

Clay grinned as he noted the distinctive tattoos identifying their gang affiliation. "Boys, looks like Alvarez has kept his word."