Disclaimer: I don't own them, Kurt Sutter and FX do. Please don't sue me.
Author's note: It's a bit short but I have most of the next chapter done. Read and review please, reviews make me grin like an idiot. Enjoy.
"Stand back." Juice hefted the sledge hammer and stepped up to the tarp covered pile. There was still some heat baking up from the ground and it was melting through the thick canvas. "Shit might fly." Half Sack was still backing up when the other man started swinging the sledge. Heat weakened bone smashed with a crunching sound that turned Kip's stomach. He swallowed and watched the other man move methodically around the tarp. With each echoing thump ash and dirt drifted up through the holes in the canvas. "Okay, wrap it and burn it again. When the tarp's ash toss some dirt over it."
"Where're you going?" Sack turned plaintive eyes on the other man. He was cornered as far away from the smoldering canvas as he could get. Juice spared him about half a glance before slinging the sledge down and turning towards the front of the warehouse where they had left their bikes.
"I gotta check in with Gemma. Shit, I almost forgot, gimme that vest." Kip leaned over and scooped up the scuffed leather. Fastidiously he folded it so that the blood was on the inside and covered before handing it to the other man. "Then I got a shitload of research to do." Juice tucked the vest under one arm. "Head to TM when you're finished here, we might have some guard detail tonight." Kip nodded, his shoulders sagging slightly as he watched the other man walk around the corner of the building.
"Prospect shit work." He sighed, scooping up the sledge hammer to return it to the warehouse. Grabbing the empty gas can with his free hand he headed for the open backdoor. Before he was even halfway there his body language had brightened, by the time he stepped inside he was whistling lightly.
"The hell are we doin' here, brother?" Chibs was speaking before his bike had even coasted to a stop. His sneakers gritted against the gravel that lined the fortified parking lot. "You talked to the VP, I don't see a need for this." The Glasgow in his voice was snapped and stronger than usual.
"I agree. No need to put yourself in there. Let some of us go. If this Fix thing is charter wide—" Happy had heeled his bike onto the kickstand and walked up, his tall body casting a shadow along the pitted road.
"You think it's charter wide?" Clay overrode the other man's rasped voice, flipping his helmet off with one hand, fingers thick and aching on the scuffed black surface. Happy's lips tightened slightly as he considered the question, his dark eyes remaining as emotionless as those of a shark.
"No. I think Fix was high and lookin' to become some kinda modern day Jack McCall." Shrugging he tucked his ands into the leather of his riding jacket. "That's what I think."
"Jack McCall? Who in the bloody hell is Jack—"
"Guy who shot Wild Bill Hickok." Jax spoke over the Scotsman's aggravated voice, the fine stretch of his fingers soothing against the older man's cut. "I'm with Chibs, there's no need to put yourself in the shit."
"Oh, I'm gonna put myself in the shit. We all are. We're gonna sit around that table and have some goddamn assurances." Clay snapped. He shoved his helmet back on, settling it over the blue bandana that covered his forehead. "I find out this was anything other than some junkie kid with dreams of immortality—" He snapped his hands into fists, the knuckles bulging and snapping. The smile he turned on the other men was cold. "There ain't gonna be a Tacoma Charter anymore."
Tara was silent as she placed the extra IV bags of antibiotics in the refrigerator. Gemma had followed her out of the room and down the stairs and was now settled at the dining room table, her legs drawn up underneath her as she leaned sideways in one of the chairs. The younger woman stalled in the kitchen, sorting through her medic bag and pulling out the things she thought Gemma would need overnight.
"I can hear you thinkin' from here little girl." The snick of a lighter underscored Gemma's words and seconds later the acrid tang of cigarette smoke tainted the air. Tara sighed into it, wishing quickly that Jax was the one smoking in the other room. "You're thinkin' that Tigger is even more of a monster than you thought."
"He shot his godson." Finally turning away from the counter Tara moved to the table and took the chair opposite Gemma's. Without thinking she mimicked the other woman's posture and pulled a hand through her hair, freeing the dark strands from the tie that held them. "That's pretty monstrous."
"He jumped in front of a bullet meant for my old man's head. Nothin' monstrous in that." Gemma savored the cigarette, slowly pulling the drags deep into her lungs and letting the nicotine warm through her blood.
"He didn't have to kill—"
"Bullshit." The older woman's voice sharpened and her eyes narrowed. Though she didn't move against the chair her posture seemed more alert, more defensive. Tara started to raise her hands to show that she was defenseless but she cut off the motion, settling her palms to the table instead. "You don't take a shot at Clay Morrow and walk away from it."
"He's not God, Gemma." Frustration finally tipped her voice louder, an argumentative tone snapping through the words.
"Wrong, honey." A predatory smile turned Gemma's lips and she leaned across the table, her body lithe and easy with the motion. "He is god. To those boys—those men, he is god. He is their god and Tig is the hand of that god." Gemma's placed one of her hands over one of Tara's, her neatly manicured nails ticking into the shined table top. "There's nothing monstrous about loyalty. And Tigger is a loyal Son."
"He's a murderer." Tara replied stubbornly, carefully but firmly removing her hand from underneath Gemma's. With a smirk the older woman leaned back to her side of the table, settling back into her chair.
"And Jackson isn't? Tell me he's never come to you bloody." Tara started slightly, her smaller framed body jerking as if the other woman had slapped her. She blinked quickly, trying to formulate a counter argument as Gemma stood.
"That's different. Jax is different." Gemma shook her head slightly, her eyes on the way the other woman had paled.
"You keep tellin' yourself that, sweetheart."