Disclaimer: I do not own Sons of Anarchy.

Rated "M" for language, violence, and adult situations.

As a reminder, this story is completely AU. Feedback is always welcomed! Thanks for reading.

The mood in the Clubhouse was restless and fairly noisy, and there was a strong undercurrent of tension in the air. The Main Room was filled with an assortment of visiting members from the Tacoma, Rogue River, Tucson, and Reno charters. Throw into the mix various prospects, hang-arounds, sweetbutts, croweaters, and old ladies and you had a large crowd of people who needed places to sleep and food to eat while under lockdown at the T-M compound.

Donna sighed wearily as she emptied another load of dishes from the dishwasher in the Clubhouse kitchen and directed Gigi, one of the croweaters, to put in the final load while she took a break.

The circumstance of being in a lockdown was not unfamiliar to Donna, but never had she been in one for so long and never had she been so terrified at the possible outcome.

When Piney showed up with Mary in tow and told her to pack herself and the kids up because SAMCRO was going into lockdown, she hadn't questioned it. Finding out afterward about the attack that had put her BFF at death's door was frightening and not being able to keep vigil at the hospital had been difficult to bear. Opie had refused to allow her to leave the safety and protection of the compound. Despite Opie's orders, Donna had tried to sneak out to the hospital, only to be busted by Opie himself. His anger had been righteous, but she was still determined to go.

It was only when Opie told her that he couldn't bear it if anything happened to her that Donna relented and stayed put. When Jo had finally come out of the coma, Donna finally broke down, sobbing as Opie took her into his arms to comfort her.

With Gemma needed at the hospital, Donna was expected to hold down the fort, to organize the Clubhouse, and prepare for the out-of-town members who would be riding in to assist the mother charter in what would obviously be an epic retaliation for the attempted murder of SAMCRO's VP and his old lady.

Donna had organized the rest of the old ladies, croweaters, and sweetbutts to care for the needs of the visiting charter members with Luann's help. Donna was really surprised at how Luann jumped in to lend a helping hand. After all, Luann was not known for her willingness to help out in the kitchen or with anything Club-related, and Gemma would be shocked to see this side of her, but Luann loved Jolene like a daughter. She had been devastated when she got the news and was even more so when she had to deliver the news to Otto personally, who had taken it rather badly.

But now Jolene was out of the woods and Donna, having been sworn to secrecy, had been able to speak with her over the phone several times. It was a true relief to hear her voice and know that she was alive and well. Ellie and Kenny had been so happy to speak with her as well. Although they had known that their Auntie Jo was sick, they had no idea that she was in the hospital or how seriously ill she had actually been.

Before the lockdown, bone-tired was how Donna would usually describe herself with all she had on her plate as Opie's wife and mother to twins, in addition to still working "part-time" for Oswald Construction. Donna had quickly risen in the ranks from office grunt to part of Elliott Oswald's small army of assistants. Elliott had soon grown extremely dependent on not only Donna's organizational skills, but her connections to several government agencies courtesy of SAMCRO, which gave him a certain amount of pull that his money did not. Fortunately, Elliott understood the circumstances surrounding the lockdown. He was a longtime friend of the Club and was horrified at the events that erupted right on Main Street. As a result, once Juice had set up a secured connection, Elliott allowed Donna to work remotely from the Clubhouse. There was no way that Opie was going allow her off the lot until the attacker had been positively identified and this situation with the Mayans was resolved. So instead of getting some much needed rest, Donna headed back to Opie's old dorm for some peace and quiet while she caught up on her backlog of office work.

Lifting her head as she sat at her makeshift desk, Donna heard the faint roar of motorcycles and headed outside to the parking lot where several old ladies had already congregated to welcome the riders. The lot was crowded with the bikes of visiting charter members and the cars of all the SAMCRO families. The noise was deafening as the lot was overrun with Club children, who were fighting on the swings, running around, or just generally getting in the way.

As the large gate was pulled back by a couple of prospects, Donna could see her old man, along with Clay, Jax, and Tig riding in. Right behind them was Gemma's Escalade and several out-of-town members serving as guards returning from a food run at Murphy's Stop-N-Shop.

Opie parked his bike in its usual spot and headed directly toward Donna, who ran into his open arms. "Is everything okay? How's Jo?" She asked anxiously.

Opie bent down to kiss his old lady, feeling the sting of guilt each time he wrapped his arms around her, grateful that it wasn't Donna lying in that hospital bed. "She's okay, baby." Opie raised his head to look for the twins and spotted them, doing their best to fight for a spot on the swing set that was currently being overrun. Looking on as Kenny shoved Tiki Munson, who was twice his size, out of one of the swings, yelling at the top of his lungs, "It's Ellie's turn now!", Opie smiled proudly.

"That's my son!"

"So you like to see your son fighting, huh?" Donna said, shaking her head ruefully.

"I like to see my son protecting his family," replied Opie. "Which is what I'm about to do now." He watched as he saw Clay, Jax, and Tig gather their brothers into the Clubhouse. He kissed Donna on the forehead. "We're heading to the table. I'll see you later."

It was standing-room only in the Chapel as it was crowded with the full complement of the mother charter in their respective chairs and the top three officers from the Tacoma, Rogue River, Tucson, and Reno charters.

Clay banged his gavel to call the meeting to order. "My brothers, we now have some new Intel on the hit on SAMCRO's VP and his old lady. An eyewitness has come forward and we now know the identity of the shooter."

"Finally, brutha!" Exclaimed Chibs. "So we have confirmation that it was them bloody lying Mayans?"

"No." Jax shook his head soberly. "It seems that Alvarez was telling the truth after all. They weren't behind the hit. It was that fuckin' Nord, Whistler."

"Why would the Nords want to hit Jax?" Queried Lorca, Tacoma's VP. "I thought SAMCRO had a friendly relationship with the Aryans."

"We did." Clay said with a grimace. "The Nords have been protecting Otto while he's serving his sentence in Stockton, but Darby's second-in-command had a little falling out with our VP here a few years back. The result of said falling out left the bastard swinging with only one nut. In the interest of protecting the Big O, we made some reparations—"

Reparations? Jax thought. "What fuckin' reparations are you talking about?"

Clay remembered, just a tad too late that he never informed Jax about that part of the plan. "It's not important."

"I'll be the judge of that." Jax insisted. "What reparations are you talking about?"

Clay turned to Jax, his eyes flashing. "The monetary kind. Whistler wanted blood, your blood. I was able to talk him down to 50K and a Walther."

"Oh really? And how did that work out for you?" Jax asked angrily, realizing that the .22 caliber Walther Clay had gifted to Whistler was probably the same gun used on his old lady.

"Now is not the time, VP." Clay chastised, the warning in his tone clear. Turning back to his brothers, Clay continued, "In any event, we think Whistler decided to take advantage of our current beef with the Mayans to instigate an attack on Jax, thinking that they would get the blame."

"Shit!" Zeus exclaimed. "They thought right. Isn't that why we've all been down here for over two weeks now?"

"Yes, and we greatly appreciate our brothers coming to our aid." Jax replied strongly. "We needed the Mayans to see that we had a strong presence in town to prevent them from coming at us when we were in a vulnerable position, but we didn't want to retaliate without knowing for sure that it was the Mayans that hit us."

"Good thing you waited, brother." Said Little Paul of the Tucson chapter. "If the shit had jumped off up in here, it would have started a blood war all up down and down the West Coast. All the charters would have been at risk."

"Well, now that we know who's responsible," Clay started. "We're going hunting. I want to find this prick before it gets back to certain unhelpful members of the Charming Police Department. Once the matter has been handled, we'll meet with Alvarez, end the lockdown, and get all of your charters back home safely. It'll be back to business as usual before you know it."

"Sounds like a plan. What can we do to help?" Kozik asked.

"We want to keep this as low key as possible. We think Deputy Dog is having us tailed, so we need to be smart about going after Darby's man. We plan to ride out close to sundown and could use some assistance in distracting local law enforcement. If we send out six or seven convoys from some of our other charters, Charming PD will hopefully be too unprepared to follow them all, allowing SAMCRO to head over to Darby's crank lab on the outskirts of town. We get him to roll on Whistler and then we take care of him." Clay said menacingly. "Hap, did you bring your bag of tricks with you?"

"I did." Happy replied in his gravelly voice.

"You want to ride along with us?" Jax asked. "I think we may have a need for your expertise."

"Oh yes I will!" Happy said with a wicked gleam in his dark brown eyes and a devilish smile on his face.

After quickly conferring, Clay and Jax set up groups of four riders each to lead Charming PD on a wild goose chase, while the remaining members from the visiting charters continued to stand guard over the compound, with the exception of Kozik and Juice. Jax wanted them at the hospital stationed outside Jolene's door.

As the brothers exited the Chapel, Kyle approached Clay. "It might be a good Idea for a couple of SAMCRO faces to stick around the Clubhouse, don't ya think? If Hale does have a tail on the Club and he loses you, he may show up here. Having one or two of our faces around might be enough to throw him off the scent."

"He may be right." Bobby conceded.

"Fine, Kyle, you stay," Clay said impatiently. "But I'm not about to leave all my men behind."

"Are you kidding?" Tig was shocked that it was even a consideration. "And miss out on all the fun? Fuck no!"

"Not a problem." Kyle said. "I can keep everything under control."

Clay looked at him hard. "You better."

As Clay and Bobby headed over to their bikes, Clay noted, "That was a pretty lame excuse."

Bobby agreed. "He probably has his eye on having himself a pussy feast now that the majority of the brothers are leaving the compound."

Clay smirked. "More likely, he's a fuckin' coward. Never did like getting his hands dirty."

It was completely dark by the time SAMCRO had pulled up to the edge of the property owned by Ernest Darby's mother in one of Unser's delivery trucks. The plan to outwit Charming's finest worked out perfectly, allowing the hunting party to leave the T-M lot dressed in plain clothes and in a couple of cargo vans until they could "liberate" one of Unser's trucks for the job.

The property was situated on the outskirts of Charming, not far off from the Interchange. As Clay had said to Darby at their meet at Nicky's Diner, the property was definitely isolated enough for Darby's meth lab. That isolation would come in handy for the little party the Sons had in mind for tonight.

The house was located about 100 yards from the edge of the property with a rough dirt road that led up to a gravel driveway. The house was small and quite old, but in relatively good condition. The actual lab was located in several outbuildings located deeper into the property. Darby had turned one of those outbuildings into a dorm of sorts for the cheap—and illegal—labor he employed to package his product. Darby wasn't above working with color if it would bring his profits up. White boys were just too expensive.

It was apparent that someone was home as, from the edge of the property line, Clay observed a number of lights on and some movement within the small house. As far as he could tell, there were at least two, maybe three warm bodies inside. It was a dark night, but fortunately there was enough moonlight so that there was some visibility around the house. The slightly overgrown shrubs and bushes around the house would provide good cover and keep them from being exposed out in the open as they approached the house. Their entire plan relied on the Sons catching Darby completely off guard.

Clay motioned to Jax. "So how you want to handle this, VP?"

Taking off the night vision goggles that he had used to observe the property, Jax addressed the group of his brothers in a hushed tone. "I think we split up into four groups. We converge on all sides of the property, secure everyone in the house, and we get the location on Whistler from Darby." He said looking directly at Tig. "As quietly as possible."

"You know, sometimes you can suck the fun right out of a situation." Tig whispered petulantly. "What if Darby ain't willing to share the info on Whistler's location?"

"Well, that's why Happy's here," Clay smiled ferociously. "To put his little bag of tricks to use. You ready, Hap?"

In the moonlight, Jax could see Happy's wide grin as he adjusted the weight of the large backpack on his shoulder. "Ready and willing, brother."

"Then let's roll."

Darby was sitting on a tattered old couch with two of the girls he was currently hustling. It had been a long day. Between running back and forth from the Charming lab and the other one in Pope, he was exhausted.

He couldn't really complain, though. Things certainly had been looking up ever since the deal he struck with SAMCRO was put in motion. The money was rolling in with the new operation in Charming and because of it, Darby had told his partner in Pope that he could take his property at the industrial park and shove it up his ass as he no longer needed it to cook his product. Suddenly, unwilling to lose out on fast money being made on a useless piece of land, his partner back-peddled and became more reasonable. Darby was able to renegotiate a cushy deal that had him on the winning side for once.

Now that Darby had two successful operations running smoothly, Whistler had convinced him that they should branch out into the prostitution business. Crank and pussy. They went together like peanut butter and jelly, he reasoned. His customer base in Pope, usually truck drivers and industrial workers were always looking for ways to party, so dealing pussy was the next logical step in dealing meth. They had a stable of around 4-6 regular girls that worked out of some of the shadier motels and truck stops in Pope, but Darby hoped that he would soon be able to expand and set up shop in Charming, thus providing a higher caliber of pussy to his clientele.

It may be time to have another talk with Clay, thought Darby. Time to use his protection of Otto to garner some more profits for the Nords. Slow, baby steps. Not enough to rock the boat, but enough so that Clay will acquiesce. Clay was a business man after all and Darby was not averse to cutting him off a piece of the profits. Besides, with all the recent trouble that the Sons were having with the Mayans and the shooting of Teller and his old lady, SAMCRO would be far too busy to notice or care that he was strengthening the Nords' position in Charming. Eventually, Darby knew that he would be able to talk his way into selling not only meth, but pussy in Charming. It was just going to take a little time.

Darby decided that he needed to relax just a little more. Grabbing the blond that was sitting to his left by the back of her neck, Darby pushed her head towards the direction of his crotch, when the front door burst open. As the women started screaming, Darby reached down to grab his gun strapped to his ankle when he felt the cold, hard barrel of a gun pressed up against his oily dome. Well, shit, Darby thought.

Darby turned his eyes slightly to the right and saw Jax Teller's flared nostrils and deep blue eyes staring him in the face.

"Going somewhere?" Jax asked as he raised the butt of his gun and knocked Darby the hell out. "Maybe not."

When Darby came to, he found himself sitting at the head of his mother's dining room table, hands and feet bound to a chair and a ball gag in his mouth. On one side of the table, he observed a rather menacing bald-headed and inked Son wearing his mother's flowered kitchen apron and what appeared to be a pair of her yellow rubber kitchen gloves. As the tall man opened a backpack sitting on an adjacent dining room chair, he withdrew what looked like a mid-sized leather bedroll. Placing it on the table and unrolling it with great flourish, Darby looked down and saw a group of long shiny metal instruments. Darby's eyes nearly jumped out of his head and he started screaming around the gag in his mouth.

"Damn, Hap. If it wasn't for that gag, he'd be screaming like a little biatch and you haven't even laid a finger on him yet. Betcha dollars to donuts he's already shit his pants."

Darby's eyes traveled across to the speaker and saw Clay sitting at the opposite end of the table, a cigar dangling from his mouth. "Oh, fark!" Darby mumbled through the gag.

Seeing all 32 of Clay Morrow's teeth smiling at him, Darby knew that things did not bode well for the foreseeable future. Leaning up against the entrance wall of the dining room, with his arms crossed and one fierce looking KA-BAR in his right hand, was Jax Teller. Seeing the knife in Teller's hand, along with the crazy look in his eyes, Darby realized that things just went from bad to Hell.

Tig, who was standing to Darby's right, reached over and yanked the gag out of his mouth.

Darby gasped to get air into his lungs and quickly tried to talk his way out of whatever shit-storm he had managed to walk himself into now.

"Well, fellas, this is hardly the way to drop in for a proper visit." Darby said trying to be charming, but only came across as smarmy. "If you wanted to pay me a visit, all you had to do was knock on the door. SAMCRO is always welcome here. Mi casa is you casa."

"Well, that's certainly quite neighborly of you," Clay smiled sardonically. "But seeing as there seems to be a little miscommunication between our crews, we thought that it would be better to stop by—unannounced. Maybe next time, we'll bring a Bundt cake."

"If there is a next time." Jax nearly growled.

Swallowing hard, Darby tried to be charismatic and failed miserably. "Miscommunication? Why I don't know what you're talking about. We've kept to our end of the deal. Otto stays protected in Stockton and the Nords can cook in Charming, no dealing. We haven't overstayed our welcome."

"Really? Well, I don't know about that. Jax, what do you call it when some low-life mutha fucka tries to take you out and ends up gunning down and nearly killing your old lady, who also happens to be my kid?" Charming Clay had been quickly replaced by ugly, bitter, twisted Clay.

"I call it overstaying your welcome." Jax answered in a dead tone.

"Yeah," said Clay, nodding. "That sounds about right to me, too."

Darby shifted in his seat. "Clay, there's no way that the Nords would shit on this deal. How could we possibly benefit by taking out a SAMCRO officer? The only ones stupid enough to hit SAMCRO would be the wetbacks." Darby shouted as Happy pulled out a long shiny instrument with a vicious looking hook at the front end of it and started walking towards him.

"Either you're the lying sack of shit that I know you to be, or you just don't know how to control your crew, Darby." Clay started. "It seems that someone else, a fuckin' moron in my book, thought that they could hit us and pass it off on the Mayans, but we have it on very good authority that it was a Nord who pulled the trigger. So unless you tell us where we can find him, I'm going to let my brother here carve you up like a Thanksgiving turkey. And, as he is nothing if not thorough, he's going to take a long, long time doing it, too. It may take all night. Good thing it's so quiet and isolated around here. No neighbors to hear your blood-curdling screams, that is, except for us, neighbor. I can only speak for myself, but I am a big fan of his handy work." Clay said kindly.

"Fuck," Jax started with an evil half-grin on his face. "I might join in my damn self."

Darby let out a little yelp, as Happy, grinning widely, grabbed hold of Darby by his arm.

"Clay, Clay, please!" Darby started, his voice shaky. "If one of my crew is the party responsible for shooting up your stepson and his old lady, I'll give him to you, no problem whatsoever."

"See, Darby. Once again, you've proven yourself to be a smart man. I'm glad that we're able to work something out." Clay said as he leaned back in his chair. "Sorry, Hap. Maybe next time." Clay directed at the disgruntled biker known as the Tacoma Killer. With what could almost be classified as a grimace-slash-pout, Happy sighed heavily as he shoved the wicked looking instrument back in its place.

Jax walked up to Darby, grabbing hold of the top of his head, and put the point of his KA-BAR just underneath Darby's left eye.

"Where can we find that scum-sucking, cock-knocker you call your second-in-command?" Jax whispered, making the hairs in Darby's nose stand on end.

Whistler? That stupid, stupid fuckin' hick! Darby thought savagely.

In that moment, there was no doubt in Darby's mind that Whistler had most definitely gone after Jax Teller. Darby recalled their conversation after they had run into the Queen of Charming and the SAMCRO Princess at Murphy's. He had cautioned him that eventually Whistler could get his revenge, but not now, not when they were just getting on their feet financially, and certainly not in a way that would lead the fucking Sons of Anarchy right to his front door!

Looking into Jax's fierce eyes, Darby realized that Whistler had made a horrible error in judgment in trying to take out SAMCRO's VP. Not only had he done a piss-poor job of it, but he compounded the error by shooting and nearly killing Jolene Morrow. As much as he owed Whistler for his loyalty, especially while he was in Chino, he knew that if he didn't give up Whistler, Darby would end up taking a permanent dirt nap in the near future.

"He's here." Darby blurted. Seeing all eyes in the room focus on him, Darby continued. "Not in the house, at the lab. He has a small cabin next to the one set up for the wetback laborers. He's there by himself tonight. If he was stupid enough to try taking you out, he deserves whatever he gets."

Leaving their brothers from another charter guarding Darby, as well as the two women they had blindfolded and tied up in an upstairs bedroom, the members of SAMCRO took off to confront Whistler.

The one room cabin with a tiny bathroom was well suited to the very solitary existence of Whistler these days. As second-in-command, Darby relied heavily on him to keep both the Charming and Pope meth labs in operation. Staying here on the property was very helpful and he was able to keep Darby's workers in line, a task he relished with evil savagery.

Darby had invited him up to the house later as he was bringing some hookers over to party, but Whistler had declined. Rethinking the matter, he realized that some recreation might not be a bad idea after all. Maybe there was a dark-haired bitch over there he could tear into. Having been deprived of some one-on-one alone time with Teller's fine-ass pussy, fantasizing about the hurtin' he would have put on her seemed to be the only way he could get it up lately. As Whistler stood on the small porch of the cabin, he heard a noise in the bushes off to his right.

At first, he thought it was one of the nocturnal animals that seemed to run rampant all over the property. But hearing what could only be categorized as noises of a man-made variety, Whistler pulled his gun from his shoulder holster and started shooting in the noises' general direction.

Proving himself to be the Class A sharpshooter, who had earned a place at sniper school until an unfortunate incident involving a goat earned him a psyche discharge from the Marines, Tig, using night vision goggles and an AK-47, shot the pistol right out of Whistler's hand.

"Fuck!" Whistler yelled as he tried to get back inside his cabin, but his throbbing hand was proving less than useless at turning the knob. Before he could pull the hunting knife strapped to his thigh, Jax was barreling towards him, jack-knifing him to the ground. Even though Whistler was bigger and bulkier than Jax, he wasn't as quick and before he could say "Whistler's Mother", Jax was straddling his chest as he pulled his Glock and practically shoved it down Whistler's throat, knocking out a front tooth and chipping another.

Remembering the last words Jolene could recall hearing after Whistler pointed the gun at her head, Jax grimaced. "Not today, bitch." He growled, intent on pulling the trigger and aerating the back of Whistler's head.

"Whoa! Whoa!" Clay was hollering as he ran towards Jax. "No one understands your rage more than me, brother, but not so fast. Let's get him inside."

With Whistler suddenly surrounded by several of Jax's brothers brandishing all types of hardware, Jax reluctantly pulled himself up, but not before hocking a lougie of majestic proportions right at his face.

Turning to Clay, Jax grabbed his arm. "Promise me he's mine."

"Awww, VP, I was hoping for a father/son bonding moment as we ripped him to shreds together, but if you insist, he's all yours . . . after we talk to the prick." Clay explained. "Get him inside." He ordered and Happy lifted the bulky, no-neck Aryan onto his feet as he grabbed a handful of his shirt and pushed him towards the cabin.

The one-room shack boasted all the amenities a loner, skinhead white supremacist could possibly desire. In the far corner of the room, near a water heater, was an army surplus cot with a mattress no thicker than two of Charming's yellow pages stacked together, which wasn't very thick. There was a hot plate on the counter/sink, a plain wooden table with two chairs, and a small refrigerator, which at the moment housed one beer and a carton of milk well past its expiration date. The bathroom had no door, a standing shower with no curtain, and a toilet that probably had not been cleaned since 1947. Scattered across the floor were empty take-out cartons, beer cans, and dirty clothes, and bringing it all together was an Aryan Brotherhood flag with a swastika emblazoned in the center.

Jax looked around the room with utter disdain and disgust. Living like this, if it could be called living, seemed like punishment enough. It was almost sad, really, that after he got through with this piece of shit, there would be no one to mourn him. Almost, Jax thought, but not quite. If Jax had been looking forward to taking Darby apart, he was nearly giddy with excitement when he contemplated all the possibilities available to him thanks to Happy and his bag of toys. It may take days, Jax gloated to himself.

Whistler knew he was a dead man. He had no delusions about walking out of this alive. Teller's old lady must have not only survived, but remembered his face. Whoever said no news was good news was full of shit. When no word of her condition had made it into the papers, Whistler should have seized the opportunity to pay the hospital a visit and make sure for himself, but even though he boasted just an eighth grade education, he wasn't stupid. He knew that St. Thomas would have been crawling with not only the cops, but SOA as well. He should have just kept his ass in Pope running the other lab, biding his time, and waiting for war to break out between the Sons and the Mayans. In hindsight, he should have just picked up his cell phone when his accomplice had called earlier, more than likely to warn him of his impending doom.

Speaking like a man with nothing left to lose, Whistler said as he smirked, "If it hadn't been for that piece of shit Walther you gave me," He directed at Clay as he wiped the blood from his broken tooth off his chin. "Your whore of a daughter would be dead."

Before Jax could make it across the room, Clay threw Whistler on the cot and was pounding his face with both multi-ringed fists. He would need several cortisone shots in order to bring his pain level down to the discomfort of a dull ache later on, but seeing the smug look on Whistler's face replaced with bloody cuts and quite possibly a broken nose was extremely satisfying.

Grabbing Whistler's head in his hands, Clay growled, "Why? Your beef was with the Club, you fucking piece of shit. Why did you have to shoot my kid?"

Spitting a mix of blood and saliva at Clay, Clay back-handed him one more time before Whistler started laughing like a madman.

"My beef wasn't with the Club. I wanted him dead." Whistler started, looking over Clay's shoulder at Jax, who was staring back with a clenched jaw and his right hand on his KA-BAR. "But you knew that. You basically sealed her fate when you tried to buy your VP's life back with a crap gun and a few pieces of silver." He laughed.

"You need to move now, Clay." Jax said through gritted teeth.

"My original plan for you and your bitch took an unexpected turn when, instead of heading home, you went to Floyd's." Whistler directed at Jax, looking him straight in the eyes. "I was gonna blow your nuts off and make you watch as you bled to death while I ripped your pussy a new hole before I skull-fucked her. It was gonna be bloody and painful, and probably the best time she's ever had."

Jax pulled his knife and, blinded by his rage, lunged towards Whistler in spite of the fact that he had to get through Clay first. It took Chibs, Opie, and Tig to keep Clay from becoming collateral damage as they pulled Jax back.

"You are so dead." Clay addressed Whistler as he stood up and pulled Whistler up onto his feet before pushing him back down onto his knees.

"Hold on, brothers. Before he dies the bloody and violent death that's probably too good for him anyway," Bobby started. "We need to know who the getaway driver was."

"That's easy." Whistler replied with a chuckle. "The driver, the actual mastermind behind the hit, was none other than a member of SAMCRO, and I'm sure if you think real hard, you'll know exactly who it was."

Clay was shaking his head in disbelief. "NO!" He yelled. "You're lying." He insisted, refusing to acknowledge the possibility that he knew exactly who it was.

"I have no reason to lie. You said so yourself. I'm a fuckin' dead man and if I gotta die," Whistler said, looking up at Clay. "Then I'm taking Kyle Hobart with me. He knew I wanted nothing more than to see Teller dead and he wanted the same thing, said Teller had usurped him of the VP patch that was rightfully his and promised a shitload of sweet deals if I not only took out Teller, but later on, you as well." Before he could continue, Tig lashed out with a boot to the face that knocked him back.

Crawling back onto his knees, Whistler wiped the blood from the gash Tig had opened up on his cheek. "If you don't believe me, I have it all on tape."

"Where is it?" Clay ground out, still unable to process what Whistler was saying as fact.

"In that pretty little box you gave me," Whistler pointed to the cot. "Under my bed."

Opie moved to retrieve the box. Pulling it out, he flipped it open and found a small hand held tape player with a micro-cassette inside.

Pressing play and raising the volume as high as it would go, SAMCRO listened as Whistler and Kyle Hobart planned the assassination of the two top-ranking SAMCRO officers over a pint of beer in some dive bar outside Charming. Kyle's voice was unmistakable, the promises he was making in return were not the mere ramblings of a drunk wasted on Johnny Walker Black. Not this time. It was obvious by the tone of his voice that he had been planning this for a while and he was only drunk on his own thirst for power and delusions of grandeur.

"I know you hate that son-of-a-bitch, after all, look what he did to you. The bastard walks around Charming like his shit don't stink and I'm sick of it. That VP patch should have been mine a long time ago. You helping me get him out of the way could prove beneficial to the Nords and their crank business in Charming." Kyle said.

"How so? Only way we could possibly benefit is if we could deal and that's not happening." Whistler argued.

"With me as Clay's right hand, yes it would." Kyle boasted. "The old man's got degenerative arthritis. His days are numbered anyhow. As it was, he relied heavily on Big Otto while he was VP. Manipulating and pushing him around would have been easy enough with me in the VP chair. I have my fair share of supporters within the Club, and if push ever came to shove and Clay was having trouble riding, guess who would have taken the top spot? Now, with his daughter's old man as his second-in-command, Teller is all but guaranteed the presidency, which is not good for me and certainly not good for the Nords. He was against letting your crew cook in Charming in the first place and can't wait for the day he can run your asses out of town. Who would you rather have wielding the gavel and calling the shots? Him or me?"

"I want Teller dead, but for my own personal reasons. That I can definitely handle on my own, without your personal shit getting in the mix. Now, when it comes to the business aspect of what you're suggesting, I don't think that you as VP could possibly have enough pull to make Charming the Nords' permanent base of operations. I'm just saying." Whistler replied, goading him on.

Even though it wasn't video they were watching of the exchange between Kyle and Whistler, it was clearly evident that Kyle was being played, and that Whistler was using Kyle's own insecurities within the Club against him.

"Let me get this straight. Your plan is to play the waiting game in order to take over the Club? Nah, the Nords ain't got that kind of time on their hands and, besides, that's not how we operate." Whistler continued. "You wanna take over the top spot, you have act fast and without warning. Boom, boom! Take 'em both out right now."

"Makes sense and there's certainly no time like the present. Our beef with the wetbacks continues to escalate. Take Teller out first, making it seem like it was a Mayan-ordered hit. While the Club's scrambling to get revenge and declare war on Alvarez and his crew, go after Clay next. Cut off the head, and the chickens will just run around, not knowing which end it's coming from. After the dust settles, and I'm sitting at the head of the table, the Nords stay in Charming."

Kyle was talking a lot of shit, and even though it was clear to every Son in that room that the promises he was making to the Nords had no chance of ever coming to fruition, it was difficult to tell if Kyle knew he was bullshitting Whistler or if he really believed what he was saying. There was a pause in the conversation as both men assessed each other over their drinks.

Jax was about to speak, was about to suggest calling Piney at the Clubhouse to secure Kyle until they got there, when Kyle continued speaking, what he said and how he said it turning Jax's blood into ice water.

"You've seen Teller's old lady?" Kyle was asking.

After another pause that was sure to include him nodding his head, Whistler continued, with a lewd laugh and a vulgar smacking of his lips.

"Why? Are you lookin' to sweeten the pot cuz that's a fine piece of pussy."

"Absolutely. Teller's planning on taking her out of town soon. I can get you the details on when they plan on returning, including the exact route they'll be taking. Kill Teller and with him out of the way, we can arrange, let's call it, a little private party. Just you, me, and Jolene Morrow before taking out Clay. After I have a go, I don't give a fuck what you do with her. Afterward, dump the body somewhere far from Charming, but just make sure it gets found. I would love to see that crippled fuck and Fat Elvis suffer over the broken and battered body of their little bastard bitch."

Laughing again, the evil intent clear in his voice, Whistler continued, "I like the way you think, but I want Teller to watch as I tear his pussy apart before gutting the bitch."

Everyone's eyes and ears were riveted on the tape recorder in Opie's hand and, aside from the almost maniacal laughter coming from both men on the recording, the room was deathly quiet. Until, and without warning, Jax stepped forward, Glock in hand, and put a bullet through Whistler's skull, blood and brain matter splattering on the wall behind him. Clay gave Jax an incredulous look as he pulled a handkerchief out of the pocket of his hoodie and wiped some of the projectile splatter off his face.

"You coulda warned a brother." He said to Jax, who was staring down at Whistler, knowing that if he could bring him back to life, he'd shoot him in his remaining nut first, before blowing his brains out again.

"Why did I bother coming?" Happy groused. "I thought for sure we were going to take him apart."

With flared nostrils, Jax patted Happy on the shoulder. "It's okay, bro. I'm saving my A-game for a certain piece of shit. You with me?"

"Oh, yes I am!" Happy actually smiled as he eagerly followed Jax out of the cabin.

The seedy motel offered nothing in the way of basic amenities that would normally be expected, but as it was the only motel adjacent to the highway for forty miles in either direction, the owner knew he had his customers over a barrel. Situated twenty miles outside of Bakersfield, the motel's clientele catered primarily to truckers and prostitutes, with the occasional road-weary family who stopped at the motel only out of sheer desperation.

For one of the motel's current residents, the second redeeming feature of the motel—the easy access to prostitutes being the main consideration—was that it had a parking lot in back of the property as well as in front, which allowed its guests to discreetly park their vehicles so that they could not be easily spotted by passing traffic.

God, what a hole in the wall.

Kyle Hobart was sitting in the dark on one of the two dilapidated full-size beds the small room offered. Opposite the bed, a small color television sported a picture, but no sound, which was fine, as the current feature was a late night commercial for a local used car dealership. The cowboy hat-wearing salesman with a cheesy grin on his face reeked of desperation and was trying to convince some stupid asshole to buy a cage.

Taking a long pull from the bottle of his favorite alcoholic beverage, Johnny Walker Black, Kyle considered the miserable existence that was his life, a life that he was sure he wouldn't have for much longer.

In his drunken state, Kyle had somehow managed to clearly see his options and none of them were good. In all his 40-plus years, Kyle Hobart had never felt fear like he was feeling fear right now.

I'm a dead man.

Kyle had come to that conclusion several weeks ago when all of his carefully laid plans and schemes blew the hell up.

Kyle had experienced mixed feelings on that fine Summer's eve as Whistler rode bitch on one of his old rides that they had used for the getaway. The mission had been accomplished, but not to his liking. The original plan had been to take Teller at his home, but at the last minute, Whistler called and told Kyle that it would be better to take him out on Main Street and for Kyle to be ready to pick him up as soon as he did the deed. Kyle didn't want to be anywhere near the scene, but Whistler had him in between a rock and a hard place, threatening to abort the job completely.

So Kyle had shown up in plain dark clothes, a helmet that completely covered his face, and riding an old bike he had in storage that he kept running in mint condition. Good thing, too. It had taken him 15 minutes hauling ass to make it over to Main Street. While Kyle missed Whistler shooting Teller, he was just in time to witness the shooting of Jolene Morrow.

In the back of Kyle's mind, his paternal instinct kicked in and he realized the moment Jolene Morrow's body had hit the sidewalk that it was the beginning of the end for him. It was one thing to take out SAMCRO's VP. It was an entirely different matter to kill Clarence Morrow's daughter while the crippled bastard was still alive and kicking. Kyle knew that there would be no stopping Clay from avenging the death of his daughter.

But Kyle had managed to delude himself and, as they pulled away from the crime scene, he congratulated himself for a plan well executed. After dropping Whistler off in Pope, Kyle headed to his planned celebration. He had secured a low-rent motel room in Lodi and a couple of hookers for the party to end all parties, turned off his cell phone and the "President-elect" of the mother charter proceeded to have himself a great time.

It wasn't until the following morning, after he woke up to an empty room, an even emptier wallet, and a roaring hangover that Kyle turned on his phone to find that he had 15 missed calls. But he had expected this and after taking himself a long and relaxing shower, he called Juice to put on the performance of his life, only to find out that Teller had survived the shooting.

The shoulder! He shot him in the fuckin' shoulder? Kyle was livid. The one asshole I task to do the job and he doesn't know the difference between a shoulder and a head shot?

Kyle quickly questioned Juice to get the particulars of the shooting under the guise of concern and felt reasonably sure that he was safe, but as he headed back to the Clubhouse in the back of his mind, only one thought reverberated in his head as he retraced his steps over and over in his head.

Can anything come back and bite me in the ass?

Kyle soon discovered that the only witness to the shooting was Jolene, but with two bullets in her chest and several surgeries under her belt, it wasn't likely that she would survive. Waiting vigil with the rest of the Sons, Kyle quickly came to the conclusion that maybe he should take out an insurance policy by helping Jolene along on her path to meeting her maker. Hopefully, if he did it right, he could make it look like she had succumbed to her injuries, but the problem was she was always under the watchful eyes of the Sons or Charming PD. So he waited, hoping against hope that somehow Jolene would just fuckin' die! That was the only sure-fire way that he and Whistler would escape discovery.

Somebody must have been looking out for me, Kyle thought wryly, as Jolene was in a coma for going on three weeks with no sign of improvement. But Kyle's joy was short-lived when Clay called an emergency Church session to announce the identity of the shooter. Apparently, Kyle's standing within his own club had not improved any in the past three years as he had been kept out of the loop regarding her condition.

How Kyle managed to keep himself from leaping to his feet and running for the Chapel doors was still a mystery. Keeping his face passive and not giving a clue to anyone of the roiling emotions in his belly, his mind quickly started planning his escape. As soon as SAMCRO and the contingent of visiting charter members had left, Kyle made an excuse to Piney that he was going out for some smokes and never came back. It was all but guaranteed that as soon as they caught up with Whistler, every chapter would be hunting down the former Son who had betrayed SAMCRO, and by extension, all the SOA charters.

I'm better off eating my own gun than letting Teller get a hold of me.

All of his dreams and aspirations of being the President of the mother charter were gone forever and only now did Kyle see that he had been living in a dream world, completely cut off from reality.

My life is worth less than a pile of flaming dog shit.

Kyle had gathered what funds he had and headed straight out of town, trying to put as many miles between him and SAMCRO as possible.

Initially, his gut told him to head to Nevada, but hiding out in a state that had not only a charter of the Sons, but another MC with friendly ties to SAMCRO—namely the Devil's Tribe—was a big gamble. But by hiding in plain sight, Kyle had hoped that his former brothers would think that it was unlikely that he would take such a risk. Las Vegas should hopefully be far enough from Reno and Indian Hills to avoid discovery and give Kyle enough time to consider his options, which, at the moment, were very few in number.

Kyle put the cap on the bottle he had been swilling. He needed to get sober and he needed some sleep. He had to be in Las Vegas and under wraps by tomorrow afternoon to meet up with some of his contacts outside the MC world. Hopefully, they may be able to provide him a safe haven until he figured shit out.

Jax was sitting on the edge of the box spring of Kyle's bed back at the Clubhouse with his head in his hands. He had just spent the last ten minutes in a rage, rampaging, and basically destroying the room. He had punched several holes in the walls, bloodying his knuckles, and had managed to rip the bathroom door off its hinges. Having tossed the queen-sized mattress clear across the room, he had knocked several shelves off the wall. Finding the sound of breaking glass somewhat satisfying, Jax proceeded to pull and throw the drawers of Kyle's dresser, still containing some of his personal items, against the walls, finally knocking the dresser onto its side and stomping the mirror to pieces.

As quick as his temper was to flare, Jax was just as quick to calm down. His SAMCRO brothers, now congregated in the hallway outside Kyle's room, let him have his moment of pure unadulterated rage, all the while making sure he didn't end up hurting himself as he was still recovering from a gunshot wound. Jax sat quietly, taking deep breaths as his breathing returned to normal. Pushing his hair out of his face with bloody hands, Jax looked up and seemed to notice for the first time that he was not alone.

Pushing past Tig and Chibs, Happy stepped into the room. He recognized the look in Jax's eyes, had seen it in himself when he looked in the mirror hundreds, maybe thousands of times.

Placing his hand on Jax's shoulder, Happy's face was as contorted with anger as Jax knew his must be. "We'll find him, brother," Happy started. "And when we do, we'll make him pay." He promised and Jax nodded.

Those words, coming from one of his brothers, seemed to shake Jax out of his stupor of rage and blood lust. While those feelings were still there, Happy had just reminded him that dealing with Kyle wasn't just his personal vendetta, but the Club's as well. SAMCRO had been betrayed not only by one of their own, but by a patch who sat at the table and who, for all intents and purposes, anyone wearing the Reaper would have trusted with his life. That betrayal alone gave his brothers the right to extract their own pound of flesh from Kyle, but for Jax, Kyle had set in motion a series of events that almost killed his old lady. The fact that Jax had been a target as well wasn't what fed Jax's need for Kyle's blood. Hearing the violence and depravity that Kyle and Whistler had planned for Jolene alone had visions of Jax shoving Kyle's still-beating heart down his throat dancing in his head. Standing up, he gave Happy a bro-hug with a hearty pat on the back.

"Where's Clay?" Jax asked, moving towards the door.

"Chapel," Chibs replied. "But let me take a look at them hands there, brutha and your shouldah, too."

Shaking his head, Jax pulled a blue bandana from his back pocket and wrapped it around the worst of his two jacked up hands. "I need to talk to Clay."

Making his way through the crowded Clubhouse, Jax finally found himself in front of the Chapel doors and entered without knocking.

Clay was sitting in his chair, his mind a million miles away, as he puffed on his cigar. "You done throwing your tantrum?"

Ignoring his snarkiness, Jax made his way to his chair next to Clay and sat down. "Did you check in with Kozik and Juice?" He pulled out his pack of cigarettes and lit up a smoke.

"Yeah," Clay nodded. "According to Kozik, Jolene's out cold. Anxiety's been keeping her up at night, so the doctor gave her a sedative to help her sleep. She asked Kozik to wake her up as soon as he heard from us, but I told him to just let her get some rest. Tomorrow's another day."

"Maybe we should send more guys down there." Jax suggested. "With Kyle in the wind, Jo's still not safe."

Clay nodded. "Done. I sent a small army down there as soon as we got back."

"What did Piney have to say about Kyle?" Jax asked, flicking ashes into the ashtray in front of him.

"One of the prospects saw Kyle take off less than an hour after we did. Had a backpack strapped to his back, but no one thought anything of it as April and the kids were still here. Fuckin' coward bailed on his Club and his family." Clay muttered angrily.

His frustration bubbling to the surface again, Jax sat forward in his chair, nearly face-to-face with Clay. "We need to track him down, Clay. We can't just sit around with our thumbs up each other's asses."

"Oh really?" Clay questioned sarcastically as he glared at Jax. "You don't say. Good thing you're around, huh?

"You got something you need to get off your chest, you do it now. Kyle's got a good four-plus hour head start. The son of a bitch could be headed anywhere, so let's get the petty bullshit out of the way and come up with a plan to find him, fast."

"Petty? Petty bullshit? You call nearly losing my daughter, your old lady, petty bullshit?"

Jax shook his head slightly, his left eye twitching just a bit. "You know that's not what I mean, Clay. You're mad at me, I get that. I'm mad at me too, but you know that I would have gladly died on that street that night if it meant—" Jax stopped and cleared his throat.

The what-ifs were driving him crazy because there was no guarantee that him dying would have spared Jolene. Before tonight, he'd been convinced that he had been the sole target, and that Jolene was just an innocent by-stander who happened to wander into the wrong place at the wrong time. After hearing that tape, Jax knew now that getting shot in the chest and nearly dying three times in as many weeks had been the best possible outcome for his girl. Had he decided to wait until Monday to get a hot shave, he would have led Whistler right into the home that Jolene had lovingly made for him with the intent of turning it into a house of horrors. Whistler got off easy, but Jax knew in his heart that he and Jolene weren't going to be so lucky.

Clay was glaring at Jax as he absently rolled his cigar between his thumb, index, and middle fingers. "Kyle can run and, if he's smart, he'll paint the walls of whatever hell hole he ends up in with his own brain matter, but make no mistake. We will find him." Clay nearly growled.

Jax nodded, knowing that even if it took the rest of his life, Kyle was a dead man.

Clay contemplated Jax for a long time. "I know you love her, Jax, but you gotta let her go." He said in a voice that was barely above a whisper. "I almost lost my daughter and I know in my gut this never would have happened if you two hadn't been together. I made a mistake returning that ring to you, but you made a bigger mistake giving it back to Jolene. I'm done holding my tongue and I'm not gonna lie. I know she loves you, she has forever, but she deserves better than you and now that she's got a second chance, I think Jolene should take that scholarship in San Diego and you should let her go."

Jax was staring back at Clay with a clenched jaw and furrowed brow. Clay was expecting his face to come into contact with Jax's fist again, and couldn't have been more surprised than when Jax agreed with him.

"You're right." Jax said before taking a deep drag from his cigarette, exhaling a plume of smoke with a shaky breath. "I love her too fuckin' much to continue exposing her to the Life, Clay. Trust me, I've thought of nothing else ever since she woke up."

"What are you gonna do about it?" Clay asked, shocked as shit that Jax was talking about letting Jolene go.

Jax was shaking his head. "Right now? Nothing. We gotta find Kyle first. She's not safe with him still out there, but I've got a plan." He started. "You just gotta give me some time because, even though I know it's what's right for her, it doesn't make it any easier for me."

"You can't prolong this, Jax. I don't want her hurt any more than necessary."

"I understand, but you have to let me handle this. Don't get involved and I give you my word, I'll make sure she's out of harm's way."