"Done to Death By Slanderous Tongue"

SAMCRO President Clay Morrow cursed at the biting wind. He was waiting in a deserted long-haul trucking weigh station, north of Sacramento and away from his base of control in Charming and the Bay Area. Tig and Happy were supposed to be back from up north with the latest shipment of guns from the Irish. The MC's deal with the Galindo cartel depended on this shipment. He was with Juice and a dozen patches from Tacoma and he wanted to keep as low a profile as possible.

He felt vulnerable. Most of SAMCRO had gone up north to provide bodies and relief for a brother charter under pressure in Starling. Jax hadn't responded to his calls for the past day and news that the SCPD was sniffing around SAMSTAR's business at the Starling port concerned him. He had heard about the masked vigilantes in the news and hadn't put much stock in their threat – until Tig told him the Arrow had disrupted a meet between Starling's Russians, SAMSTAR and some new Japanese players.

More goddamn mouths to feed, Clay thought. He didn't like the idea of new partners cutting into the club's business – or cutting into his future retirement fund.

A rumble in the distance became louder. To his surprise, a large orange school bus rolled into the weigh station. The bus stopped abruptly a few feet. The doors opened and both Happy and Tig stepped out, looking weary and exhausted.

Clay shook his head. "A school bus? Really? We were supposed to keep the delivery low-key."

"Couldn't be helped, Clay," Tig said. "That Arrow prick stirred it up real good at the port. The Soviets and the sushis freaked out, but Jax kept them onside. The Arrow played us. Now the Starling PD's anti-gang task force is scouring the port for evidence. We had to pull the guns out ASAP. We were lucky SAMSTAR had this bus."

"The guns are accounted for," Happy said. "SIGs, KG-9'S, Glocks, ammo – it's all there. There's more good news: Mickey Halloran walked. The D.A. couldn't tie him to the port murder. Jax says we're good with the Russians at the port. The cops won't find dick about the MC there. SAMSTAR's in the clear."

"Good," Clay said. "With SAMSTAR holding its own, we need bodies back in Charming. I've been stuck with only Tacoma, the prospects, Miles and Juice, while Jax and the boys have been living it up in granola land. We need to secure this shipment and be ready to mule the blow once Romeo's crew arrives."

"But Jax said he wanted us back in Starling as soon as we made the delivery," Happy began. "SAMSTAR's under siege on all sides. There's a gang turf war brewing up there. Once you count the Yakuza and the triads, they're totally outmanned. It could hit the fan at any moment – they'll need patches. And plenty of them."

"Look, I don't give a shit what Jax told you," Clay said. "Last I checked, I'm still wearing the President's patch." He stabbed his finger into Happy's chest. "And don't get your boxers in a knot about Starling's gang troubles. The gangs there have been pecking at each other for decades and SAMSTAR's survived it all. We've been funneling guns for all sides, for Christ's sakes. They will stay whole."

"But –" Tig began.

"We're not at the table here!" Clay said, exasperated. "We'll have Rogue River pick up the school bus and take it back. I've got Tacoma and the prospects waiting at our new warehouse - it's Oswald's old lumber storage property. We're going there to lock this down and heading back to Charming. End of discussion."

"Look, right, man – okay," Tig said. "We're with you." He didn't like the idea of Clay and Jax squabbling over boots on the ground. It wasn't good for business – or the MC. He was still Clay's right hand at heart and he wanted to do something to placate both of them.

He spotted Juice polishing his bike in the distance and pulled Clay aside. "Maybe we can send Juice up there, he can be your eyes on the ground. If he thinks that SAMSTAR doesn't need the bodies, you just say the word and Jax and the guys will come back. That was always the plan anyway. The Arrow don't know shit about the club or our business. He can't hurt us."

"Juice, eh?" Clay said. "This new sheriff's been ridin' him hard with all these trumped up release violations with the weed shop. Might be good for the MC, if he's not around Charming for a few days."

He called Juice over. "Juice, did your P.O. sign off on that charity ride for Glades Memorial?"

"I got the okay last night," Juice said. Clay explained to him that Jax needed bodies in Starling to shore up SAMSTAR's ranks. In moments, Juice had revved up his bike and rode north to the Cali-Oregon border.

The Tacoma crew transferred the guns to empty oil barrels, while Happy and Tig strapped on their helmets for the ride home.

"You worried he's still pissed at us," Tig said. "Don't be. Or are you pissed that Clay was wrong – about you and boxers?"

"Dead wrong," Happy said. "I'm going commando. Always do on long rides. It minimizes chafing."

"Geez, really?" Tig smirked. "No, seriously, what's up. You've been, like, scary quiet since we rode through Redding."

"It's not the gangs or the cops that I'm worried about in Starling," Happy said. "Jim is a strong president for SAMSTAR. He was in John Teller's platoon in Vietnam, a soldier through and through. They've got that shit contained."

"Then what is it, exactly?" Tig said. "It can't be about the Robin Hood vigilante – or his little red-hooded sidekick, or that new blonde chick in the black mask that's been beating up street thugs in the Glades lately."

"I am worried," Happy said. "This guy and his crew have been at it for awhile now. The SAMSTAR guys were saying he's even executed crank pushers, lowlifes and crooked business types. This dude's on a mission. A freaking crusade. He's committed to his cause – that's the scary part! You saw what he did at the port, he played us like violins. And now he's got more masked followers. He needs to die. Like, yesterday!"

Tig shrugged. "Nothin' we can do about that now, that's in Jax's hands," Tig said as he turned on his bike's ignition. "Clay is right: we need more than just prospects on hand when we pick up the blow from Galindo."

Miles away, Juice rode north to the Oregon border. An unmarked sedan pulled out of a hidden laneway. When Juice merged into traffic and joined the main highway north, the sedan tailed him at a discreet distance.

A federal agent, in civilian clothes, dialed his smartphone. "Ortiz has left the weigh station, sir. He's alone. It looks like he's heading up towards Josephine County. I will let you know once he crosses the Oregon border."

Lincoln Potter was on the other line. "We follow the crumbs that SAMCRO is leaving behind. If they lead to Starling City, we can coordinate with Starling P.D. They can pick up Ortiz on a release violation. Once he's detained, we can pressure him to provide info on SAMSTAR's connection to that killing at the state border. If Halloran won't play ball with us, I'm sure Juice will."

"And what if Ortiz doesn't want to play ball?" the agent asked.

"He has no choice," Potter said, munching on a ridiculously large bag of caramel popcorn. "No choice at all."


Oliver and John Diggle parked the plain-looking sedan two blocks away from Malone's, a rundown Irish pub in the east end of the Glades. Diggle looked nervously around the neighbourhood. It was after 1 a.m. - when even the Glades residents knew was not a safe hour to be outside. In an alleyway around the corner, two addicts were openly using meth.

"I understand why you feel uncomfortable in this neck of the woods," Ollie said.

"Yeah, no kidding," Diggle said. "A black youth was nearly beaten to death here last month, just because he got off the bus at the wrong stop. This block is full of racist crackers, strung out meth-heads and jack-booted skinheads."

Ollie nodded towards the pub. "Redmond Malone is the pub's owner. He used to run guns for the IRA, before the Good Friday agreement was in place. I knew him during my time in exile. He's out of the life now, but he may be our best lead in finding out if there's any connection to the port murder and the trouble in the underworld lately. We know the Irish and SAMCRO have a long-running relationship over the gun trade."

"Well, the sooner we're out of this hood, the better, you know what I'm saying?" Diggle said. He slipped his Glock into his rear waistband.

When they entered, Malone was stacking bar stools. His back was still turned to them. Traditional Celtic music, full of fiddles and tin flutes, played over the sound system.

"I'm afraid we're closed for the night, but we're open tomorrow if you fancy a pint," he said, with a hint of the Ulster accent of his youth.

"Actually we're looking for some information ... Redmond," Ollie said. Malone turned around and recognized him.

"Oliver Queen," Malone nodded and clapped him on the shoulder. "I was afraid you might have been one of the locals, tryin' to jump me for today's cash deposit."

Ollie nodded to Diggle. "My associate, John Diggle."

Malone took Diggle's hand warily. "Get you fellas a pint?" He directed them to a booth in the rear.

"Not today, thanks," Ollie said. All along the south wall of the pub were old photos of the Irish countryside and Belfast in the 1980's. "You've probably heard about that security guard killing at the port. SAMSTAR was there ..."

Malone sighed deeply. "I figured this wasn't a social call. Look, I don't know much. And what little I do know could complicate things for me, if the wrong people found out."

"You've kept your nose clean since you left Belfast," Ollie said, "and you've been keeping your head down. But whatever's going on at the port is spilling out into the streets. Into the Glades. We can't sit this one out. There's a power struggle - I don't know if it's over turf, guns or drugs. SAMSTAR's in the middle of it somehow. And that means the Real IRA is involved. If Jax Teller's in town, then it must be big. All I'm asking is that you point me in the right direction."

"That's a really big ask," Malone said. He wandered over to the bar and poured himself a glass of whiskey. He also brought two glasses of club soda for Ollie and Diggle.

"Any detail could help," Ollie said.

Malone savoured a sip from his drink. He left the IRA for good, but he was always wary that his old sins could follow him across the Atlantic. "Some of my brethren are not as eager to lay down their arms and make nice with the Brits. The Real IRA's shot-callers - they call themselves the Irish Kings - upped their volume of supply recently. And we're not talking just Glocks and .38's. Big guns. AK's, RPG's and such. Like, seriously military-grade shite."

"Oh God," Diggle said. "What if that stuff hits the streets?" Diggle said.

Malone shook his head. "The order is not for anyone local, as far as I know. I doubt any of the local crews will get their hands on them. Weapons like those bring too much heat."

Ollie took a sip of his club soda. The Real IRA would never sell such weaponry to the local gangbangers, not just because the Irish Kings saw themselves as a better class of criminal than the street thugs. Racism was ingrained into their psyche and they normally would never do business with partners who weren't the right skin complexion - which, in their eyes, was white.

"The mafia?" Ollie said. "Or, maybe even the Yakuza? The Yamamoto clan rolled into town a few months ago."

"It's possible and they've all got deep enough pockets," Malone said. "Money is the great equalizer. I do know SAMSTAR'S handling transportation for sure, possibly storage too. But those guns are ending up elsewhere - not here and probably not even stateside. My guess is Mexico."

Diggle groaned. "Great. Some big drug cartel rivalry exploded in Mexico about six months ago. My money's on those Irish guns arming one of the sides in this feud. One of the cartels must be the buyer! Nothing else makes sense."

Ollie finished off his soda. "Thanks, Redmond. At least we know what we may be up against." He and Diggle were about to leave when the door chimes jingled.

A tall, well-built grey-haired man in a pristine white dress shirt and tailored suit stepped through the door, along with three thuggish associates.

"Mother of God," Malone cursed under his breath.

"Sorry to interrupt this quaint gathering," the new visitor said, in a distinctly Irish accent. He glared at Ollie and Diggle. "I'm afraid you and your black friend will need to move along. Redmond and I have some unfinished business to discuss."

"There are only four of them," Diggle whispered. "We could take them."

Ollie shook his head. "Not here." He knew he could take two of them down if he needed to, but not before the bullets started flying. In the confined space of the pub, it was too dangerous.

The visitor extended his hand to Ollie. "I'm Galen O'Shay. Pleased to meet your acquaintance ... Oliver Queen."

Ollie grimaced. "I know who you are."

Galen grinned. "Then you know that I have no patience for foolishness. It's long past your bedtime, Junior. Tell your boy to bring your car around and drive you home."

"I'm nobody's 'boy'!" Diggle snarled. He stood up, but Galen's associates moved their hands into their blazer pockets. They were all armed.

"Stand down, gents," Galen said. "There's no reason we can't have a civil discussion with Starling City's most famous citizen."

Galen stepped closer to Ollie and spoke in a low tone. "I knew your father, Robert, for more than fifteen years. He was a loyal and trusted friend. He understood the value of building relationships."

"You're a criminal who puts guns into the hands of lowlifes and gangbangers!" Ollie said.

"That is the price of supporting the cause," Galen said. "Until the Union Jack is lowered for the last time over Northern Ireland and every bloody imperialist soldier has left my homeland - the fight is all that matters. Doing business with bikers, slants and wetbacks in the Glades is a necessary evil."

"You're no better than those skinhead crews out there," Ollie scoffed. "You're nothing more than an O.G. lining his pockets - and fighting for a dead cause."

Galen's expression soured. "I won't trade barbs with a snotty little prick like you. My impression of you from the news headlines is not much. You're a tempermental trust fund brat, squandering his father's fortune on frivolous things, blackening his family name with sordid escapades." He glared at Malone and Diggle. "And consorting with traitors and coloured gangsters from the hood. Now that I've met you, my poor impression of you has been confirmed. Any bond I once had with the Queen family died with Robert, God rest his soul, when the sea took his life. Your father was a lion of this city. A lion! A leader of men. You? You're nothing but a whelp. No relationship exists between us. The only reason I'll let you and your dark friend walk out of here tonight in one piece is the friendship I had with Robert. That is the extent of my mercy. Go - now - before we send you out of the Glades on a stretcher. Or worse."

The music that was now playing on the sound system was a folk singer's bitter ballad - raging about revolution, lost comrades and injustice.

"Malone comes with us," Ollie said.

"Malone stays where he is," Galen said. "Now get the hell out before I change my mind!"

"You'd best leave, Oliver," Malone said, resigned to his fate. "Nothing you can do here. This isn't your war. Take care, lads."

"Let's go," Ollie said. He and Diggle left the pub, knowing that Malone's well-being was now uncertain in the hands of the Real IRA.

"I don't like this at all," Diggle said. "We should help your friend - he gave us the heads-up on that tsunami of trouble that's about to roll into town. We can't just leave him behind!" He began to march back to the pub.

"Malone understood the risks," Ollie said, grabbing Diggle's arm. "Galen O'Shay is one of the most dangerous men in the Real IRA - cold-blooded, ruthless and greedy. A deadly combination. If we do something about it now, he will slit all our throats and there will be three bodies in the morgue tomorrow morning! My job is to make sure you go home to your wife and baby daughter, intact. Malone is a survivor. He may be able to talk his way out this mess, it wouldn't be the first time he's had to."

"But you're not sure about that, are you?" Diggle said as he entered the sedan. Two blocks away, three grim-looking skinheads in military boots stared angrily at Diggle. It was time to get out of this neighbourhood.

"No, Diggle - I'm not sure," Ollie said.

Their sedan headed west, towards the safety of the downtown core.

Outside St. Zachary's Catholic Church in the Glades, before the 10 a.m. Mass, Fr. Michael stumbled upon a sleeping homeless man at the front steps. He was covered in a tarpaulin, but once the priest lifted the cover he discovered a dead body. The man had three shots to the head - a professional killing.

24 hours later the medical examiner confirmed that the body was that of Glades pub owner - and ex-IRA gunrunner - Redmond Malone. The hit was a favour for Malone's former IRA commanders: payback for an ancient betrayal. There were no known witnesses.

Malone's luck had run out - and the Irish Kings reminded the underworld that they were still major players in the city.

To be continued ...