Disclaimer: I do not own Sons of Anarchy.

"Get some fucking dredgers here! NOW!" Stahl bellowed at the red-faced dockmaster.

Walt Ramsay, the lifelong sailor and dockmaster of the Alice Street Marina, was used to dealing with difficult women. Hell, he had been married and divorced four times, but this bitch was a trip. Red from working and playing for so many years outdoors, Walt wasn't intimidated at all by the tall and thin ATF agent with the crazy eyes.

Walt adjusted his skipper's hat and attempted to reason with the unreasonable. "Ma'am, we're a small public marina and we do not have the resources for what you're asking. Besides, the explosion happened far from our docks, in the open water and that's Coast Guard territory. You want a dredger, you talk to them because I don't get paid enough for this shit."

The Alice Street Marina in Oakland was in utter chaos. Despite the fact that all public access areas were barricaded with official ATF crime scene tape, the two dozen ATF agents on site, with the aid of the local police department, struggled in vain to keep the morbidly curious back. With unruly reporters, marina workers and passers-by generally rubbernecking and causing trouble, most of law enforcement's manpower was going towards crowd control.

Word of the explosion in the harbor during the night was the lead story on every early morning news program in the Bay Area and beyond and the vultures were circling. As several more TV vans pulled into the marina's parking lot, Walt saw that the federal agent, who was currently ripping him a new one, was about to lose her shit. The last thing he wanted or needed was the experience of being torn to shreds on the local news for something that was beyond his control.

"Look, lady—" Exasperated, Walt started.

"That's Special Agent Stahl, asshole!" Stahl spat out.

"Hey, I don't give a shit who you are! There ain't squat I can do for you, lady. I can't even get into my own damn office because your people have barred me from entering." Walt argued.

"That's because your security cameras were tampered with. All the fucking cameras from the parking lot, to the docks, to the goddamn bathroom and beyond were set on a continuous loop. There's not a damn thing on those tapes that can help this investigation. Considering that we have nothing else to go on, I would expect more cooperation from the only suspect we have at the moment, don't you agree?" Stahl exploded.

"Suspect my ass! And you're fuckin' crazy!" Walt was indignant, but took a deep breath to calm down. "Listen, before your people kicked my ass out of my own office, I went over the slip manifests. All the boats are either present or accounted for, expect for The Irish Lass registered to a Timothy O'Dell. Here, this is what he looks like." The dockmaster double-tapped on his electronic tablet and displayed a black-and-white photo of a trim and debonair Jimmy O'Phelan. "This is surveillance footage taken yesterday afternoon before the cameras were tampered with."

While Agent Estevez stood still and stoic, Stahl stopped pacing back and forth to look at the picture.

"Son of a bitch!" She ground out through gritted teeth. "What do you know about this Timothy O'Dell?"

Walt shrugged his shoulders. "Not much, except that his cabin cruiser has occupied Slip 6 for the past two months and that his rent was paid up through the end of the year in cash. But there is nothing that indicates that it was this guy's boat that blew up in the harbor last night."

"Yeah, right." Stahl said sarcastically as she ran an agitated hand through her hair. "That's why we need the FUCKING DREDGERS!"

"Can't help you." Walt shrugged his shoulders and walked back to his command station hoping that he would finally be let in.

It was almost ten o'clock in the morning and Stahl had been on the scene of the explosion since at least three a.m. Never making it to bed last night, she had been awake for almost 30 consecutive hours with the aid of coffee and energy drinks, but was now in desperate need of a good meal and a few hours sleep.

My fucking case is gone. Jimmy O was my tie in to the Real IRA and Luke Moran is either dead or in the wind, Stahl rubbed her forehead angrily. All I have left is a pathetic junkie rat, who has only given me shit Intel for months. If Samuelson has his way, I'll be in a field office in Juneau by the end of the week and it's all his fault for pulling my surveillance team from the marina two weeks ago.

Stahl's phone went off. As if the man could read her mind, she saw her supervisor's number flash across her phone's screen and fought the urge to hurl it into the harbor. Instead, Stahl ignored his call, letting it go to voice-mail for the third this morning as she felt the exhaustion finally flooding her bones and taking over.

Stahl motioned to Estevez impatiently. "I can't take this shit any more. You're in command. Try to keep the journalist assholes out of the way, do as much of a sweep as you can for witnesses, and report back to me in six hours. I'm off the grid until then. I'm going home to grab some sleep."

"What do I tell Samuelson?"

"Tell him I haven't slept in over 24 hours and that I will call him when I have something to report." She replied brusquely as headed towards the parking lot.

June Stahl lived alone in a small two-bedroom house in a development on the outskirts of Stockton. Catering mostly to young professionals and families where both parents worked, it was not surprising to find the streets deserted at this time of day, despite it being the middle of summer.

Stahl pulled up to the modest house that she had purchased outright several years ago, using money from a settlement she had made with her foster parents' insurance company after they died in a house fire. Parking her car in the driveway, she let herself in through the front door, nearly tripping over the pile of mail that had been shoved through the mail slot.

"Shit." Stahl grumbled as she threw her handbag and keys on the small table by the front door. All she wanted was to grab something to eat and then sink into her bed. She was just about to head to the kitchen when she noticed the thick envelope lying in the pile of what was mostly junk mail and mail order catalogs.

Picking up the envelope, Stahl kicked off her sensible shoes with the thick, square heels as she walked into her living room. Although her home was small and compact, it was rather austere, offering only a simple leather couch and armchair, a coffee table, several floor lamps, and a small liquor cabinet that stood behind the sofa.

Dropping the mail on the coffee table, Stahl stripped off her suit jacket and flung it across the back of the couch, leaving her side holster on as she headed to the liquor cabinet. Grabbing a glass, June poured herself four fingers of 12-year old Scotch and knocked back half of the liquor before returning to the couch, placing her glass and the decanter of Scotch on the coffee table in front of her. Crossing her legs, she grabbed the thick envelope to examine it.

The first thing she noted was that it had not come through the U.S. Postal Service. The only identifying information was "For Agent June Stahl" scrawled across the face of the gray envelope in black marker. Flipping it over, Stahl felt the pit of her stomach clench into an uneasy knot. She turned the envelope over and over again in her hands before finally deciding to open it.

Nearly ripping apart the envelope, Stahl pulled out a dark brown file about two inches thick. Turning it face up, her eyes widened as she read the label:

Investigative Report on Agent June Stahl

An uncontrollable shudder ran through her body as she realized what she was looking at.

"Motherfucking whore!" The growl that escaped her lips was almost guttural and feral, like a wild animal.

With her hand shaking uncontrollably, Stahl grabbed her drink from the coffee table and drained the glass of its contents before flipping open the file. Stapled to the inside of the folder was a photo of her taken during ATF training school. Looking at herself almost 15 years ago was almost like looking at a stranger. The June Stahl in the photo had no lines on her face or stray gray hairs at her hairline. If it weren't for the eyes, Stahl would hardly recognize herself at all.

Stahl turned over the first page and was unprepared for what she saw even though she had a good idea where her day was going. There, staring back at her, was a picture of 8 year old Claire Daniels, her long blond hair fashioned into a single ponytail and her cold, vacant eyes staring back at her unseeingly. This was the last photo June could remember taking as Claire. Soon after, her mother had abandoned her and young Claire went to live with her aunt and uncle. They had rechristened her June Stahl, the name of their daughter who had died at birth the same year Claire was born.

As Stahl turned page after page of reports and documentation, the past she had struggled so hard to keep buried came flooding back. It all played over her mind's eye like she was watching home movies of someone else's life—horrible home movies. Her baby brother's crumpled and dead body, after she squeezed him to her chest so hard that he had stopped squirming, lying in his crib, his face blue and his neck twisted at an odd angle. Her mother's wild sobs as she cradled Henry in her arms. Her father so grief-stricken he abandoned his wife and remaining child. And her mother, who refused to believe that it had been more than just an accident, but who after a while grew resentful of her own daughter and eventually abandoned her too.

Coming across a series of photos and articles, Stahl looked at the pictures of her adopted parents' home, which had burned to the ground two weeks after her high school graduation. The Fire Marshal in that Godforsaken town had ruled the deaths as "accidental," blaming faulty wiring on an ancient boiler for the explosion. She focused on a grainy picture of her at their funeral as one of her foster parents' neighbors tried comforting her, even though June had yet to shed a single tear in grief.

Stahl smiled as she remembered using the gold Mount Blanc pen they had given her for graduation—instead of the car she had been hoping for—to make out the deposit slip for the check she received from the insurance company.

"Maybe y'all still be alive had you brought me a car instead." Stahl said, the East Texas twang she tried so hard conceal thick in her voice.

Not really relishing the forced trip down memory lane, it was the analysis of the information complied in the file contained in the Final Report that sent her over the edge.

The unnamed private investigator had taken all of the information he had gathered over the period of one year for a professional analysis by a forensic psychiatrist who had worked as an FBI profiler before retiring. The Final Report, written by someone referred to only as Dr. B, was based on the information contained in the original files and transcripts of personal interviews conducted by the P.I. Dr. B had concluded that June Stahl, a/k/a Claire Daniels was a sociopath and unfit to serve in her capacity as an officer of the law.

According to what information he had available to him, there was a high probability that she was highly intelligent, but suffered from a narcissistic personality disorder. Although quite capable of being charming and personable, for the most part, she functioned without empathy for others and showed no remorse for her actions. As someone in a position of power, it was possible that she was used to abusing her authority and if she hadn't already killed again, she would. In Dr. B's opinion, June Stahl was unfit to serve in a public capacity and should be stripped of her badge before she did others or herself any harm.

Suddenly flinging the file so that the papers scattered around the living room, Stahl went on a rampage. Screaming and cursing at the top of her lungs, she overturned tables and furniture, breaking lamps, and smashing the Waterford decanter that had belonged to her great-grandmother against the wall. Far worse than the fit of rage she had suffered at the station house the day of Jolene's detainment, Stahl completely destroyed her living room.

Shuddering with deep breaths, Stahl literally grabbed her hair by the roots and pulled hard. Pain had always been the only thing that could bring her back to herself when she lost control. Barely pulling herself together, Stahl paced the length of the shattered room talking out loud to herself, the heady aroma of the shattered bottle of Scotch and her own pungent body odor heavily scenting the room.

"THAT FUCKING CUNT! She is going to pay for this IN BLOOD!" Stahl raged. "That cheap SAMCRO biker whore made good on her threat, so now it's time for me to make good on mine. Jolene-fucking-Teller is DEAD!"

Agitated, Stahl continued pacing furiously around the living room, knocking down anything within arm's reach. "Those stupid Irish pricks were supposed make sure she died! They had the dirty Intel on that gash and all they had to do was convince her old man to slit her goddamned throat!"

Stahl paused, running her hand through her tangled hair. "That Teller asshole's so pussy-whipped, he must have bargained a way out with his Club for his bitch! Now it's up to ME to make sure they're both DEAD!"

Breathing hard and uneven, Stahl stood still in the middle of her destroyed living room as she tried to consider her best options. "How? How do I make that happen?" She asked herself in a decidedly calmer voice. "THINK, goddammit!" She pounded a fist against her forehead. As her gaze drifted around the room, her already contorted face became even more so as she realized that the blinds on the large picture window facing the street had been drawn.

I never close those blinds.

Lack of sleep. An almost-full glass of liquor on an empty stomach. The shock of confronting her past in black and white. All of it combined worked against Stahl, making her mind sluggish and cutting into her reaction time significantly. Staring at the drawn blinds, she was slowly coming to the realization that she wasn't alone when suddenly, the scent of leather and cigarettes filled her nostrils. A screech tore from her throat as Stahl was grabbed from behind, her arms pinned to her sides as her back was pressed up against a hard and muscled chest.

"Who the fuck are you?" Stahl screamed, nearly hysterical as she desperately tried to twist away. Taking a deep breath to calm herself down was almost impossible as she could barely expand her lungs in the powerful grip. "Do you have any idea who you are fucking with? I am a FEDERAL AGENT! Let me go, you piece of filthy shit!"

She could feel the grumble that started deep within her captor's chest before it escaped his lips as soft laughter. "Sorry, but no can do." The near-growl close to her ear finally penetrated through Stahl's terrified mind.

Fucking Jax Teller!

"It's just you and me, June." Stahl could hear the smirk in his voice.

Swallowing hard enough for Jax to hear, Stahl tried to gather her quickly fleeting composure. "Why are you in my house? What do you want?"

Jax shook his head slightly, his nostrils flared. It had taken every ounce of self-control in his possession to stay hidden in the kitchen. His patience was waning thin as Stahl took her time rifling through the file he had personally delivered before losing her shit and destroying her home.

Hearing her keen and wail like a wounded and cornered animal had momentarily brought Jax back to his senses. The Sons of Anarchy do not hurt women. It was a mantra Jax had heard his father JT say often. Innocents, women, and children did not get hurt on their watch. Ever.

It took hearing her plans for him and Jolene straight from her lips to pacify his conscience. It had to be done. June Stahl or Claire-fucking-Daniels—whoever the fuck she was—had felt no such misgivings when it came to removing obstacles from her path. It had taken a long night re-reading her dossier as he waited for her to come home to reach the conclusion that Stahl was no innocent. Her little brother and foster parents had paid the price. He'd be damned if he was going to let his old lady go down like that.

"Your father should have put you down like a rabid mongrel for what you did to your brother. You disgust me on so many levels and that's saying a lot coming from a man like me, a man with enough blood on his hands to last ten life times." Jax growled. "Difference is, I do what I do for my family. There's only one way this is going to end for you and I know you know what way I'm talking about because you did your homework. No one that goes after my old lady gets out alive."

"So, you're going to add killing a federal agent to your resume? All for what, love? Is she really worth all that? Worth your freedom and maybe your life?" Stahl laughed bitterly.

Tightening his grip around the agent securely with his left arm, Jax moved his gloved right hand to the holster on the waistband of her slacks and pulled out Stahl's service weapon. Stahl started squirming frantically once again as Jax shoved the barrel of the gun barrel up against her right temple.

"I don't know what you're talking about, June. I don't kill women," Jax started calmly, as he cocked the gun, saying the last words June Stahl would ever hear. "But if I did, I'd tell ya that yeah, she is so worth it. I'd tell ya that I'm doing this for my old lady, my children, and my Club."

And without a second thought, he pulled the trigger.

Agent Rick Samuelson was a 30-year veteran of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives. For the last eight of those years, it had been his great misfortune, as he often told his wife, to be the Director of the Stockton Division, sacrificing his full head of hair and good looks in the process. He had seen his fair share of bloodshed and had lost some really excellent agents in the field. During those times, he always felt a great deal of sorrow. It was an extremely rare instance when he would have a totally opposite reaction.

Today was one of those days.

Standing over the remains of Agent June Stahl, Samuelson swore under his breath loud enough for the man standing next to him to hear. "What a colossal fuck up! Couldn't she at least have the decency to go out into the desert to eat her gun, some where we wouldn't stumble across her body? No, because after everything I did for her, even in death June Stahl is working my last nerve. This is how she pays me back, by bending me over and FUCKING ME UP MY ASS!"

Looking down at Stahl's body as two personnel from the Medical Examiner's office covered her with a thin tarp, Deputy Chief David Hale recoiled, not at the sight of blood, but at Samuelson's tirade. Except for the massive head wound that had shattered her head, Stahl had looked relatively normal, almost like she was enjoying a peaceful slumber stretched out on the area rug of her obliterated living room.

The Director stroked his grizzled chin which was in desperate need of a shave. "Jesus, look at this place. She frickin' destroyed it, just like your interrogation room. How come everything's always so clear in hindsight? She was obviously a nut case from the word go. She was so damn good at her job that nobody recognized just how fuckin' crazy she was. She was a good agent, though—brutal, efficient, and ruthless. I'm retiring in a couple of years and the bitch was bucking for my job. I might have recommended her too had she closed the deal on the SOA-RIRA NorCal gun connection. But she knew. She knew she would never get the chance once this shit came out." Samuelson gestured at the documents that were strewn around the room and under her body.

Hale stooped down to pick up a photograph of what apparently was Stahl as a child. "Is it really that bad?" Hale asked.

"Are you kidding me? Even if only half the shit I read is true, she was toast. June Stahl wasn't even her name." Samuelson revealed. "Fuck, who am I kidding? She took the easy way out. If anyone's toast, it'll probably be me for having a baby-killing sociopath on the payroll." At Hale's puzzled look, the Director proceeded to detail the horrible things people had suspected her of doing, starting at 5 when she twisted an 8-week old kitten in half, breaking its spine.

As Samuelson's revelations set in, Hale was hard pressed not to lose the contents of his stomach. The fact that this was the same woman he had aided in her efforts to trap Jolene Teller made him sicker than gazing at parts of her brain splattered on the expensive Italian leather couch.

"How the hell did she slip through the cracks? This is the federal government we're talking about." Hale said angrily.

"That's a really good question, Deputy Chief." Samuelson agreed. "I don't have an answer. All I have are a shit load of more questions after reading the contents of a full dossier that was delivered to my office this morning. I don't know who pulled this shit together, but whoever it was, they sure had the resources and a major grudge against Stahl, I mean Daniels—fuck it. Whoever the hell she was, the reports I read suggest that her recruiters did a piss poor job conducting due diligence. Now I have Washington up my ass looking for a place to assign blame. First order of business was to bring the bitch in, but she never returned my calls. I thought she was probably neck deep in this explosion in the bay up in Oakland this morning. Little did I know that it's kinda hard to use a phone with a goddamn bullet in your head."

Gesturing to the documents and photos now being collected by several of the Stockton office's agents, Hale asked, "Any thoughts on who might be responsible for pulling this shit together?"

Samuelson shrugged his shoulders. "Take your pick. Like I said, she was a good agent, probably pissed off the wrong criminal enough to spend a significant amount of money and time digging into her past. What's so fucking embarrassing for the Bureau is that all this information was out there for them to find. Her career was over and, more than likely, she was heading to prison. She's better off dead."

Samuelson ran his hand over the shiny bald spot at the back of his head as he continued. "At the very least, Stahl would have done time for fraud. By the time I got the call to get over here, top brass was already discussing the logistics of reopening every case she worked on for a federal audit. Do you even realize how many pieces of scum can walk because of all the things she's done?" Looking down at the body, Samuelson sighed wearily. "Can we get her bagged and tagged sometime today, please?" He directed at the Medical Examiner's team. The Director turned back to face Hale. "Are you on duty?"

"No," Hale shook his head. "I was actually on my way to Oakland Airport to catch a flight to Seattle for a long weekend with my girlfriend. I only stopped by when I heard the news on the radio."

"That explains the casual wear." Samuelson replied as he eyed the lightweight blazer worn with a t-shirt and straight-legged jeans. "I hope you're not keeping your lady waiting."

"I am, actually. I missed my flight, but she's very understanding" Hale reached out to shake the man's outstretched hand. "If there's anything I can do for you when I return to Charming, don't hesitate to give me a call."

"Thanks. June spoke very highly of you, said you were very helpful with our ongoing case against the RIRA. After this, I don't know how much of that help was in vain, but we'll try to salvage as much as we can. With the Irish connection presumed dead and now June, it's not looking good."

Hale watched as the Medical Examiner and his staff loaded the body bag containing the remains of June Stahl onto a gurney before wheeling her outside. Following as Samuelson and his agents left, Hale exited the house. The sun had long since set, but the bright lights of several news cameras illuminated the roving reporters interviewing Stahl's neighbors about the tragedy.

Waving away an overzealous reporter who tried to stick a mike in his face, Hale growled. "No fucking comment."

As he headed towards his SUV, which was parked across the street, he heard the comment of one of June's neighbors, a small elderly white-haired woman who lived next door to the former agent. She was apparently quite hard of hearing as the reporter had to reiterate her question several times.

"It's so hard to believe, you know? Why, she seemed to be a sort of pleasant-type of a woman. Even though she was a little distant, I never would have pegged her for the type to kill herself."

The statement was said simply and without fanfare, but sounded off a cacophony of warning bells in Hale's head as he sat still in the driver's seat of his vehicle.

The old woman was right, but for all the wrong reasons. June was obviously as crazy as a shit-house rat, but she certainly wasn't the type to take the easy way out. Quite the opposite, actually. She would do what it took to protect her own hide.

Like having Jolene Teller marked for death.

If that's the case, then it's entirely possible that June had some help in the execution of her exit.

Hale suddenly pulled his vehicle away from the curb and headed towards the highway. If he hurried, he would be able to make the next flight into Seattle.

Hale's mind had started putting pieces together and was running in a direction that was bound to lead nowhere good if he followed it to its only logical conclusion. Ultimately, regardless of the right or the wrong of it, the right person had ended up in a body bag tonight.

He could at least take some comfort in that.

Huff Kagen had a smile on his face that could probably be seen from space as he entered the Chapel. It was his first invitation to take a seat at the table during Church since arriving in Charming.

An oversight on the part of the fuckin' National President, he had thought, and an insult to him personally.

He had mentioned it to Little Paul the last time they had spoken, but his President advised him to go with the program. It was important that Huff didn't cause more waves than he had already by bringing his old lady, Jax Teller's ex, with him to Charming.

"Learning the gun business is why you're there, so do your job as quickly as possible. Don't cause any problems, keep your old lady under control, and get your ass back to Tucson." Little Paul had said in a tone that brooked no argument.

As a favor to the mother charter, Huff and his prospects had been asked to handle several protection runs and, although it was grunt work, he was glad for it as his cut of the profits would go a long way in making his old lady happy. While on the runs, he got a call from one of the hang-arounds he had become friendly with, mainly just so that he would have eyes and ears in the Clubhouse during his absence.

Apparently, some serious shit had gone down and there was a lot of increased activity, so Huff wasn't surprised when one of the hang-arounds told him that he was wanted in the Chapel the minute he and his crew arrived on the lot.

Honestly, Huff really wasn't up to meeting with the Club right now. All he wanted was to bang his old lady and get some sleep, but Club business took precedence over his dick. Besides, Huff had a feeling that Teller was about to eat some crow and that was something he didn't want to miss out on.

I bet that Mr. Too-Big-For-His-Britches is in over his head and needs my help, Huff gloated. Now was his time to impress SAMCRO and take the young stud down a notch or two. Huff rubbed his face, remembering his aching and sore jaw thanks to Teller's right hook just before leaving on the protection run.

Huff had landed flat on his ass on the blacktop in the T-M parking lot as the younger man towered over him. "You know what that's for." It wasn't a question, but Jax glared at Huff until the older man had nodded. "Make sure you take care of that cargo." He said as he walked off.

Now, as he entered the Chapel, Huff's smirk started to fade as he warily eyed his brothers' faces as they sat around the Redwood table.

What the fuck is going on? Somebody die?

Jackson Teller sat at the head of the table, the gavel resting on its side as he leaned back in his chair smoking a cigarette. In front of him was a brown folder.

The Acting President pointed an index finger at him. For a moment, Huff thought he was looking at Clay Morrow, the anger evident upon the man's face, his shoulders set and tight, his cold blue eyes literally boring a hole through Huff.

"You. Sit." Jax ordered.

Huff suddenly wished he had stopped by the bar for a stiff drink before heading for the Chapel. For some reason, the unease he suddenly felt in the pit of stomach told him he was going to need it. Walking towards the empty chair at the opposite end of the table, he sat down gingerly.

"Is there a problem?" Huff asked, pulling out a pack of cigarettes.

Jax blew a ring of smoke towards the ceiling. "Oh, you bet there's a problem." With his jaw set and his eyes still on Huff, Jax nodded towards his VP. "Ope?"

Opie picked up the ball. "We've got a fuckin' rat in the Clubhouse." He said coldly, the mild-mannered gentle giant nowhere to be seen.

A rat? Huff thought. Oh shit!

Suddenly, Huff busted out a smile. It just kept getting better and better. Teller had gotten the Club in the shit and now needed his help.

"That's a serious problem, brother. As the SAMTAZ VP, I'm more than willing to offer my services to the mother charter in cleaning up their mess."

Opie smirked. "You should be, since you're responsible for bringing that gash back to Charming."

WTF?

Huff looked nonplussed. "Opie, you lost me."

"Then let me help you find yourself, asshole." Jax thundered. "Your old lady is the fuckin' rat!"

Huff suddenly felt the cold fingers of fear run down his spine. "Bullshit! That's not possible. " He blustered.

Reaching into the folder, Jax pulled out a report, crumpled it into a ball and threw it so that it landed in front of Huff. "Then what the fuck does that mean?"

The older man's hands trembled slightly as he unraveled the report. He noted that the report's header indicated that it was from the ATF's Stockton office. Written by Agent June Stahl, it detailed meetings with a Confidential Informant known as Wendy Case, formerly Wendy Teller, and the Intel she had managed to retrieve from her only source of information within the motorcycle club known as the Sons of Anarchy, the Vice President of the Tucson, Arizona charter, Douglas "Huff" Kagen.

"Your junkie whore has been mining you for information ever since you exercised the 'prison clause' while Jax was in Chino." Bobby said ominously. "No SAMCRO patch in their right mind would touch that skank with a dirty stick. And then you came along. After leaving Chino, Jax finally ran her ass out of Charming, only to have you bring her back to our fuckin' front door."

"Apparently, your sloppy seconds has been on the ATF's payroll since she and her other prison clause boyfriend, some Nordic Aryan Brotherhood prick, got busted delivering 25-to-life worth of Meth to Oak-Town." Piney explained. "Once they figured out her connection to SAMCRO, the DEA flipped her over to the ATF. She's been rolling on us ever since by funneling information on the Club right to the Feds."

"Information," Juice cut in. "That she never would have had access to, not with Jax trying to divorce her ass two minutes after he drunk-married the bitch. Everything she gave the Feds, she got from you. Apparently, your dick-game wasn't enough, so you had to talk shit in order to impress her."

"I heard she gives really great head, but even I wasn't that desperate or that crazy to disrespect my brother by hitting that." Tig said grimly. "I sure hope it was worth your patch, man."

Huff could barely keep up with the conversation as he was bombarded with one angry comment after another from the men at the table, but he froze as the SAA's comment registered with his stunned brain. "My patch?" He asked stupidly.

"You really don't think that this is something we can just sweep under the rug, do you?" Jax said coldly.

Huff started babbling. "Look, I didn't know—"

"It's obvious you don't know shit! You thought you were jerking my chain, throwing my former pussy in my face, playing some stupid alpha male pissing game. It's not enough taking your life into your own hands by disrespecting my old lady practically in my face? You really think you won't be held accountable for your gash almost destroying this charter's livelihood, too? Had you not just been blowing smoke up your old lady's ass, we would all be facing life in prison. Now, we have to clean up your mess before we can get back to business." Jax said angrily and then nodded at Tig. The Sergeant-at-Arms stood up and walked over to Huff.

"Take off the cut." Tig said. "Now!"

"Jax," Huff looked at the SAMCRO AP pleadingly. "I've worn this cut for almost 22 years."

Jax exhaled, the blue smoke trailing into the air. "And you won't ever get to wear it again. Take. It. Off."

In a daze, Huff stood up and removed his cut, handing it to Tig.

"You know the drill," Opie started. "But I'll tell you anyway. You're out. You cut ties with all charters, meaning no communication whatsoever. Black out your tats, or we'll do it for you and we WON'T use ink. Remove all SOA patches, emblems, and tags from your ride. Once you walk out of this room, you're dead to us."

"And you stay dead," Happy added. "Or we can help you find a way to stay that way."

"Your shit's been packed and waiting for you with your ride." Tig pulled out a thick envelope. "Here's your cut from the protection runs. I don't know where you're going and I don't wanna know, but if you're smart, you won't end up in any state where there's a charter."

Huff nodded his head shakily. Stopping at the Chapel door, he asked without turning his head. "What's gonna happen to the bitch?"

"What do you think?" Jax replied coldly.

Huff nodded. "Good."

Huff walked out of the Chapel a broken man, looking every bit his age as he walked through the Main Room, passing his former SAMTAZ crew sitting at the bar, careful not make eye contact with anyone as he exited the Clubhouse.

Someone had already pulled his ride out of the line of parked bikes and had his saddle bags draped over the seat. He could see that the Reaper he had so proudly displayed on the gas tank had been peeled off. Adjusting his saddle bags, Huff climbed onto his ride.

Throwing his bike into gear, Huff pulled out of the lot, leaving the Sons of Anarchy and his whole life behind. As he did, Huff had one thought pass through his mind.

She was so not worth it. Not one damn bit.

"You really handled that shit, man."

Jax looked up from his chair to see Tig standing in the doorway. "Thanks, bro."

Tig walked in, closing the door behind him. "Can we talk, brother?"

Jax eyed the man. Tig was not exactly known for his soft side. The man lived hard, rode hard and was no pussy. "What's up?"

Tig sat down in his chair on Jax's right, pulled out a joint and lit it. Taking a hit, he shook his head as he felt the rush and then passed it to Jax. "You didn't have much to say when we picked you up this morning."

"There wasn't much to say."

The operation had been very successful, thanks in most part to Tig. After taking care of Luke Moran in Visalia, Tig and Happy were reassigned to keeping a tail on Agent Stahl. Chief Unser, who was otherwise kept at arm's length by the ATF, was still useful in keeping an eye on Stahl while she was in the station house. As soon as he caught wind of any movement, he was to contact SAMCRO. The night before the Sons caught up with Jimmy O, Stahl was still working in her office, contemplating whether or not she should head home or find a place to crash in Charming when the call of an explosion in the Bay Area came in.

Making it to Stahl's house after taking care of Jimmy under the cover of night, it never occurred to Jax that he could be sitting on the house for hours until Stahl came home. But he had and by the time Stahl had shown up, it was late morning and walking out of her house a blood splattered mess without raising suspicion was not going to happen had it not been for Tig. It had been the SAA's idea to "borrow" an exterminator's van from Modesto in order to pick Jax up from Stahl's neighborhood under the radar. Dressed in a pair of gray overalls and a dark cap over his jeans and cut, Tig made his way into the house carrying a similar outfit for Jax to wear in order to slip out of Stahl's home without arousing curiosity.

"What you've done for your old lady, for the Club, I know it weighs heavy on ya. And I'm not saying that you can't handle your shit because you can and you did, but still." Tig grabbed the joint again and took another hit. "That's why I want to talk to you. It's about this last knot that needs to be tied off."

Jax nodded, realizing where the conversation was going. In fact, it had been pretty much all he had been thinking about since Huff had left the Clubhouse several hours ago.

"Bro, all you have to do is give me the order and I'll do this for you and I'll make sure it won't blow back on the Club. You're a smart guy, Jax, but when you need to, you can get fuckin' bloody. That's why you earned that," Tig pointed to the Men of Mayhem patch on Jax's cut. "But sometimes, it's not just about being smart. It's about killing shit and that's where I come in. That's my job. It's what I do. It's what I'm good at. I'm proud of the shit you did for the Club today, but this other shit is different. Yeah, she's a fuckin' rat, but she's still a broad and you love pussy way too much to go around killing it." He kidded, causing Jax to crack a smile, even though nowadays, he wouldn't fuck Wendy with somebody else's dick. "You've got nothing to prove, brother and this shit is too much weight for you to carry all on your own. Let me and Hap take care of this for you. If our business is to continue with the Irish, it has to be done. You know this."

Jax looked at his brother and nodded. "I know." He replied and then chuckled. "You never cease to fuckin' amaze me, Tigger, but I'm not so sure I can handle this kinder, gentler Tig Trager."

"Yeah, well, I kinda have that effect on people." Tig shrugged his shoulder with false modesty, in a golly-gee-whiz-kinda manner. "So what's it gonna be, Pres?"

Jax looked at his SAA. "Handle it, but make it quick and make it clean."

Tig smiled. "Consider it handled."

The two men stood up and gave each other the standard bro hug before Tig left the Chapel. Jax sat back in his chair and looked at the gavel lying on the table.

Clay was right. Wielding the gavel would probably be the hardest thing he would ever do. But at least now Jax knew he had the stones to do it.