Schuyler is on her fourth wardrobe change of the day when she rides into the parking lot of Teller-Morrow at the end of her first eight-hour shift. The sun is beginning to set low as she kills the engine of her V-rod and runs inside the bar shrugging her kutte over a plain black T-shirt as she goes.

Every member of the club, including two new faces she has yet to meet, are once again tossing their phones into a box and stepping over the threshold into the chapel for a mandatory meeting. As she approaches the box she notices the prospect standing behind the bar, busying his hands by cleaning glasses and looking disheartened as he watches members disappear into the room he is prohibited to enter while church is taking place. Clay is standing beside the chapel doors overseeing those who enter making sure they empty their pockets beforehand. He acknowledges Schuyler as she walks in pleased that she avoided being late.

Schuyler removes her iPhone from a jean pocket and places it on top of a growing stack of flip phones that are most certainly meant to be disposable. She's amused to see she is the only one who owns a modern cell phone.

Tig stalks up behind her, quick to notice the stark contrast between her phone and everyone else's. "What the hell are you doing bringing that damn thing in here."

"Take it easy." Schuyler calmly pulls out her own flip phone from a different pocket of her jeans. She makes a show of placing it in the box next to the smart phone which if turned off to signal to everyone watching that she has a burner and thus is not a security risk. "Why waste data on club shit?"

Schuyler enters, taking in the chapel at large. Unlike the night of her patching, the table is crowded on every side. An additional seat has been added to accommodate the extra bodies that is pulled up to a corner beside Piney. The men are mingling amongst themselves and a few have a cigarette or blunt balanced between their fingers. Everyone is too distracted to notice the face that is out of place. The only seats left empty are at the head of the table. Deciding it best to sit as far from the Presidential seat as possible in respect of the hierarchy Schuyler walks to the polar opposite end of the slab of redwood.

Schuyler grabs a seat that is pushed out of the way against the back wall and shoves it up to the table filling in the remaining corner beside Piney. The seat is next to Juice who thoughtfully shifts his own chair to make room for the new comer. He is quick to say hello when she sits down and is greeted in return. His action not going unnoticed by the outsider. Piney is kind enough to introduce her to those she has yet to acquaint. Opie, a staggering 6'4" wearing a dark SOA beanie with facial hair like that of a lumberjack, is Piney's son sitting across the table from herself. And Happy, a patch brother from the Washington charter, fills in the other corner. Names are exchanged, and hands shaken, each creating a clapping sound that rings out above the chatter. Piney offers Schuyler his own blunt which she politely declines. She settles against the wooden backrest, spreading her legs wide, establishing that it will be her seat for the foreseeable future.

While pleasantries take place, Tig and Clay join the room. Tig pulls his chair out from the table but instead of taking a seat decides to stare down Schuyler from across the room. Rather than allow Tig to start an argument, Chibs grabs him by the wrist and pulls him the rest of the way into his seat. "Easy brother. She's already here. May as well sit with us." Chibs acknowledges Schuyler from across the table, rather pleasantly surprised by how easily the woman seems to continue to get under Tig's usually thick skin.

Clay shuts the double doors firmly behind himself and calmly approaches his seat evidently in no rush. Once comfortable his eyes land evenly on Schuyler and he waits.

Schuyler scoffs, but speaks plainly. "I haven't sat away from the table since I was twenty years old. With all do respect, it ain't gonna happen chief."

Chibs lets out a boisterous laugh in response to the woman who seems to be taking on the President at her first meeting. Jackson and Bobby are more successful to hide their joy. Piney elbows, a look akin to proud flashing across his wrinkled face, as the rest of the table grins from ear to ear awaiting Clay's response. Schuyler returns his gaze as if she holds all the cards while simultaneously knowing that she would move the chair and even leave the meeting if she was asked to do so out of respect for her new President's authority.

"Fair enough." His hand gravitates towards the gavel slamming the piece of wood against its stand without breaking eye contact. He takes a moment to himself to look around the table that is packed to capacity and commences the meeting with a question. "What's the Nords roster looking like these days?"

Bobby has an answer. "Fifteen, sixteen guys. Couple of new kids breaking in. Same extreme hate shit."

Juice includes, "Still got meth labs outside of Lodi. Selling mostly to truckers."

Jackson asks between drags on his cigarette, "Think they stepping up?"

Clay replies, "Only two things feel good in the joint: that's jerking off and thinking about all the shit you're gonna do when you get out. Darby's been in there for three years. I just want to make sure all his big-shot dreams ended up in his cum rag and not on his to-do list." Laughter rises above the table and evaporates into the ceiling. "Bobby tells me you payed his guy a visit. Work your shit out?" Jackson doesn't respond, rather he looks as if he is biting back rage and is unable to. "How's his guy doing?"

Juice, the youngest at the table in charge of handling all of the crew's technological needs who is able to access hospital data bases, again has an answer. "Fractured cheek, broken nose, left nut," his hand raises, "swinging solo."

Chibs starts a drum roll with his hands on the table directed towards Jackson as he proclaims, "Yes, it was beautiful!"

Schuyler, having been at the clinic all day and having only a vague idea of who the Nords are, is trying to play catch up as she loosely follows the conversation. She settles for joining in by slapping her hands on the table until the excitement of Jackson's assumed victory against a rival ends abruptly by his own cold tone. "Yeah, guy's lucky to be breathin'."

"No, you're lucky he's breathing. Darby's gonna to want a sit down to smooth things over." Clay briskly moves on to the next topic of discussion. "Can we expect any help from up north?"

Happy responds in a very serious tone. "Tacoma can help with replacing the Glocks, but transport would take time. There's no M4's anywhere. Washington, Oregon, Nevada. Nobody's got stock."

Jackson steps in for reassurance. "We'll have all the Mayan intel by the morning. We'll get our guns back."
Clay states firmly, "Oh yeah we will…Schuyler," Schuyler's eyes dart from her hands in her lap up to the front of the table surprised to hear her name. "Elvis has got a gig this weekend. I want you with us when we retrieve our guns from the Mayans. See how SAMCRO handles external threats. It'll be a nightop, so I trust it won't interfere with your personal affairs."

"That's a nonissue on my end. I look forward to it."

Clay's voice is very stern when he turns to question Opie. "Op, with Bobby gone we need you there to rig the pyro. First thing coming out of the joint. Up for it?"

"Absolutely," Opie speaks around the weed in his mouth. His hesitant expression is unconvincing. "Anything for the club."

"We're glad to have you. Bobby, I want you to take the prospect. Don't need him mucking up a clean job." The secretary grunts an affirmative. "Anything else?"

Piney, stuttering, speaks openly. "Yeah, I, I, just wanted to say to Jackson on a club level. Sons of Anarchy: Redwood Original, is here for you. Your father would be proud of the man you've become. You know? Every time I see you sitting at this table, well, I, I do a double take."

Opie leans over to his old man. "'s probably just the weed pop."

Everyone shares a laugh as Piney coughs through a laugh of his own. "Probably. Yeah, I bet it is…Anyway, whatever you need son. It's yours."

Jackson is humble with his reply, making sure to look to Schuyler to include her in his statement. "Thanks, Piney. Thanks guys."

"Meeting adjourned." The gavel reunites with its stand.

Everyone stands from their chairs and files out of the chapel. Jackson makes his way over to Schuyler to catch her up on all club business she has missed during the day sure no one else is going to think twice about offering to do so themselves. "Hey, that new patch is looking good on you."

Schuyler moves slowly, intending to follow everyone else as they slowly migrates throughout the property. She was told she should stick around after the meeting because a party is being thrown and it would be another chance for her to socialize with the club. "Perfect fit don't you think? Do you mind me asking what Piney was getting so 'gloom and doom' about?"

"No, uh. My ex-wife just had our baby boy."

"That is some pretty terrible news."

"Yeah…she's a junkie." Jackson looks ashamed. "I didn't know it before, but she was shooting crank the last few weeks. He's ten weeks premature sitting up in the NICU. He ain't doing so well…"

"Shit man. I'm sorry. What the hell are you doing here?"

Jackson pauses as if unsure how to answer the question. He offers the same response he has given to everyone else who has asked him that same question since his son was delivered by emergency c-section this morning. "This is where I'm suppose to be. Are you going to let me download you or not?"

"Sure," Schuyler's smile is reassuring, "but only if you tell me the story about how you beat the ball sac off of some Nazi-wannabe."

"Asshole. Found out he was the scumbag dealing to my ex."

"No kidding? You should've killed him."

The two companions leave the chapel to join the others who are now scattered about the bar. Schuyler naturally gravitates towards the pool table to retrieve her cell phones as she continues to listen to Jackson's spiel about The Mayans MC, a business competitor of SAMCRO for many years, who were responsible for burning down the warehouse. The conversation is cut short however, by Clay's loud words, demanding, "What the hell is that smell?"

A response is heard, "I smell it too." Everyone in the room searches for the origin of the rancid order. Clay answers his own question. "It's coming from that box."

"What's in it," Bobby asks as he drags it out from underneath the pool table to open it. "What the hell?"

From the box he pulls out what appears to be a deer head, cut off at the base of its neck dripping blood, by its antlers. Everyone's faces screw up in disgust as the smell of decomposing meat becomes more prominent and Jackson informs Schuyler, "A client of the shop hit it this morning. I told Sack to deal with it."

At the same time, the prospect pushes through the crowd surrounding the box to claim the deer head. "That's mine!"

Bobby, repulsed, questions the boy. "Are you out of your goddamn mind?"

"Nah," he replies sincerely. "I, uh, thought, maybe, you know like as a surprise we could, uh mount it in the clubhouse. Like on the wall."

"It's got to be stuffed and treated you idiot," Jackson insults.

"Yeah. I know that, but um. You know, stuffed with what?"

"Hey Sky," Jackson consciously addresses her with the name she had asked to be called. The nickname has the effect of making him feel familiar with her and she doesn't reject to its use. "Think you can help him out?"

Schuyler locks eyes with the prospect replying harshly as to make a point. "I'm a doctor not a taxidermist. And the damn things expired. Get rid of it like you should have done in the first-place jackass."

Schuyler stalks off to retrieve a drink from the bar leaving the men who are present to marvel at her take charge attitude and laugh at the prospect's expense. "You heard the lady. Get to it Prospect."

Half an hour later the party is in full swing. Music is blaring loudly over staged speakers and beer is being passed out by the keg. Some of the garage employees are grilling up burgers and scantily clad women are draping themselves over any man that will take them. Nearly a hundred bodies, most who are regulars, are attending yet another one of the frequently held parties at TM. All distant friends, honorary family members, or cliental of the well-established club looking for entertainment.

The main event tonight is a boxing ring. Anyone brave enough to step in is allowed to fight. The current contenders are Tig and Happy, who seem to be an even match for each other, fighting for sport rather than to remove one another from the four-post ring.

Schuyler stands in-between Jackson and Piney in a lineup against the length of the ring watching as the fight commences.

Though this is supposed to be a time of relaxation club business is once again brought up casually in conversation.

"Did Rosin track down any real estate for the rebuild?" Bobby curiously asks.

"Ten acres for sale up north eighty-four. A stretch of industry, paint factories, container yards," Clay inform, speaking so that the whole group can hear over the clamor. He pauses in his explanation to shout in the direction of the fight to no one man in particular, "Kick his ass!"

Piney offers approval. "With all the trucking and supplies it'll look like business as usually when we move in."

Jackson has a look on his face as if he is pondering something he hasn't before. "What'd happen if we didn't rebuild?"

The question proposed draws everyone's attention away from the fight and directs it towards the club's Vice President.

Schuyler, seriously considering the proposal, is the first to offer feedback. "A lot of people would be out a paycheck. Not to mention any connections the club has. We'd have to find another way to earn. It'd have to be a fast turn around and the profit would have to be even greater to rule a majority."

"We could take the land profit from the warehouse and put it into something else?" Jackson explains only to be met by concerned faces questioning his motives. "Hey, I'm just thinking about what's best long term. We got heat with the Mayans. The warehouse exploding has got ATF crawling up our ass. Might be time to start looking at other ways to earn."

Clay, appearing even more concerned than the rest, looks to his secretary for assurance before responding in a deflective tone. "There's a lot of shit up in the air right now. We'll figure out what the next move is…" Turning his attention back to the ring, he instructs Bobby, "Break that shit up."

Bobby pulls himself onto the mattress. He ducks under the ropes only to move in between Tig and Happy who have been continuously been exchanging brutal punches. When he is able to get their attention without receiving a fist to his own person the two begin to laugh and hug each other tightly to show that there is no bad blood between them. When they separate, Tig rounds on the audience with the intent of finding his next victim. "Alright SAMTEX. Your turn. I'll even let you get in the first swing. I won't make the offer again."

"That's my cue." Schuyler pats Jackson on the back as a means to say goodbye and leaves the group without another word. If Tig challenges her as she walks to her bike the sound is drowned out by the bustling party goers. She pulls the headphones out from inside her jacket and plugs them into her phone for the ride back home.

The next morning Schuyler is woken up by another text on her burner with a single address on its small screen. A meeting is set for SAMCRO to meet with Darby, the leader of the of a local Arian group who has been known to cause trouble in Charming almost as long as the MC itself has been established. The plan is to meet in a diner on main street to keep everyone calm and prevent a fight from breaking out. Schuyler has been invited to observe the sit down between the two groups.

Schuyler is the last to arrive at the small parking lot outside the establishment. She removes her helmet but decides to keep her hair pulled back and her sunglasses over her eyes. This meeting is about establishing dominance and setting boundaries for an adjacent group. She doesn't intend to be the cause of any distractions today. Instantly upon arrival, she realizes that a pattern is quickly forming. Each time she has been called to action she has been met by the leaders of SAMCRO. These are trial runs. A way for them to observe her actions and gage the level of pressure she is able to withstand.

Two of Darby's men covered in Arian Brotherhood ink are posted outside glaring at the SOA members as they enter. Another is sat beside him squeezed into the window seat of a booth. Jackson enters as soon as he sees Schuyler pull up and he slides into the booth opposite Darby and his right hand. Clay sits next to Jackson to face Darby head on. Schuyler strategically plants herself at the table behind Darby with her legs propped up on the seat in front of her. Her eyes fix on a young waitress with her red hair tied back in a ponytail as she wanders about waiting tables. Tig sits across from Schuyler with his back to the opposition ready to act if the situation takes a turn for the worse. The position also affords him to keep his eyes on the newcomer who offers him a purposefully strained smile in greeting. Bobby is by himself in the seat behind Jackson, not too subtly staring Darby down over his shoulder in an attempt to looking menacing.

"A little something for your guy Darby," Clay starts off as Jackson slides over a piece to Darby's backup.

"That's some serious iron. He'll like that. Thank you." Darby sounds as if he is in a rush to get the words out.

Jackson is equally as quick. "Figured we give him something that had some balls."

Clay ignores the comment. Instead he continues the conversation with a smug air about him. "I know what it's like running a crew. Sometimes you got to do something without thinking things through."

"My guys are thinking just fine."

"They thinking when they sold crank to my pregnant ex?" Jackson spits through gritted teeth.

"That was unfortunate," Darby's voice almost sounds sincere. "How's your little family doing anyway?"

"Uh oh," Schuyler murmurs under her breath.

In the next moment Jackson is reaching across the table scuffling with Darby. The fight lasts all of fifteen seconds with Tig wrapping his arms around Darby's second to keep him from injuring Jackson and Bobby pulling Jackson back into his seat. Darby, untouched due to his protective human shield, smiles the entire time. Proud of how easily he was able to make SAMCRO's second in command react. The fight, however, doesn't prevent him from hearing a voice outside the group respond to the fight before it even occurred. Though raspy it was still higher in pitch than those of the men speaking and he knows it didn't come from a casual observer. He refrains himself from turning to find the source but keeps what was obviously a woman's voice in mind with the intention of finding the source later.

"Alright, alright. Everybody contain your shit. Are you done?" Clay's question is answered by Jackson who mouths an affirmative reply. He turns to look up and down the length of the diner addressing the other patrons. "Sorry folks. Go back to your corndogs. Won't happen again."

Schuyler, sure that her presence has been detected, addresses a family whose breakfast had been interrupted in a hushed tone. "Our bad. Won't be a problem again."

Darby renews the conversation. "I made sure the Brotherhood had Opie's back every minute he was in Chino and you know that."

"Yeah. I know how it works inside Darby. Question is: you remember how it works outside?"

Darby's right hand speaks. "A lot changes in three years."

"A lot stays the same." Clay clears his throat. "Nothing happens in Charming that we don't control or get a piece of."

Bobby makes eye contact with Darby over his should. "If we wanted a meth trade, we'd have one."

"We don't," Jackson growls.

"You know the rules Darby," Clay states. The use of the man's name intended to establish mutual respect. "Cook all the crank you want along the border, but you do not deal in Charming."

"You know we ain't the only cook shop in town. The devil wants in he'll get in."

"Then you've got your work cut out for ya. Because the next time the devil crosses the border," Clay's tone is threatening as he leans forward to get right in Darby's face, "I'm coming after you. And next time I won't send a 357 as a get-well gift."

Darby lets the information sink in. His face shifts into a smile. "There's no need to make threats brother. Me and my boys have always managed to make things work with SAMCRO."

"Good. Let's keep it that way." Clay moves fast, stomping towards the exit of the restaurant without another word.

Before Jackson leaves he gets up from the table to tower over the two men still squished into the booth. He pulls out his wallet by its chain and makes a show of paying their tab. "Milk and cookie on us."
Bobby promptly follows leaving Tig and Schuyler to scoot out of their own table. Schuyler attempts to make a break for the door but isn't quick enough to avoid Darby who calls after her.

"My, my, my. Do my eyes deceive me? I thought I heard an angel's voice. They must've done a good job at hiding you because I don't believe we've met. My name is Earnest Darby."

Schuyler plasters her brightest smile across her face as she rotates on her heels. Darby approaches, closing the gap until Schuyler is toeing with the leader of the Arians.
"You caught me! My name is Schuyler," she replies sweetly. She removes her sunglasses to bat her long, dark eyelashes at the older gentleman. She sticks out her hand in greeting but quickly retracts it upon delivering the line: "En chante. Or I'm sorry. Is that, too, exotic for you?" She's not subtle when she eyes the Swastika tattoo blatantly visible above the lining of the man's white wifebeater.

"Not at all," Darby's grin is feral as he takes her hand. "You're a quick one aren't you? Ow, firm grip you got there."

"Must be a force of habit. I get a lot of practice," Schuyler winks.

"I don't mind that…"

Tig, who remained in the diner when he heard Darby address Schuyler, interrupts the introduction which is turning a little too friendly. "Alright, come on Schuyler. Stop flirting with the neo-Nazi."

Schuyler pretends to pout as she releases Darby's hand. She steps backwards towards the only exit. "I suppose I'll be seeing you around Darby."

"Call me Earnest. I insist. I'll look forward to it." Darby dismisses her with a ridiculing wave.

"We don't always get what we want," Schuyler grumbles, turning her back on the Nord leader. "Asshole."

Several hours later Jackson finds himself alone in the clubhouse. He has just returned from Opie's house with the bag containing enough pyrotechnics to level the plant where the Mayans, thanks to Juice, were discovered to be keeping the artillery that they had stolen from the MC. After seeing the argument that transpired between Opie and his wife Donna over Opie again involving himself in club business, Jackson decided to cover for his friend and handle the rigging of the explosives himself. He's readies himself for the job in ten minutes flat. Underneath his normal gear he straps on a bullet proof vest as an added precaution preparing for the worst.

Now down a man, and relying on a fill in for the pyrotechnics, the group is in need of the extra helping hand. Jackson makes sure to call Schuyler directly as to give her a heads up, hoping that she doesn't have an excuse and need to back out of her first job when Opie already had.

The burner in his hand rings once, then twice and is picked up on the other end. "Yeah."

"Mayan intel came through. Are you still on for tonight? Opie's kid got hurt, so Ima need the back up."

"I just got off," Schuyler's voice is low in her attempts to whisper. She's evidently still at the clinic and likely surrounded by others. "Where?"

"We're taking the highway outta town. Should pass the clinic."

"I'll be there." The line is dropped when Schuyler hangs up. Jackson appreciates that she was willing to answer her phone even when fulfilling her duties elsewhere. Jackson stuffs his prepay away and turns to look himself over once in the mirror. He pulls his kutte more tightly around his form which has the effect of making him feel secure and he jogs outside to mount his bike.

After a few minutes alone on the road he finds himself at a stop sign. Clay rounds a corner to pull up beside him. He notices a person is blatantly missing. "Where's Op?"

The two of them wearing sunglasses makes it easier for Jackson to look Clay in the eye and lie. He raises his voice to speak to Clay over the rumble of the bikes' engines. "Kid got hurt. Had to take her to the hospital. Got the bag; I can make it work." Clay is clearly unconvinced. Knowing Opie had his doubts of reentering alongside the club, the timing seems a little too convenient. "It's all good brother." Rather than waste time by arguing Clay instead speeds through the four-way intersection without a glance for traffic or pedestrians that could have been in front of him. Jackson looks both ways and continues a car length behind Clay. As they drive they are joined by an additional member every few blocks before the group merges onto the highway that will lead them out of town towards one of the Mayans lesser known safe-houses.

The bikes drift gently following the bend of the concrete as they approach the offramp exiting the clinic. Jackson gradually decreases his speed until he is cruising at five miles under the posted speed limit subtly slowing the group's progression.

Meanwhile, Schuyler has been idling in the shoulder smoking a cigarette for no longer than a minute when she hears the approach of the motorcade. The wind is in her favor as it carries the sound towards her. She has enough time to stamp out the tube with her heel and right her bike as the last man in the lineup passes her. She falls in line at the back of the company and Clay makes a point accelerate beyond the posted speed limit. She naturally fills the position of drag and gives a nod to Juice who glances back at her. The motion of his hand, which barley leaves the clutch, mimics that of a wave.
Jackson was careful to avoid seeking Schuyler out when passing the clinic but finds her in his side mirror after she exits the highway at break neck speed to keep pace with the group.

Driving a few miles outside of city limits the group pulls off to the side of the road. The six of them pile into a black van that had been posted there earlier in the day by the prospect and Jackson drives it the remaining two miles to their destination. A clever way to avoid leaving motorcycle tracks at the scene of the crime.

"Couldn't we just hop the fence? It'd be a hell of a lot quicker than this," Schuyler suggests, bored of watching a hole form in the side of a chain link fence one barb at a time.

Chibs happens to be the one using the bolt cutters to create an entrance into the Mayan's compound big enough for himself to step through. "Don't let me stop you. Ima keep at this."

Juice is first to follow the Scotsman through the fence line. He gravitates towards an electrical box which he promptly destroys with an axe knocking out the plants self-sustaining power system for the added coverage of darkness and to kill any alarms that may have been rigged. It doesn't take long for the group to find the backdoor to the warehouse. Chibs and Tig form a duel battering-ram causing the not too securely locked door to fly clear off its hinges with both of them landing on top of the door falling flat on the floor in their efforts. "Jesus!"

Flashlights and knives appear in each hand as the team moves quickly from room to room cutting open each and every box they encounter. They are none too careful when shoveling out the contents they find inside. They successfully clear two rooms with no luck of their missing hardware before Schuyler comes upon a wooden crate perched on top a workbench. With force, she's able to leverage the box open with a crowbar and is pleased with the contents she finds inside. Strings of brown paper serving as packing material for a thin layer of cylindric glass candles. Colorful religious symbols printed on each sharing in a common theme. "Wait to lean into a stereotype."

Across the room Jackson cracks open a similar crate. He pushes through the top layer and pulls out one of the missing M4 assault rifles. Clay passes over him while shining his flashlight inside the chest. "Praise Jesus, it's a miracle."

Schuyler dips her hand deep into the crate pulling out a Glock. "It's just what I wanted!"

"And I've got the rest over here," Chibs chimes. He is looking into two more boxes of similar artillery that he himself had opened.

"Get the guns in the van," Clay barks his orders. "Wire this shithole up."

Jackson removes the duffle bag from his back to withdraw over a dozen sticks of dynamite and a homemade detonator. He moves to the center of the room to fiddle with wires in an attempt to copy the actions he has observed Opie perform under similar circumstances. Schuyler removes the candles from her crate to lighten the load, closes the lid tight, and sets about doing the same for the chest that Jackson left behind. Chibs perceives her intentions for doing so and instructs Juice to copy her actions with a box in front of him. Chibs kneels down to do the very same with a box of his own. When the crates are ready to move, Juice approaches Schuyler and lifts one end of the crate off the floor. "Help me out, will ya? Careful, lift with your knees."

She takes the other end and heaves it off the ground with minimal strain. "Worry about your own knees. Seeing as how you're walking backwards into a door frame." Juice heeds her warning with a grin and the two end up moving two chests outside together. They take turns with Chibs who helps Tig do the same with two boxes of their own.

When the weapons are stacked neatly in the van with room left for the loaders to ride next to them, Schuyler reenters the building to check on Jackson's progress. "Guns are loaded. Guys are ready to move when you are."

Jackson is busy dialing a number into his burner evidently having missed a crucial step in the pyrogenic process.

The rest of the moving crew joins her and Juice, anxious to leave, demands, "What's the hold up?"

While everyone is standing around waiting for Opie to pick up Jackson's call Tig spots movement outside the building. Walking to the window facing the compound's main entrance he observes an old red pickup pull up to the gated entrance. Two men jump out of the truck's bed to open the sliding gate allowing for the truck to drive through. Another man emerges from the cab to join them in opening a storage unit just inside the compound while the truck idles next to them with a fourth man sitting behind the wheel waiting patiently while the rest work. It is clear that the men are here to complete a job of their own and won't be leaving for quite some time. Tig is quick to inform the group, "We got company."

Forming a plan quickly, Clay again lays out orders to be followed. "Gotta be Mayans. Get the van out of sight. Lay low. You, with me."

Tig follows suit by leading Juice and Chibs outside to hide the van from view. Jackson gives up trying to reach the man on the other end of the line and stashes his phone away. It's clear that he has made an error in judgement having decided he could attempt this task on his own and knows that Clay is disappointed. He also knows better than to argue when Clay asks for Jackson to join him. Instead he refers to Schuyler. "Stick with us."

"Lead the way."

The new group of three draw their guns nearly in unison. With careful footsteps, they exit the building scaling around the outside until they are facing the truck head on from behind a pile of precariously stacked scrap metals. Clay, leading from the position of point, voices his dissatisfaction. "Shit. We should have been long gone by now."

Jackson attempts to reason with him. "We've got the iron. Let's get the hell out of here."

"Hey, I came to send a message," Clay reminds Jackson sternly. "Or have you forgotten? Those two wetbacks see that busted down door they'll call for backup."

Clay moves as though he is going to step out from behind the makeshift barrier only to be stopped by Jackson's hand. "Blowin' shit up is one thing. If we off these guys it could trigger something that runs out of control."

"That's the cost of your mistake. Got a problem with making it right?"

Jackson reluctantly shoves his gun in the waistline of his jeans. "I'll draw them to the dumpster. Cover me."

Jackson runs past Clay to enter the truck's field of view. Without being spotted, he picks a blanket off a pile of forgotten lumber using it to cover most of his face and torso. Then he staggers towards the headlights of the truck loudly singing a drinking song with his words slurring to appear drunk to gain the men's attention. Two Hispanics who abandoned the truck notice Jackson and approach. "Hey Bandito…"

Schuyler sniggers at Jackson's quick idea of a distraction. "Not as dumb as he looks."

"The job's not done yet."

"…Tell your dirt bag buddies, if they camp out here, they'll get some of this."

One of the men who approached Jackson swings hard at him clocking him square in the jaw. Jackson reels only to draw his gun. He returns a powerful blow breaking the man's nose with the butt of his gun. The blanket falls to the ground and he points his weapon at the two Hispanics in front of him. Clay charges, shoving his own weapon into the neck of the second man preventing him raising his own piece. Schuyler follows the men's lead and positions herself several feet away from the group between Jackson and the three other bodies where she can effectively survey the scene with her gun trained towards the Mayans.

"No bang, bang, por favor," Clay requests. The man lowers his hands in surrender. Clay disarms him while parroting the first man's words back to him as he shoves the second several paces forward. "Tell your dirtbag buddies, if they steal from SAMCRO, they get some of this."

Clay shoots the second man in the throat from point blank range and watches as he drops to his knees left to bleed to death.

Without warning, as if reacting to the gunshot, the truck's engine reeves to life. The driver inside attempts to pull through the lot by making a U-turn and escape the scene. Clay raises his gun towards the vehicle and follows its path in the air looking down the sight. However, there is no need to do so. Tig appears, seemingly out of nowhere, shouting, "I got 'em." He runs out into the open and jumps into the bed of the moving vehicle. He throws himself over the tailgate, kneels in the bed, and shots three bullets through the back window. One was used to break through the glass while the other two burrow into the drivers head. He braces for impact as the vehicle connects with the side of a building. The truck rebounds off the wall with the force of the impact and stops on its own. He proceeds to jump out of the bed to check the cab for survivors, but all he finds is the man he shot and one of the missing M4s, fully loaded. He walks away uninjured to place the assault rifle in Clay's hand.

"Holy shit."

The statement is spoken by Juice who appears beside Schuyler a moment later responding to the sound of gunfire.

Two men are now dead leaving one who remains with his nose bleeding from Jackson's assault. Neither Jackson's eyes nor his gun stray from the Mayan's form as he talks out of the side of his mouth to address Juice. "Go check the back. Make sure that's all of them."

Clay takes the gun from Tig and gestures with it to send him with Juice as backup. "He's all yours." Clay hovers his finger over the trigger of the automatic. His eyes fix on Jackson. It isn't a request.
Jackson steps forward pushing the man onto his knees. The man clasps his hands together tightly, closes his eyes, and begins to pray in Spanish. Jackson looks down on him through the sight of his gun only to take pause. The pause stretches on much longer than either Clay or Schuyler expect it to.

Schuyler is ready to lower her own gun until, due to her vantage point, catches sight of a man creeping up from the side of the building the trio had previously emerged from. He trains his gun on Jackson's exposed abdomen due to the kneeling man's position and readies to fire. Without hesitation Schuyler hovers over her target tracking him and fires a single shot that brings the man to the ground instantaneously. The bullet enters one side of his head and exits the other leaving blood speckles on the surfaces behind him.

When she returns her attention to the scene at hand she is met with Jackson's face of disbelief. "Sorry. Was me saving your life causing too much of a distraction? Please continue. Unless you'd rather I take care of him?"

"No," And Clay is definitive. "You'll get your chance to prove yourself. This one is on Jax."

The short exchange is just enough of a distraction to lead the Mayan on the ground to pull his gun from his jeans with the intent to fire. Clay, however, is much quicker to respond with his M4 already in hand. He lodges three casings into the man's abdomen sending him to the ground withering and struggling for air.

"Finish him!"

Jackson, a look of consideration on his young face, reluctantly raises his gun again. This time he aims directly at the suffering man's head. The man on the ground pants for a moment, twitches twice, and his body goes limp, dead in the dirt where he fell.

Jackson lowers his gun for a final time and sighs in what appears to be relief. "It's finished."

Schuyler holsters her own gun, confused as to why her new V.P would be so hesitant, but glad that the danger is passed. The other half of the group, now including Chibs who is returning from his watch of the van, runs into the clearing of the compound with Chibs hollering all the way. "Ahh, Mary Mother of Christ. I leave you bad boys alone for two minutes and everything turns to shit!"

"Don't forget bullseye," Clay remarks.

Schuyler crosses her arms, tucks her hands under her armpits, and rests her thumbs on top of her chest. "Just doing what I was brought here to do. Cover Jax's ass apparently."

"You got the job done. Nice work," Clay somehow manages to make the compliment to the woman also sound like a backhanded insult to Jackson as he is evidently questioning the man's devotion at this time, even when in front of the other members.

"Clay!" Tig hollers. He is crouching over the body that Schuyler is responsible for. "Come look at this."

When the group crowds around the corpse Jackson is the first to speak. Looking down on the body that is distinctly different than the others due to its white skin and Arian ink he notes, "Darby's guy."

Clay muses, "Looks like Darby did make some new friends in Chino."

Tig can't restrain himself from commenting, "White boy musta sucked a lot of brown dick."

Schuyler's tone is completely serious. "Nords teaming up with color can only mean bad news."

Jackson explains what it means. "Means doubling their numbers, access to guns…"

Clay adds, "And a common enemy. Us."

Jackson confirms his train of thought. "Darby wants Charming."

Without any warning Clay turns the mouth of the gun to the body and mows through it scaring Jackson nearly out of his skin in the process. "There goes the neighborhood."
The group returns to the warehouse intent on getting it to blow up one way or another. They work together in teams for the next half hour trying to finish as quickly as possible to avoid any more Mayans who may arrive during the night. The first group composed of Chibs, Tig, and Juice back the truck into a garage attached to the warehouse. They pack all three of the Hispanics into the cab and place the Arian face down in the bed with his pants pushed to his knees. They arrange a sizeable number of explosives in precarious positions about the truck including a stick of dynamite that Tig thought best to place in between the corpse's ass cheeks. Gasoline is poured on the truck for good measure.

Clay wonders off on his own to empty nearly half a dozen gallons of gasoline found inside the compound into strategic holes of the plant to ensure that every corner of the property will eventually catch fire. Jackson returns to his original task. Draping wires in the rafters and leaving a trail of dynamite about the main room of the warehouse where the guns were originally found. Because Jackson is unable to correctly rig the pyrotechnics for them to self-implode, Schuyler is left walking behind Jackson, placing the candles that she unpacked from the crates, wherever he goes. While everyone is set about finishing their tasks Schuyler decides that talking would be the best way to pass the time. She wants to question Jackson about the concerning actions she witnessed him display outside and knows she is more likely to get an honest answer when the two are alone.

She starts by asking him a very simple question. "How many?"

"You talking to me?"

She stops walking still holding a candle in each hand. Jackson has made almost no effort to conceal the stress he has felt over the events of the last few days as they seem to be piling up over his head. The most recent event regarding his son who is lying in an artificially created habitation in a hospital room while his father commits arson. Tonight, she has witnessed that stress start to affect his work and that of those around him. "How many times have you pulled the trigger?"

"Any time I need to. Why?"

Schuyler is patient as she places the candles a foot apart to finish the trail. Distancing herself from Jackson, she returns to the center of the room. There she begins to construct a three-foot-high pyramid with the left-over candles. She does this with the conscious intention of reframing from making Jackson feel cornered and allows him to answer her question in his own time. "How many times has it meant something?"

Jackson stills. This is not be the first conversation of a similar nature he has had in the last twenty-four hours. "If you're asking for me to put a number to how many people I've killed that's kind of a personal question. How many have you killed."

"Two dozen. At least."

"Have they all been a cause of you trying to prove something?" Jackson asks, referring to the body that she created which men outside are preparing to dispose of.

"If you're referring to my actions which saved your ass from getting shot I will gladly say you are welcome. And I would have put down the second if Clay hadn't gotten to him first. We both know he wasn't leaving till they were all dead. If the poor bastard hadn't acted we would still be sitting in that yard all night waiting for you to make a decision."

"It didn't feel right this time. Not now," Jackson says, and it sounds like a confession. His hands continue his work as if on their own accord. His mind wanders to the infant, to his kid, who he has yet to - no - refused, to visit in the hospital. His only view of his son since he was born less than two days ago has behind a plate of glass. "Maybe Clay's right. That I'm tripping this guilt shit over my kid."

"I didn't think that at all." Schuyler's hands work fluidly in unison to stack the cylinders while she is still able to occasionally meet Jackson with honest eyes. "It could be for a million reasons. With everything that's been going on, concerning the business, your ex resurfacing. I know my patching in hasn't been easy on anyone. It's a lot for anyone to handle. The fact that it all happened at once, it's not surprising you're rattled."

Jackson looks up to Schuyler with a genuine look of surprise. After the last forty-eight hours of nonstop harassment and with all the people closest to him expecting him to behave as if everything is business as usual, the fact that Schuyler is willing to speak with and understand what he is going through means something to Jackson in this moment. "You know, I never expected it to work with my ex. Wendy, she was just there, after…after everything. I signed the divorce papers over a year ago. We tried to reconcile a couple months back expecting a different result. And now I'm here. Not sure how to continue."

"Hey man, it's the same shit just a different day. You continue the way you always have. Though I'm willing to bet going to see your kid would help to put things into perspective." Jackson's smile is grateful, and he is able to make a decision. He decides that he will go straight to the hospital to see his kid tonight. Schuyler returns his smile and continues to impart her wisdom. "Look whatever it is you can take your time with it to get right. And not wanting to kill isn't a bad trait to live with."

Jackson manages a laugh. "No, it's not. More of us should adopt it."

"We don't kill because we like to. Most of the time we try to avoid it. Maybe you're right that there was another way out of this. But you have to remember something Jackson. We ride in the gray. And we always have a reason. Even if they weren't clear to you, I know Clay had his. He wouldn't have become President if he didn't know how to make the necessary sacrifices."

"No, he did not."

Jackson joins Schuyler in the center of the room to place the last stick of dynamite in the center of a pyramid of candles. Next to it Schuyler sets the final glass cylinder. At this time, everyone else returns from their individual tasks feeling accomplished, though rather tired, and ready to turn in for the night.

Chibs comes back in from the garage spouting off something along the lines of, "The candle's in the cake," as he jogs past the two blondes while somehow finding the energy to laugh in the process.
Clay silently examines the room. His eyes follow the trails of wires to each station of explosives that has been set up. He nods his approval and grabs a random candle off the floor. Everyone stands around and watches as he pulls a match from a pocket in his vest to light the candle and proclaim, "Let's go home." There are a few mumbled words of agreement before everyone begins to move, a bit faster than previously, towards the exit.

All except for Schuyler. "Hey Clay?" Clay meets her gaze, appearing more weary now than disappointed in how the evening has proceeded, and waits for her to continue. "Can I light it up?"

"I don't see why not," he answers while passing her the glass cylinder. She approaches rather gleefully, the first real expression of happiness she has shown in front of the charter and examines it in her hand. Clay observes her, admiring the genuine smile on her young face at something so simple and a smile of his own forms in response.

"Oh. Do you, want a head start before I get this party started?" She asks Clay. She projects genuine concern in her voice as she eyes the oldest member present. Decades lay between them in terms of age and her smile doubles in size, showing her perfectly straight teeth.

"Don't push your luck," he asserts in a deadpan tone as he jogs to catch up with the remaining members who now crowd the door waiting to see the candle role before running with what little energy they each have left to the van parked just past the property's fenced border.

Schuyler roars with laughter; her chest shaking with the force. She turns towards the mountain of flammables that she stacked so carefully and with a near perfect technique, sends the candle rolling towards the stack much like a professional bowler would roll a bowling ball with her right hand without even cracking the fragile glass. "Let's get the fuck out of here!"
Jackson, being the most athletic, is the first to return to the van returning to the driver's seat. Schuyler being the last out the door makes an effort to catch up with the men in front of her. She pushes into the bodies in front of herself in an attempt to both encourage them to move faster and to protect herself from the blast. Dashing and knocking into each other partially for fun and partially because they are uncoordinated, the group tumbles down the cement driveway and past the fencing, occasionally throwing a glance over their shoulders every once in a while as a total of six individual explosions are set off across the property. The flames rise high, easily capable of being seen for several miles in every direction.

The fire is hot enough to cause a burning sensation to develop against exposed skin even from a distance, but the group continues to laugh as if impervious to harm. Clay reaches the passenger side door and opens it to stand up on the car seat and watch in awe as the flames climb into the night sky. Everyone else piles into the back of the van toppling over one another as they attempt to right themselves on the floor. Tig and Chibs mirror Juice and Schuyler. Tig's left arm rests on Chibs' shoulder as he rubs his hand over his face to wipe away the sweat that is pouring off him caused by the sheer amount of heat radiating from the devastation. Chibs' back connects hard with the side of the van and he pants hard appearing as if he will never move again. Juice continues to stare out the front window of the van as the flames are fueled by the oxygen from the cool night air wiping through the building. Although his entire right side is pressed firmly against Schuyler due to the confined space he shoves her against Clay's seat in an attempt to shoulder her and gain her attention in a friendly manner. "Welcome to the club sister."

Schuyler, voice hoarse from running while inhaling smoke, laughs harshly and shoves Juice's shoulder twice as hard in the opposite direction to communicate without the use of words that she's not feeble in the least. "Thanks brother."

Author's Notes: And so the guns have been successfully retrieved from the Mayans, but surely they won't let the MC get away with it that easily. And with the reveal of multiple groups teaming up to face the SOA, is this just the start of the club's problems?