Author's Notes: When last we saw Schuyler, she had taken her new family to a live show to get away from their responsibilities for a time. She ended up getting even more than she bargained for with her future partners. In this chapter, we deal with the fall out of the club leaving Charming for a day. We introduce a new antagonist, and cement Schuyler's relationship with a soon to be vital/trusted ally (who will take on a drastically important role when compared to the role she played in the series).
In parts 1 & 2, Schuyler spends her time solving other people's predicaments.
This is a very dialogue/humor heavy chapter. The next few chapters will go through a wider array of emotions as we tackle minor season 1 plot points and officially bring Chibs and Schuyler together! (***Spoiler: Their relationship unfolds over multiple chapters because their bond is drastically different compared to that of Chibs/Tig or Tig/Schuyler).
/
And feel the effects from the concert she does.
Schuyler rises in the midmorning with a raging hangover. The likes of which she rarely allows herself to indulge. This is more than she can say about her rambunctious siblings; however, she had decided a personal day had been needed. A return to normalcy drives a steep price.
She stumbles into the living room where she her father's old record player lives on top a plastic card table. Her body goes through the motions on autopilot. The needle gets placed atop her favorite Led Zeppelin album. It is heard as she meanders sluggishly about the house. The coffee pot clicks on and hot tea dripping from the spit is as soothing as the music. She dresses slower than usual in her closet. Once again donning her kutte and making sure her weapons are secure upon her person. Instead of a flannel or SOA gear she puts on her new souvenir.
She accomplishes this while managing to avoid rousing Tig. The Sergeant manages to catch a few more minutes rest than herself. When he wakes a migraine has set to work attacking his temples and he struggles to account for his wardrobe. He'll have to stop by his apartment to change clothes before he can report to work. A task he's willing to put off until he shares a warm drink with his newest infatuation.
"Is this Irish?" He tries to sound seductive, but the words croaking out of his raw throat prevent him. A cup has been preemptively prepared.
Between two hands Schuyler grips a mug which conceals her grin. "I wouldn't waste good liquor on you." Her voice sounds scratchy. Tea heals their vocal cords. Neither references the tablet beside the doctor's teaspoon.
Although Tig plays the part of a guest in her home, Schuyler instructs him to lock the door himself when he deems it appropriate to leave. "No one will believe you got to TM before me," she tells him from her place on the couch.
Tig has taken to leaning on a wall nearest the front door. He absentmindedly watches her fingers lace her combat boots. "When can I see you again?"
"In half an hour at the garage."
She attempts to cruise passed Tig. His hand catches the edge of the door to prevent her opening it. "Hey…".
Schuyler hesitates long enough to look into his eyes. One word is enough. Her lips overlay his, and the door closes with a muted click. His beard feels rough on her skin. She anticipates a time when she will prefer the sensation. "You'll see me sooner than you want to." She leaves with a chaste kiss pressed against his jawline.
Her speed surprises him as she boots out the door. She walks in the same way she would when leaving for a shift at the clinic. She believes her neighbors won't think any different of her.
Though they may think differently about the brooding man who exits a bit later in the day than a "walk of shame" might call for.
Teller-Morrow bustles with business during the middle of the work week. Everyone needs their vehicles back by the weekend. Cars drive on and off the factory floor and employees have parked in the back lot to make room for customers to park in the front.
The dividing rail is similarly full helped along by the addition of a cherry red dyna at the end of the motorcycle lineup. Schuyler might not have paid mind to the neighboring charter's prospect if it weren't for the familiar brunette straddled behind him.
"Cherry?" Schuyler moves fast off her bike. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"Gee Schuyler." Cherry removes the prospect's helmet and shakes out her hair. "I thought at least maybe you might be happy to see me."
"You know I would like to catch up with you, little darlin'. But you cannot be here. I mean it, at all. What possessed you to break protocol?" Schuyler checks over her shoulders. Her breath comes easier when her eyes don't land on fellow Patches. She notes the office door is closed.
"I'm crossing a line. I get that." A strand of hair works itself between Cherry's worrying fingers. "I'm here to see Half-Sack. That's all. We didn't part on the best terms."
A sympathetic sigh. "No, I would guess not. Really though, not even a phone call. I'm more helpful if I have a fair warning." Schuyler rounds on the traveling companion. "What about you? Carting a hang-around and escort across state lines didn't strike you as a piss poor idea?"
"I just gave her a lift." The young Hispanic wearing his hair wrapped in a tight bun cannot be older than nineteen. "When Nevada dropped off the shipment at the start of the week they knew they were gonna have to scram quick. Happy tasked me with returning the eighteen-wheeler up north."
"You're Happy's prospect?" She receives a strong nod of confirmation. "Why did you drive out to Nevada instead of meeting them here for the pass off?"
The prospect shrugs. "Happy said my bike's too pretty and needed the extra miles."
"He's not wrong there. Obviously, you're not mature enough to handle an unsupervised detour. You were tasked to do one specific thing. Instead, you're pretending to be a taxi service. Now exactly what part of that man's external demeanor makes you think it's a good idea to slip up like this?"
"She told me she was a friend of Charming. 'Knew a bunch of your guys' names. What was I supposed to do? You'd rather I left her in that desert?"
"You're expected to use the head on your shoulders instead of the one between your legs," Schuyler snaps. "You've got to get her gone."
"Schuyler I'm not leaving without talking to him. Please," Cherry pleads, "I want to make it right."
There's two things Schuyler knows: no one in the state of California will lift a finger to help this woman and time is of the essence. "Alright, here's what I want. You're going to take her into town. Do not engage with a Patch member but let me know immediately if anyone in SAMCRO sees or talks to Cherry. After I see her, you can pick up the truck. And maybe, just maybe, I don't tell Happy what happened here. You'd rather deal with me than with him. Trust.
"Hang out on Main Street," she continues, "and keep yourself out of trouble. As soon as I shake loose we can have a chat. I've got some idea of the mess you're in. Yeah, I know, it isn't your fault. There's an order of operations that has to be followed."
Cherry replies. "I get what you doing this means and I won't make you regret it."
"Nothing's been solved yet. You better get going. Go on!"
The dyna peels out of the lot. Tig reeves onto the property a short time later. Schuyler stands beside her bike, so they can enter the clubhouse together.
Others have made their own plans and come to Charming to see them through.
An expensive-looking black Cadillac prowls onto the scene. The green retrofitted police jeep is in pursuit accommodating the Deputy Chief. If one were to assume Hale was a local representative then logic would dictate the Cadillac was owned by a higher-ranking branch of law enforcement.
Juice briefly crosses Schuyler's field of vision on his way to raise an alarm. Machines sputter inside the garage. The Teller-Morrow employees' acknowledgement of the disturbance. They try their best to carry on with business as usual.
"What now," Schuyler grumbles. She approach with hostility, spurred on by Tig's shadow marching on the concrete beside her and additional Patches who leap out from behind their walls in defense of their metaphoric castle.
Two federal-level agents sidestep the Charming escort. One being a stoic man in a crisp three-piece ensemble. He dutifully opens the passenger's side door to unveil his superior. A rigid woman who unfolds herself from the seat. With her dignity held intact by a non-expressive power suit, the strawberry blonde agent matches the motorcyclists' intensity pound for pound with sunglasses framing her severe face.
"Those are damn high heels," Schuyler opens communications. "I'd almost say they're against regulation in your line of work."
The woman's lips furl backwards, exposing teeth in a synthetic smile. "I must admit, I take pride in my studies, but you are a surprise to me. Does your daddy know you're here with all these men sniffing round? Be honest, is there a marked-up calendar hidden somewhere around here for when they tag in or are there just enough so they get to have their own special day of the week with you?"
"I fuck the Catholic twice on Sundays, so God knows where I stand." Murmurs of enthusiasm swarm the factory. Tig's high-pitched whistle sounds approving. Schuyler bites back a telling smirk.
"Let me guess, lying down?"
"I know you believe yourself to be here for a reason. How long can I expect you to be in town? I can already tell we are going to get up to all sorts of fun."
"I punch out at eight. I'm married to my job first and foremost. Can't relax until I know it's been done."
"You've never heard of offering an incentive?" Schuyler never shies away. "Between the two of us I'm sure there's not much we wouldn't do."
The agent inclines her face and speaks in such a hushed tone that one can feel the air get sucked out of the parking lot as if leaving through a gigantic straw. "That's an interesting offer. Are you going to be mother's little helper and answer my every question?"
"Role-play happens to be one of my few hard limits. Dressing up as a rat and telling inadmissible stories isn't exactly my forte."
"That's great." Amusement bleeds through the agent's words. "You're not on my to-do list but stick around. I might catch you when my agency has me doubling back."
With that, a badge is produced proclaiming her authority. The agent moves to advance towards the growing cluster of outlaws.
Schuyler puts up her shoulder between the badge and her friends. "Did the ATF," she confirms the validity of the credential, "provide you with a warrant on this fine autumn day?"
"Why it just so happens to have done so, yes. On the off chance one of you was smart enough to request one."
The male agent passes Schuyler a letter as the female agent takes command. Schuyler reads the woman's name while hearing it vocalized.
"Agent June Stahl, here on behalf of your elected government. I'm looking for the owner of Teller-Morrow."
Clay let's himself be known and Hale slaps handcuffs on the President. "Shiny. These must be brand spanking new for my benefit. Is anyone going to bother mentioning a charge?"
"No charges, yet." Agent Stahl sees to it that Clay is led to her vehicle. "What is it with men and their aversion to foreplay?"
Schuyler feels Stahl winking behind her shades. "You're telling me."
"You're going to have to give us more to go on than that." Jackson readies himself to assume the position designated to him by the flash on his vest.
"Mr. Morrow," Stahl annunciates, "you're being brought in on the legal loophole of probable cause. You're suspected to have connections to a particular local of interest: Nate Meineke."
"Who?" Clay plays innocent despite having met with the man one-on-one. It is well known by the chapter at large that the name belongs to Piney's wartime pal who is the most recent proprietor of hardware from the Sons' illegal revenue stream.
"Nate Meineke," Stahl forges on. "A man connected with a prison transport unit that was overrun this morning. The perpetrators' weapons of choice were unregistered AK-47s. Shot the block to hell. Killed an on-duty officer and two civilians. They were amateurs, the situation got messy. Last call Meineke made was to your garage. You'll be helping me get to the bottom of this unfortunate homegrown terrorist activity."
While Clay is ushered into the backseat of the Cadillac, Stahl issues a warning. "My words extend to each and every one of you. Don't go wondering too far. I feel like coming back for seconds." With that being said, the officials vacate the premises.
Schuyler's attention pivots onto the Patches who were entrusted with Nate Meineke's delivery alongside Clay. "I'm gone for twenty-four hours, and feds are ringing our doorbell. What the fuck happened yesterday?"
Bobby and Piney face inwards. The former's hand ruffles his cascading hair while the later shoves plastic tubes further into his nostrils. They stutter the start of their excuses. "You see…"
"Chapel! Now!" Schuyler roars. The elders trade expressions of guilt and tuck tail. The rest mindfully follow at their heels.
Jackson and Juice fall in step at her sides. "Are you serious? That was crazy," Juice praises. "Man, I thought she would take you in on intimidation for sure."
Schuyler presses the backs of her thumbs relieving the pressure built there. "You don't do this for as long as I have without learning to walk the line. She came in too cocky. She wanted a challenge. It's as much a game to her as it is to us."
"Dude!"
Jackson sounds possibly more impressed. "Did that feel good to let out? You let everyone have it. Our guys, and the agent, too."
"It felt right." Schuyler beams, "If I started out on this foot I wouldn't have gotten my transfer approved, but Clay sure as hell wouldn't be heading to the precinct either."
"I've got a feeling you're right about that. We better head in and clean up whatever mess it is he's made."
Several precious minutes are wasted as relevant phone calls are carried out and the Sons gather around the redwood table. The President's chair remains empty. A demonstration of respect. This leaves the Vice President to conduct proceedings.
"What did Trammel have to say?"
Bobby was last to take his place having moments ago conversed with the county sheriff. "You were right to reach out to him. He helped orchestrate the transport, and it was his partner who was killed by the jarheads. The civilians were a couple. Poor kids were passing through on their way to the coast. Trammel wants a face-to-face. He sounded shaky on the phone. Doubtful, if you catch my meaning."
"He's gonna have to understand he has to wait. I'll give him my ear, but I'll get his head on straight at the same time. Piney, what the hell happened? You told us Nate was a straight shooter."
The senior member's shoulders are hunched low. "That's why I didn't ask what the guns were for. The guy in the back of that transpo unit: the son of a member at Nate's compound. Nate only wanted the guns for a show of force. It was those who went with him who are responsible for the death of those innocents. I used the clubhouse phone to confirm the meet yesterday. It's my doing that brought the feds to us."
Schuyler offers comfort. "You had no idea the kind of damage this was going to bring on. Good news is charges have yet to be filed. There's still time to get Clay and you and the rest of us cleared."
"I don't get off that easy." Piney's head resembles a grizzled bear. "I let friendship interfere with business. I know better! Your father wouldn't have allowed it. Reparations have to be made."
"The commandos will be dealt with." Jackson is the picture of pensiveness. "We have to find them first and find them before the ATF. Right now, it's not only Piney's phone call we have to worry with. I have no doubt Hale begged to be the one to bring Clay in for questioning. He's bound to be working close with that agent Stahl and will use what he knows about our old warehouse to gain her favor. Our track record will be the thing they use to tie us to Nate. Next time that agent will bring a search and seizure warrant with her."
Tig presents a sensible solution. "So, we deliver the rest of the Vegas shipment to the Niners the same as we planned. That's our only product in stock and without it the suits don't have probable cause. They have to let Clay walk."
Juice raises his hand to prevent from speaking over more established members. "It's not that simple anymore. I had a talk with Laroy. He knows the gear is hot and says he won't have it. If he knew that means word got on the street. We've officially lost all opportunity for a buyer for that shipment."
"That," Chibs huffs a mirthless laugh. "That's grand is what that is. Without a profit from those guns, we're subject to lose more than Laroy's revenue."
Schuyler refocuses the conversation. "This can no longer be a business venture. This is the disposal of evidence. Period."
Juice cuts in. "That's the other dropped shoe. By the time I hung up the phone Stahl had one of her guard dogs camped outside the front gate. Someone's watching for us to move hardware off the lot. Whatever we decide to do with them know those AKs aren't getting out the same way they came in."
"They're sitting on us," Opie explains. He had stopped by the factory for an infrequent visit to his father. He's relieved he stayed, worried about the old man more than ever. "Hoping we make a mistake. To fix this we're gonna need something smart."
Bobby affirms his words. "Something covert. We're not talking the one cruiser. We're talking cameras, microphones setup across the street. They're agents and they'll have come prepared. Trying to make a big break out of dismantling our lives."
Jackson concludes the overall analysis. "We're running up against the clock here. The guns are going to have to disappear, and so are those jarheads."
Piney, in a lapse of judgement, defends his ally. "Nate would never rat on me."
"But his trigger-happy goon squad sure as hell would. Think about it Piney! They've got no loyalty to you. Killing cops and pedestrians." Jackson's tirade sparks a clear reminder of how and why he came into possession of his officer's flash. For a brief moment, he invokes Clay Morrow. "We don't leave loose ends. You're going to reach out and find out where their hideout is located. We patch this situation up, or else we all go down."
A knock resounds on the chapel doors. Half-Sack sticks his head inside. "Jackson, man. It's Unser. He won't pass on his message through me. Says it's important, though."
Unser slips soundlessly through his own department. No one notices a man suffering of cancer because he is of no use to himself much less is he able to aid in anyone else's plight.
He has served as little more than a talking head and a mascot these last few weeks leading up to his impending retirement. Thirty-five years he has spent on the force. No sooner did he graduate to police chief did the team Unser came up with move on to bigger cities or otherwise get rooted out by new blood. Half a dozen police academy graduates who are at minimum a generation younger and a middle school letter grade dumber than those they replaced. The upstarts have a faux respect for their commanding office. They tend to look to the Chief once they exhaust their ideas. Unser is the last of a dying breed. And he figures there's no better place to run out the course than in Charming. A town full of endangered species.
Deputy Chief Hale was chosen as successor to the department because he represents the opposite of everything Unser stands for. David Hale is a boy scout through and through. He makes sure to dot every 'I' on the page, and it's hard to imagine him stooping low enough to accept any sort of bribery. The Deputy takes orders well enough, but he is never afraid to voice his opinions when justice is called into question. The rule book is what he holds to be most important.
Lately, Hale has used his voice to speak out against the Sons of Anarchy. Ever since the bluebird warehouse blew up on the outskirts of town, Hale has been digging into the club and it's lengthy history. The wannabe all-star grew up in the community and rightfully suspects the motorcyclists are up to no good. He understands his mentor is in the club President's pocket and as a result determined his mission in life was to clean up the corrupted town. That mission includes dismantling the MC.
To Unser, Hale is of minor concern. Unser chose the Deputy knowing he could trust him to better the department in the long term. Hale will wait until Unser steps down before enacting true change. The chief holds firm that there remains time to work out a system between the rooky and SAMCRO before his departure. Not that he's one who believes in a fickle thing such as hope.
Outsiders are the ones worthy of Unser picking up on his radar. The reason he sided with Clay so many years ago is because they agree meddling from big business or government alike would be detrimental to the small-town community. As such, Unser monitors the comings and goings of infiltrators and assists the motorcyclists in keeping Charming family friendly.
The freshest thorn in Unser's shoe has been agent Kohn of the ATF – Chicago division. He claims he has been sent to investigate the SOA and their hypothetical connection to an interstate arms dealing case. Yet, he refuses to collaborate with Charming PD, beyond the vague questioning (masquerading as busy work in Unser's view), or to divulge details of the case. Kohn primarily keeps to his borrowed desk and pours over files. Unser has noticed the agent has a keen interest in Jackson, but always changes the subject or leaves the conversation when the topic turns to the Vice President of the club he is meant to be observing. The Chief is particularly ready for the federal agent to grow bored of his charade and move on to dig up someone else's backyard.
News travels as swiftly as feet can carry it through the abysmally small precinct. Unser had been briefed on a transportation to Stockton gone awry immediately upon his arrival. Mann had pulled him aside shortly afterward to inform him Clay Morrow was in custody (though not being held under charges) and undergoing interrogation due to his being flagged as a possible supplier for the illegal weaponry.
"So, Kohn finally decided to shift his ass into gear and do something other than sit around drinking in our electricity. Which holding room are they in?" Unser walks away from the conversation towards the two rooms reserved for questioning. He could have easily checked both himself.
"Room 1, Chief. Only Kohn isn't conducting the interview."
Unser's office opens into the communal desk farm. He crosses the floor briskly at the same time a female agent who is not on his staff exits a holding room. Unser catches a glimpse of Clay sitting inside. His wrists are handcuffed to the table.
Unser gets a good, hard look at Stahl before erupting. "Another one. You ATF agents are multiplying like rats on a plague ship! Do you want to disclose why it is you're clogging up my hallways?"
"That's not what I would summarize as hospitable behavior." Stahl's eyes widen. She's surprised, though pleased to have a stranger engage so boldly with her. "Is that how you welcome guests to your humble abode, or am I receiving special treatment?"
"I don't give a damn about being hospitable. I care about why I'm not involved in an ongoing investigation in my own department. Who the hell authorized your being here and why are you questioning a suspect without my oversight?"
"I'm glad you asked me Skipper. I'm here to make your life exponentially better. Can't say I'll clear up the cataracts but what I can offer is bound to sprout butterflies in your tummy."
Stahl gestures slyly for Unser to follow her down a corridor to where her team has set up their own quadrant.
"Let's be reasonable. When an organization like the Sons of Anarchy reaches international terrorist status they tend to earn the attention of the federal government. This case, if there is one, is way outside of your jurisdiction Chief." Stahl doesn't bother to make eye contact or ask for Unser's name. "This case has fallen into the hands of the ATF. It's extremely likely the known arms dealers have dealt illegal artillery to Nate Meineke and if I prove this you will be free from what has undoubtedly been for you a longstanding public nuisance. Doesn't that sound nice? The sooner you cooperate, the sooner I can leave your happy-go-lucky town in peace."
Stahl approaches a man whom Unser assumes to be her second in command. "Any luck on the warrant?"
"Sacramento says a phone call is circumstantial. Not enough evidence to issue a warrant."
Unser hears the agent curse colorfully under her breath.
"Maybe I can help?"
Agent Kohn arrives flashing a badge and a manila folder. "I've been sent by the Chicago division to investigate the Sons of Anarchy."
"Fat load of good you've served." Unser grows increasingly irritated as bodies crowd him. "You've yet to gain substantial evidence or make any arrests in the month you've been stationed here."
"As I've told you before, chief Unser, I'm not at liberty to discuss the specifics of my investigation."
Stahl commands attention. "I was explaining to the chief that jurisdiction has transferred to Stockton. I'm leading this investigation, so any intel you've collected will have to be passed on to me to aid in my case. Effective immediately, if it pleases you."
Kohn smiles with his eyes as though he knows more than anyone else in the room. "That's not necessarily true." He is quick to shift the conversation in his favor. He opens the file to reveal photographs. "I can, however, share these.
"I followed the Sons of Anarchy into Indian Hills, Nevada several weeks back. War broke out with a rival MC. Those pictured are fully automatic handguns."
Stahl turns the photos over in her hands examining them from every angle. "This flatbed here is hauling oil drums. I saw it in the Teller-Morrow lot. It is illegal to transport petroleum across state lines, isn't it?"
"Excuse me chief." Deputy Hale presses his way past Unser to enter the hallway and hand Stahl a file he has busily cultivated in his own spare time.
Unser considers stirring up trouble, but he's been in this line of work long enough to predict which way the wind is blowing.
"Figured you would like to hear this information. Piney Winston, the man who received the call before the transport raid, is one of SOA's founding elders. He's friends with Nate Meineke and, this man, father of the man who was freed from transportation this morning. The three of them did multiple T.O.D's in 'Nam. They shared a platoon. I would say it's safe to assume they are close."
Kohn chuckles. "I would say this all constitutes a fair bit more than probable cause. Wouldn't you agree, agent?"
"There's more," Hale begins.
Stahl looks at him exasperatedly. "Relax you've already earned your gold star for showing up prepared to class today."
Hale presses onward. "Two months back. There was an explosion at a warehouse. I can't prove it, but I have reason to suspect it was the location where the Sons' once hid their illegal weapons."
Stahl turns speculative. "An explosion. Was it determined to be accidental, or was it a cover up? Their attempt to burn a detected location."
Hale flexes his acquired knowledge. "It's more likely the result of gangland revival. My research led me to a similar property explosion Santo Padre a few days later. The Mayans MC frequent the surrounding neighborhoods; however, I was unable to obtain a warrant to search the premises." Hale locks eyes with Unser. "It was outside of our jurisdiction."
Stahl inhales sharply. "Well, I'm sure you gave it your best shot. Lucky for this town, my aim is a hell of a lot more accurate." She readdresses her second in command. "Get me my goddamn warrant."
In the midst of the commotion and organization, Unser steals away to a secluded location. His police cruiser nestled against the back wall of the precinct. One of the last recesses the ATF has yet to infiltrate. Thus, saving him the burden of participating in the raid about to take place at a locally owned business within his town. It's also where he finds himself able to pass along an urgent message via an encrypted telephone.
Jackson ends the call with a forceful toss of the cell onto the Reaper. Those in the chapel had heard the message from the police chief and knew the figurative clock counting down to their demise had been pushed a considerable amount forward.
"Sucks being right, doesn't it?" Schuyler questions.
"You'd know all about that." Jackson shadows her smile with less enthusiasm.
"Wh-what does that mean? They've got some kind of search warrant against us?" Half-Sack's presence in church has become more and more routine, but the way he picks at the skin around his nails admits he feels regret deciding to sit in on this particular meeting.
"What part confuses you," Tig tosses back without bothering to face him, " the 'search' or the 'warrant'?"
The prospect stumbles backwards into the doors. "I know what a warrant is douchebag! I mean, that's it. Like, there's nothing we can do about it. It's just over?"
"There's always something we can do," Bobby soothes him. "Some of us have been here before, remember? First thing: don't overreact."
Tig pivots in his seat to issue a proper threat. "Second: whatever happens next, know you signed up for it."
"No way. Bobby's right on this." Juice perks up, "Best way to make sure your negative thoughts are going to happen is to voice them out loud."
Jackson balks. "Thanks for the sage wisdom, Morpheus. It's time to make some moves. Bobby, Piney, I need you to head up to the cabin. The rest of us will stay here to navigate the fall out."
Bobby responds to his Vice President's order, yet Piney resists. "You are out of line. You've no right to send me away when the arms deal was my doing. I'm not hiding from my mistakes while someone else takes the blame."
"The damage has been done, Piney." Jackson reiterates, no longer as piqued. "I'm protecting you by making you harder to find. You sticking around puts everyone at risk."
"Running admits my guilt."
Opie appeals to his father. "Pop, you won't be running. You're buying the club time. Head up there. See if you can't get us what we need on your pals. We'll let you know when your services are needed."
Bobby encourages his oldest colleague. Reaching for his keys as he breaks for the door. Thankful, in a way, for the excuse offered to avoid the upcoming, unpleasant affairs. "Where's the harm in letting the kids handle the heavy lifting for a change?"
Piney looks for an ally in Schuyler. "Do you have anything to say?"
"When we met you said you believed I had the ability to lead. Prove it. Let me show you what I can handle."
It's difficult for Piney to put his trust in others. What's even more difficult is accepting help. "Alright sweetheart. But you better be the one keeping these shitheads in line."
Piney and Bobby ride their bikes around the garage and past where the eighteen-wheeler has been parked for safe keeping. The members left behind gather in the loading dock where they can glare out at the police cruiser.
Standing inside the doorway, Opie takes time to light a marijuana cigarette. "Two bodies down, think we will make the deadline?"
Tig looks particularly off putting with his sunglasses on and his hand pressing his buck knife away from his body. "All they were good for was weighing down the paddy wagon when we get hauled in."
"We will never get these guns out of here," Half-Sack disparages atop a picnic table. "No way before the feds make it this way."
Juice tries to play off his warning as a joke. "I don't know how to tell you guys this, but I do not look good in orange. And if that agent searches the truck she's going to find enough evidence to lock us up for a dime or more. Next stop - Stockton State Penitentiary."
Schuyler muses, deep in thought, "For some of us."
There's a beat of silence before Juice gapes at the lone woman. "Holy shit!"
"Cool your jets. It's not goin' to get that far."
"Jackie," Chibs has his back to the policeman. More concerned with the task than he is with putting on a front. "What's the plan here? We know the hardware will be easier moved if broken down."
"Break down takes time, brother. It's quicker to wrap them up."
Opie offers tarps from the garage before Juice stamps out that plan. "They hold their shape that way. Stuff's too big. It's not leaving on the back of our bikes."
"Maybe we can call someone in?" Opie goes on. "Anyone, if they have a semi-trailer, let's get them here. Pay them off."
Everyone's so concerned with how to remove the weaponry that it leads Schuyler to another conclusion. "What about concealment?"
Jackson turns his attention to hear her out. Tig turns, too, back to the group at large to face her. "We could hid it. Move it after the warrant expires."
Tig seizes an opportunity to keep up appearances. "Unless you know of some secret fallout shelter below the scrap yard that gnash is going to have her minions comb every square inch of this place. Including down the clogged pipes."
Schuyler smiles condescendingly. "If all else fail I can look around the property for a sewer grate wide enough to squeeze through and I can army crawl our gear out that way."
Realization dawns over Jackson's face. He latches onto Schuyler's arm nearly knocking her down.
Her head snaps towards him. "What? Am I a genius?"
"Yeah, I think you might be. You and Tig both. Piney backed up the septic tank this morning."
She makes a sour face. "That's gross, but how does that help us here Jackson?"
Jackson points at the gated entrance. As if on cue, a sewage truck pulls up and an employee allows it entrance. A solid metal, enclosed tank capable of holding thousands of gallons of liquid is attached on the back. No more calls have to be made to solve this problem.
Opie grins through his beard. "Someone remind me to tell Piney he did his duty after all." He squashes the stick out on the picnic table while passing by.
Jackson bellows, moving towards the garage and the condemning vehicle parked behind it. "Head for the truck. Schuyler, you've got cash on you?"
Schuyler nods complacently, already certain of the role she will play. The group follows Jackson. Save for Chibs who steals Schuyler away for a moment of her time.
"Was yer idea for a plan gonna go anywhere, or were you bidding yer time?"
Schuyler accepts his offer of friendly conversation. "I would have arrived there at some point. Just have to let me talk long enough." Schuyler leads them behind the sewage truck. It makes for a wall between them and the men who form an assembly line leading around the garage. "Tig managed to be helpful. Whether he wanted to be or not."
Chibs smiles. The first he has all day. "Aye, he's got a way about him. Sort of falls into it." They come to a natural stop. They stand as close as they had the night Schuyler first confronted him outside the clubhouse. Instead of receding he aligns the sole of his right shoe flush with her shoe opposite. She doesn't seem to mind. "What would you have done different? If we could have handled this with sophistication?"
Schuyler muses again. Adding emphasis to particular words. "Edward would have gone to a blacksmith. We have a guy, down South. He would have helped us out. Then, there's no evidence left. And the items that did so much damage wouldn't get on the street into someone else's hands."
Chibs listens attentively. A key concern left to be addressed. "But…that doesn't solve our money issue. Disposing of this evidence means we're back to square one with our Irish suppliers."
Chibs agrees. "It's not to say we join this life expecting riches, but if this club doesnae break even there will be little left to keep it intact."
"They're too risky to hold onto, and no paycheck is worth a damning paper trail. If what Juice says is true, selling wouldn't be worth the hassle. Public knowledge dictates that material has to be severely marked down. It wouldn't make a difference in our debt."
Chibs sighs heavily. "You've got yourself a fair point there."
"It won't be long now." Schuyler returns her gaze to the street. A thoughtful expression settles. "I'll have plenty of time to think of a real plan while we're cooped up during the search and seizure. Something to make everyone happy." Her shoe nudges Chibs' own in her attempt to relieve the tension in her ankle. A clear tail her thoughts are wandering.
He dips his head low beside her ear hoping to gain her attention before departing. "Looking forward to hearing it."
She smiles a little. "Head inside, yeah? I'll buy the driver, and let's say we'll meet back at the picnic tables. I've got an idea to play out right now."
Ready to appease her, Chibs parts with plenty left unsaid between them.
Schuyler talks up the sewage truck driver and slyly slips fifty dollars into his hand. She spends the rest of her time looking up how to make a martini and managing to find enough tools to constitute the creation behind the bar. She walks outside to perch in the center of the picnic table closest to the exit with the slim glass precariously raised in hand. She watches the men's feet through a crack in one of the partially lowered garage doors. They shuffle about and eventually start bringing black trash bags to the sewage truck where the hardware disappears from sight.
"Making yourself comfortable for the shake down, are you?" Opie asks. He lumbers past her to lean once again on a clubhouse wall.
She raises her nose up at Juice. "How is it you smell better than when you starter?"
He laughs gleefully while plopping hard down beside her. "Like flowers and butterflies. Hey, what the hell? I thought you hated vodka?"
"And day drinking," Jackson adds on. He sits on the bench seat behind her with his elbows pinned backwards on the table and his ankles kicked out ahead of him. Tig and Chibs fall to either side around him.
"I thought it was the olives you hated?" Half-Sack raises the question. He elects to remain standing in front of her.
"I really do hate olives," she agrees. "But this is a prop. It's not meant for enjoyment."
Juice reaches for the glass. "Then can I have some."
"Absolutely not!" Schuyler's voice has never pitched so high. The liquid sloshes over the rim and onto her jeans in her haste to pull the drink away. Thus, ensuring she'll reek of alcohol. "Are you insane? Like the pigs need an excuse. If you were any more visibly 'other' I would have sent you with Piney and Bobby."
Juice pulls a face to suggest he isn't fearful in the slightest as he lights a cigarette. Evidently desiring a prop of his own.
"And you," Schuyler snaps at the prospect with her free hand, "make yourself comfortable."
She gestures to the wooden plank her feet rest on. Half-Sack sits down awkwardly beside her unclear of her intension. When she pulls on his shoulder and lifts her feet he understands. "What the hell is your problem man?"
Schuyler uses her calm maternal voice when explaining. "You're going to lay down and keep your head down. I'm trying to minimize damages. Believe me." She drapes her legs across his body mercifully reframing from resting her boot heels in his sternum. "You want them to get to me first."
A police siren sounds off in the distance. Schuyler props her elbow on Juice's shoulder shaking the half full glass in his face. She leans back as though she were somewhere on a beach. "Show time."
/
Author's Notes: A few house cleaning things. No, Stahl has never had dealings with the SOA prior to this episode/case. She does not know of Edward or Sky at the time of this meeting. But, when she returns, she will have done her research and be well equipped to get under Schuyler's skin (a first for our protagonist).
Also, I am not a fan of the next two (filler) episodes. Much of what takes place on screen in the show will in fact take place off screen in this series. Instead, new content will be used to show these slower episodes from a new prospective. Cruising through the next few episodes means we get closer to the dramatic season finale, focus on building up the relationship between Sky/Chibs, introduce the remainder of our primary/mainstay cast (guess who?), and push forward the plot that will cement Schuyler and Jackson's friendship forever!
Thanks for being patient with my uploading schedule. This is a hobby after all, and I've been working on other projects on the side over the last few months. Thanks for continuing to read, leaving your kudos/comments, and enjoying my story! I'll see you for the next installment of TROD!