[SAMCRO Clubhouse — February 21, 2009, 8:00 AM]
The new cameras arrived three days after the proposal passed church.
I supervised the installation personally—six units covering the previously blind spots in TM's perimeter, wired to a monitoring station in the back office. The contractor was a club-friendly electrician who'd done work for SAMCRO before, someone who knew not to ask questions about why a motorcycle repair shop needed surveillance-grade equipment.
"Feed's live." Juice checked the monitors, cycling through each camera's view. "East lot, front gate, back entrance. No more blind spots."
"Good. What about the communication protocols?"
"Encrypted phones for the officers, burner rotation schedule for sensitive calls. I've got a system set up that changes everything weekly." He grinned. "Anyone trying to tap us would need to start fresh every seven days."
The improvements were small individually but significant together. Better locks on the armory. Rotation schedules that varied unpredictably. Check-in protocols for members running club errands. Each piece of the security puzzle clicking into place.
[SAA OBJECTIVE: SECURITY IMPROVEMENTS] [PROGRESS: 65%]
"What's next on the list?" Juice asked.
"Emergency response procedures. We need designated rally points, extraction routes, contingencies for different scenarios." I pulled out the notebook where I'd been tracking everything. "And we need to train the prospects. Basic security awareness—what to watch for, how to report, when to call for backup."
"That's a lot."
"That's the job."
---
[Downtown Charming — February 25, 2009, 3:00 PM]
The protection business called itself Marcus's Auto Detail.
Nice place—clean waiting room, professional staff, the kind of legitimate operation that paid SAMCRO monthly for the privilege of operating without interference. Except now there was interference.
"Started three weeks ago." Marcus was a heavy man in his fifties, nervous sweat darkening his collar. "Guys showing up, saying they represent the Nords. Demanding we pay them too."
"The Nords are broken." I kept my voice calm. "Darby's in prison. LOAN is destroyed. Whatever's left is scattered and powerless."
"That's what I told them. They didn't seem to care." Marcus showed me photos on his phone—two men with shaved heads, tattoos visible on their necks. "They said things were changing. Said SAMCRO wasn't the only game in town anymore."
I studied the photos. The tattoos were familiar—white supremacist symbols, Nordic runes, the iconography of Darby's old organization. But the faces were new. Either recruits who'd joined after LOAN fell, or opportunists trying to exploit the power vacuum.
"When do they come back?"
"Tomorrow. Same time."
"I'll be here."
---
[Marcus's Auto Detail — February 26, 2009, 2:45 PM]
The wannabe Nords arrived in a beat-up pickup truck.
Two of them, just like Marcus described—young, aggressive, the particular arrogance of men who hadn't learned what real violence looked like. They strutted toward the shop entrance like they owned the place.
I stepped out of the shadows by the side door.
"Gentlemen."
They stopped. The taller one—maybe twenty-five, neck tattoos that probably seemed intimidating in a bathroom mirror—squinted at my kutte.
"SAMCRO." He tried to sound unimpressed. "This ain't your business."
"Marcus pays us. That makes it our business." I kept my hands visible, stance relaxed. "You have two choices. Walk away now, forget this place exists, and we never see each other again. Or stay, and learn why the Nords aren't around anymore."
The shorter one reached toward his waistband.
He didn't complete the motion. I closed the distance in two steps, caught his wrist, twisted. His hand came away from his belt empty, his arm bent at an angle that made him gasp.
"Bad choice."
The taller one started to move. Chibs appeared from behind the pickup, shotgun resting casually against his shoulder.
"I wouldn't, lad."
The situation resolved itself in seconds. Both men on their knees, hands on their heads, the particular terror of amateurs who'd just discovered they were playing a game with professionals.
"You're going to leave Charming," I told them. "You're going to find somewhere else to pretend you're tough. And if I ever see you again—if anyone from your little gang shows up in this town—I'll make sure you disappear so completely that even your mothers won't remember your names."
"We understand," the taller one whispered. "We understand."
"Good. Now walk."
They walked. Quickly.
[REPUTATION INCREASED: +50]
---
[Cole's Apartment — February 28, 2009, 7:30 PM]
Sarah had made pasta.
The smell hit me when I opened the door—garlic, tomatoes, something with basil. The small apartment felt warm, lived-in, like somewhere people actually wanted to be.
"You're home early." She emerged from the kitchen, apron spotted with sauce. "I wasn't expecting you for another hour."
"Finished the security rounds early. Wanted to surprise you."
"Mission accomplished." She kissed me, tasting like the wine she'd been sipping while cooking. "Dinner's almost ready."
We ate at the small table, talking about nothing important—her shift at the hospital, a funny story about a patient who'd tried to escape in his gown, the latest gossip from the nurses' station. Normal conversation. Normal life.
"You seem settled," she observed between bites. "More than before."
"The SAA thing?"
"That, and everything else. You've been... calmer. Like you finally found where you fit."
Did I? Or am I just waiting for the next crisis, the next emergency that'll shatter whatever peace we've built?
"I'm trying," I said. "To be present. To not always be thinking about what's coming next."
"Is it working?"
"Sometimes." I reached across the table, took her hand. "Moments like this help."
"Then let's have more moments like this."
---
[TM Garage — March 3, 2009, 11:00 AM]
Half-Sack learned quickly.
"Perimeter check starts at the front gate," I explained, walking him through the route. "Work clockwise—parking lot, east side, back entrance, west side, back to the gate. Look for anything out of place. Vehicles you don't recognize, people who shouldn't be here, changes in patterns."
"Changes in patterns?"
"If something's usually one way and suddenly it's different, that's a flag. Maybe it's nothing. Maybe it's surveillance. But you notice it and report it."
He nodded, making mental notes. The kid was smart—not tactical genius smart, but eager and loyal and willing to work. The kind of person worth investing in.
Worth protecting. When the Season 2 finale comes...
No. Don't think about that yet. Focus on what you can do now.
"What about the clubhouse interior?"
"Same principles. Regular checks, consistent timing, eyes open for anything unusual." I handed him a small notebook. "Keep a log. What you saw, when you saw it, anything notable. Patterns emerge over time—you might not recognize something's wrong on day one, but by day thirty, you'll see it."
"This is a lot more detail than anyone else has explained."
"That's because most people learn security after something goes wrong. Better to learn it before."
Half-Sack tucked the notebook into his pocket. "Thanks, Cole. For taking the time."
"You're worth the time. Don't make me regret saying that."
He grinned—that easy, open expression that made it impossible not to like him. "I won't."
In another timeline, you die. Cameron Hayes puts a knife in you while everyone's distracted. And there's nothing anyone can do because nobody sees it coming.
But I see it coming. And now you know enough to maybe, just maybe, see it too.
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