[Highway 101, Northbound — March 20, 2009, 9:00 AM]
The road stretched ahead like a question without an answer.
Jax rode beside me, two bikes cutting through Friday morning traffic toward our first meeting. Three potential suppliers on the schedule, three conversations that might determine whether SAMCRO survived the IRA crisis or went down with the sinking ship.
"First contact is in Ukiah," Jax said through the helmet comm. "Guy named Morrison. Runs surplus military equipment through legitimate channels, has connections to less legitimate ones."
"What do we know about his product?"
"Quality's good. Prices are high. He's been trying to get into our market for years, but Cameron's deal was always better."
Was. Past tense. Because Cameron's world is falling apart, and ours might follow.
The meeting was in two hours. Two hours to figure out what we'd offer, what we'd accept, how to negotiate from a position of weakness without showing it.
---
[Ukiah, Northern California — March 20, 2009, 11:30 AM]
Morrison was a disappointment.
He talked big—connections to private military contractors, access to hardware that made our usual inventory look like toys. But the prices were astronomical, and his delivery timeline was measured in months, not weeks.
"I can get you anything you want," he insisted, spreading glossy catalogs across his desk. "M4s, AR-15s, even some specialty items if you've got the budget."
"Budget isn't the issue. Timeline is."
"These things take time. Paperwork, logistics, making sure the chain is clean." He shrugged. "You want fast, you sacrifice quality. That's the trade-off."
I exchanged a glance with Jax. He shook his head slightly.
"We'll be in touch," Jax said, standing. "Thanks for your time."
Outside, the afternoon sun was harsh on the parking lot. My stomach growled—we'd skipped breakfast for the early ride.
"Too slow," Jax said. "We need someone who can deliver within days, not months."
"Agreed. Next option?"
"Sacramento. Different approach. But let's eat first—I know a truck stop on the way."
---
[Truck Stop, Highway 99 — March 20, 2009, 1:30 PM]
The burgers were terrible.
Greasy, overcooked, the kind of road food that kept you moving but didn't pretend to be anything else. Jax and I sat in a booth by the window, watching trucks come and go, discussing the morning's failure between bites of mediocre food.
"Two more options after Sacramento," Jax said, pushing fries around his plate. "Fresno and Stockton. One of them has to work."
"Maybe. But we should be realistic—the IRA deal wasn't just about price or timeline. It was about trust, relationships built over years. You can't replicate that overnight."
"So what do we do?"
"Find the best available option and make it work. But we should also be thinking about the long term. Diversification. Multiple suppliers so we're never dependent on one source again."
Jax nodded slowly, something thoughtful in his expression. He set down his fork, met my eyes.
"My father had ideas about where this club could go. A vision for something more than just... this." He gestured vaguely at the truck stop, at the road, at the life they'd built. "Sometimes I wonder if we're capable of it."
"Capable of what?"
"Something legitimate. Something that doesn't require meetings like the ones we've been having." He paused. "Something my son could be proud of."
Jax's vision. The dream of going legit that runs through the entire series. It never quite works out in the show—too many compromises, too many enemies, too much history.
"It's possible," I said carefully. "Not easy. Not quick. But possible."
"You really believe that?"
"I believe the club is capable of more than it's been. The question is whether it wants to be."
Jax was quiet for a moment. Then he smiled—genuine, almost hopeful.
"I'm glad you're wearing that patch, Cole. The club needs people who think beyond tomorrow."
---
[Sacramento — March 22, 2009, 4:00 PM]
The Sacramento contact was worse.
He called himself Rico, operated out of a pawn shop that fronted for more interesting merchandise. His prices were reasonable, but something about the operation felt wrong—too eager, too smooth, the particular energy of someone trying too hard to close a deal.
"I can get you what you need," Rico said, gold chains glinting. "Same quality you're used to, better price than the Irish."
"Where does it come from?"
"Does it matter?" He smiled, revealing teeth that had seen better days. "Product is product."
It matters. Supply chain integrity matters. Not knowing where your guns come from means not knowing who else knows about your business.
"It matters to us."
Rico's smile faltered. "Look, you want the deal or not? I've got other buyers."
"We'll think about it."
We didn't need to think about it. Rico was connected to someone—maybe competitors, maybe law enforcement, maybe just the kind of chaos that attracted unwanted attention. Not worth the risk.
---
[Fresno — March 28, 2009, 2:00 PM]
The Fresno meeting happened in a warehouse outside town.
The contact—a woman named Diana who ran logistics for several gray-market operations—was professional, competent, and immediately more promising than the previous two options.
"I can provide reliable supply," she said, reviewing our requirements. "Not IRA volume, but enough to bridge a gap. Prices are twenty percent above what you're used to, delivery within ten days of order."
"Quality?"
"Same manufacturers, different routes. The hardware is identical to what Cameron provides."
We spent an hour negotiating details. By the time we left, we had a backup option—expensive, limited, but real.
[CONTINGENCY SECURED: FRESNO SUPPLIER] [+100 XP]
---
[Fresno Parking Lot — March 28, 2009, 4:00 PM]
The other conversation happened as we were leaving.
A man approached us in the parking lot—Hispanic, well-dressed, the kind of professional appearance that suggested money and organization. His smile was pleasant, practiced.
"Mr. Teller. Mr. Ashford." He nodded to each of us. "I've heard good things about SAMCRO."
"Do we know you?" Jax asked.
"Not yet. But you might want to." He handed over a business card—plain white, just a phone number. "My employers are looking for distribution partners in Northern California. The product isn't guns, but the profits are substantial."
Distribution partners. The product isn't guns.
Cartel. This is the Galindo Cartel making initial contact. Season 4's nightmare, reaching out years before I expected.
The blood drained from my face, hidden behind a careful mask.
"What kind of product?" Jax asked.
"The kind that moves fast and pays better than anything you're currently handling." The man's smile didn't waver. "Think about it. When you're ready to discuss, call that number."
He walked away without looking back.
Jax stared at the card. "What was that?"
"The Mexicans." I kept my voice steady despite my racing thoughts. "The cartel is looking for partners."
"Drugs?"
"Almost certainly."
"That's not our business."
"No. It's not." I took the card from his hand, pocketed it. "But they'll keep asking. And eventually, the pressure might become hard to ignore."
"We should mention this to church. Let everyone know the cartel is sniffing around."
"Agreed."
[LEVEL UP: 18 → 19] [+500 XP]
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