[SAMCRO Clubhouse — April 1, 2009, 10:00 AM]
Cameron Hayes looked like a man standing at the edge of a cliff.
He'd shown up without warning, parking his car in the TM lot and walking into the clubhouse like he still belonged there. But everything about him was wrong—the hunched shoulders, the darting eyes, the way his hands couldn't stay still.
"I needed to see you," he said when I found him at the bar. "Needed to tell someone."
"Tell me what?"
"Edmund is dead." The words came out flat, empty. "Jimmy's people held him for three weeks. Negotiations went nowhere. This morning they found his body in Belfast."
Edmund. The ambitious young man who wanted to expand, who was in debt to dangerous people. Now dead, caught in IRA politics he couldn't escape.
"I'm sorry, Cameron."
"Sorry." He laughed, bitter and broken. "Everyone's sorry. Sorry doesn't bring back my son."
His eyes found mine, and what I saw there made my blood freeze. Grief, yes. Madness, maybe. But also something calculating—a mind that had fixed on a target and wouldn't let go.
"You have a son," Cameron said. "No—Jax has a son. Abel. Healthy. Safe. While mine is..." He trailed off, shaking his head.
There it is. The thought forming. The terrible logic of a destroyed man.
"Cameron. Go home. Rest. Grieve properly. Don't do anything—"
"Don't tell me what to do." His voice hardened. "You're not my friend, Cole. You're a business partner. And our business is done."
He left without another word.
I watched him go, heart pounding.
He's going to try something. The way he looked at me when he mentioned Abel—that wasn't casual. That was targeting.
---
[Jax's House — April 5, 2009, 3:00 PM]
Abel was beautiful.
Three months old now, healthy, with Jax's eyes and Tara's gentle features. He lay in his crib, gurgling happily, completely unaware of the violence that surrounded his existence.
"He's growing fast." Tara stood beside me, maternal pride evident. "Already trying to grab things."
"He looks strong."
"He is. After everything—the surgery, the early complications—he's a fighter." She smiled. "Like his father."
Jax appeared in the doorway. "Tara says you wanted to talk about something."
"Security." I kept my voice casual, but Jax knew me well enough to hear the tension beneath. "Cameron came to the clubhouse a few days ago. He was... not right."
"Not right how?"
"His son died. Edmund. Jimmy O's people killed him." I paused, letting that sink in. "He's grieving, unstable. And he mentioned Abel."
"Mentioned him how?"
"In a way I didn't like." I met Jax's eyes. "I want to put someone on your house. At least until we're sure Cameron isn't going to do something stupid."
Jax's expression hardened. "You think he'd come after my son?"
"I think a man who just lost his child might not be thinking clearly. And I'd rather be paranoid than right."
Silence stretched between us. Abel made a happy sound in his crib, oblivious.
"Who were you thinking?" Jax finally asked.
"Half-Sack. He's reliable, he's proven himself, and he's spent enough time with your family that it won't seem strange."
"Set it up."
---
[Jax's Living Room — April 5, 2009, 3:30 PM]
Tara placed Abel in my arms before I could object.
"You've never held him," she said, adjusting my grip. "Support his head. There you go."
The baby was warm, impossibly light, trusting in a way that made something twist in my chest. His tiny fingers wrapped around my index finger, gripping with surprising strength.
In another timeline, Cameron takes you from this house. Half-Sack dies trying to stop him. You're carried to Ireland, and it takes most of Season 3 to get you back.
Not this time. Not if I can prevent it.
"He likes you," Tara observed.
"He likes anyone who holds him."
"Not true. He screamed for twenty minutes when Tig tried." She smiled. "You've got a gentle touch under all that..." She gestured vaguely at my kutte, my demeanor.
"Rough exterior?"
"Something like that."
I handed Abel back, careful of his head. My finger felt cold where his grip had been.
Innocent life. Unaware of the violence surrounding him. Worth protecting at any cost.
---
[SAMCRO Clubhouse — April 8, 2009, 8:00 PM]
Half-Sack took the assignment with the seriousness it deserved.
"You really think something might happen?" he asked as I walked him through the protocols.
"I think we prepare for the worst and hope for the best." I handed him a burner phone. "This is for emergencies only. If Cameron shows up—if anyone suspicious shows up—you call me first, then Jax, then 911. In that order."
"Got it."
"You're not there to fight him. You're there to raise the alarm and protect Abel until help arrives. If it comes to a confrontation, you delay, you don't engage. Understood?"
"Understood." Half-Sack's face was earnest, determined. "I won't let you down, Cole."
In the original timeline, you don't let anyone down. You die fighting. Cameron puts a knife in you while the club is distracted elsewhere, and there's nothing anyone can do because no one sees it coming.
But I see it coming. And now you know enough to maybe—just maybe—survive.
"I know you won't." I gripped his shoulder. "Stay alert. Stay alive."
---
[Cole's Apartment — April 8, 2009, 11:00 PM]
Sarah was already asleep when I got home.
I sat in the darkness of the living room, phone on the coffee table, volume set to maximum. Every instinct screamed that the crisis was approaching—that Cameron was building toward something terrible, and all the preparation in the world might not be enough.
You've done what you can. Half-Sack is watching. Jax is aware. The pieces are in place.
But what if it's not enough?
The journal Sarah had given me for Christmas sat beside the phone. I opened it, stared at blank pages I'd never managed to fill.
Some things can't be put into words. Some fears are too strange, too impossible to explain.
I set my phone to vibrate as well as ring—belt and suspenders—and went to bed without sleeping. Waiting. Ready.
When the call comes—if it comes—you need to be there in minutes.
Ready or not.
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