[Cole's Apartment — April 10, 2009, 11:32 PM]
The phone shattered the silence like a gunshot.
I was awake before the second ring, hand closing around the device, heart already hammering.
"Cole!" Half-Sack's voice, high with panic. "He's here—Cameron—he's trying to get inside—"
"I'm coming. Keep him out. Protect Abel."
"He's got a gun—"
A crash. Glass shattering. The line went dead.
I was dressed in seconds—jeans, boots, gun from the nightstand. Sarah stirred behind me.
"Cole? What—"
"Stay here. Lock the door. Don't open it for anyone except me."
I was gone before she could respond.
---
[Charming Streets — April 10, 2009, 11:34 PM]
The bike screamed through empty streets.
Seventy miles per hour. Eighty. The engine pushed past safe limits, every corner taken at angles that would have killed me if I'd been thinking about survival. But I wasn't thinking about survival—I was thinking about Abel's crib, Half-Sack's panicked voice, the line going dead.
Two minutes. Maybe less. Every second counts.
Jax's street appeared. Dark houses, quiet neighborhood, the ordinary American suburb where an extraordinary nightmare was unfolding.
The front door was open. Light spilled from inside—warm, domestic light that made the wrongness worse.
I killed the engine, drew my weapon, approached with the particular care of someone who'd learned violence at a cost.
---
[Jax's House — April 10, 2009, 11:36 PM]
The entry hall told the story.
A lamp had been knocked over, shattering against the hardwood. Picture frames lay broken, glass crunching underfoot. Blood on the wall—not arterial spray, but enough to indicate a serious wound.
Half-Sack's blood? Cameron's? Someone's.
"Half-Sack?" My voice was controlled, professional. "Tara?"
No response. But sounds from deeper in the house—voices, movement, a baby's cry that cut through everything.
I moved toward the sound, weapon raised, every sense heightened.
The kitchen.
---
[Jax's Kitchen — April 10, 2009, 11:37 PM]
Cameron Hayes stood at the center of the room.
He held Abel in one arm—the baby screaming, terrified, clutching at the stranger who'd torn him from sleep. In his other hand, a knife, the blade catching light from the overhead fixture.
Half-Sack was between Cameron and the back door. Blood covered his shirt—multiple stab wounds to his arms and torso, defensive injuries from trying to stop the attack. He was swaying on his feet, pale from blood loss, but still standing. Still fighting.
Tara lay unconscious near the refrigerator, a bruise already forming on her temple.
"Cameron." My voice cut through Abel's cries. "Put him down."
The older man's head snapped toward me. His eyes were wild—grief and madness and something that had left reason behind long ago.
"Cole." He almost smiled. "I should have known you'd come."
"Put the baby down. We can talk about this."
"Talk?" The word was bitter, broken. "They took my son. Jimmy's people—they took Edmund, and now my boy is dead in a Belfast gutter." His grip on Abel tightened. "Jax has his son. Healthy. Safe. Protected. While mine is—"
"This won't bring Edmund back."
"Nothing will bring Edmund back!" Cameron's voice cracked. "But Jax should know what it feels like. To lose a child. To have someone take what you love most."
Abel's crying intensified, the primal fear of an infant who sensed the danger around him.
Half-Sack moved.
I didn't see exactly what he intended—maybe a grab for the knife, maybe a desperate tackle to separate Cameron from Abel. But Cameron saw it too, and the blade swept in a vicious arc toward Half-Sack's throat.
"No!"
I fired.
The shot caught Cameron in the shoulder, spinning him sideways. The knife clattered to the floor. Abel tumbled from his grip—and Half-Sack was there, somehow, twisting his wounded body to catch the baby before he hit the ground.
Cameron screamed—rage and pain and the sound of a man who'd lost everything collapsing into nothing.
I closed the distance in three steps, kicked the knife away, pressed the gun to Cameron's temple.
"Don't move."
"Kill me." His voice was hollow, broken. "Just kill me. It doesn't matter anymore."
He wanted this. Wanted to die. Suicide by cop, or suicide by SAMCRO—it's all the same to him now.
But you can't execute a man who's surrendered. That's not justice. That's murder.
"Half-Sack—is Abel okay?"
"He's okay." Half-Sack's voice was strained, exhausted, but the baby's crying had shifted from terror to confusion—still scared, but not harmed. "He's okay, Cole. I've got him."
Relief flooded through me so intense it nearly buckled my knees.
[QUEST COMPLETE: PROTECT ABEL] [+300 XP]
---
[Jax's Kitchen — April 10, 2009, 11:42 PM]
The next minutes were controlled chaos.
I secured Cameron with zip ties from my pocket—standard SAA equipment, always useful. He didn't resist, didn't speak, just lay on the kitchen floor staring at nothing while his shoulder bled sluggishly onto the tile.
"Call 911," I told Half-Sack. "Ambulance for you and Tara. Police for Cameron."
"What about Jax?"
"I'll handle that. Just make the call."
Half-Sack managed to set Abel down in a makeshift nest of kitchen towels—safe, contained, still crying but unharmed—and pulled out his phone. His hands were shaking, blood dripping from wounds that needed immediate attention, but he was alive.
Alive. Against all odds, alive.
In the original timeline, Cameron kills you. Puts a knife through your gut while you're trying to protect Abel. You die on this kitchen floor, and the club loses one of its best.
Not tonight. Not in this story.
I dialed Jax.
"Cole?" His voice was groggy—he'd been asleep somewhere else, unaware of the nightmare unfolding in his home. "What's—"
"Get to your house. Now. Cameron attacked. Tara and Half-Sack are injured, but Abel is safe."
Silence. Then, sharp and awake: "I'm on my way."
I ended the call, looked around the destroyed kitchen. Blood on the floor—Half-Sack's, Cameron's, maybe some of my own from cuts I hadn't noticed. Broken dishes from the struggle. Abel's cries finally starting to quiet as shock gave way to exhaustion.
But Abel was alive. Half-Sack was alive. Tara was breathing.
You changed it. The tragedy that defined Season 2's finale—Half-Sack dead, Abel kidnapped to Ireland—didn't happen. Because you prepared. Because you anticipated. Because you were faster than fate.
Sirens in the distance. Getting closer.
Cameron's eyes found mine from the floor. Something like recognition flickered through the madness.
"You knew," he whispered. "Somehow... you knew."
"I guessed." Not entirely a lie. "And I prepared for the worst."
"Should have killed me."
"Maybe. But that's not my call to make."
The sirens grew louder. Red and blue lights flashing through the kitchen window.
Tonight, Half-Sack is alive and Abel is safe.
That's enough. For now, that's enough.
To supporting Me in Pateron .
with exclusive access to more chapters (based on tiers more chapters for each tiers) on my Patreon, you get more chapters if you ask for more (in few days), plus new fanfic every week! Your support starting at just $6/month helps me keep crafting the stories you love across epic universes .
By joining, you're not just getting more chapters—you're helping me bring new worlds, twists, and adventures to life. Every pledge makes a huge difference!
👉 Join now at patreon.com/TheFinex5 and start reading today!