[Jax's House — April 10, 2009, 11:45 PM]
The sirens grew louder.
Cameron lay on the kitchen floor, zip-tied and bleeding, his eyes fixed on the ceiling like a man who'd already given up. The shoulder wound was worse than I'd first thought—the bullet had caught something arterial, blood pooling beneath him faster than a simple through-and-through should allow.
"Cole." Half-Sack's voice was strained. "I think I need to sit down."
I turned. The prospect was leaning against the counter, his face gray, blood soaking through his shirt from wounds I hadn't fully assessed during the standoff. Multiple stab wounds to the arms and torso—defensive injuries, earned protecting Abel.
"Sit. Don't move." I guided him to the floor, grabbed dish towels from a nearby drawer, started applying pressure to the worst of the cuts. "You're going to be fine."
"Still got both balls." He managed a weak grin. "That's something."
"Jesus, even now—"
"Hey, a man's got to count his blessings."
Abel had quieted in the corner where I'd set him, wrapped in a blanket, watching with wide eyes that would hopefully remember none of this. Tara was stirring near the refrigerator, one hand touching the bruise on her temple.
"Tara. Stay down. Help is coming."
"Abel—where's—"
"Safe. He's safe."
She turned her head, saw the baby, and something in her expression shattered with relief. Tears streamed down her face as she crawled toward him, ignoring her own injuries.
Red and blue lights flashed through the kitchen window. Doors slammed. Voices shouted.
"In here!" I called. "Kitchen! We need ambulances!"
---
[Jax's House — April 11, 2009, 12:05 AM]
The paramedics worked fast.
Two teams—one for Half-Sack, one for Cameron. A third checked Tara while a fourth cleared Abel, confirming what I already knew: scared but unharmed. The baby would have no memory of this night. That was the only mercy.
Unser arrived with the first wave of police, his face grim as he surveyed the scene. He found me in the hallway, away from the controlled chaos of the kitchen.
"Tell me."
I told him. The abbreviated version—Cameron's grief over Edmund, his fixation on Abel, the attack, the standoff, the shot. I left out the parts about foreknowledge, about preparing for this exact scenario, about being faster than fate.
"Self-defense," Unser said when I finished. "Clear as day. You've got witnesses, you've got the wounds on Half-Sack and Tara, you've got a man holding a baby at knifepoint." He shook his head. "This won't be a problem legally. Morally... that's between you and whoever you pray to."
"I don't pray."
"Then it's between you and the whiskey." He clapped my shoulder. "You did good tonight, Cole. That kid would be gone if not for you."
Gone. To Ireland, in the original timeline. With Half-Sack dead on this floor.
But not tonight. Not in this story.
---
[Jax's House — April 11, 2009, 12:30 AM]
Jax arrived as the ambulances were loading.
His bike skidded into the driveway, engine cutting mid-motion as he threw himself off and ran toward the house. I intercepted him on the lawn.
"Abel's fine. Tara's fine. Half-Sack's hurt but he's going to make it."
"Where's my son?"
"Inside. With Tara."
He pushed past me, disappeared into the house. I heard Tara's voice, then Jax's—broken sounds that might have been crying, might have been relief, might have been both.
I stayed outside. Some moments weren't meant for witnesses.
---
[St. Thomas Hospital — April 11, 2009, 2:15 AM]
The waiting room smelled like disinfectant and desperation.
Half-Sack was in surgery—the deepest wound had nicked something that needed stitching, but the doctors were confident. "Lucky," they kept saying. "Very lucky."
Lucky. Or prepared. Or both.
Cameron Hayes died on the operating table.
The news came from a tired surgeon around 2 AM. The shoulder wound had been worse than anyone realized—the bullet had fragmented, catching the subclavian artery. They'd tried to repair the damage, but blood loss and shock had been too severe.
"Family?" the surgeon asked.
"No family left." I thought of Edmund, dead in Belfast. Of the IRA politics that had destroyed Cameron's world. "His son died last week."
The surgeon's expression shifted—not sympathy exactly, but something adjacent. Understanding, maybe. The kind that came from seeing too many broken people in too many broken situations.
"I'll note it in the file."
[QUEST COMPLETE: CAMERON THREAT NEUTRALIZED] [+200 XP]
Dead. Cameron Hayes, who was supposed to escape to Ireland with Abel, who was supposed to trigger an entire season of chaos—dead on an operating table in Charming.
One more divergence. One more change to a future that no longer exists.
---
[St. Thomas Hospital — April 11, 2009, 3:00 AM]
Jax found me in the waiting room.
He'd cleaned up somewhere—the blood was gone from his hands, though his eyes still carried the particular wildness of a father who'd almost lost everything. Abel was with Tara in a private room, being monitored for shock.
"They said Cameron's dead."
"Died in surgery. The wound was worse than it looked."
Jax sat down beside me. For a long moment, neither of us spoke. The hospital hummed around us—machines beeping, nurses walking, the ordinary sounds of a place that dealt with death every day.
"You knew," Jax said finally. "You warned me about Cameron. Set up the protection. Put Half-Sack on watch."
"I was worried. Cameron wasn't stable."
"You were more than worried." His eyes found mine. "You were ready. Like you knew exactly what he was going to do."
Careful. He's too smart not to notice the pattern. The preparation that was too specific, the timing that was too perfect.
"I've learned to prepare for the worst. It's the only way to prevent it."
"Most people don't think that far ahead."
"Most people haven't seen what I've seen."
Jax studied me for a long moment. Whatever he was looking for, he seemed to find enough of it.
"You saved my son." His voice cracked. "My family. I won't ever forget that, Cole. Whatever you need, whenever you need it—I'm there."
"You'd do the same for me."
"Would I?" He shook his head. "I'd like to think so. But you actually did it. That counts for something."
He stood, extended his hand. I took it—not a handshake, something closer to a grip between brothers who'd shared something that couldn't be explained.
"Get some rest," I said. "Your son needs you whole."
"So does the club." He didn't let go of my hand. "We're going to rebuild, Cole. Whatever's left of the IRA connection, whatever comes next—we're going to be stronger. And you're going to help me make it happen."
"That's what SAA is for."
"No. That's what brothers are for." He finally released my grip. "I'll see you at church. We've got a lot to talk about."
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