Chapter 12 : Tightening Screws
[Teller-Morrow Automotive — April 5, 2008, 2:00 PM]
Bobby found me during lunch.
"Chapel. Now."
Not a request. I set down my sandwich, followed him across the lot.
The chapel was empty except for the two of us. Bobby gestured at a chair. I sat. He remained standing, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
"How much do you know about background checks?"
"Enough to know I passed mine when Gemma hired me."
"That was civilian shit. Looking for warrants, employment history." He pulled out a folder, dropped it on the table. "This is something else."
The folder was thick. My name on the tab.
"With the feds sniffing around, we're vetting everyone. Deep vetting. Military records, financial history, known associates, digital footprint." Bobby opened the folder. "Juice ran your name through everything he could access."
My stomach tightened. The system had created Cole Ashford's identity, but how deep did the fabrication go?
"And?"
"And you're clean." Bobby's tone suggested this surprised him. "Army service checks out. Honorable discharge. Nothing in the system beyond a speeding ticket in 2005." He closed the folder. "Which makes me curious."
"About what?"
"About why a decorated veteran with no criminal record ends up drifting into Charming, taking a mechanic job, and working his way into club business in under two months."
Because I'm from another world and I'm trying to save your family from destroying itself.
"I told you. Looking for somewhere to belong."
"That's what you told Gemma. I'm asking for the real answer."
I held his gaze. Bobby Munson was smart—smarter than most gave him credit for. The Elvis act hid a sharp mind and sharper instincts.
"My life fell apart," I said. Partial truth, wrapped in misdirection. "Marriage ended. Career ended. Woke up one day and realized I didn't have anything worth keeping. So I left. Rode until I found somewhere that felt different."
"And Charming felt different?"
"Charming felt like people gave a damn about each other. Even the criminals."
Bobby's expression flickered. Something like approval, maybe.
"Most people run from this life. Find out what we do and can't get out fast enough."
"Most people never had nothing."
He studied me for a long moment. Then he gathered the folder, tucked it under his arm.
"You're clean. Don't make me look stupid."
"I won't."
He walked out.
I sat alone in the chapel, staring at the carved reaper on the wall. The system had held. But how many more tests would there be?
---
[TM Garage — April 7, 2008, 3:30 PM]
"You're the new guy, right? Cole?"
I looked up from the engine I was rebuilding. A young Latino man stood there—mid-twenties, nervous energy, mohawk that didn't quite suit his face.
Juan Carlos Ortiz. Juice.
"That's me."
"I'm Juice." He offered a hand. I shook it, wiped the grease on my jeans. "I did your background check."
"Bobby mentioned."
"Yeah." He shifted his weight, uncomfortable. "Listen, nothing personal. We're doing everyone right now. The feds have people freaked out."
"No offense taken."
He relaxed slightly. "Cool. Cool. Some guys get weird about it, you know? Like I'm spying on them or something."
"You kind of are."
He laughed—surprised, genuine. "Yeah, I guess. But it's not like I enjoy it. Half this stuff is boring as hell. Tax records, utility bills." He leaned against the workbench. "Your stuff was actually interesting. Military service, traveling around. Makes sense why you ended up here."
"Does it?"
"Sure. Veterans, they need structure. Purpose. The club gives that." He paused. "At least, that's what the psychology profiles say."
"You read psychology profiles?"
"I read everything." A hint of pride crept into his voice. "That's my thing. Information. If it's digital, I can find it."
I know. And someday that skill's going to get you killed.
Juice's downfall started with leverage. Someone—Stahl, then others—discovering the secret he was hiding. His father's race. The fear of being cast out. He'd make increasingly desperate choices trying to protect himself, until those choices destroyed him.
Looking at him now, I saw a kid who wanted to belong. Who'd do anything to keep his place in the family.
Maybe I can help him before it gets that bad.
"Must be useful," I said. "Having that kind of access."
"It's something." He pushed off the workbench. "Anyway, just wanted to introduce myself. Say no hard feelings about the check."
"None here."
"Cool." He started walking away, paused. "Hey, you play video games?"
"Not really."
"Too bad. Gets boring around here sometimes." He shrugged. "See you around, Cole."
He disappeared toward the clubhouse.
[RELATIONSHIP UPDATE: JUICE ORTIZ — FRIENDLY (28)]
I filed the interaction away. Juice would need friends. Real friends, not people who saw his vulnerabilities as leverage.
Add it to the list.
---
[Highway 99 — April 10, 2008, 11:30 PM]
The road was empty.
I'd left TM after the late shift, told Half-Sack I needed to clear my head. He'd understood—the pressure was getting to everyone. The ATF presence, the extra scrutiny, the feeling that every move was being watched.
The Softail ate up the miles. No destination, just movement.
Two months in this world. Hang-around status. Relationships building. The timeline approaching like a freight train.
Donna has five months. Maybe six.
The thought sat heavy in my chest.
I could see the whole pattern now. Stahl would frame Opie. Clay would believe the frame. Tig would pull the trigger. And a woman who'd never done anything wrong would die in a spray of glass and blood because men made decisions based on lies.
How do I stop it?
The obvious answer was to warn someone. But warn them of what? A frame job that hadn't happened yet? An assassination order that wouldn't be given for months?
They'd think I was crazy. Or compromised.
The other option was to change the circumstances. Make sure Stahl's frame didn't stick. Make sure Clay didn't believe it. Make sure Opie was somewhere else when the hit happened.
Lots of variables. Lots of ways to fail.
I pulled off at a rest stop, killed the engine. The silence was absolute. Stars overhead, clear and cold.
My palm still ached where the stitches pulled. Sarah had done good work.
Ask again sometime.
Another thread to follow. Another person to protect, in their own way.
The system pulsed at the edge of my vision.
[HOST STATUS CHECK]
Level: 3
EXP: 275/1,500
STR: 10 | END: 10 | AGI: 10
PER: 10 | CHA: 10 | CUN: 10
Unspent Points: 21
Twenty-one points, sitting unused. I'd been hoarding them, waiting for a situation that demanded specific capability.
Maybe it's time to decide what kind of man I need to be.
I dismissed the display. The decision could wait another night.
The ride back to Charming took an hour. The town was quiet when I arrived, streetlights casting pools of yellow on empty sidewalks.
I parked behind TM, planning to check on something I'd noticed earlier.
Opie's truck was in the lot.
He sat in the driver's seat, engine off, staring at nothing. Even from thirty feet away, I could see the exhaustion carved into his face. Dark circles. Hollowed cheeks. A man carrying weight that was breaking him.
Something's wrong at home.
Donna and the kids, probably. Reintegrating after five years in Chino wasn't easy. The distance, the distrust, the gulf that grew when half a decade separated you from your family.
I could walk away. Mind my own business. Let Opie handle his problems.
But Opie's problems would become everyone's problems soon enough. His isolation made him vulnerable. His vulnerability made him a target. And when Stahl needed a patsy, she'd find the perfect candidate in a man already on the edge.
Build the relationship now. Before it's too late.
I walked toward the truck.
Opie's eyes tracked me through the windshield. He didn't move.
"Mind if I sit?"
A long pause. Then he reached over, unlocked the passenger door.
I climbed in. The cab smelled like cigarettes and something else—whiskey, maybe.
We sat in silence for a while. Two men in the dark, watching the lot.
"Hell of a week," I said finally.
"Yeah."
"Feds make everyone jumpy."
"They should." Opie's voice was rough, unused. "Feds don't show up unless they've got something. Or think they can make something."
"You worried?"
He turned to look at me. In the dim light, his eyes were flat, unreadable.
"Why do you care?"
Because in six months someone's going to convince Clay you're a rat, and your wife's going to pay the price.
"Because we're family now. Or close to it."
"We're not family. You're a hang-around who's been here two months."
"Fair enough." I didn't push. "Then consider it professional interest. You're a full patch. I want to be one someday. That means your problems become my problems."
Opie stared at me for a long moment. Then he laughed—short, bitter, humorless.
"You want to know my problems? Fine." He turned back to the windshield. "I did five years for this club. Kept my mouth shut, did my time, protected my brothers. And when I got out, everything I left behind was gone."
"Donna and the kids?"
"They're still there. But they're not..." He trailed off. "She looks at me different now. Like she's waiting for me to disappear again."
"Give it time."
"Time." He spat the word. "Everyone says that. Give it time, things will settle. But time just makes the distance bigger."
I had no answer for that. The truth was, he was right. The distance would grow. And in the end, it would be death that closed the gap—just not the way anyone expected.
"I'm not going to pretend I understand," I said. "But if you need someone to watch your back, I'm here."
Opie didn't respond.
I opened the door, stepped out into the night.
"Cole."
I paused.
"Why'd you come to Charming? Really?"
The same question Half-Sack had asked. The question everyone kept asking.
"Looking for a family worth fighting for."
He held my gaze for a long moment.
Then he started the truck and drove away.
I stood alone in the parking lot, watching his taillights fade.
One conversation. One small connection.
It wouldn't be enough. But it was a start.
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