Chapter 21 : The Release
[Charming Police Station — June 2, 2008, 1:45 PM]
The press vans arrived first.
I watched from across the street, sitting on my bike outside the hardware store, pretending to check my phone. Three local news crews, one regional affiliate. More coverage than Charming usually attracted.
Stahl's been busy.
The police station's front doors opened at exactly 2 PM. Uniformed officers emerged first, creating a corridor. Then Stahl, blonde hair catching the sunlight, that practiced smile fixed in place.
And behind her, Opie Winston.
He looked confused. Exhausted. They'd held him overnight on some bullshit charge—disturbing the peace, resisting arrest, something that wouldn't stick but gave them twenty-four hours to work with.
Now they were letting him go. Publicly. Theatrically.
Stahl extended her hand. Opie hesitated—I could see the confusion in his body language, the realization that something was wrong but not what.
She shook his hand anyway. Held it. Smiled directly at the cameras.
"Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Winston."
The words were audible from fifty feet away. The cameras captured everything—Stahl's grateful expression, Opie's bewildered face, the handshake that looked exactly like an agent thanking an informant.
The frame is complete.
Opie pulled his hand back, started walking toward his truck. Stahl watched him go, still smiling.
Then her eyes swept the street.
Found me.
I didn't look away. Didn't react. Just a prospect watching the news, nothing more.
Her smile widened slightly. A predator acknowledging another predator.
Then she turned and went back inside.
---
[Teller-Morrow Automotive — 3:30 PM]
The clubhouse was silent when I arrived.
Members clustered around the TV, watching the news coverage. The same footage, different angles—Stahl shaking Opie's hand, Opie walking away, the narrator speculating about "cooperation with federal authorities."
Nobody spoke.
Tig broke the silence first. "What the hell?"
"It's theater." Jax's voice was tight. "She's making it look like—"
"Like he flipped." Clay's words cut through the room. His face was stone, unreadable. "That's exactly what it looks like."
"He wouldn't." Jax turned to face his stepfather. "Opie did five years without saying a word. He wouldn't break now."
"Maybe he didn't break then because he didn't have leverage. Now he's got a wife, kids. Pressure points."
"That's bullshit." Jax's hands clenched. "You know him."
"I know what I see." Clay gestured at the TV. "Federal agent thanking a club member for cooperation. In front of cameras. That's not subtle—that's a goddamn announcement."
The room divided. I could see it in the body language—those who believed Opie, those who doubted, those who weren't sure. Chibs looked troubled. Bobby caught my eye, remembering our conversation. Tig was already calculating something ugly.
I stood near the wall, invisible, watching.
This is how it starts. The doubt. The poison. By the time Clay orders the hit, half the club will think it's justified.
The TV continued playing the footage. Loop after loop after loop.
---
[TM Parking Lot — 5:15 PM]
Opie's truck pulled in around five.
He'd been driving around for hours—I'd seen his vehicle pass TM twice before finally stopping. Working up the courage to face what was waiting.
The lot went quiet as he stepped out. Members who'd been talking stopped. Mechanics found excuses to look busy. Even the crow-eaters who'd been lounging near the clubhouse disappeared inside.
Opie walked toward the chapel like a man walking toward his execution.
Tig stepped into his path.
"Made it look like what?"
Opie stopped. His massive frame went rigid. "Get out of my way."
"I asked you a question." Tig's voice was dangerous, that unhinged energy crackling beneath the surface. "The news says you've been cooperating. What exactly did you cooperate with?"
"Nothing." Opie's hands balled into fists. "I didn't tell them anything."
"That's not what the cameras showed."
"The cameras showed what Stahl wanted them to show." Opie's voice rose. "She set me up. Held me overnight, then paraded me out in front of the press like I was her pet rat. I didn't do anything."
"Then why'd she thank you?"
"Because she's trying to destroy me!" Opie stepped forward, and for a moment I thought he'd take a swing. Tig didn't back down—if anything, he leaned into it.
Jax appeared from the clubhouse. "Enough." He pushed between them, hand on Opie's chest. "Let's talk in church. All of us."
Opie's jaw worked. The rage was there, boiling just beneath the surface. But he let Jax guide him toward the chapel doors.
The other members followed. Clay last, that calculating expression never wavering.
I stayed outside. Prospects didn't attend church.
But I positioned myself near the window, close enough to hear raised voices even if I couldn't make out words.
---
[TM Garage — 6:30 PM]
The meeting lasted an hour.
I spent it cleaning tools, organizing parts, doing the busy work that made me invisible. But my attention was on the chapel—the muffled arguments, the slammed fists on the table, the silence that stretched between eruptions.
When the doors finally opened, Opie emerged first.
His face was controlled, but I could see the cracks. The barely-contained fury. The devastation of being doubted by his own family.
"I'm not a rat."
The words were directed at no one and everyone. He stood in the doorway, looking at the members who filtered out behind him.
Nobody responded.
Jax tried. "Opie—"
"Don't." Opie held up a hand. "I've said everything I can say. Either you believe me or you don't."
He walked out. Nobody tried to stop him.
I watched his truck pull away, tires spinning on gravel. Watched him disappear down the road, alone.
That's a man with nothing left to lose. That's how people get killed.
Bobby appeared at my shoulder. "You saw the news?"
"Everyone saw the news."
"What do you think?"
I chose my words carefully. "I think Stahl is smart. I think she knows exactly how this club operates. And I think if she wanted to destroy someone without laying a finger on them, this is exactly how she'd do it."
Bobby was quiet for a moment. "You're not wrong."
"Am I right?"
"I don't know." He sighed—bone-deep exhaustion in the sound. "But I'm asking questions. That's more than some people are doing."
"Is it enough?"
"Guess we'll find out."
He walked away.
---
[TM Back Lot — 7:15 PM]
I stepped outside to breathe.
The air was cool, the sun sinking toward the horizon. Normal evening in Charming. Birds singing, cars passing, the world going on as if nothing had changed.
But everything had changed.
The frame job was complete. Opie was marked. And somewhere in Clay's head, the calculation was running—threat assessment, cost-benefit, the cold mathematics of whether a brother needed to die.
In the show, Clay orders the hit. Tig takes it. But he misses in the dark and shoots Donna instead.
I pressed my palms against the chain-link fence, feeling the metal bite into my skin.
How do you stop a bullet that hasn't been fired yet? How do you prevent a death that hasn't been ordered?
I couldn't tell them the truth. Couldn't explain how I knew what was coming. Even Bobby's cautious questions wouldn't be enough to overcome the evidence Stahl had manufactured.
I needed proof. Something concrete. Something that showed the frame job for what it was.
Stahl's smart. She wouldn't leave evidence lying around.
But everyone made mistakes. Even master manipulators.
The sun continued sinking. Somewhere in Charming, Opie was driving alone, his world collapsing around him. Somewhere else, Donna was probably cooking dinner, unaware that her husband had just been marked for death.
And somewhere in a federal office, June Stahl was celebrating another successful operation.
You've got weeks. Maybe days. Find something. Anything.
I walked back inside.
The clubhouse was quiet now, the members dispersed. Half-Sack was restocking the bar. Juice was back at his laptop. The TV still played news, but someone had muted it.
I found a corner, sat down, and started thinking.
There had to be a way. There was always a way.
I just needed to find it before Clay gave the order.
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