Chapter 25 : Stahl's Escalation
[Teller-Morrow Automotive — June 18, 2008, 10:15 AM]
The black sedan rolled in alone.
No convoy this time. No backup agents in matching suits. Just one car, one woman, and the kind of confidence that came from knowing exactly how much damage she could do.
Stahl stepped out, blonde hair catching the morning light, and walked toward the office like she owned the place.
I was under a pickup, changing oil, invisible to anyone not looking. But I was looking. I tracked her movement across the lot, noted the way Gemma emerged from the office to intercept her, saw the predator's smile that didn't reach Stahl's eyes.
They spoke at the office door. Too far to hear words, but I could read body language. Gemma: hostile, defensive, arms crossed. Stahl: calm, measured, delivering something that made Gemma's posture go rigid.
Then they went inside. Together. Door closing behind them.
What's she playing now?
I finished the oil change on autopilot, attention fixed on the office windows. Shadows moved behind the glass. Ten minutes. Fifteen. The conversation was long—too long for a simple federal visit.
When Stahl emerged, she was alone.
She walked back to her car with that same unhurried confidence. But this time, her eyes swept the lot. Found me near the garage bay.
Held.
For three long seconds, we stared at each other. Her expression was unreadable—but calculating. Filing me away for future reference.
Then she smiled, got in her car, and drove away.
---
[TM Office — 10:45 AM]
Gemma's face was white.
I saw her through the window—standing frozen, hands gripping the edge of her desk, staring at nothing. The kind of stillness that came before an explosion.
Clay arrived within minutes. Someone must have called him. He went into the office, closed the door, and then the shouting started.
I couldn't make out words, but I didn't need to. The rage in Clay's voice was clear enough. Gemma's responses—sharp, furious, terrified underneath.
Jax arrived next. More voices joining the chaos behind that door.
"What's happening?" Half-Sack appeared at my shoulder, face worried.
"Stahl visited. Whatever she said, it wasn't good."
"How bad?"
The office door slammed open. Clay emerged, face like thunder. He was on his phone before he reached his bike, already calling members in for church.
"That bad."
---
[SAMCRO Clubhouse — 12:30 PM]
Emergency church lasted an hour.
I stood outside with the other prospects, listening to the storm behind the chapel doors. Raised voices, fists on tables, the particular fury of men who'd just been threatened in ways they couldn't counter with violence.
Chibs emerged first, looking for cigarettes. His hands weren't quite steady.
"What happened?"
He lit up, took a long drag. "That fed bitch threatened the baby."
My blood went cold. "Abel?"
"Hospital records. Birth complications. Said she could make things difficult for the family—insurance problems, custody questions, whatever pressure she could manufacture." Chibs's voice was tight with controlled rage. "Threatened a child. An infant."
She's getting desperate. The frame job failed, so she's going nuclear.
"What's the club going to do?"
"What can we do? She's a federal agent." He spat on the concrete. "But she made a mistake. Before, she was a problem. Now she's an enemy. The whole club's unified against her—even members who were wavering on Opie are solid now."
Silver lining.
The chapel doors opened. Members filed out, faces grim but determined. The kind of unity that came from having a common enemy.
Clay stopped near the door, surveyed the lot. His eyes found mine.
"You." He pointed. "Hear what happened?"
"Parts of it."
"Stahl threatened my grandchild." The words were flat, dangerous. "Remember that. Remember what kind of person we're dealing with."
"I will."
He walked away without another word.
---
[TM Back Lot — 3:00 PM]
Piney found me behind the garage.
The old man moved slowly—cancer eating him from inside, every step an effort—but his eyes were sharp as ever. He carried two glasses and a bottle of whiskey.
"Sit."
I sat. He poured.
"Hell of a day," he said, settling onto an overturned crate beside me.
"Stahl crossed a line."
"She did." Piney raised his glass, knocked it back. "Question is what you're thinking about it."
"Me specifically?"
"You specifically." His eyes fixed on mine. "You've been busy, Cole. Pushing Bobby's research, warning Jax about the frame job, hovering around Opie like a guardian angel." He refilled his glass. "Now Stahl's making herself the enemy of everyone in this club. Convenient timing."
He knows. Or suspects enough.
"I notice things."
"You do. More than you should, for a prospect who's been around four months." He took another drink. "I told you before—you're playing a long game. I'm starting to wonder what the game is."
"I want to protect this family."
"From what?"
From a bullet that hasn't been fired. From a death that hasn't happened. From a future you'd never believe.
"From the people trying to destroy it."
Piney studied me for a long moment. Whatever he was looking for, he didn't seem to find suspicion.
"Enemies that stupid," he said finally, "you let them keep making mistakes."
"And if they get smart?"
He smiled—a rare expression, made strange by his weathered face.
"Then you hope you got smart people on your side."
He poured me another whiskey. We drank in silence.
After a while, he stood to leave. Paused.
"Keep doing what you're doing, Cole. Whatever that is." He limped toward the clubhouse. "Just don't let the wrong people figure out what it is."
---
[Cole's Apartment — 11:30 PM]
The day replayed in my head as I lay in darkness.
Stahl's overreach. Threatening Abel. The way it had unified the club against her, transformed her from nuisance to enemy.
She's desperate. The frame job failed, so she's escalating. Pressure points, emotional manipulation.
But desperation made people dangerous. And Stahl had proven she was willing to do anything to break SAMCRO.
I thought about her eyes meeting mine across the lot. The measuring look. The smile.
She noticed me. Filed me away.
That was both good and bad. Good because awareness of me might make her cautious. Bad because attention from federal agents was never a good thing.
My phone buzzed. Sarah.
You awake?
I typed back: Unfortunately.
Bad day?
You could say that.
A pause. Then: Saturday still on?
Our next coffee date. A piece of normalcy in a life that was anything but.
Wouldn't miss it.
Good. Sleep if you can.
I'll try.
I set the phone down. Stared at the ceiling.
Stahl was making enemies. The club was unified. Opie was still alive, still free, still with his family.
But something in my gut said it wasn't over. The woman who'd threatened an infant wouldn't stop at one failure.
She'd try again. Different approach, different pressure point.
And I'd be watching when she did.
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