Chapter 27 : Final Preparations
[SAMCRO Chapel — June 27, 2008, 6:15 PM]
The reaper table was full.
Every officer, every full patch, every prospect who might be needed. The chapel felt smaller with so many bodies, the air heavy with tension and anticipation.
Clay stood at the head, map spread before him.
"Listen up." His voice cut through the murmuring. "Tomorrow night, we move the biggest shipment we've handled in five years. IRA source, premium hardware—military-grade weapons that'll set us up for the rest of the year."
He traced the route on the map. Port Oakland to the handoff point outside Lodi. Forty miles of highway, two hours of exposure, a hundred things that could go wrong.
"Main convoy takes Highway 99. Four bikes front, two vans carrying product, two bikes rear." He looked at each man in turn. "Chibs and Cole take rear guard. Your job is simple: watch for tails. If feds appear, you break off and create a distraction. Lead them away from the cargo."
"And if we can't shake them?" Chibs asked.
"Then you disappear. Don't get caught, don't get dead, and don't lead them back to the handoff." Clay's expression was hard. "This operation is bigger than any one person. The cargo is the priority."
Murmurs of agreement around the table.
The briefing continued—rally point, timing, communication protocols. I absorbed the information, but my attention kept drifting to Opie.
He sat across the table, face unreadable. Whatever he was thinking about the run, about Stahl, about the prospect who'd been shadowing him for weeks, he kept it hidden.
After the run. That's when it happens. When everyone's tired, guard down.
I needed to be close. Needed to position myself so that when the trigger moment came, I'd be there to stop it.
---
[SAMCRO Clubhouse — 7:30 PM]
The briefing ended, but nobody left.
Pre-operation tradition: gathering, drinking, bonding before action. The clubhouse filled with voices and laughter, tension bleeding off in familiar ways.
I found Jax near the bar.
"Got a minute?"
He turned, beer in hand. "What's up?"
"After the run—I want to ride with Opie if he's heading home."
Jax's eyes narrowed slightly. "Why?"
"Because Stahl's not done with him. The frame job failed, but she's still circling." I kept my voice low, pitched for privacy. "The night after a big run, everyone's tired, guard down. If she's planning something—surveillance, ambush, whatever—that's when it happens."
"You think she'd try something violent?"
I know she would. Not directly—she'd let others do the dirty work. But the chaos she creates leads to death.
"I think she wants Opie burned. Whether that's by the club or by something else, she doesn't care."
Jax studied me. The calculating look of a man who'd learned to read people in a world where misreading cost lives.
"You've been watching him for weeks."
"Yes."
"Bobby told me about the research you did. The counter-evidence that helped clear Opie in church."
"Yes."
"Why?" The question carried the same weight it had when Opie asked it. "You barely know him. You're a prospect. Why invest this much?"
Because I watched his life fall apart on a screen. Because I heard him spiral into darkness after Donna died. Because if I can save her, maybe I can save him too.
"Because it's the right thing to do."
The answer was simple. Maybe too simple for the world Jax lived in, where everything had angles and everyone had agendas.
But something in his expression shifted. Not suspicion exactly. More like recognition.
"Alright." He nodded once. "After the run, you ride with Opie. Stay sharp."
"I will."
He raised his beer. I raised mine. We drank to whatever was coming.
---
[Cole's Apartment — 10:30 PM]
Sarah's voice on the phone was soft.
"Big operation tomorrow?"
"Yeah."
"You can't tell me details."
"No."
She was quiet for a moment. The silence wasn't accusatory—just accepting. The reality of who I was, what I did, the secrets I couldn't share.
"Be careful."
Two words. Simple, sincere, carrying more weight than anything elaborate could have.
"I'll try."
"I mean it, Cole." Her voice tightened slightly. "I've seen what happens when club business goes wrong. The bodies that come into my ER. The wives who have to identify them."
Donna. She'd be one of those bodies, in another timeline.
"I know."
"Do you?" She took a breath. "I'm not asking you to quit. I know that's not realistic. But I'm asking you to come back. Whatever happens tomorrow, come back."
"I will."
"Promise?"
I can't promise that. I can't promise anything in a life this uncertain.
"I promise I'll do everything I can."
It wasn't enough. We both knew it. But it was honest.
"Okay." Her voice steadied. "Call me when it's over."
"I will."
"Goodnight, Cole."
"Goodnight, Sarah."
The line went dead. I sat in darkness, phone in hand, processing.
Tomorrow was the run. After that, whatever was coming.
And then—maybe—a future worth fighting for.
---
[Cole's Apartment — 11:45 PM]
The pistol came apart in familiar pieces.
Slide, barrel, recoil spring, frame. I cleaned each component methodically, muscle memory taking over while my mind wandered.
Four months in this world. Four months of positioning, preparing, building toward this moment.
You've changed things already. Opie wasn't cleared in the original timeline—at least, not before the damage was done. The club's unified against Stahl instead of fractured by suspicion.
But the underlying dynamics are still in play. Clay still has his grudges. Tig still follows orders. And somewhere out there, the chain of events that kills Donna is still possible.
I reassembled the pistol. Racked the slide, chambered a round, clicked the safety on.
The weight was familiar now. A tool, like any other.
I set the alarm for 4 AM. Tomorrow would be long—the run itself, the handoff, the return. And then the crucial hours after, when tired men made mistakes and predators struck.
Be where you need to be. Stop what needs stopping.
The plan was simple. The execution would be anything but.
I lay down. Closed my eyes.
Sleep came uneasy, haunted by fragments of a story I'd watched from the comfort of another world. A dark road. The wrong truck. A woman's scream that I'd only imagined but felt like memory.
Donna Winston.
Wife. Mother. Innocent bystander.
Tomorrow, I'd find out if I could save her.
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