Chapter 20 : The Evidence Factory
[Teller-Morrow Automotive — May 25, 2008, 2:30 PM]
The unmarked sedan had been following Opie for three days.
Different drivers, same car. Dark blue Crown Vic, government plates if you knew what to look for. It would park across from TM in the morning, follow Opie's truck when he left, reappear later parked outside his house.
Nobody else seemed to notice. Or if they did, they weren't talking about it.
I noticed.
From my position in the garage—always working, always watching—I tracked the pattern. Shift changes at 8 AM and 4 PM. The morning driver was white, heavyset, bad posture. The afternoon driver was younger, Latino, more alert.
Surveillance. Long-term, professional, funded.
Stahl isn't just building a case. She's building a narrative.
I found Juice in the clubhouse, working on his laptop. The tech guy spent most of his time monitoring police frequencies, tracking club assets, keeping the digital infrastructure running.
"Hey." I dropped into the chair across from him. "Got a question."
"Shoot."
"You ever pick up federal chatter? ATF, FBI, that kind of thing?"
Juice's fingers paused on the keyboard. "Sometimes. Why?"
"Just curious. Seems like there's been a lot of fed activity lately. Those SUVs keep showing up."
"Yeah." He glanced toward the door, lowered his voice. "There's been unusual traffic on the federal bands. Encrypted, mostly—can't crack it without serious hardware. But the volume's up. Way up."
"Focused on anything specific?"
"Hard to say." He pulled up a window on his screen—radio frequencies, timestamps, patterns. "But the chatter spikes whenever certain members move around town. Opie especially."
My stomach tightened. "Opie?"
"Yeah. Every time his truck leaves the lot, there's a burst of activity. Like they're tracking him specifically."
Not just surveillance. Active monitoring. Building a file.
"That's weird," I said, keeping my voice casual. "Why would they focus on Opie?"
"Fresh out of Chino?" Juice shrugged. "Easy target. They probably think he's vulnerable."
More than you know.
"Thanks, man. Just trying to understand how things work around here."
"No problem." He went back to his keyboard. "Let me know if you hear anything useful."
I walked away, mind racing.
---
[The Hairy Dog Bar — May 27, 2008, 7:00 PM]
Unser's usual spot was at the end of the bar, away from the crowds.
The chief looked tired—more tired than usual. The cancer was probably advancing, though nobody talked about it openly. He nursed a whiskey like it was medicine, which maybe it was.
I took the stool next to him. Ordered a beer.
"Chief."
"Cole." He didn't seem surprised. "Prospect buying me a drink?"
"If you're accepting."
He grunted. "What do you want?"
"Information." I kept my voice low. "Word on the street is ATF's planning something big. Something involving one of our guys."
"Word on what street?"
"The one I live on."
Unser took a long pull from his whiskey. His eyes stayed fixed on the bar's back mirror, watching the room without watching.
"You know I can't talk about federal operations."
"I know." I signaled the bartender, ordered him another whiskey. "But hypothetically, if a federal agent wanted to make someone look like an informant—even when they weren't—how would she do it?"
"She?"
"Hypothetically."
The chief was quiet for a while. The bartender delivered his drink. He didn't touch it.
"Hypothetically," he said finally, "an agent who wanted to create a false informant would stage a public release. Bring the target in for questioning, keep them overnight, then let them go with a handshake and a thank-you in front of cameras. Press would be tipped off. Pictures would get taken. The narrative writes itself."
My blood ran cold.
"And if the target's own people saw those pictures?"
"Then the target becomes radioactive. Nobody trusts him. Nobody talks to him. And if he dies in an unfortunate accident..." Unser shrugged. "Nobody asks too many questions."
Donna. The bullet wasn't meant for her—it was meant for Opie. But Tig missed in the dark and shot the wrong car.
"That's a hell of a hypothetical."
"This is a hell of a town." Unser finally picked up his fresh whiskey. "You're smart, Cole. Smarter than most of the guys in that club. Use that brain for something useful."
"Like what?"
"Like keeping people alive who deserve to stay that way."
He drained his drink and walked out.
---
[Teller-Morrow Automotive — May 28, 2008, 3:00 PM]
Bobby was alone in the garage, working on a transmission.
I watched him for a minute from the doorway—steady hands, focused attention. Bobby was the club's conscience, or what passed for one. The voice of reason when things got heated. If anyone would listen to an alternative theory, it was him.
"Got a minute?"
He looked up. "Prospect needs something?"
"Perspective." I walked over, leaned against the workbench. "Something about the Opie situation doesn't smell right."
"What situation?"
"The feds circling him. The surveillance. All of it."
Bobby set down his wrench, gave me his full attention. "And what would a prospect know about federal surveillance?"
"Nothing official. But I've got eyes." I kept my voice even. "What if Stahl isn't trying to flip Opie? What if she's trying to make him look like he already flipped?"
"That's a serious accusation."
"It's a serious situation." I held his gaze. "Think about it. Opie did five years without saying a word. Solid as they come. So why would the feds suddenly think they can turn him? Unless..." I let it hang.
"Unless they're not trying to turn him. They're trying to burn him."
Bobby's expression shifted. Something calculating behind his eyes.
"You've thought about this."
"I watch. I think. That's all I've got as a prospect."
"Yeah." He picked up his wrench, went back to work. "You're smarter than you look, Cole."
"So I keep hearing."
"Don't let it go to your head." He paused. "And don't repeat this conversation to anyone. Not Jax, not Clay, nobody. You understand?"
"I understand."
"Good." His voice softened slightly. "Now get back to work. That bathroom won't clean itself."
I walked away, uncertain whether I'd helped or hurt. But the seed was planted. Another ally questioning the narrative.
Please let it be enough.
---
[Main Street Coffee — May 28, 2008, 5:30 PM]
Sarah noticed immediately.
"You're distracted." She set down her cup. "What's wrong?"
"Work stuff." The lie came easily, which bothered me. "Nothing I can talk about."
"Right." Her voice was carefully neutral. "The stuff you can't talk about."
"It's not—" I stopped, reorganized. "There's someone at work who might be in trouble. I'm trying to help, but I can't explain how I know what I know."
"And this person doesn't know you're helping?"
"They wouldn't believe me if I told them."
Sarah was quiet for a moment. The coffee shop buzzed around us—other customers, the hiss of the espresso machine. Normal life happening while I planned to prevent a murder.
"You know what I like about you, Cole?"
"My charming personality?"
"Your instinct to help." She reached across the table, touched my hand briefly. "Even when it's complicated. Even when you can't explain why."
"Is that a compliment?"
"It's an observation." She pulled her hand back. "Just don't get yourself killed being a hero."
"I'll try."
We finished our coffee. The thirty minutes passed too quickly, like it always did.
At the door, she paused. "Whatever's happening—be careful. I'd hate to see you in my ER."
"I'll be fine."
"You better be."
She walked away. I watched her go, then headed back to TM.
The clock was ticking. Stahl was making her move. And somewhere in the club, Clay was calculating whether Opie needed to die.
How do you save someone from a bullet when you can't explain how you know it's coming?
I didn't have an answer. But I was running out of time to find one.
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