Chapter 22 : Building the Counter
[SAMCRO Clubhouse — June 3, 2008, 9:30 AM]
Juice's fingers flew across the keyboard.
I stood behind him, watching screens flicker with database queries, search results, federal case files that probably weren't supposed to be accessible. The tech guy had skills—skills the club used for logistics and security, but that could serve other purposes.
"You're sure about this?" Juice kept his voice low. Other members filtered through the clubhouse, but nobody was paying attention to us.
"Just checking a theory."
"A theory about ATF agents." He glanced back at me. "That's some heavy shit for a prospect."
"Call it curiosity."
He shrugged and went back to typing. I'd approached him an hour ago with a simple question: Can you check if Stahl's done this before? Juice hadn't asked why. Maybe he sensed something was wrong with the Opie situation. Maybe he just liked having a project.
Either way, he was good at this.
"Okay." He leaned back, pointing at the screen. "Agent June Stahl. ATF since 2001. Rapid advancement, multiple high-profile cases. Specializes in turning informants within criminal organizations."
"What about her record?"
"That's where it gets interesting." He pulled up another window. "Three cases in the last five years where her 'informants' were later proven false. One guy got killed by his own crew before anyone realized he wasn't actually cooperating. Another did two years in witness protection before the truth came out."
My stomach tightened. "Pattern?"
"Looks like it." Juice scrolled through the documents. "She manufactures rats. Creates the appearance of cooperation, gets the target burned by their own people. Sometimes they die, sometimes they just get expelled. Either way, Stahl gets credit for 'flipping' someone and the organization tears itself apart."
Exactly what she's doing to Opie.
"Can you print that?"
"The case files?" He looked uncertain. "This is seriously not public information."
"Just the pattern. Dates, outcomes, the parts that show she's done this before." I kept my voice even. "No sources, nothing that traces back to you."
Juice considered it. Then he nodded. "Give me twenty minutes."
"Thanks, man."
"Don't thank me yet." His fingers resumed their dance across the keyboard. "If anyone asks where you got this, I don't know anything."
"Know anything about what?"
He almost smiled. "Exactly."
---
[The Hairy Dog Bar — June 4, 2008, 8:00 PM]
Unser was on his fourth whiskey when I sat down.
The chief looked worse than usual—grayer, thinner, the cancer eating him from the inside. But his mind was still sharp, and tonight I needed that mind loose.
"Buying again?" He didn't seem surprised.
"Consider it a thank you." I signaled the bartender. "For the hypotheticals."
"Hypotheticals." He snorted. "Those hypotheticals keep me up at night."
"Me too."
We drank in silence for a while. The bar was quiet—mid-week lull, regulars nursing their problems in dim corners. The kind of place where conversations disappeared.
"You know Opie pretty well," I said eventually. "From before."
"Knew him as a kid. Watched him grow up, get into trouble, try to get out." Unser stared into his glass. "Five years in Chino. Did you know he could've gotten less? Prosecutor offered a deal."
"He didn't take it."
"Didn't even consider it. The deal meant naming names—giving up club business. Opie looked the prosecutor in the eye and said no." The chief's voice was heavy. "I was in the courtroom. Watched him choose five years over five words."
That's the man they're calling a rat.
"What do you think about Stahl's play?"
Unser's expression darkened. "I think that woman is ambitious. I think she makes cases and doesn't care how clean they are. I think if she saw an opportunity to crack SAMCRO, she'd manufacture whatever evidence she needed."
"You think Opie's innocent?"
"I've seen that man go to prison to protect this club." Unser set down his glass, met my eyes. "He's not a rat. And anyone who can't see that is either blind or wants him gone for other reasons."
The words hung between us.
"Other reasons?"
"Don't play dumb, Cole. You've been around long enough." He lowered his voice. "Clay's got issues with Opie that have nothing to do with informants. Old grudges, political shit, things that go back to Opie's father. If he's got an excuse to remove Opie—even a fake one—don't think he won't use it."
Clay's own agenda. I hadn't considered that angle.
"Thanks, Chief."
"Don't thank me." He picked up his glass again. "Just do something useful with it."
---
[Teller-Morrow Automotive — June 5, 2008, 11:00 AM]
Bobby was alone in the office, paperwork spread across the desk.
I knocked on the doorframe. He looked up, saw my expression, and gestured me inside.
"Close the door."
I closed it. Pulled out the folder Juice had prepared—printouts, notes, the pattern of Stahl's fake informants. Added Unser's words, paraphrased but accurate.
"What's this?"
"Evidence." I set the folder on his desk. "Stahl's done this before. Three times in five years. She manufactures rats—creates the appearance of cooperation, gets the target burned by their own people. The organizations tear themselves apart while she takes credit."
Bobby opened the folder, started reading. His expression didn't change, but his fingers tightened on the pages.
"Where did you get this?"
"Sources I can't name." I held his gaze. "But the information's solid. You can verify it yourself."
"Sources." He set down the folder. "A prospect with federal intelligence sources. That's interesting."
"I know how it looks. But I've also talked to Unser—off the record. He's known Opie since childhood. Watched him turn down a deal that would've cut his sentence in half. His words: 'That man is not a rat.'"
Bobby was quiet for a long moment.
"You've done a lot of work on this."
"I've done what needed doing." I leaned forward. "Stahl made Opie look guilty to turn us against him. Divide and conquer. If we fall for it, we do her job for her. The club tears itself apart and she doesn't have to lift a finger."
"And if you're wrong?"
"Then I'm wrong and Opie's still a rat." I shook my head. "But I'm not wrong. And neither are you—I saw your face in church. You don't believe Opie flipped any more than I do."
Bobby picked up the folder again, flipped through the pages.
"This is serious."
"So is killing an innocent member."
The words landed hard. Bobby's jaw tightened.
"You know you're sticking your neck out, right? Clay doesn't like people who question his judgment. And you're not even patched—you're a prospect pushing political agendas you have no right to push."
"I know."
"And you're doing it anyway."
"Some things matter more than my neck."
Bobby studied me for a long moment. Whatever he was looking for, he seemed to find it.
"I'll bring this up. But understand—Clay wants Opie gone for his own reasons. This has to be bulletproof."
Nothing's bulletproof.
"It's enough to cause doubt. That's all we need."
"Maybe." He gathered the folder, tucked it under his arm. "Get back to work, prospect. And don't mention this conversation to anyone."
"What conversation?"
He almost smiled. "Exactly."
---
[Cole's Apartment — June 5, 2008, 3:00 PM]
I sat down to rest my eyes for five minutes.
When I opened them, an hour had passed.
The exhaustion was catching up—two days without real sleep, running on coffee and adrenaline. My body was making its complaints known: headache behind my eyes, muscles aching, thoughts moving slower than they should.
I splashed water on my face, stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror.
You look like death.
The prospect kutte hung on the door. PROSPECT across the back, leather soft from wear. Three and a half months since I'd arrived in this world. Three and a half months of working, watching, positioning.
And now the critical moment was approaching.
Bobby had the evidence. If he could convince the others—even just plant enough doubt—Opie might survive. Donna might survive. The cascade of tragedy that destroyed this family might be averted.
Or it might not.
Clay had his own agenda. Tig was itching for violence. The doubt might not be enough. The bullet might still find its target.
You've done everything you can. Now wait.
I grabbed my jacket and headed back to TM.
Waiting was the hardest part.
MORE POWER STONES And REVIEWS== MORE CHAPTERS
To supporting Me in Pateron .
with exclusive access to more chapters (based on tiers more chapters for each tiers) on my Patreon, you get more chapters if you ask for more (in few days), plus new fanfic every week! Your support starting at just $6/month helps me keep crafting the stories you love across epic universes like [ In The Witcher With Avatar Powers,In The Vikings With Deja Vu System,Stranger Things Demogorgon Tamer ...].
By joining, you're not just getting more chapters—you're helping me bring new worlds, twists, and adventures to life. Every pledge makes a huge difference!
👉 Join now at patreon.com/TheFinex5 and start reading today!