Chapter 19 : First Run
[Cole's Apartment — May 20, 2008, 4:15 AM]
The phone buzzed like a hornet against my nightstand.
I was awake before the second ring—prospect instincts kicking in, the knowledge that calls at this hour meant business. Half-Sack's voice came through, tight with adrenaline.
"TM. Thirty minutes. Don't be late."
The line went dead.
I dressed in the dark, pulling on jeans, boots, the prospect kutte that had become a second skin. The apartment was cold, the pre-dawn air carrying a bite that wouldn't burn off until mid-morning.
My knuckles had healed from the bathroom incident. Small mercy.
The ride to TM took fifteen minutes. The streets were empty, Charming sleeping while its criminals prepared to work.
Four bikes already in the lot when I arrived. Bobby, Chibs, Tig, and a Nomad I didn't recognize. Half-Sack's truck was parked near the garage, engine still ticking.
Bobby waved me over.
"Shipment coming in from Oakland. Needs escort to buyers in Lodi." His voice was low, businesslike. "You and Half-Sack drive the van. We ride protection."
"What's the cargo?"
"Guns." No hesitation, no euphemism. "AKs, handguns, ammunition. Military-grade, IRA source. Don't ask questions you don't want answered."
The IRA connection. I'd known it from the show, but hearing it confirmed felt different. Real.
"What are the rules?"
Bobby counted them off on his fingers. "No stops, no deviations, no heroics. You drive smooth and steady—not too fast, not too slow. If local cops appear, Unser handles it. If feds appear..." He paused. "You run. Leave the bikes behind and you run."
"And if we can't run?"
"Then you don't know anything. The cargo belongs to whoever hired us. You're just a driver who didn't check the back."
"Understood."
Half-Sack appeared at my shoulder, pale but determined. "We doing this?"
"We're doing this."
Chibs tossed me a set of keys. "White van behind the garage. Already loaded. Ye drive, the lad navigates."
I caught the keys. They felt heavier than metal should.
---
[Highway 99, Northbound — 5:30 AM]
The convoy formed up outside Charming limits.
Four bikes—Bobby on point, Chibs and Tig flanking, the Nomad bringing up rear. The white van sat in the middle, anonymous among the early morning traffic.
I drove. Half-Sack rode shotgun with a map spread across his knees, even though we both knew the route by heart.
The cargo behind us didn't make a sound. Packed tight, secured against rattling. Professional work by professional criminals.
"How many runs you done?" Half-Sack asked.
"This is my first."
"Mine too." He laughed, nervous. "Well, first as a driver. I've ridden escort twice."
"Different feeling from the inside?"
"Yeah." He glanced at the rearview mirror, checking the bikes. "When you're on the bike, you're protecting something. In here, you're carrying it. The weight's different."
He wasn't wrong.
The van handled well—not too heavy, responsive enough to maneuver if things went sideways. I kept to the speed limit, watched my mirrors, stayed invisible.
Invisible gets people home. Noticed gets people killed.
The highway stretched ahead, asphalt gray in the predawn light. Other vehicles passed us without a glance. Just another work van, just another early morning commute.
Except for the arsenal in the back.
---
[Highway 99, Charming City Limits — 5:45 AM]
The checkpoint appeared right on schedule.
Unser's patrol car sat across the intersection, lights off, blocking the cross-street. The chief himself stood beside it, coffee cup in hand, looking like any cop catching his morning caffeine.
We rolled past without slowing. Unser didn't wave, didn't acknowledge. Just stood there until we were through, then climbed back in his car and drove the other direction.
The arrangement in action.
Half-Sack let out a breath. "That never stops being weird."
"What?"
"Having a cop on our side. Back in Nevada, cops were the enemy. Here..." He shrugged. "It's like the rules are different."
"The rules are whatever keeps the town running." I checked my mirrors—bikes still in formation, road still clear. "Unser knows what we do. He just also knows what the alternatives are."
"What alternatives?"
"Nords dealing meth to kids. Mayans pushing territory. Cartels moving in." I'd seen it in the show—the later seasons, when SAMCRO's protection evaporated and Charming paid the price. "SAMCRO keeps certain things out. That's worth looking the other way on certain other things."
"That's pretty cynical."
"That's pretty realistic."
He was quiet for a while, watching the road. I let him think.
---
[Lodi Warehouse District — 6:30 AM]
The warehouse was nondescript—corrugated metal, no signage, fence around the perimeter. The kind of place that could be anything from auto repair to light manufacturing.
Or weapons distribution.
I pulled the van through the open gate, parked where Bobby indicated. The bikes formed a perimeter outside, engines idling.
Two men emerged from the warehouse. Hispanic, mid-thirties, dressed in work clothes that didn't quite fit their bearing. They moved like men who knew violence intimately.
Bobby handled the conversation. Handshakes, brief words, the exchange of paperwork that probably meant nothing legally but everything practically.
Half-Sack and I stayed in the van.
"Those are the buyers?"
"Part of them." Bobby had explained during the briefing. "Intermediaries. They'll move the product to the actual end users. We don't know who, don't want to know."
"Plausible deniability."
"Exactly."
The buyers opened the van's rear doors. I watched through the mirrors as they inspected the cargo—crates opened, weapons checked, ammunition counted. Professional, methodical.
Twenty minutes later, money changed hands. Cash, thick stacks, counted and verified. Bobby made it disappear into his saddlebags.
The buyers drove away in a panel truck. The warehouse door closed.
"That's it?" Half-Sack sounded almost disappointed.
"That's it." Bobby appeared at my window. "Clean run. No complications." He handed me a folded stack of bills. "Your cut. Two hundred."
I took the money. It felt different from the wages I earned at TM. Heavier, somehow. Dirtier.
"Thanks."
"Don't thank me. You earned it." Bobby's expression was unreadable. "You drive like you don't want to be noticed. That's good. Noticed gets people killed."
"So I've heard."
He walked back to his bike. The convoy formed up for the return trip.
---
[Cole's Apartment — 8:30 PM]
The bills spread across my kitchen table.
Twenty tens. Two hundred dollars. My first dirty money.
I'd earned more than this in a single day at TM—legitimate work, clean wages. But this felt different. This was blood money. Payment for being part of something that got people killed.
The guns will end up somewhere. In someone's hands. Maybe they'll protect a family. Maybe they'll murder one.
I gathered the bills, folded them, put them in the drawer with my other cash.
The line I'd crossed wasn't visible anymore. It had disappeared behind me somewhere on Highway 99, somewhere between Charming and Lodi, somewhere in the space between who I used to be and who I was becoming.
This is the price. Pay it or walk away.
Walking away wasn't an option. Not with Donna's life on the line. Not with the timeline ticking down.
I made coffee, sat at the window, watched Charming wake up beneath me. Normal people going to normal jobs, living normal lives. Unaware of the guns moving through their town, the violence simmering beneath the surface.
You wanted in. You're in.
The coffee was bitter. I drank it anyway.
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