The mission went wrong before anyone had time to understand what was happening. It was supposed to be a quick pickup, no complications, no casualties. Instead the streets of Stockton turned into a battlefield, the sound of gunfire echoing off the ruined walls of the old factory.

Chibs had been covering the rear when one of the bullets caught him in the side. He fell hard, gasping for air, his hands immediately slick with blood. Jax and Tig reached him within seconds, dragging him behind a makeshift cover and pressing on the wound to stop the bleeding. The roar of Harleys filled the air as the rest of the crew pulled back under fire.

At the hospital everything was too quiet. The machines beside his bed made a steady rhythmic sound as if reminding everyone he was still alive. Chibs lay there pale, a thick bandage wrapped around his side and arm which still trembled from blood loss. On the bedside table sat a half-empty cup of cold coffee and his leather kutte stained and smelling of smoke lay neatly folded on a chair.

From behind the door came the restless sound of boots pacing back and forth. Jax was unable to sit still walking up and down the corridor. Clay was on the phone calling Gemma his voice low and tense. Tig smoked a cigarette despite the clear no smoking signs earning constant reprimands from the nurses while Tara approached with a stack of papers in her hands her expression tight and tired.