The warehouse was supposed to be empty—just crates, stolen product, and whatever cash their former ally thought he could hide from SAMCRO. But the second Chibs stepped inside, flashlight cutting through the stale darkness, he felt something in his gut twist. The place stank of oil, damp concrete… and fear. Not fresh, but lingering. Wrong.

“Spread out,” Jax murmured to the group, voice low but firm. Boots scattered across the floor behind him, but Chibs followed the prickle at the back of his neck toward a half-collapsed office at the far end of the building. The door was busted open, hanging crooked on its hinges. He pushed it wider—and froze.

She was there. Tied to a support beam, wrists raw from struggling, clothes dirty and rumpled, head slumped forward like she’d been fighting consciousness for hours—maybe days. Chibs’ breath left him in a harsh exhale. “Jesus…” He moved fast but careful, dropping to a knee beside her. “Lass?” he said gently, reaching out to brush her hair back from her face.