Jax didn’t want the dirty money anymore, meaning no guns and no drugs. Casacasa and Diosa was a good source of a money. Trashy, but not dirty. Jax’s words exactly.

There was a lockdown, containing members of family and other people within affiliations with SAMCRO. The reason being that there was a very important vote to be made at the table with the Irish that would switch trading guns to the One-Niners.

He made sure you were safe while in lockdown, asking several times if you had needed anything or wanted anything before his time in the room where club members discussed various topics.

Walking out of the conference room in the clubhouse with Chibs, Jax entered the main room of the bar, seeing people conversing and enjoying themselves as much as they could in the stressful moments before the vote at 8.

“Hey, Chucky!” Jax called out, waiting for the man with prosthetic hands to come out as a green pen with shamrocks caught the attention of his blue eyes, holding it up. “You know where this pen came from?”

“What delivery guy?” The blonde asks, a small furrow in his brow that marked confusion as Chucky had mentioned something about a delivery man came by to drop off the keg of beer.

“Eight O’clock,” Chibs muttered, looking at Jax with realization as he stepped back.

The phone call would set off the explosive inside of the keg in 2 minutes time, bursting the place and killing everyone in it. It was the Irish’s design.

“Full table for the vote— everyone out!” Jax yelled, his voice commanding and authoritative. It was clear there was urgency in his voice, ushering people out with the help of his fellow members.

He quickly took you by the arm, yanking you to his side as he dragged your body through the confusion and chaos, only to miss the explosion by a mere few seconds.

He held you as he and his members watched the club burn down, blue eyes wide, reflecting the bright flames that engulfed and annihilated the building with a wavering breath.