"Don't go setting fires when there's nothing to burn."
A sick turn of events sees Isla Telford thrown in at the deep end, battling to govern the sudden pressures of all that her father's club decidedly bestow upon her.
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥
Tig Trager x Fem!OC...
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Warnings: gun talk, mentions of murder. Usual SOA shit.
An almost unsettling fog blanketed Charming tonight, amplifying the sinister aura that'd been drifting through the town since Stahl had made her mark.
Since June Stahl had made it her mission—her whole purpose—to destroy the Sons Of Anarchy, and anybody that laid in her path.
She was doing a damn good job of that, too.
Isla wasn't sure what her hasty arrival would mean for the club, but she knew that it wasn't going to end pretty. She was aware that the bitter agent was just as stiff-necked as Clay, and wasn't going down without a fucking fight.
Which, a fight, the Sons could do. It was whether they'd all make it out alive that Isla couldn't predict.
She wouldn't want to put her money on it either, actually.
"Any word on Bobby?"
"No." Gemma's sigh was sad, exhausted. "Rosen swung by just after you left with the she-devil. Said there's a witness in a safe house willing to testify against Bobby and Ope in court. And if he does stick to his word, they're going down for murder."
Choosing to ignore her comment about Tara, Isla continued to pace the room. She held her cell tightly between her pink fingertips, hoping it'd light up and vibrate with a call from Jax, or Tig, or even Happy.
"Shit." She hissed, mindful of the fact that there was a sleeping baby in Wendy's arms and any offensive sounds would rouse him in an instant. "Did Clay tell you what their next move was?"
"Yeah. But I don't think you're gonna like it, sweetheart."
She didn't have to be privy to the plan to know that their next move involved one witness, three men, and a handful of shrapnel bullets.
"Jax know about this?" Almost concerned, Wendy asked. Isla's ears perked up at that, too, because she wanted to know.
The VP was brutal, he was domineering and harsh when he had to be, but he wanted minimal blood shed. He didn't host that same massacre mentality as Tig or Clay, and he definitely didn't desire the sick thrill of gunning down a witness being protected by the fucking ATF.
"I'm assuming that he doesn't." The blonde uttered for Gemma after noticing that she was taking a painfully long time to respond. "Clay sent Happy, Tig, and who else? Juice?"
"Not Juice."
"Did Clay go?" A little bit condescending, like she already knew the answer, Wendy asked. She rocked Abel back and forth as she did so, penetratively glaring at her ex-mother-in-law.
Isla swallowed thickly, stuffing her cell into the back pocket of her jeans when she realized what Gemma was trying to say.
Clay never did his own dirty work—it was always the Sgt. At Arms and whoever else was willing to get the blood on their hands. And her father, the forward-thinking, strong-willed Scotsman, never shied away from a task of this nature.
