Of course, I help. Both wounded men are unconscious, which is perhaps merciful. We’re trying to be as gentle as we can, but we’re not trained paramedics and have no proper stretcher. Still, moments after the help had appeared, Tempest and Genie areloaded into the bed of the truck. Rattler and Winchester offer to go with them, and on the way, concoct some cock-and-bull story to try to keep the cops at bay. Or, as Saint suggests, just tell them the two brothers got into one, just them involved, no one else injured, and definitely no outsiders attacking the club.
Cops should be happy if they believe we’re trying to kill each other off, two less felons, in their opinion, to deal with.
Saint leaves them with just some final words, pointing his finger toward Rattler, then to Winchester. “One of you stays with them at all times, and when…” he breaks off and swallows hard, then tries to say more confidently, “When they come round, you make sure they’re both telling the same story.”
From the look of them, though, I’d say it would be a miracle if either woke up breathing, let alone speaking.
As the truck drives out of the broken gates and disappears down the roadway, I can see the shudder that racks the VP’s body. Stepping up close, I tell him, “Know you want to go with them. Fuck, the whole club will. But brothers showing up en masse kind of defeats the narrative that two brothers just lost their heads about whatever excuse Rat and Win come up with.”
Saint raises and dips his head, showing he already knows that. He pulls himself together, clearly like me, for the moment shelving the thought we might never see the sergeant-at-arms or our tech guru back at the club again, or at least, not alive. “Best get to our other patients, Bron.”
I’ve never seen my woman in action at the hospital. My only experience was when she’d become my private nurse. But only seconds after we walk into church, where the walking wounded are assembled, I’m in awe at the way she takes control of the unruly mob, some standing, the rest sprawled out on chairs.
Quickly, she tells them to shut up and listen, and her unusually loud voice cuts through all other conversations,making me think she’s spent time in the emergency room, dealing with a roomful of Saturday night drunks.
“Freak, put down that beer until I’ve examined you. You might have a concussion.”
He stands and spins around so fast he drops said bottle, puts his hand to his bleeding head, and flops back down in his chair. Bron nods sagely as though her point has been made.
Then she starts her rounds of the patients sitting in front of her. Piston has taken a bullet to his shoulder, his right arm hanging loose. Words, who’d put on a good show for his mom, now leans heavily with his head on the table, holding a cloth to the bleeding wound on his scalp, which Bronwyn assesses is where a bullet missed his brain by a fraction of an inch.
Then, continuing her triage, she comes to Stalker, who’s bent double, clutching his stomach. Gently placing her hand on his shoulder, she eases him upright.
“No,” she gasps. “Stalker, you need to go to the hospital as well. You’ve taken a gunshot to your stomach.”
“I’m well aware,” he says drily, his words punctuated by shallow breathing, showing the pain he’s in. “Didn’t hit anything vital. Just get the bullet out, stitch me up, and I’ll be fine.”
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. You can’t know that.” She turns to our own medic for backup. “Saint, tell him he needs?—”
“No fuckin’ hospital,” Bullseye, who’d entered church without her noticing, states firmly. “We can’t let the heat start investigating what happened here.”
With her hands on her hips, she retorts, “This is beyond simple nursing. This man might die if he doesn’t get proper medical attention. And Freak and Words should be going in for scans. They’ve obviously got serious head injuries.”
Prez approaches her, looks down to meet her eyes, and says simply, “Every man in this room would give his life for hisbrothers, and that includes doing so to prevent them from being locked up in the pen for life.”
“Too fuckin’ true,” Freak remarks, his sentiment echoed around the room. “Ride free, live free. And fuckin’ die, if necessary to protect the club.”
Bronwyn’s face goes slack. For a moment, I think she’s overwhelmed, as she should be. I mean, fuck, she’s almost qualified, but as a nurse, not a doctor. Even her father would have been out of his depth at the carnage she’s being presented with tonight.
Bullseye knows he’s got her, but goes in for the kill just in case she’s wavering. “Your dad wouldn’t have hesitated.”
Fuck! If I were standing in Prez’s shoes, even I’d be intimidated by the way she spins to face him and actually growls. Then, she turns her attention to Saint. “Get Stalker on the table. I’ll deal with him first. You okay to start stitching up Paint?”
Without waiting for confirmation, she sifts through the contents of the first-aid box, taking out disinfectant and gloves, then, without asking permission, rummages through Saint’s medical bag. She comes up with sutures. Some she passes to the man who actually owns them, laying the rest aside on the table. She fumbles deeper and comes up with a scalpel and forceps.
Saint gives her a twisted grin. “Might have had to remove a bullet or two before myself.”
In response, Bron grunts. “I’ll need plastic sheeting,” she says to no one in particular. “Else your table’s going to be stained with blood. And…” she grits her teeth. “A bottle of rum.”
I doubt she’d like to be told how much like her dad she’s sounding, but it makes my mouth quirk. Not that I’d want to resurrect him, but there’s something definitely sexy about how, after Prez’s lecture, she’s accepted she’s the only lifeline Stalker’s got, and she’s taking charge.
Bullseye disappears, then re-enters the room, carrying the rum and telling her the other requirement is on its way. As he supports Stalker’s head while he drinks eagerly from the bottle, she focuses her eyes on him.
“If I’m going to do this again…” she tells him, pulling on the latex gloves as she speaks. “I’m going to need a fully equipped medical room. No expense spared.” She points her finger toward the prez. “And don’t tell me you can’t afford it. You won’t be paying me the retainer you paid my dad. I won’t be taking your money. I’ll work for free, for the kindness you’ve shown me and Trip.”
“You’re part of the club, darlin’,” Prez answers her. “And as for the medical room, if Doc had suggested it, we’d have complied. Hope we don’t have a need for it, but when you’re done here, you give me a list of what you want, and I’ll fuckin’ deliver it.” He gives a twisted grin. “It’s not as if we won’t have to be doing some rebuilding anyway. Won’t hurt none to add more to that task.”
The plastic sheeting arrives, and we all help Stalker shift onto it. His quieter moans suggest the rum’s kicking in. But still, Bullseye helps him get more down his throat, and then tips the bottle further as Stalker stiffens when Bron starts probing in his wound for the bullet.
