Outlaw MC

by Dwayne Clayden

  “Hey, Mags,” Sergeant Briscoe said. “This is nasty. Let me know how we can help.”

  “Get a couple of your guys to bring us the spine board and stretcher,” Maggie said. “And some more sheets.”

  Maggie slid on surgical gloves. As painful as it would be to the patient, she began her assessment, starting at the head. His hair was singed with minor burns to the scalp and face. Neck and ears—first- and second-degree burns. She breathed through her mouth as she continued her assessment. She carefully squeezed his chest. It felt intact, but his breathing was shallow.

  “Sharma, get him on one-hundred percent oxygen by non-rebreather mask.”

  Maggie returned to her assessment. Hips stable. Blood seeped through the jeans, and both legs were splayed out at unnatural angles. She carefully ran her gloved hands down the legs. The patient screamed as her hands slid below the knees. She ran her hands down his arms. They were deformed.

  “Sharma, both his legs are broken. His arms, too.”

  The cops rolled the stretcher next to Maggie and set the spine board on the ground. Sharma slid the spine board next to the patient and placed a large sheet on it. They rolled the patient onto his side. The high-pitched scream assaulted Maggie’s nerves and she shuddered. The pain must be unbearable, but they had to keep going. She slipped the board and sheet under the patient and rolled him onto his stomach. He cried out again. Cops helped lift the board onto the stretcher. The screams subsided to sobs as they moved into the ambulance.

  “Briscoe, I need one of your guys to drive the ambulance,” Maggie said. “I’m gonna need Sharma in the back.”

  “No problem.” Briscoe called one of the cops. “I need you to drive the ambulance.”

  The cop grinned.

  “Take it easy or I’ll have your balls. Do whatever Maggie says.”

  “Get in front. Don’t start driving until I tell you. You’re not driving a cruiser—you’re driving an ambulance with a critical patient. We need to work while you drive, so take it easy. Start driving now—slowly.” Occasionally, Maggie had cops or firefighters drive, and most of the time she was holding on for dear life. Now she routinely got in their face and told them to take it easy.

  “I’ll start an intravenous and give morphine,” Maggie said. “Can you apply sterile dressings to the burns and splint his limbs.”

  “This was a tattoo.” Sharma said.

  “What?”

  “My guess is they burned it with a blowtorch.”

  “Shit. What’s with the broken legs and arms?”

  “Sending a message.”

  Maggie took a set of vital signs. “His blood pressure is below ninety. I’m opening up the IV and I’ll squeeze in some solution.”

  With each bounce the patient cried out. Sharma administered more morphine, then grabbed the mic. “Dispatch, alert the General Hospital we have a mid-twenties, male patient with multiple fractures, at least twenty-percent third-degree burns to his back and arms, and low blood pressure. Our ETA is five minutes.”

  At the General, another paramedic crew helped roll the stretcher into the trauma room. The trauma team helped slide the patient onto the hospital bed. Maggie gave her report to the emergency physician. The trauma team surrounded the patient, and soon Sharma and Maggie found themselves edged out of the room, their job done.

  Physically and emotionally drained, she shuffled to the coffee room to write her report. She slumped in the chair and stared at the paper, pen hovering. The words didn’t come, but the images did. The darkness, and the red and blue flashing lights. The ghostly faces of the cops. The horror of the burned back, the screams of agony. Arms and legs bent at unnatural angles. That a human could do this to another, that there were men so … evil? That word didn’t cover it. It was disgusting, repulsive.

  Maggie looked up when Briscoe came into the room and sat beside her.

  “Hey, Mags.” He patted her hand.

  Tears filled her eyes. She knew this small gesture was his acknowledgment that this had been a tough call and was his way of saying, “I see you are hurting.” This was as close as Briscoe came to a hug. Maggie knew Briscoe’s nature made this short interaction even more meaningful. She released a big breath and, with teary eyes, smiled back. A silent thank you. Nothing more was said. Then Briscoe was all business.

  “I got a name for you.” He flipped open his notebook. “Weston, Keith Weston. He’s a former member of the Satan’s Soldiers. Guess he found religion, a conscience, or something and wanted out. Soldiers found out he hadn’t removed his tat. So, they did it for him. A couple of cops I know are interested in the biker gangs. I got one of them coming to talk to Weston.”

  “I don’t think Weston’s gonna be talking to anybody for a while,” Maggie said. “He’s in a lot of pain. We doped him up pretty good.”

  “When my guy gets here, I’ll send him in. I’m sure you’ll be able to help him.” Briscoe smiled.

  That’s weird—he never smiles. When Maggie first met Briscoe, he and Brad were partners. As a paramedic student, everything was new. The short, bald cop came across as an angry man. But he was a great cop, and she saw the other side of Briscoe. Not that it was all warm and fuzzy, but he had a soft side for disabled kids—his son had Down’s syndrome.

  A couple of minutes later, the coffee room door opened. Briscoe was back. “Hey, Mags. There’s a cop here to talk to you.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Wednesday Evening

  Lobo sat at Brad’s side, tail swinging wildly, a low growl escaping his throat. Brad gave the command. “Take him. Take him. Take him.”

  Lobo shot across the field. The hooded man looked over his shoulder a few times as Lobo closed in. The man stumbled, and Lobo launched at an arm, sinking his sharp teeth deep. Lobo swung his head while the man struggled to get free.

  Brad caught up to them and said, “Lobo, out.” He kept chewing. “Lobo, out.” More chewing. Finally, Brad grabbed Lobo by the collar and dragged him away.

  Steele sat up, rubbing his arm. “Remind me why I’m doing this for you?”

  “Cuz you volunteered.”

  “That was months ago. Now you drag me out here every week. This is crap. Get a better arm pad. He breaks through every time now.”

  “Come on, the run and wrestle are good for you. Better than weights and running.”

  “Are you saying I don’t have to do the runs anymore?”

  “That’s not what I said.”

  “I liked it better when he tracked me or searched for drugs.”

  “He’s got that nailed. We need to work on protection and attacks. That’s where you come in. Let’s go again.”

  “This is bullshit.”

  “Dry your eyes—then run.”

  As the sun set, Brad and Lobo arrived home. The extra work with Devlin was cutting into both Brad’s workout and Lobo time.

  Brad rubbed the dog’s ears as Lobo leaned into him. “Not getting too old for this, are you, boy? You’re in your prime—not even five. I guess in dog years you’re older than me. You did a lot of running tonight. I’m sorry. Just making up for a few missed workouts.”

  Lobo yawned and headed to his water bowl and drank it dry. Brad refilled the bowl. He stood in front of the fridge, reaching for a beer. He paused and closed the door, then grabbed a glass from the sink and filled it with water. Better choice. He filled the glass twice more. He gave Lobo a quick neck and shoulder massage and headed to the shower.

  After the shower, he read in bed. He was rereading the novel The Choirboys by Joseph Wambaugh. His pager startled him. He glanced at the number and dialed dispatch.

  “Sergeant Coulter. I got a page.”

  “Coulter. I got a call from Sergeant Briscoe. He’s at the General Hospital. A biker’s been beaten and burned. Briscoe said you’d be interested and to get there, post haste. The biker’s in serious condition.”

  “Tell him I’m on my way.”

  Brad parked by the emergency entrance and placed a Police—Of
ficial Business card on the dash.

  Briscoe met him by the triage desk. “Hey, sleepyhead. Jeans and a wrinkled shirt? Nice of you to get dressed up for me.”

  “You wanted me here fast, so fashion wasn’t on my mind. What’s so important you needed me here?”

  “Ex-biker. Broken bones and someone burned off his tattoo. His back and neck don’t look too good. Great source of information, I’m thinking. The paramedics know more than me. Check the coffee room.”

  “I don’t know why you thought this involved me.”

  “That’s because you’re not that bright.” Briscoe held out his hand. “Take my hand and I’ll walk you to the coffee room.”

  Brad slapped Briscoe’s hand away and followed. Brad rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

  Briscoe opened the door and said, “Hey, Mags. There’s a cop here to talk to you.”He pushed Brad into the room and shut in door his face.

  A familiar female voice behind him said, “About time.”

  Brad stopped short, mouth hanging open.

  “Maggie.”

  Maggie looked up from her clipboard. “Brad? Holy crap.”

  Thoughts bounced around Brad’s head. Two years ago, he was in love and then it all fell apart. She was still beautiful. His heart skipped and he was lost in the twinkle of her bright blue eyes. He was flooded with conflicting feelings—excitement, pain, and sadness.

  “It’s been a while,” Brad mumbled.

  “Two years,” Maggie said “You look great. Grab a seat.”

  Brad sat across from Maggie. “I’m here to find out about a biker who got burned and — Are you okay?”

  Her eyes filled with tears. Brad moved to the seat next to her. “Maggie, What’s going on?”

  “Oh my god, between you and Briscoe, I may never wear mascara again. I see a lot of bad stuff in this job. Most days I sluff it off. You know how it is—suck it up or get out. This biker just got to me, that’s all.” She sniffled, blew her nose, then sat straight. “I’m over it. Now you say something.”

  “Briscoe told me the paramedic who treated the biker was here. He didn’t tell me it was you.”

  “Briscoe has a wicked sense of humor. Why does TSU care about a biker?”

  “Long story.”

  “Uh, okay.” Maggie leaned forward. “Have I got a story to tell you. 911 got a call about someone screaming in the Bird Sanctuary. The cops found him and called us. Broken legs and arms, back burnt to a crisp. He’s messed up.”

  “Messed up. Is that a medical term?” Brad grinned.

  “I’m trying to dumb it down—you being a cop.” Maggie smiled.

  “Gee, thanks. Now if you could talk a little slower, I’ll try to follow. Who is he?”

  “Briscoe says Keith Weston.”

  “Can I talk to him?”

  “You can try,” Maggie said. “He’s in serious condition and heavily sedated. He won’t be very chatty.”

  “Where is he? Trauma room?”

  “No, they moved him to a bed down the hall.”

  Brad stood. “Want to come with me when I talk to him?”

  “Why?”

  “He already knows you and might talk to you. You’re not threatening.”

  Maggie stared at Brad. He wasn’t sure what she was thinking.

  “Okay, let’s go.” She stood. “I wouldn’t say you’re a cop, though. This is your chance to pretend you’re a doctor.”

  Brad followed Maggie past stretchers filled with the sick and injured. The General Hospital was always busy.

  Nurses rushed in and out of the cubicles, a portable X-ray machine crossed their path, and a doctor sprinted past.

  Maggie slid the curtain back. A nurse was taking the biker’s vitals. Maggie waved her out into the hallway. “This cop needs to talk to Weston.”

  “He can try,” the nurse said. “We’ve got him on a morphine drip. He might feel the pain, but with the morphine, he won’t care. He’s out of it.”

  “I’ll be quick.” As the nurse left, Brad got his first look at Weston. “Holy —” Brad glanced at Maggie. “I get it.”

  Weston lay on his side, oxygen flowing through tubes against his nostrils, two intravenous lines were running. Weston looked like he was asleep.

  Brad leaned close. “Mr. Weston, I need to know hat happened so we can help you.”

  Weston blinked, then squinted his eyes. “F… fu … fuck you.”

  “Who did this?”

  Silence.

  “Come on, Keith. They messed you up good.”

  Silence. Brad turned to Maggie.

  Maggie moved close to the bed. “Keith, I’m the paramedic that treated you. We need to understand what happened so we can treat your injuries.”

  No answer.

  “Keith, the cops can get the guys who did this,” Maggie said.

  A weak smile formed. “Fucked me over … good. I wanted out. Gonna go clean. Got a kid.” He closed his eyes and took a slow, raspy breath.

  “Wanted out of what?” Maggie asked. “Bikers?”

  “Soldiers. No money … to get rid of tattoo. Warned me. Getting rid of a tattoo … costs a lot. Grabbed me … driveway.”

  “The Satan’s Soldiers grabbed you?” Brad asked.

  Keith closed his eyes so long that Brad thought he’d passed out.

  Then he spoke again. “Soldiers. Four of ’em.”

  “How do you know they were Soldiers?” Brad asked.

  “Colors,” Keith replied.

  “Do you know them?”

  “Masks, hood on me. Tossed me in … a van.”

  “Did you recognize any voices?” Brad asked.

  “No. Pinned me … face down on the ground. Ripped off … shirt. Hit arms … legs … big hammer. Passed out. Woke with awful pain. Fuckers.”

  “When they talked, did you hear any names?”

  “Just voices.” He closed his eyes again. This time, he didn’t open them. The occasional snoring respiration let them know he was still breathing.

  Back in the coffee room, Brad picked up the phone and dialed. “Hi, records. Coulter, 2075. I need a search on a Keith Weston. Male, about twenty-five years of age. Yeah, I’ll hold.”

  Brad tapped a pen on his notepad, watching Maggie as she wrote her report. She caught him staring.

  The quick work of the records clerk saved him. “Uh huh. That’s it? Okay.” He hung up.

  “A badass?”

  “No, the opposite,” Brad said. “A couple of speeding tickets. An assault charge that was dropped. That’s it. A boy scout … for a biker.”

  “Why’d they do this?”

  “Devlin says a biker’s patch—color—is sacred. You leave the club you have to get rid of the tattoo. If you don’t, they will. Burn it off, use acid, peel the skin off.”

  “All because of a stupid tattoo?” Maggie said. “That’s barbaric.”

  “Yup. Welcome back to Calgary. You’ll find there are fewer moose encounter calls and more like this. Although both do involve animals.”

  “The calls are more challenging,” Maggie said. “I got tired of broken bones from the ski hills. That and car crashes. Doesn’t anyone in Alberta know how to drive in the snow? But yeah, I’m glad I’m back.”

  “We are truly sick people,” Brad said. “When the worst happens to someone, we say it’s a good call.”

  “Calls like this make me reconsider my priorities.”

  “That’s true.” Brad stood. “Back to bed for me.” He glanced at his watch. “Gotta be at work in four hours. Nice to see you, Maggie.”

  Brad ran through the darkness. Then a bright flash of light, followed by another. Then two dim red taillights flickered in the night. Air rushed past as he ran faster and faster, the lights moving away. He pushed himself harder, closing in. His breath came in shallow gasps. His heart pounded. Ahead, a constant ringing. The lights disappeared—the car was gone. He stopped. Curtis lay at his feet, bleeding. The ringing grew louder.

  Brad bolted upright, soaked in sweat
. Lobo stared at him, ears up, head tilting to the side, front paws on the bed. The phone rang. Brad threw his legs over the edge of the bed. He pulled the receiver off the cradle and dropped it. He used the cord to fish the receiver back. “Hello.”

  “Brad, it’s Maggie. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You sound out of it,” Maggie said.

  “I was in a deep sleep.”

  “Weston died.”

  He was alert now. “What? He wasn’t that bad, was he?”

  “He was critical but not life-threatening.”

  “How?” Brad rubbed his eyes, trying to concentrate.

  “They think an embolus.”

  “From the broken bones?”

  “Good guess,” Maggie said. “But not likely. He was murdered. The doc thinks it was an air embolus into the intravenous line.”

  “He sure?” Brad asked.

  “Impossible to tell,” Maggie replied. “Maybe the autopsy will show what happened.”

  “Who was with him? Must have been nurses or doctors?”

  “He didn’t need continuous care,” Maggie said. “Four serious patients came in from a crash on Deerfoot Trail. The nurse left him alone for about ten minutes. When his heart rate dropped, the cardiac monitor alarm sounded. They tried for twenty minutes to resuscitate him but couldn’t.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Thursday Night

  Harley Davidsons turned off Twelfth Street into the parking lot of the Shamrock Hotel. Satan’s Soldiers entered the bar through the back door and headed to the banquet room.

  Dale Hehn looked around the room. Maybe, and it was a big maybe, this was a banquet room about a hundred years ago. The once ornate ceiling was peeling and half the light bulbs in a fake chandelier were burnt out. The carpet was pre-World War II. Still, it served its purpose as a meeting room for the Soldiers.

  Hehn joined other club members at the table and grabbed a draft beer.

  Jacques Perrault reached for a beer. “Okay, let’s get started. We’re meeting here cuz we got some news that ain’t good. Mr. Hehn, you want to bring us up to date?”