GRIFFIN

by Paula Cox

  Julian took comfort in that, and he walked to the back of the store, ignoring the stares, to get a bottle of water.

  ***

  Natasha knew that she should be scared. Griffin didn’t sound very good on the phone, and from the look on Julian’s face as he had walked into the parking lot, she had a feeling that things weren’t very good for anyone at the moment. Luckily, the directions put her at only five minutes away if she really gunned the bike, and she thanked whatever lucky stars were in the sky at that moment that that particular loyal Disciple had chosen to go into that particular store.

  The worst thought that came to mind was that she was going to have to beat the cops and get Griffin out before they arrived and asked too many question. The thought came to her in a completely natural way, as though she had been thinking about that sort of thing her entire life, but for the moment, if it was to save Griffin, she would roll with it.

  Daylight was beginning to fade, which was fine by her. The cover of night would hide her and Griffin a lot better as they drove.

  That was… if he was still alive. Her heart began to sink as she saw the burning house, complete with burning corpses stretched out on the front lawn. She wasn’t so idiotic as to believe that this had been entirely the work of the Los Diablos, why would they burn their own clubhouse?

  Leaping off the bike, she had to stop herself from running into the house immediately, choosing instead to remain calm and walk calmly around the perimeter. Was he trapped inside? Was he one of the burning corpses and she had just been too late? That didn’t seem likely, and it wasn’t until she made it around the back of the house that she saw the still form of Griffin, laying in the dirt a couple of yards away.

  Clearly, he had dragged himself there and had given up, and Natasha pressed two fingers to the side of his neck in a nervous attempt to find any sign of life. His pulse was weak, but it was there, and she nearly cried out in relief when she realized it. Griffin had collapsed on his stomach, and with a little difficulty, Natasha managed to roll him onto his back. His bright blue eyes were open, and as he looked up at her face, a weak smile crept across his lips.

  “I knew you’d get here,” he said. She leaned down and hugged him closely. He smelled like blood and smoke from the fire, but she was so damn happy to see him alive. He was clearly still bleeding, and he shoved his fist into a wound on his chest in an attempt to stop it. Natasha’s stomach turned.

  “That’s it,” she said and worked to move him. “I’m getting you to a hospital.”

  “I can’t,” Griffin groaned. “Damon. Damon can’t know that I’m alive. Zachariah.”

  “Zachariah?”

  Griffin slung an arm around her shoulders, as the two of them struggled to walk back to Natasha’s bike. He nodded at her.

  “Yes, Zachariah, medic. Surgeon for the Disciples.”

  “I don’t think we can trust the Disciples right now,” Natasha replied. “One of them just tried to kill me.”

  Griffin reached out and touched the bloodied vest of the Disciple that Natasha had killed, feeling the stiffness of the blood on the leather. He searched her with worry, only to quickly realize that the blood did not belong to her. After that, he gave an appreciative smile.

  “Me too. Zachariah is different though; he’s neutral, just likes to help.”

  Natasha had a heavy heart about the entire thing, but what else could she do? Griffin knew about this world a lot more than she did, and if he thought Zachariah was trustworthy, he probably was.

  “Okay, but you’re going to have to ride on the back of the bike. You’re too big for me to see if you ride in front of me, and there’s no way I’m letting you drive in your condition.”

  Griffin coughed a little. “Fair enough.”

  She helped him onto the bike and slipped in front of him, his arms wrapping around her waist and pulling her close to him. Natasha’s heart fluttered at the nearness of him, that old familiar longing began to blossom between her legs once more. It wasn’t time though, at least not now, and instead, she just laughed it off.

  “Don’t fall off, okay?”

  Griffin gave a pained chuckle.

  “I’ve been riding bikes for years, and I’ve never fallen off once.”

  Natasha revved the engine and gave a grin in spite of herself.

  “Watch it,” she told him. “There’s a first time for everything.”

  Chapter 28

  Zachariah wasn’t a regular run-of-the-mill Disciple. While he rode with everyone, he absolutely never went on the arms runs, or even the drug runs. That wasn’t his bag, and everyone knew it, but instead of giving him a hard time, everyone respected it. It turned out that being a former Navy combat medic gave him a certain amount of clout. At first, he had kept that under wrap, and he never spoke about it afterwards, but one day, a runner named Flores took a bullet to the knee. It was nasty, and the wound had been inflicted under a shady enough circumstance that they didn’t want to chance things at the hospital. Everyone had been all set to take him to a vet that some guy knew in order to get the bullet out when Zachariah stepped up.

  Apparently, being a Navy combat medic wasn’t something Zachariah felt like bragging about. Griffin had been too young to see this himself, but apparently, a bunch of guys watched while Zachariah fixed up the leg with a no-nonsense sense of professionalism. While there had originally been concerns about Flores losing a leg, he recovered well enough that he managed to make his way up the ranks to become the head of the Vallejo charter of the Disciples.

  Zachariah, in turn, became the Disciples’ unofficial surgeon, and after that, not a single person asked about why he never made a run. Zachariah was far too valuable for something like that.

  It was the reason why Griffin knew he had to get there as soon as possible. Sure, getting patched up was important too, but the idea of Zachariah being compromised filled Griffin with a certain kind of terror. It was bad news if that were the case.

  However, as Natasha and Griffin rode up to Zachariah’ trailer, he could tell that the only motorcycle outside of it belonged to Zachariah himself. Griffin coughed, feeling lightheaded, and nearly tumbled off the motorcycle as Natasha came to a stop. A large, imposing figure stood, framed in the open door of the trailer, and Griffin recognized it as the form of Zachariah.

  He was a large, black man with a shaved head and was clearly dressed to make dinner, which smelled like a rack of ribs smoking in the portable grill, Zachariah’ prized possession. The smell of it made Griffin’s mouth water, but his stomach heaved a little bit. Zachariah’ face had a cruel bent to it. His mouth seemed naturally made for frowning, and a scar carved deep into his left cheek only made the effect worse. He crossed his arms over his chest and looked down at the two of them.

  “What have you gotten yourself into this time, Griffin?” he asked, his voice ripe with a jovial tone that cut through the tension of the situation.

  “He’s been shot,” Natasha said.

  Immediately, Zachariah jumped into action, climbing down the stairs of his trailer and helping Griffin off the bike.

  “How did this happen? A run?” Zachariah asked Natasha. She looked at him, her tongue tied, wondering if she should even tell him what happened. How do you tell someone who doesn’t know that their entire club had imploded? It was a miracle that he had come out unscathed so far.

  “Damon Stokes,” Griffin wheezed, sparing Natasha the need to explain things herself. Zachariah didn’t bat an eye at the news that his president had shot the vice president. Instead, he picked Griffin up over his shoulder, as though saving him from a fire, and moved back to his trailer.

  “We’re going to have to discuss that,” Zachariah said. “But first I’m going to make sure that you don’t die.”

  Natasha stayed still, as Zachariah entered his trailer, afraid to go in and see what was happening. She had been so relieved that she had found Griffin alive that the thought that he might still die had seemed so distant to her. Yet, it was still on th
e table. She stood outside of that trailer with the full understanding that if she entered it, the seriousness of Griffin’s situation would become real, as though she had been the one responsible for his death. If she didn’t enter the room, there was still some sort of hope. It was an incredibly selfish way of thinking, and Natasha knew that, but as she heard a strangled cry come from the inside of the trailer, a cry that could only belong to Griffin, it felt as though her knees were locked in position, as though her feet refused to move of their own volition.

  Don’t be a wuss, Natasha. You killed a man today; you can see a little casual surgery.

  Taking a deep breath, she took one step and then another. It wasn’t going to be nearly as bad as she thought she would. Every step she took up the steps into the trailer made her feel more confident about it. Her hand didn’t shake as she turned the doorknob to enter.

  For a moment, Natasha thought she had walked into a slaughterhouse. That’s how many bloodied paper towels there were scattered across the small space. Zachariah had put Griffin in his own bed, using only a few towels underneath him to soak up what blood there was, leaving the door open so Natasha had a direct view into the room.

  She had walked into the kitchen section, surprised at how spacious the trailer looked on the inside compared to how it was on the outside. It was also homier than she would have expected for a man living alone, complete with coasters and a small shrine to the men he had lost in the Corps. Natasha looked at them for a while, studying the faces of the men who had died for their country, and wondered why Zachariah would turn around and join a biker club after all he had been through. It seemed like too personal a question to ask, so she understood that she would probably never know, but it nagged at her anyway. How did anyone get into this business? Griffin had explained a little bit, but it hadn’t sat well with her.

  Of course she was in the business now, and how did she get into it? She just sort of fell into it, but Natasha also knew she could leave whenever she wanted.

  She heard Griffin let out another cry of pain, and immediately moved into the doorway of the bedroom.

  She stood with her mouth agape as she looked at the mess that had been made out of Griffin’s chest. Although it wasn’t nearly as bad as she had originally thought, it was still shocking to see all the blood. To make matters worse, Zachariah was digging pretty heavily into the space between Griffin’s pectoral muscle and shoulder, sweat beading on his forehead as he worked. Griffin was still awake, balancing a bottle of whiskey on his thigh and occasionally wincing.

  Zachariah looked up and saw Natasha. “Figured you’d be coming in here before this was over. Wash your hands.”

  He nodded to the sink in the kitchen, and Natasha dutifully complied, washing her hands as quickly and thoroughly as possible. She tried to keep her eyes on Zachariah’ gloved hands as they rooted around inside Griffin’s chest, but the visceral realness of it made her feel a little queasy, so she ended up looking away.

  “He’s lucky,” Zachariah told her. “Probably another inch or two and the bullet would have gone into his heart, and then there would have been nothing I could do.”

  “Boy, aren’t I lucky,” Griffin said. His color was already better, and he was able to sit up halfway, as Zachariah worked. Natasha guessed that he had been put on some sort of painkiller, and for that, she was glad. His eyes were a lot clearer as he looked up at her, and the two exchanged a smile.

  “You are lucky, and never forget that,” Zachariah said. “You’re feeling okay?”

  Griffin took stock of the fact that Zachariah’ fingers were still lodged in his own muscle. “About as okay as I can be in this scenario.”

  “Good, now tell me what’s going on.”

  Griffin looked over at Natasha, as though seeking permission, a gesture that impressed Natasha in a way, given the fact that it was just as much his story as it was hers. She gave a slight nod and entered the room, absolutely ready to chime in with any detail that she could.

  “I don’t know how to say this, Owen,” Griffin said. “But I’m not sure if the Disciples are going to last beyond tonight.”

  If this upset Zachariah, he didn’t say anything. Instead, he pulled out the small bullet that had been lodged in Griffin’s chest. All three of them looked at the small piece of metal for a moment before Zachariah put it aside and took the bottle of whiskey from Griffin’s hands.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Well, you heard about the raid we did on the Los Diablos?”

  Zachariah gave a dark sneer. “Yeah, I heard of it; I voted against it.”

  “So did I, and it went straight to hell.”

  “Big surprise there.” Zachariah took a deep swig of the whiskey before he picked up one of the few clean towels still in the room and doused it with the alcohol. “This is going to hurt, I suggest you talk through it. Uh...you.” He turned to Natasha.

  “My name’s Natasha.”

  “That’s great, but can you go get my sewing kit? Should be on the couch behind you.”

  Zachariah’ strident tone would have usually annoyed Natasha, but the man commanded such power with his abilities as a surgeon that she had no plans to fight him on this. Instead, she turned and walked into the small living room area, picking up a small sewing kit and praying that it wasn’t going to be used the way she thought it was going to be used, but knowing that there was really no other alternative at the moment. Griffin screamed in more pain than she had ever heard him thus far, and she motored back to the bedroom as fast as her legs could carry her.

  Zachariah had just finished pouring the whiskey onto Griffin’s wound, looking at him with the best poker face Natasha had ever seen.

  “I told you it was going to hurt… thanks.” He reached for the sewing kit, and Natasha took a seat next to the bed, putting a reassuring hand on his shoulder as he did so. He leaned towards her a little bit for comfort, still wincing as he moved. Zachariah cleaned the wound and opened his sewing kit.

  “Continue.”

  “Damon has gone off the deep end; he was the one who set up Emanuel to get killed, and during the raid, he killed most of my men. I think Julian got away.”

  “He did,” Natasha chimed in. “I saw him.”

  Griffin looked at her as though she said something shocking. “You saw Julian?”

  “That big guy who was watching us at the bar? Yeah.”

  The relief on Griffin’s face was palpable, but Natasha had a fair bit of bad news to give him.

  “Well, Damon has teamed up with the Los Diablos to get rid of anyone still loyal to Emanuel.”

  “It’s more than just that,” Natasha said. “Someone tried to kill me, and he was definitely a member of the Disciples.”

  She shrugged off the leather vest and set it in her lap, a little unwilling to get rid of the symbol of her power, but also knowing that it was easier to show them when it wasn’t on her. As Zachariah began to sew up Griffin, Griffin studied the vest with an unreadable expression.

  “That’s a Disciple’s vest alright. This might go deeper than I think.”

  “And why would they want to kill you?” Zachariah asked, not looking up from his work.

  “Probably because I’m Emanuel Morrison’s only kid.”

  Zachariah paused in his sewing and turned to look at her. “Damn…no wonder you looked familiar. I saw you at the funeral, right?”

  “Yes, before the shooting happened anyway.”

  Zachariah chuckled, as though it were all just a game. “Right. I had my hands full once the asshole started to actually hit people. It’s a dangerous thing, being a part of the Lost Disciples.”

  “That’s what I’m saying, Owen. There aren’t any Disciples anymore.”

  Zachariah fixed Griffin with a hard stare. “That’s where you’re wrong, kid.”

  “How many Disciples might be in Damon’ pocket at this point?”

  “Probably not as many as you think.”

  “Think about it, Griffin,” Na
tasha said. “Do you think that it would have gone over that well if Damon was part of a vast conspiracy to kill off the former president, murder his remaining family, and then kill people who had no idea about what was even happening?”

  “She’s not wrong,” Zachariah said. “It seems like Damon had a few friends on the inside and the rest is a blitz. It’s a cowardly way to do it, but I guess it’s working out for him.”

  “So far,” Griffin grumbled. “But he doesn’t know I’m alive.”

  “That’s an advantage.”

  “Aren’t there four chapters of the Disciples?” Natasha asked. “There’s no way he’s gotten to all of them, and there’s definitely no way that they’re all just going to blindly follow him without a bit of a fight.”