by Cathryn Cade
Manda pressed her hands to her mouth. What was he doing? Tim was like a cornered rat, frightened enough to bite anyone, no matter how big
"I'm the one with the gun," Tim said, his voice quavering as he slid along the wall to the door. "You tell all your guys to stand back, or I'll shoot."
A tall shape hit him from the side, whirling him to slam into the warehouse wall. Tim let out a muffled squeal as the gun was twisted from his grasp.
"Guess this little fucker won't be shooting anyone anytime soon," Pete Vanko said with grim satisfaction. He hauled Tim away from the wall and forced him into the middle of the floor. He shook Tim, hard. "You don't aim a weapon at a Flyer, especially Stick Vanko."
Tim's gaze darted about. He found Manda, and his face contorted like a little boy's. "You stupid—what did you do? You told them we'd be here, didn't you? This is all your fault."
Manda shook her head in utter disgust. "I don't know why you thought I'd ever help you, after you abandoned me to Rezan and him." She jerked her chin at Jere, who sprawled awkwardly on the floor where he'd fallen, unconscious.
Tim puffed his chest out, as if even beaten, he couldn't resist the chance to show off in front of these men who were so much stronger, more dangerous than he would ever be.
"I didn't abandon you, dummy. Me and Rezan planned the whole thing. You were just the first."
Manda cocked her hip and set a hand on it. "So you said. Well, the Flyers planned this trap for you guys, with my help. So, who's laughing now, Tim?"
"Preach on," one of the Flyers muttered.
Manda looked at Tim, helpless in the Flyer's grasp, and she lost it. Darting to him, she slapped his face, as hard as she could. When he cursed her, she drew back her foot and kicked him, right in the crotch. With a strangled moan, he collapsed forward, curling into himself on the filthy floor.
"There," she panted, standing over him. "That's what I think of you, and all your stupid, filthy plans. I might not be the smartest person around, but at least I'm not a loser junkie like you."
Tim's only answer was a moan.
"You want to go again?" Stick Vanko asked her dryly. "Or are you done?"
"He's all yours," she said, something bright and fierce blooming inside her—justice. "Do whatever you want with him."
"No," Tim whimpered, craning his neck to peer up at her through his dirty hair. "Manda—baby, don't let 'em hurt me."
She stepped back, her lip curling in disgust at the wreck of the man she'd thought worthy of her loyalty.
"I was never your baby. I thought I was your girlfriend, but we both know how much I meant to you—just a way to pay your debts. So now, Tim? You mean nothing to me.'
'These men rescued me, they've looked out for me, and they—they cared about me when no one else did. So you? They can do whatever they want with you, and Rezan and Jere."
"Well," rumbled T from behind her. "Glad I didn't miss that righteous speech."
Manda whirled to see him smiling at her with a look of savage satisfaction she wouldn't have believed on his usually good-natured face, not if she wasn't seeing it for herself.
"Sure you don't wanna kick him one more time, for old times sake, honey girl?" he asked.
Unaccountably, she smiled back at him. It was a small, crooked effort, but just looking at him made her feel better, stronger. "No, I'm done with him."
"Good, then get yourself back and down, while we get Faro. Then you can kick him too."
"Ain't gonna do nothing with me, 'cause you ain't caught me, bitches," Rezan called mockingly.
They all looked up to see him balancing on one of the cargo containers near the open door. He leapt down, balancing on the balls of his feet, and backed toward the door, a gun in his hand. "And maybe I'll take her with me."
"Oh, no, you don't, Faro." A huge, menacing figure in the lights, T stepped between Manda and Rezan.
Manda watched in horror as Rezan sneered and raised his pistol. "No!" she screamed. "T-Bear!"
She threw herself at T, landing full against his chest and knocking him back a step as he instinctively grabbed for her. The pistol barked, and something struck Manda in the shoulder, sending her jolting against T, who grunted and staggered back another step.
Then a series of quiet pops sounded in quick succession. Rezan screamed, a choked sound.
Manda hardly noticed, staring at her hand on T's shirt. It was wet with blood.
"T! You're hit. He's hit—help him, somebody help him!"
Flyers crowded around them, reaching to support T as he staggered, his massive body sagging sideways and back.
He looked puzzled, his mouth sagging open. "Fuck, think he got me."
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
* * *
"Put pressure on that, and get him outside," Pete ordered. "I'll get my truck. We can't set him down in here, this place is a shit-hole of bacteria."
It took three of them, but T's brothers bore him away.
Manda ran after them, intent only on going where he went. For once in her life, she managed to out-maneuver every man around her, scrambling into the back seat of the pickup, and beckoning to them to lay T's head in her lap.
He was pale and sweating, his eyes wild. "Fuck—hurts," he groaned. "Manda—should'n' be here. Gotta get... y' safe."
Then he squeezed his eyes shut and quit talking as Knife scrambled in after him and crouched beside him, holding a bunch of cloth that looked like someone's tee to the bullet wound.
"You're gonna be fine, big guy," the silver-haired biker called to T as the truck roared to life and jolted into motion. "Gonna get you back to the club, give you some good shit, get you taken care of."
When T didn't answer, Manda took her hand from T's head to grab Knife's arm. "Is he okay? Will he be okay?"
"Yeah, if you let go my arm, and let me do my job," Knife snarled. "You wanna pet his hair, okay, but back off."
"Knife, how bad?" Rocker demanded, leaning over the back of the front seat.
"He's stable," Knife repeated. "No exit wound, which means I'm gonna have to dig out the slug, but it's high so probably went through without hitting any bone. I'm guessin' the slug's sittin' subcutaneous, rear area of his shoulder. The size of Faro's pistol, he wasn't usin' cop killers, so I ain't expecting to see internal damage too bad. You put a little speed on, that'd be good."
"I'm not takin' a chance on gettin' stopped by the cops," Pete snapped from the driver's seat.
Afterward, Manda remembered the ride as if in a dream. Riding through the night with T's head in her lap, an occasional groan issuing from his lips the only sign he was still conscious.
Lights flashed past outside, the echo of other vehicles, an occasional horn, and once the heart-stopping wail of a siren. It faded in the night, and everyone except T breathed a sigh of relief. The men's voices echoed around her, increasingly jumbling together.
She was cold, so cold. She could feel the heat radiating off T's head and shoulders, but for once even he could not warm her. Her teeth chattered for a while. Then she grew sleepy, and let her head fall back on the seat.
The truck skidded to a stop. "All right, hold on," Pete called. "Goin' for a stretcher."
Manda sat up with a gasp. The lights of the clubhouse veered dizzily before her.
"C'mon, woman, out!" Rocker barked at her side. "Let us in there to get him."
Hard hands lifted her out, set her on her feet. Manda wavered for a moment, and then gave up the effort, and let the dizziness take her.
She fell into the darkness, not even knowing when the pavement behind the club rose up to meet her.
* * *
Sara got Stick's call at two thirty that morning.
"Don't speak, don't interrupt," he said in her ear. "I'm fine, but we have a situation I need to stay and clean up. Second, Pete will be arriving at the clubhouse soon, with T, who is... unwell. Knife is with him."
"Okay," she said faintly. T was 'unwell'? As in... shot, knifed or thrown off a tall building. Pick one.
Knife was the club medic, which meant T needed immediate care.
"You up for taking charge, making sure Knife has everything he needs to take care of T?" Stick asked her.
Sara closed her mouth, put a hand to her chest to still her racing heart, and set her jaw. "Yes, Ivan. You'll be home soon?"
"Soon as I can, blazhenka," he said. "Be strong, da? Show everyone what I know, that you're the finest old lady the Flyers have ever had."
Then he disconnected the call, which meant as usual he got the last word. She was used to this by now, but it still irritated the heck out of her, especially when she'd just received frightening news in the middle of the night.
She got out of bed and called Velvet. "I need you to come and watch the boys. I'm needed at the club house."
Velvet assured her she and Webb would be there in moments, and Sara hurried to dress and grab the extremely large first aid kit she'd learned was necessary as the step-mother of two extremely active boys, and the old lady of a man who occasionally flirted with death.
She arrived at the back of the clubhouse just before Pete and Lesa's SUV skidded to a halt beside her.
She noticed Rocker lift Manda somewhat roughly from the seat and drop her on her feet beside the SUV. What was she doing here?
Then Rocker, Pete, Cooler and Knife bore T's big body from the SUV and deposited him on the rolling cot that was occasionally called into service as a gurney. Sara stared in horror at T-Bear's pale face and the bright blood splattering his shirt and Knife's hands.
Then, caught by something badly wrong in Manda's stance, she looked back just in time to see Manda sway and crumple.
Streak, who had dashed out in only his skivvies to help, caught the little blonde and lifted her in his arms.
"Fuck me," he called, his voice just audible over the creak of the gurney and scuffle of boots as the Flyers pushed T into the club house. "She get shot too? She's bleedin' all over me."
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
* * *
The other men were already gone, racing for the kitchen, which made a fine impromptu operating theatre, at least by Flyers' standards.
"You're sure that's not T's blood?" Sara asked.
Streak shook his head, already carrying Manda to the clubhouse. "No. I can feel it dripping."
Sara gasped, then forced her mind to work quickly. "Okay. They'll have T on the kitchen table. Bring her to, uh, Rocker's room. Then, once we see how bad she is, we'll decide what to do."
And if that meant calling 911, she would do it in a hot minute. She wasn't risking anyone's life because she didn't know what to do to help.
Streak laid the little blonde gently on the bed. Without being asked, he reached for the knife he always kept in his back pocket, and then realized he was clad only in a pair of dark, bikini briefs. "Sorry," he muttered. "I'll get my pants—my knife's in there.'
While he was gone, Sara, who had been this frightened only once in her life—when she herself was in deadly peril—lifted Manda's wrist.
To her intense relief she found a pulse, although it seemed much too fast. She reached for her first aid kit, but before she could open it, Streak returned, followed by Webb.
"Move aside, honey," the old biker said. "I got her."
Sara and Streak watched, both of them hardly breathing as he cut quickly but carefully up the sleeve of the pink fleece jacket and laid bare Manda's arm and shoulder.
"Oh, my God!" Sara cried. Blood soaked Manda's short-sleeved tee, and the entire side of the jacket behind her left arm. When Webb cut open the sleeve of the tee, they saw why. An ugly gash marred the pale flesh of the back of Manda's upper arm. Blood was oozing from the wound.
"Okay, we gotta get some pressure on this," Webb said. "She's lost a whack already. Streak, go get me a coupla clean towels outta the bathroom. Sara, you got any hand sanitizer, bring that. Some Betadyne would be good too, but they're probably using that in the kitchen about now. Once we get pressure on, we'll see what else needs done."
Sara had something better than that. She picked up her first aid kit and plunked it on the bedside table. "Whatever you need should be in here," she said. "I shopped from a list off one of those Alaskan survival shows." With the Vanko twins to care for, it had seemed appropriate.
Webb opened the plastic kit and surveyed the contents, his brows going up. "This looks about right." He pulled out the bottle of hand sanitizer.
"Streak," he ordered when the prospect ran back in, now attired in jeans and tee, although still barefoot. "Go see how they're doin' with T. Ask Knife if I should go ahead and handle this."
"Got it." Streak disappeared, and came back shortly, looking pale under his fall of wavy hair. "Uh—Knife says he's kinda busy with somethin' important, so handle her shit by ourselves."
Sara was not impressed with this. "Do they even know we have two victims, not just one?" she demanded.
Streak shook his head and swallowed. "No and didn't seem like the time to let 'em know. Knife was, uh, diggin' a bullet out of T."
"He get it?" Webb asked, already busy taking what he wanted from the first aid kit.
"Yeah. A 22 round."
"Huh. Well, T's lucky. All right, we'll take care of this little gal then. Sara, you can assist."
She swallowed hard and reached for the hand sanitizer. "Right. Whatever you need."
Half an hour later, Sara had assisted Webb in cleaning, prepping and stitching up Manda's wound. They then cleaned the blood off of her as best they could without disturbing the arm too much and got her under the covers.
"What do we do now?" Sara asked, looking down at Manda's face, so pale her light freckles stood out on her skin.
"Now we keep her warm, keep track of her blood pressure and pulse. Soon as we can, get some antibiotics and painkillers into her. And then we wait. She'll have a scar," the old biker added, packing supplies back into Sara's kit. "But can't be helped—I ain't no plastic surgeon."
"She can always have plastic surgery later. Or a tattoo," Sara said, and then shook her head. "I can't believe I said that."
Webb chuckled soundlessly. "Plenty o' brothers deal with scars that way. Few women too."
As he rose, Sara moved in and gave him a hug. "Webb, thank you. When Knife told us we were on our own—I about peed my pants."
He patted her back. "Well, you didn't, an' you didn't pass out at the sight o' blood, which I seen plenty of strong men do. You did good, girl."
She leaned back and grinned up at him. "You did a wonderful job on her. You should've been a plastic surgeon—you could have made big bucks, and owned a whole collection of Harleys if you wanted."
He shook his head, his eyes twinkling. "Never could picture myself in a suit, or Velvet anywhere she can't let loose and toss a bowl o' macaroni salad once in a while."
Sara laughed so hard she had to sit down on the bed. And if there was an edge of hysteria to her laughter, Webb didn't call her on it.
He patted her shoulder again. "I'll go check in on T-Bear, see how he's comin'."
She wiped her eyes, which were wet. "I'll come with you."
He shook his head, pressing down on her shoulder. "Nope. Don't do it, girl. That kinda surgery always looks way worse than it is. You stay and watch this gal. Then, you'll have to be ready to whip everyone into shape taking care of both of 'em, as they recover."
Sara wasn't sure she believed that removing a bullet 'looked worse than it was'. It probably looked serious and bloody because it was serious, and she hoped with all her heart that T would be all right, and Manda too.
"Webb, did we do the right thing? Bringing them here, instead of Sacred Heart, with all the special equipment, and the best doctors?"
He thought for a moment, passing his hand over his thin hair. "I see why you're worried," he said. "But Knife is one of the best medics I ever seen, and I seen a lot in my days in the Marines. He ain't one to take chances with a brother's life, neither. If T needed more, Knife would've called it."
Sara nodded. "Ok
ay. Good to know."
"And either of these two have any problems, he or Stick will call it," he added. "These fellas might risk their own lives, but Stick ain't gonna risk theirs when they're too sick to know about it, no matter how much trouble it brings down on the club."
Which it would, if they brought in a biker and a woman who had just left the hospital not too long ago after being beaten, both now shooting victims. The local cops and the DA would make certain hell rained down on the Devil's Flyers and all their associates.
Sara took a breath, and blew it out. Webb left the room, and she was left to watch over Manda.
"Well, Sara Cannon, you knew what you signed on for with Stick and his brothers," Sara mumbled to herself. "So now, buck up and get on with what needs to be done."
The scene in the Flyers' kitchen slash operating theater was tense, and quiet, other than Knife barking orders at Rocker, who was assisting him.
Rocker hadn't been up close to injury this bloody since he was first on scene to a bad car wreck in his days with the Spokane PD. And this was no stranger, but a big-hearted, amiable brother that he and all the others cared about.
At last, T-Bear was stitched up, bandaged and had an IV dripping into his arm, full of antibiotics and painkillers. He also had a heart rate monitor attached to his arm.
"Bout time I finally had a chance to use this shit," Knife said. "Stick bought it last summer, just been wasting space since then."
"We'll be sure and let T know when he wakes up," Pete said, looking as drawn and weary as Rocker felt. "I'm sure he'll be tickled he gave you the chance to use it."
Deciding that the cot was the best place for him for now, they carefully moved the big man into the meeting room. The shades were drawn tight shut, and the equipment Knife wanted at hand was stacked on the table near T-Bear's cot.
Pete went out to clean up the back seat of his SUV the best he could. "Gonna have to have it detailed," he said with a yawn. "But I want to get what blood I can out of there before Lesa sees it."