by Zahra Girard
“Morning, boss,” I say, taking one of the two chairs opposite his desk. It’s padded and comfortable, which I’m grateful for with all the damn bruises I’ve got from the other night’s crash. I take a loud slurp of my still-too-hot coffee. “Mack says you wanted to see me.”
“Morning, Razor. How’s the head?” Stone says, still keeping his eyes on the paper in front of him. His voice is neutral, which I take as a good thing considering all the shit that happened the other night. He’s got a pen in his hands and he’s halfway through the morning’s crossword; there’s a persistent scratch as he fills in the boxes.
“Getting better.”
“And the shoulder?”
“I have to take it easy. It’ll be awhile before I’m all the way back, but it’s coming along.”
“Stitch says you were lucky.”
“A bit, yeah.”
“And Rusty and Trips say you were more than a little lucky after the way you charged into that underground casino the other night,” Stone says, looking up from his crossword and his voice suddenly going as cold as steel during a snowstorm. “You want to tell me what you were thinking with a stunt like that?”
“They were in our territory. I had to send a message.”
“What kind of message do you think you sent?”
I stand up. “Considering the state we left their place in? And that I’m sure at least a couple of them are dead? And that I beat the shit out of the guy who was running the joint? I think they learned a few things.”
“You were reckless.”
“Only as much as I needed to be.”
“Just like you needed to get shot and crash your ride?”
My foot lashes out backwards, kicking over the chair. “What? So I should’ve let them play their little fucking games instead of showing them we run this town? Since when are we a bunch of fucking bitches?”
Somehow, Stone’s voice gets colder. “Fix your chair. Sit down.”
He’s got that glint in his eye that shows why he’s the president of this club — cold, calculating, and capable of stunning brutality if I push him much further. My blood goes from burning hot to ice cold in the blink of an eye.
I fix my chair. I sit down. “Yes, sir.”
“What do you know about the people who were running the game?”
“Trips heard about them from Fat Mike. He said they were new in town. Players with some cash and muscle. Considering what I saw of them, I’d say that’s true.”
“What else do you know about them?”
“Nothing.”
“So, all we have to go on is what you heard from Fat Mike and what you gathered while you were busy getting yourself shot and suffering a concussion?”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“That’s not much to go on.”
“No, sir, it’s not.”
“You didn’t handle this very well and I think you know that. I’m disappointed in you, kid.”
I grit my teeth. In hindsight, it’s easy as hell for him to criticize, but there’s not a fucking chance that I don’t take action to defend the MC’s territory. These people are my family, this is our home, and no one who tries to violate it should escape without serious punishment. “How would you have handled it?”
“I’d first want to know who the fuck it is I’m dealing with. And, for that, I’d need more than the word of that sleazebag Fat Mike. If someone professional — with muscle and cash — is trying to make a move into our territory, we need to do more than go after them half-cocked and under-manned. Do you understand me, Razor?”
“Yes, sir.”
The man isn’t my father, but, I’ll be damned if he doesn’t have a way of making someone feel like they’re six-years-old and just got caught with their hand in the fucking cookie jar.
“Find out more about these guys. I’ll give you a few days. If you’re not up to it, I’ll have you reassigned.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Reassigned?”
“A friend of mine reached out recently. He needs some guns. A big order. We’ll send you with the shipment. It’s going to Omaha. You’ll be there for a week. You’ll supervise the breakdown of the shipment, payment, and distribution.”
“Omaha? What the fuck is there to do in Omaha?”
“Aside from the damn job I tell you to do? You can kill your free time by fantasizing about getting out of Omaha.”
“You don’t want to do this. Come on, Stone.”
“On the way back, you’ll stop in Salt Lake. Tricia’s second cousin lives there. Her family needs help remodeling their porch, painting their house, and doing some landscaping. You’ll help them out. Should only take a week.”
“Omaha and Salt Lake? Jesus Christ, why don’t you send Gears? He loves those long rides and all that boring shit. Plus, you know he’s got that chick in Omaha.”
“I still might give Gears some time off to go to Omaha as a vacation. But Gears hasn’t disappointed me like you do. So, unless you want a nice quiet ride to get your head right, I suggest you un-fuck yourself and get the information that we need.”
“I will.”
“You have an idea where to start?”
“I do. There was a nurse I pulled out of there as a hostage. She works at St. Paul’s. Ruby told me her name’s Florence Nightingale. I’ll start with her.”
Stone’s steely face cracks into a smile, just a little. “Florence Nightingale? Razor, are you sure your head’s all right?”
“It’s fine. But, just so you’ll get off my ass, I’ll have them check it out while I’m at the hospital looking for this Florence chick.”
Stone sighs and turns back to his crossword. “You do that. Good luck, Razor.”
* * * * *
“I’m looking for someone. She’s in her mid-twenties, dark hair, pretty face, about this tall, nice tits. Works in the ER.”
The nurse rolls his eyes at me. “If you’re looking for a hookup, try Tinder.”
“No, if I wanted a piece of ass, I’d try your mother,” I say. “I’m looking for a specific nurse. Her name is Florence. Florence Nightingale.”
“Sir, are you on something?”
“I’m not fucking on anything except for some Advil. I don’t take the stronger shit. It messes with your head. Now, tell me where I can find Florence Nightingale.”
“Look around you,” he says, his eyes laughing at me. “I mean, if you want to get symbolic, we’re all Florence.”
“Jesus Christ, dude, I don’t have time for your bullshit. I’m looking for a specific nurse in your ER.”
“I’m calling security.”
“Don’t bother — I’m leaving.”
I leave the useless nurse — the third one I’ve asked and the first one who’s bothered to even respond with words instead of laughter when I ask for Florence Nightingale — and go back to wandering the hallways. My head still hurts like a motherfucker and I am fast losing patience with these wannabe doctors and their bullshit attitudes.
Where is that woman?
The one fortunate thing about being wounded as I am, and having the visible bandage around my shoulder and the unsteadiness from my concussion, is that no one questions my presence in the hospital. At least, not until I open my mouth and ask for the damn nurse by name. So far, everyone’s been too busy to follow through on their threats to call security and I’ve had the freedom to roam with impunity as I look for the suspicious nurse from the night before.
“Are you lost, honey?” Says an elderly and heavyset nurse from behind her desk. She’s got kind eyes. Maybe she’ll help me.
“Yeah. I’m looking for Florence Nightingale. Is she around here?”
“Oh, honey… I don’t think I can help you.”
“Whatever.”
I keep walking, dodging gurneys and doctors with inflated egos. At some point I take a turn away from the busier sections of the hospital and come to an area that looks like it functions as a supply area. At the far end of the hallway, there’s a big, shatterproof gl
ass-enclosed area with a sign saying “Pharmacy” at the entrance and a woman watching over it with a tenacity that would make a guard dog jealous. My head’s not feeling good enough to even approach that temperamental-looking woman, so I take another turn.
Down another hallway, in front of a door that’s barely ajar, I hear a familiar voice.
My Florence.
Her voice is tense, agitated, tight.
“This is all I can get you. Any more, and I could get fired.”
Another voice. Deep, dark, and gravelly.
“After the shit you pulled last night, we have little room for patience.”
“Shit that I pulled? I was fucking kidnapped. But that’s beside the point. This isn’t about patience. This is about common sense and me not getting fired. You can’t get what you want if I’m not working here, can you? Stop and think.”
“We’re tired of stopping. Tired of waiting.”
“And you probably don’t care to try thinking?”
“Don’t talk back to me,” the man’s voice growls. There’s a thudding sound that makes my teeth grind, and that thud is followed by Florence’s groan. “Your behavior is not something we tolerate. Maybe you should think before you speak.”
“And maybe you should listen. I’m telling you, I’m doing the best that I can.”
“Do better,” he says. Another thud. Then another.
That son of a bitch.
That woman in there might be mixed up in this shit, but there’s no fucking excuse to ever hit a woman.
I clench my fists.
Fuck being cautious. Fuck what Stone said. I’m putting a stop to that shit. Whoever it is in there, they’re a dead man.
I throw open the door before I have a chance to think about my actions.
The bastard’s got his back to the door, positioning himself between the nurse and the exit, and he hardly turns before I’ve got my hands on him. The stitches in my shoulder stretch and burst as I grab him by the throat and shove him against the wall, but I hardly feel a thing except for the pulse in his neck. I squeeze. Hard. So hard something crunches and his eyes bug out in their sockets. He tries to struggle, but it’s hard to fight with a crushed larynx and even harder to fight when someone’s bashing your head into the concrete wall over and over.
To her credit, Florence doesn’t make a sound as I beat the life from the guy.
After the body hits the ground, I turn and face her.
“I’ve been looking all over for you, Florence Nightingale. I don’t think we were properly introduced the last time. I’m Razor, and you and I need to have a little chat.”
Chapter Four
Samantha
Ruthless. Lethal. Killer. All words that flash through my mind as I watch him methodically throttle the life out of that other man. The man’s body hits the floor like so much refuse and then the biker turns to me and opens his mouth. And calls me Florence Nightingale. And looks like he means it. Then, I’m thinking a whole new set of words: concussed, confused, delirious.
“My name isn’t Florence Nightingale. It’s Samantha.”
“No wonder nobody knew who you were.”
“Wait. Were you going around the hospital asking for Florence Nightingale?”
“That’s beside the point.”
“I’d really like to know.”
“Yes, I asked a few people if they’d seen Florence Nightingale.”
“OK, maybe you got hit in the head harder than I thought. Why the hell are you here looking for me?”
“What’s your business with this guy here?” Razor says, nudging the body with his foot.
I roll my eyes. “Nothing. He’s dead.”
“I’m not playing around.”
“No, I’m sure you aren’t so messed up that you’d think murder is horseplay. I don’t know who that man is, other than he’s some psycho who wandered in here, cornered me, and hit me a few times because I wouldn’t give him some meds. Do you know how many drug seekers there are out there?”
The last thing I need is to get further involved with whatever turf war this biker is about to ignite; I’ll say whatever I have to to keep my distance. Anything else is a sure path to getting fired and I happen to love my job.
He pauses a second. “You’d better not be lying to me.”
“I’m not. People like him are not uncommon in hospitals. Especially hospitals like St. Paul’s. And you want to know why? Because we do a lot of work with the VA and there is a high level of veterans retired in the area. Since the nearest full VA hospital is in Los Angeles — which is a long drive — they come here. That means we carry a high number of pain medications and other drugs that people like this guy,” I pause and point towards the dead body on the ground, “Would do a lot of reckless and stupid things to get ahold of. Now, you being an expert in reckless and stupid things, know all about that, don’t you?”
He smiles. “Wow, I’m impressed. You know, you look really hot when you’re worked up. Hot enough that I could almost overlook the bitchiness.”
“All I have to do is yell and security will be here in an instant. Do you want to go to jail?”
“You’ve got a real poor way of showing gratitude, Florence. Unless you enjoyed that man beating up on you?”
“No, I didn’t. Now, I have to ask, do you have any plan for getting him out of here? Because we can’t just leave a dead body laying around.”
Razor just shrugs.
I sigh.
“You know what I also don’t enjoy? Cleaning up your messes. Which it looks like I’ll have to do for the second time in as many days.”
I look around the supply closet for anything useful to help take care of the body but, before I can move, he puts a strong hand on my shoulder. He’s exhausted, he’s injured, but he’s still powerful enough that I know I would have no chance against him if he tried anything. Hell, I wouldn’t even be able to get a scream off.
“What were you doing at that poker game the other night?”
I freeze. I may not like the position I’m in with the dead man and the rest of the members of his gang, but I know the last thing I need is to add a second gang into the mix.
“They grabbed me in the parking lot after work. I was working the late shift, so I hardly got there before you did. I’m pretty sure they were trying to extort me for drugs.”
That it’s half true makes the lie roll off my tongue.
“That’s it?” He says.
I force myself to keep my eyes locked on his. He’s staring at me so intently it makes my heart leap in unexpected ways. Fortunately, I’m used to pressure in my day-to-day life.
“That’s it. I swear.”
He nods. “Fair enough. Now, how do you suggest we take care of this piece of shit?”
“I think I have an idea,” I say, then I sigh. “But, you know, I wasn’t planning on smuggling a dead body out of work today, so I’m not sure how well this will work. You will need to do as I tell you, you got it? No more murdering people.”
“Fine. But he got what he deserved. There’s not a chance in hell I would stand aside and let him hit you.”
“How sweet.”
He delivers a kick to the body. “I don’t care who you are. If you corner a woman like that and treat her the way he treated you, you deserve to feel pain. There’s no excuse for that behavior.”
I roll my eyes. But only just. I can feel the bruise starting to form over my ribs where the thug hit me and, deep down, I’m at least a little grateful that Razor stepped in.
“I need you to wait here for a minute. I’m going to go down the hall. I’ll be back in a few minutes. Until then, I need you to stay quiet and stay put. Can you do that?”
“Where are you going?”
“The best way to get this body out of here is to take it right out under everyone’s noses. Now, stop asking questions and just do what I tell you.”
I don’t wait for him to open his mouth again. I take off. Three hallways down, I find what I’m lo
oking for: the hospital morgue. And, just outside that morgue, there’s a supply closet. Inside that closet, I grab a gurney, some sheets, and a spare uniform. Making sure to keep my head down and look busy, I wheel the gurney and the supplies back to Razor.
I toss him the uniform. “Put this on. It should fit.”
To my surprise, he doesn’t question it. Also to my surprise, he strips his cut and shirt off without any warning. In the bright fluorescent light of the supply closet, I’m treated to a view of a muscular torso that’s chiseled and inked and more than enough to make me forget — just for a moment — what kind of brutal person he is.
Why does he have to be just as crazy and violent as he is hot?
There’s a cocky smirk on his face as he undoes his belt and, somehow, I find the strength to resist temptation and look away. He’d let me watch, if I wanted. And part of me does. But I can’t give in to those urges, my life is screwed up enough as it is.
“You can look now, Florence,” he says in a heated voice.
When I turn around, he’s in full nurse’s uniform. It’s tight — he’s a lot better built than the average nurse — but not so tight that anyone will ask questions; the worst he might get is an appreciative look or two from the patients and a few of the staff members. And me.
“What now?” He says.
“We will load the body onto the gurney, then we’ll cover him with the sheets. When patients pass away at the hospital and it’s time to transport them to a funeral home, they’re covered with a sheet and then taken to the back loading area for transportation. So, for our purposes, this guy here is just a patient who passed on.”
“Nice plan,” he says. “Clever.”
That makes me smile a little.
Why do I care what he thinks?
“Now would be a good time for me to ask: do you have anyone you can call that can get a black van here real quick? Or, even better, a hearse?”
“A van, yes,” he says. Then, without waiting, he takes out his phone and he makes a quick call. “Trips, brother, I need a favor. I need you to borrow the shop’s delivery van and park it around back of St. Paul’s Hospital. Yes, I need it now. Yes, brother, like in the next fifteen minutes. Text me when you’re here. Thanks.”