Chapter 6 - Rebecca
Everything is happening too fast.
One moment, James and I are facing death at the hands of Walsh's men in a forest clearing. The next, we're surrounded by leather-clad bikers with guns, and I'm being ushered toward a black van parked on the service road.
The transition from hunted to protected happens so quickly it leaves me dizzy. Or maybe that's the adrenaline crash after hours of sustained fear.
"Easy," a female voice says beside me as I stumble slightly on uneven ground.
It's the woman who burst into the clearing with a gun—Maddie, James called her. She's got one arm supporting James while his brother Dice takes most of his weight on the other side, but she reaches out to steady me with her free hand. "We're almost there."
I nod, unable to form words. My medical training screams at me to check James's wound, to make sure his stitches haven't torn again with all the movement, but I feel suddenly like an outsider. These people know him, care about him in ways I can't claim to after just a few hours together.
And yet, those few hours feel like a lifetime.
The van comes into view—large and black with tinted windows. A tall man with a full beard and the same leather vest as the others stands guard beside it, shotgun in hand. His eyes track our approach, then widen slightly when he sees James's condition.
"How bad?" he asks as we reach him.
"Bad enough," Dice answers grimly. "We need to get him to the clubhouse now."
The man nods, opening the van's side door. "I'll ride behind with the others. Make sure you're not followed."
The inside of the van is surprisingly comfortable. Not the stripped-down vehicle I expected, but something with cushioned bench seats. They help James in first, laying him across one bench. I follow immediately, kneeling beside him to check his wound.
"Let me," I say, gently lifting his shirt. The bandage is soaked through with fresh blood. "The stitches have torn again."
"You're really a nurse?" Maddie asks, climbing in behind me. Her tone carries skepticism mixed with hope.
I nod, focused on James. "I need to stop this bleeding and re-stitch the wound as soon as possible."
"We've got supplies at the clubhouse," Dice says, sliding into the driver's seat. "Twenty minutes."
The van starts moving, bouncing slightly on the rough service road before turning onto a less-traveled dirt path. James winces with each jolt, his face pale and drawn. I place my hand on his forehead—clammy and too cool. Early shock symptoms.
"I need blankets," I say, my nurse voice taking over. "He's going into shock."
Maddie immediately shrugs off her leather jacket, draping it over James. Another rider who climbed in with us adds his jacket as well.
"Hey," Maddie says, leaning over James with surprising gentleness for someone who moments ago had a gun trained on a man's head. "Don't you dare check out on us now. Not after all this."
James's eyes flutter open, focusing on her with effort. "Maddie. You came."
"Of course I came, idiot. You're my best friend." Her voice is rough with affection. "Been waiting eighteen months for you to get out. Wasn't going to let some Irish thugs ruin our reunion."
A weak smile crosses his face. "Always did have perfect timing."
I press the bandage more firmly against his wound. "Don't talk. Save your strength."
"You don't need to worry anymore, James. We've already dealt with Walsh," Dice continues. "But he had already set this in motion. Vengeful bastard."
"But he won't be back," the other biker adds. "Reaper made that very clear. You're safe."
Relief flashes across James's face, followed quickly by confusion. "But what happened? It's been years since those watches. And why did the whole MC come for me? I'm not a member."
"Because you're family," Dice says simply. "My family makes you their family. That's how it works. And about Walsh... Well, a story for another time. Now, rest, please."
"Thank you," he whispers.
I continue monitoring his pulse, which is rapid but steady. His breathing is labored but not critical. With proper care, he'll recover, though the repeated trauma to his wound increases the risk of infection.
"Where did you learn to stitch like that?" Maddie asks, nodding toward my handiwork on James's wound.
"I'm a registered nurse," I answer, still focused on James. "I work in the prison infirmary."
"Worked," Maddie corrects gently. "Pretty sure that job's in the rearview now."
The reality of my situation hits me anew. My career, my apartment, my life—all gone in the span of a few hours. I swallow hard, pushing down the surge of panic. One crisis at a time.
The van continues down increasingly remote roads, eventually turning onto what appears to be little more than a dirt track through dense trees.
After several more minutes, we emerge into a clearing where a large, warehouse-style building stands, flanked by several smaller structures.
The property is surrounded by a high chain-link fence topped with barbed wire.
A dozen motorcycles are parked in a neat row near the main building.
"Home sweet home," Maddie says as the van stops. "For now, at least."
"Where are we?" I ask, looking out at the compound.
"MC property," Dice answers, killing the engine. "Off the grid. Safe."
Several men in leather vests emerge from the main building as we pull up. They gather around the van, faces grim when Dice opens the side door and they see James's condition.
Everything moves quickly after that. Two of the larger men lift James from the van while I stay close, monitoring his wound.
We enter the main building, which opens into a large common area with mismatched furniture, a pool table, and a makeshift bar along one wall.
The space is filled with more bikers, some playing cards, others cleaning weapons, all looking up as we enter.
"Medical room's ready," a voice calls out, and we're directed down a hallway to a room that's been hastily prepared.
It's basic but functional—a bed, bright overhead lights, a metal table with medical supplies laid out. Nothing like a proper hospital setup, but better than the forest floor.
"Will this work?" Dice asks as they carefully transfer James to the bed.
I scan the supplies—surprisingly comprehensive, including IV bags, antibiotics, suture kits, and even some prescription medications that I decide not to ask about.
"Yes," I say, already pulling on latex gloves from a box on the table. "It'll work. I need everyone out except for someone to assist me."
The bikers exchange glances, then Dice speaks. "I'll stay. Everyone else, give them space."
The room clears reluctantly, though Maddie lingers at the door. "I'll be right outside if you need anything," she tells me.
Once they're gone, I cut away James's blood-soaked shirt and the bandage beneath. The wound looks worse than before—angry red edges, several torn stitches, fresh bleeding. But there's no sign of serious infection yet, which is miraculous given the circumstances.
"I need to clean this thoroughly, then re-stitch," I tell Dice, who hovers anxiously nearby. "Can you help me?"
He nods, moving closer. "Tell me what to do."
His hands are steady as he follows my instructions, holding equipment, passing supplies, helping position James for better access to the wound. Despite his obvious worry, he's remarkably composed.
"You've done this before," I observe as we work.
"Club life," he replies simply. "You learn to patch people up when hospitals aren't an option."
I clean James's wound, irrigating it with antiseptic solution before preparing to re-stitch. The supplies here are better than what I had at the gas station, allowing for a more thorough job.
"He needs blood," I say, noting James's pallor. "He's lost too much."
"What's his type?" Dice asks immediately.
"I don't know," I admit. "But given the amount he's lost, it would be safest to have actual hospital care."
Dice shakes his head firmly. "Not an option. Prison break, remember? Every hospital will be on alert for him. For both of you, probably."
Reality crashes back. Of course. James is now an escaped convict, and I'm his accomplice. Normal medical care is out of the question.
"We have someone who can get blood if needed," Dice offers. "What else do you need?"
I consider the situation. "Strong antibiotics, which you seem to have. Pain management. Rest. And time." I look at James's unconscious face. "Mostly time."
I finish the new stitches—neater this time with proper equipment and lighting. Then we set up the IV with fluids and antibiotics. By the time we've cleaned up and made James comfortable, over an hour has passed.
"He's stable," I announce finally, removing my gloves. "The next twenty-four hours will be critical for preventing infection, but the wound itself isn't life-threatening now that it's properly closed."
Dice releases a breath I hadn't realized he was holding. "Thank you," he says, with such sincerity it makes my throat tighten.
"I need to check him every hour," I say, suddenly realizing how exhausted I am. The adrenaline that's been sustaining me is crashing hard.
"I'll stay with him," Dice offers. "You need rest. There's a room next door where you can clean up and sleep. I'll call you if anything changes."
Reluctantly, I agree. My body is screaming for rest, and I'll be no good to James if I collapse.
Dice calls Maddie back in, asking her to show me to my room. She leads me next door to a small but clean bedroom with an attached bathroom.
"Shower's decent," she says, opening drawers. "I put some clothes in here for you. Nothing fancy, but clean." She pulls out sweatpants and a t-shirt. "And don't worry about your safety. This place is locked down tight. No one gets in or out without the club knowing."
"Thank you," I say, suddenly overwhelmed by her kindness despite the strangeness of the situation. "For helping us. For coming when James needed you."
"James is family. Has been since forever." A ghost of a smile crosses her face. "And anyone who risks their life for him like you did is good in my book."
"I was just doing my job," I say.
"No," she shakes her head. "Your job ended when the riot started. What you did was choice. A brave one." She heads for the door, then pauses. "Get some rest. We'll figure out next steps when you're both stronger."
The door closes behind her, and I'm alone for the first time in hours. The sudden silence is deafening. I sink onto the edge of the bed, the events of the day crashing over me in waves. Prison riot. Escape. Chase through the woods. Walsh's men. The Outlaw Order.
James.
His face appears in my mind. Strong features, dark eyes that reveal more than he probably intends, the rare smile that transforms him. A man I met mere hours ago yet risked everything for.
I should be terrified. My career is likely over. I might be facing criminal charges. My life has imploded in a single afternoon.
And yet, beneath the fear and exhaustion, there's something else. Something that feels strangely like purpose. Or possibility.
I force myself to stand, to move toward the bathroom. The shower is blissfully hot, washing away blood—James's blood—and dirt and the lingering stench of fear. I stay under the spray until my skin turns pink, then reluctantly step out, wrapping myself in a towel.
The borrowed clothes are simple: sweatpants, a t-shirt with an Outlaw Order logo faded from many washings. They smell clean and feel like heaven after my blood-stained scrubs.
I check my reflection in the small mirror. A stranger looks back at me—hair wilder than usual, eyes wide and haunted, face pale with exhaustion. But there's something else there too. A strength I didn't know I possessed.
My father would be proud, I think suddenly. The thought brings unexpected tears to my eyes.
I wipe them away resolutely. No time for that now. I have a patient to monitor, a situation to navigate, decisions to make. But first, sleep. Just a few hours. I set the small alarm clock by the bed, then slide under the covers, expecting to lie awake despite my exhaustion.
Instead, darkness claims me instantly.