Chapter Two
Denver Chapter Clubhouse
Reaper
“Hey, Reaper, you’re still breathing, bro.” Tank, our roadman, slaps me on the shoulder then sits at my side. “Good job.”
“For my sins,” I say and knock back a mouthful of beer.
“Lives to fight another day.” Jock taps the President patch on his cut. “And I for one am sure glad to have my VP in one piece.”
The clubhouse used to be an auto repair shop back in the day, now it resembles a fortress—high metal walls, corrugated iron roofs, and stacks of motorcycle parts. The paying customers are long gone and we use it as a secure base for meeting, and for some of us, sleeping.
The day is hot, again, and my right side hurts like a bitch. But at least I’m not gushing blood anymore, thanks to that pretty doctor with the haunted eyes, and I’m here in the only home I’ve ever really known.
“So, what cunt did this to you?” Tank asks and studies me. “You’re my brother, man, I want to see him take his last breath.”
I see my reflection in his sunglasses. I’m a shade paler than usual and have three instead of two frown lines scoring over my brow. I grimace and recall the moment the asshole surprised me then took a shot.
“We all do,” Jock says and looks at the group sitting nearby. “Ain’t that right?”
There is a round of cursing and fists slapping into palms. I can see in their eyes that murder is coming for the son of a bitch who got away once but won’t get away twice.
For a moment their unwavering loyalty to me, the club, and to Jock catches my throat.
I swallow and grit my teeth. No damn time for emotion. We have work to do.
“I don’t know if we’ll find him,” I say and clench my fists. “Little shit was a wannabe, he’s probably skipped town and changed his name by now. If he knows what’s good for him, that is.”
Tank frowns. “What you on about?”
“We were leaving Sands Bar, you know the one with the roulette wheels, when he came up to me, demanded my winnings.”
“Brave motherfucker.” Tank huffed.
“I know, right. I told him to fuck off and turned around. Didn’t think anything more of it. Next thing, little shit has put a bullet in me.”
“Fuck, and I thought you’d had a run-in with another club.” Tank shakes his head.
“Nothing so fucking exciting.” I pull the Elastoplast off my arm, curl it into a ball, and flick it away. “I just didn’t keep my wits about me, thought he’d see the cut and the patch and fuck off. Anyone sensible would.”
“He obviously had no idea who he was dealing with.” The tone of Jock’s voice is deadly. “If I ever get my hands on him.”
“There’ll be nothing left of him if I get to him first.” I laugh but not with humor. “Stupid thing is, I don’t even think I’d recognize his face. That’s how little notice I took. He just didn’t seem like a threat. Must have been in his teens, but only just.”
“Just goes to show they start young these days.”
For a moment I am quiet. I started young with Sons of Sin.
I was fourteen when they took me in—a group of ex-cons, soldiers, street hustlers.
Home had become hell and I’d taken my stepfather’s Harley—son of a bitch didn’t deserve it—and rode from Oregon to Denver.
In Denver I’d met Tank when I was shooting pool.
After thrashing him he’d asked me where I was staying.
I’d told him truthfully, the lot at Bear Park, the Harley my only companion, and he’d invited me back to the clubhouse for a shower and a feed. I’ve never left.
It hadn’t been easy. I’d had to prove my loyalty, and that took sweat, blood, and tears.
I’d earned my stripes as a prospect and worked my way up.
Then after a few years as enforcer, keeping everyone in line, handling security, I got voted in as vice president.
That suited me well, I had no further ambition, because if I became president, it meant Jock would be gone. And that didn’t bear thinking about.
“You didn’t leave a trail at the hospital, did you?” Jock asks me after Ghost fills him in on our trip there.
I shake my head and an image of the pretty doctor pops into my mind—her long red hair swinging from a ponytail and curling at the ends, her green eyes that held so many secrets.
She had a peppering of freckles over her cute snub nose and beneath that white doctor’s coat and scrubs I’d bet there was one hot body with great tits and buttocks that would be perfect handfuls.
“Reaper?” Jock says with a scowl.
“No fucking way. No trail,” I say. “Doctor, she was ... I told her to keep her mouth shut.”
Jock nods slowly. “A female doctor.”
“Yes. Beggars can’t be choosers.”
Ghost laughs. “Beg or choose, I’d have her, she was hot as fuck.” He holds up his hands and makes squeezing motions. “She’d look great bouncing up and down on my cock with nothing but that stethoscope around her neck.”
I frown. For some reason I feel possessive over her. She was my doctor, she fixed me up, not Ghost.
“You get a name?” Jock asks.
“Doctor Scarlet Mesa,” I say. Where the fuck had that knowledge sprung from? I close my eyes and remember reading her name badge. Hadn’t thought the information had lodged in my brain until now, though.
“Redhead,” Ghosts continues. “Bet she’s red down there too. Not one of those phonies who—”
“Shut the fuck up.” I slam my hand on the table and hold in a wince when my wound complains. “She did us a solid, have some respect.”
Ghost laughs and lights a smoke. “Fancy her, do ya? Wanna bone the cute little doctor?”
“I swear I...”
“Yeah, yeah.” Jock puts his hand on my shoulder. “We’ve got bigger things to worry our heads about. But for the record, Reaper, outside women are complications we don’t need right now so don’t go there, okay?”
“Sure, I know that.” I glug on my beer frustrated that Jock had to point out a truth to me.
Trouble was, I couldn’t get her out of my mind.
What was going on with her? She gave an illusion of calm control but there was more beneath the surface.
I saw it, I swear I did, and my curiosity had been piqued.
“Fucking Hyenas,” Tank mutters, “will they ever give up?”
“Yeah.” Ghost blows out a stream of smoke. “It ain’t as if Columbia isn’t big enough, they should stay on their own turf.”
“More money to be spent this side of the border,” Jock says. “Always worth the risk of selling here to double their income.”
“I swear if I had one wish it would be to see this cartel burnt to the ground,” I say, bringing my focus back to the conversation around the table. “Trouble from day one.”
“Not bang the redhead doctor?” Ghost laughs. “I thought you’d use a wish for that.”
I slam my beer down, lean forward, and point my finger at him. “You want a bullet in your guts to match mine? Because one more fucking word like that and—”
“Come on, cut it out.” Jock curls his lips in a snarl. “I need you to concentrate. The Hyenas are gaining territory, our forefathers would turn in their graves, and we need to stop them.” He looks at me. “Stay on topic, man.”
“I am.” I scowl. “But it’s hard to take them out when we don’t know how they’re operating, I mean, have we seen any of them around?”
“Copper Mountain was the last sighting. They were heading west, fully loaded most likely and off to make a packet.” Jock shakes his head.
“So, how are they getting the drugs into the city? Through the airport now?”
“As good a guess as any.” Tank nods.
“Mules?” I say, feeling sick as I utter the word. Hiding vast amounts of drugs internally is as dangerous as it is stupid. “Likely unwilling mules.”
“Fuck,” Ghost mutters and rubs the ink on his cheek. “Low-life scum.”
“We’ll kill all those motherfuckers when we catch them.” Jock plonks his gun on the table.
“No goddamn mercy,” I say, a need for our brand of justice gnawing at me. “Not one drop.”
****
Scarlet
The next night is another wildly busy shift but when it’s over one patient is playing on my mind, so instead of going home, I go up to the ward to check on her status.
Her name is Consuela, no surname, and she’s from Bogota. When she was admitted, she was unconscious and foaming at the mouth. A full epileptic seizure quickly followed and it took vast quantities of naloxone, the antidote to opioids, to get her stable.
An ultrasound had revealed three condoms full of cocaine shoved into various orifices. One had burst and the contents being absorbed into her bloodstream had caused her acute and potentially fatal condition.
“Hey,” I say, pulling up a chair and sitting at her bedside. “How are you feeling?”
She studies me for a moment. “Like shit.”
“I was the doctor who looked after you when you came in. Can you remember?”
She shakes her head. “I can’t remember anything after the plane landed.”
“The plane from Columbia?”
She swallows and grimaces.
I help her have a drink of water through a straw.
“You were very sick. Those drugs inside you had given you one of the biggest overdoses I’ve ever seen anyone survive.”
“Shh.” She scowls and looks around the ward. “I can’t let anyone know about that.”
“I’m afraid the hospital staff caring for you know, how could we treat you if we didn’t know the cause of your illness?”
“Fuck,” she mutters and her eyes dart to the entrance to the ward. “I need those drugs back, what’s left of them.”
“They’re gone.”
“Mierda. I’ve got to get out of here. Now.”
“Why?”
“Because they’ll be looking for me.” She pauses. “I’m a loose end.”
“A what?”
“A loose end. A problem for them.” She pushes the sheet to one side and tries to shuffle to sitting.
“Hey, hey, you can’t go anywhere. Apart from the fact you’re on strong medication to keep you stable, you’re still having arrhythmias and the possibility of another fit is high.”
“I’ll take my chances.” Again, she tries to sit. She can’t and flops back down with a huff of frustration.
I touch the back of her hand. “Who are you a loose end to?”
“You think I can tell you?” She shakes her head. “And why would you want to know? It would put you in danger too.”
“I’m your doctor, what you tell me is confidential.”
She rolls her eyes and purses her lips.
“On your back,” I say, “you have a tattoo. I thought it was a dog but it’s a hyena. Very unusual.”
“So?”
“So, I just wondered why you’d chosen it.” I shrug. “I’m always interested in the designs people choose for their ink.”
She studies me as if trying to figure out my motives.
“I’m thinking of getting one.” I smile. “That’s all.” It’s such an ugly image for such a pretty young girl to have. There has to be a story behind it.
“I didn’t choose it,” she says and locks her fingers together.
“What do you mean?”
“It was ... I was given it against my will.”
I try and disguise my shock, it might prevent her opening up more. “Who gave it to you?”
She is silent.
“Is it something to do with the drugs that were inside you?”
“I’ve said too much.” She points to the doorway. “Please go. You’re not my doctor now, right? I have new ones on this ward.”
“That might be the case, but I’m human, and I care. And you were in such a sorry state.” I lean forward. “Is there someone I can call for you? Do you know anyone in Denver?”
“No, there’s no one.”
“Not at all?”
“I said no. Now please go. I have to think.”
“About what?”
“I told you. I’m a loose end. They’ll be coming for me.”
“Who?”
“Please. They won’t want me to talk and ... and right now that’s what I’m doing. Mierda. Please, leave me alone.”
I stand, her agitation is increasing by the second and the monitor shows her heart rate picking up. “Okay, I’ll go.” I hand her a slip of paper with my name and number on it. “But you do know someone in Denver now—me. You need help, let me know.”
She sniffs and her eyes are a little watery. She doesn’t speak.
As I leave the ward, I catch the nurse in charge and tell her Consuela is not expecting any visitors so be very suspicious of anyone that says they are coming to see her—suspicious as in get security onto the ward, stat.
The unease in the pit of my stomach doesn’t subside as I travel home on the bus. It’s nagging, gnawing, an itch I can’t reach. Something is telling me to act. I worked so hard to save Consuela’s life, yet still it might be taken.
Loose end. The words rattle around my brain as I watch my stop go by. I have somewhere else to be.