37. Smoke
37
SMOKE
I raise my hands slowly, scanning the room until I can see the reflection of the two people I’m dealing with in the glass of a display case door.
It’s impossible to see who they are, but the physical outline suggests one of them is bigger than me.
One thing I know for sure is something my mom always used to say when I was a scrawny kid who hadn’t grown into his size-thirteen feet.
The bigger they are, the harder they fall.
And it’s my experience that the bigger they are, the less of a fighter they are.
They lack nimbleness and dexterity.
Sure, if you find yourself on the receiving end of their fist, they can likely knock you out cold.
But if they miss…
He removes my Glock from my hand as I look at the second reflection in the room.
The person next to them is more slight, and when he walks past me and turns around so I can see him properly, I immediately recognize him.
Lev Zakharov.
He puts his finger to his lips, telling me to not say a word.
His arm is in the sling, strapped tight to his chest. It looks like he’s unarmed.
I take stock.
One weapon, currently pressed to my skull.
Two men. The giant and the injured.
Both will be lacking in dexterity.
All I have to do is get the gun out of big guy’s hand and we’ll have a fair fight.
I ignore the finger pressed to the lips because I’m not a child.
“You’re not getting out of here alive.”
Lev grins.
“You’re my insurance. I’ll walk out of here with you. Your brothers aren’t going to kill me if they think it’ll lead to your death.”
I move slightly, edging ever closer to the desk.
“Too many of us in this house,” I say.
“Then I have no use for you,” Lev says.
Life changes in a heartbeat.
Just like a fire dances with the wind.
You can’t control it.
You can’t predict it.
You just know that, in the moment that follows, your existence will never be the same again.
My heart races when Lev starts to tip his head to the man holding the gun.
I feel the incremental dig of the metal barrel against my skull as the henchman readies to blow my skull apart.
As I remember Quinn’s story of the woman whose life changed based on whether she made it through a sliding door, I fall onto the crystal ashtray.
With one spin, I throw the ashes into Lev’s face before slamming the glass into the side of his henchman’s skull.
Because I’m not dying here.
I’m not dying today.
And I’m not causing Quinn even a moment’s pain.
The gun skitters along the floor.
The henchman goes down.
And Lev Zakharov fumbles around, brushing his hands over his face as he coughs and splutters.
There’s an agonizing roar in my ribs because my scars tug and pull, but I can’t think of that until I get to the gun.
Lev realizes what my plan is and dives for it too.
He’s faster than I am.
But I’m meaner.
Instead of trying to battle him for the weapon, I kick him hard in the shoulder.
His scream of pain is met with my own yell.
“Atom!”
I grab the weapon and fire it straight into the skull of the man who dared to hold a gun to mine.
“Fucker.” I fire three rounds into him, then aim the gun straight at Lev’s forehead.
“Don’t even think about moving.”
Atom charges into the room, weapon drawn, his face intense.
“Zakharov.”
Knowing that I have a weapon trained on Lev, Atom holsters his weapon.
Blood seeps through Lev’s sling, which suggests that my shot the other day not only hit, but did the kind of damage that required surgery.
“We got him,” I say.
Ignoring the injury, Atom hoists Lev onto a chair, then punches his face so hard that he rocks straight off it.
The gun fight carries on around us, but we have to trust our brothers can take care of themselves.
“Fuck you,” Lev cries.
“My family will kill you for this.”
“Yeah,” I say.
“But you’ll be too dead to see it.”
Atom chuckles and pulls Lev back onto the chair, only to punch him straight back off it.
“Getting knocked to the ground gets old, doesn’t it?” Atom asks.
Lev groans and manages to roll onto his knees.
“Get back on the fucking chair,” I say.
“It’ll hurt more if I have to do it.”
Clumsily, he stumbles to his feet, and this time, I whip out a zip tie and fasten his hands behind his back.
As I do, more gunfire breaks out in the house.
“He’s all yours,” I tell Atom, as I retrieve my own weapon and run into the hallway.
“Fuck, no!” I hear Wraith yell.
“Butcher.”
My heart sinks, and I run in the direction of the raised voices.
Wraith stands over Butcher’s body, firing at the man I’m guessing took the shot.
There’s pure venom in his expression as he empties a full clip into the man, who flails as he falls to the ground.
I slide to my knees by Wraith’s feet and press my fingertips to Butcher’s neck.
“There’s a pulse,” I say to Wraith.
But the pools of blood forming on his shoulder and abdomen don’t look good.
One glance tells me there’s more blood than I’m capable of stopping with my emergency triage skills.
“Get him out of here,” Wraith says.
Despite my own injuries, I manage to get Butcher up over my shoulder.
Carrying Johnny out of the fire comes flashing to memory, but it doesn’t control how I feel.
I don’t panic; I stride.
I can’t control Butcher’s destiny.
All I can do is increase his chances.
His breathing is raspy, a strange gurgling sound.
Two prospects stand guard over the van.
It was a precaution to have it with us, since most of us brought our bikes.
“Keys. Quick,” I say.
They unlock the door, and I fumble Butcher into the front passenger seat.
I shove my hand into his pocket and remove his keys.
“Take his bike back,” I say to the first prospect.
“And take mine too.” I hand over my keys to the second.
Then, I remove Butcher’s cut, his wallet, weapon, and his rings.
Anything that will readily identify him as an Outlaw.
He needs help, not a life sentence in prison if they’re able to link what happened tonight to us.
I jump in the driver’s side and careen away from Zakharov’s house, thinking through where I’m taking him.
“Smoke,” Butcher croaks.
“Hold on, Prez. I’ve got you. We’ll get you help.”
I wish I had blue lights so the fucking flashy car in front of me would do what its designer intended and put his fucking foot to the floor or move out of the goddamn way.
“No,” Butcher says. “Not…safe.”
My heart races in my chest. “Yeah, Butcher. Better you’re alive for another day.”
He gingerly shakes his head.
Eyes closed. Face screwed up in pain.
“Can’t face…a cage. Tell Em…Tell her I love her.”
“Fuck you, Butcher. You aren’t dying. Not to-fucking-day.”
As I approach the emergency room, I see an ambulance ahead of me.
Blue lights flashing.
Must be headed where I’m headed.
I speed up, following it as it cuts through traffic.
“Don’t…do this…” Butcher gasps.
“And what’s the alternative, Prez? Sitting in the van while you struggle to breathe.”
I pull into the hospital parking lot, ready to abandon the van if I have to carry him into the goddamn hospital.
Leaving the engine running, I run to the other side of the vehicle to grab Butcher.
“No,” he says, trying to reach for the door so I’m unable to get him out.
“What the hell are you doing?” a woman asks.
Her white-blonde hair is pulled back in a tight bun.
She’s dressed in scrubs, but it’s clear from her face that she was in the middle of some crying fit.
“You’re going to kill him, jostling him around like that.”
“You a doctor?” I ask.
“Was,” she says. “He’s bleeding out. Lie him down. Keep him right there.”
“No,” Butcher growls.
“No hospital. I’ll…pay you.”
I grab Butcher’s hand.
“Let her do what she needs to.”
With a mercenary look in her eye, she looks at Butcher.
“One hundred thousand dollars, and you won’t have to step inside.”
“Done,” Butcher says.
“Fuck me,” I mutter.
After running to a car two spaces down, the woman returns with a thick T-shirt and leggings.
“Doesn’t need a change of clothes, Doc.”
But she doesn’t even blink.
She presses the T-shirt to Butcher’s stomach.
“Press down on that.”
Then, she wraps the leggings over his shoulder and beneath his arm.
“Fuck.” Butcher hisses as she tightens it.
She dangles her keys in my direction.
“What proof do I have that you’ll pay me?”
“What proof do I have you won’t kill him?” I ask.
She huffs. “I spent my entire life, this far, trying to become the best possible doctor I could be. Would be a shame to kill someone now.”
“When you get back, I’ll get your details. Now, go do whatever the fuck you were about to.”
“Put him in my car while I’m gone.” She hurries to her car, shakes out the contents of her gym bag, then runs back into the hospital.
“This is gonna hurt, Butcher,” I say, lifting him off the ground.
He manages to stumble with me to the car and wheezes when he drops into the seat.
“You sure she’s a doctor?” Butcher asks.
“That’s what the ID on her lanyard says. You sure you don’t want me to take you inside?” I ask.
Butcher shakes his head.
“Too obvious. You need to…get the fuck out of here. Quinn’s…waiting.”
“They’re dead,” I say to Butcher.
“Zakharov and one of his men that I know of.”
He nods, then pats my cheek.
“Good job…brother.”
When she returns, she’s sweating, her face red.
But the bag is full.
“Got what you need?” I ask.
She nods.
I snatch the ID from around her neck.
Dr. Greer Hanson. “If you don’t save him, I’ll find you and kill you.”
“If you don’t deliver the money when I’m done, I’ll find you and kill you too. Now get out of my way.”
I stand back and let her get in the car.
But before I let them pull out of the lot, I make sure Butcher has his weapons and phone back.
“Call me. Let me know you’re okay.”
“Lie…low. Few days,” he says.
Dr. Hanson dips her head so she can see me through the passenger window.
“He’s going to be out as soon as I get him home. He’ll message when he can, but be prepared to wait six to eight hours.”
“Not waiting that long. If he can’t, press his finger to his phone to open it, and message me, Smoke. I’m in his contacts. Look at something you shouldn’t, I’ll kill you.”
“Understood.” With that, she starts the car and drives away.
The parking attendant for the lot strides towards me, but I quickly jump into the van.
Wondering if I just did the right thing.
I hang the lanyard over the rearview mirror and head for home.
When I return to the clubhouse an hour later, I see all the bikes out front, including my own.
As I reach for the lanyard, there’s a message on my phone from Butcher.
Butcher: He’ll make it.
He’s recovering now.
He’ll make it.
He’ll .
It’s from Dr. Hanson.
I let out a whoosh of air.
I still have a lot of questions for Dr. Greer Hanson.
Like, why was she crying?
And why did she say she was a doctor while standing in the middle of a hospital parking lot in scrubs?
But Butcher’s alive.
And that’s all that matters.
Me: Keep him that way, and I’ll see you get what we agreed.
When I step inside, the tone is muted, but Quinn runs straight at me.
“Easy, sugar,” I say when she wraps her arms around me.
“How’s my dad?” Ember asks, worry written all over her face.
“Being taken care of discretely by a Dr. Hanson,” I say.
“He’s going to make it.”
The word filters through the club, and the mood changes immediately.
Loud music starts, and I look over Quinn’s head to Wraith.
“All good?”
He nods.
“Everything.”
I read between the lines.
Everything we intended is done.
We took down their leadership, their premises, and their soldiers in one night.
As the party begins in earnest, I look down at Quinn and cup her cheeks.
Without saying a word, I kiss her.
The sweetest welcome-home kiss ever.
“We’re safe?” she says, finally.
“Yeah, sugar. We’re safe.”
She nods.
“You need to shower.”
I look down at my bloodstained clothes.
“Sorry about…”
“Don’t apologize.” She places her hand over my patch.
“It’s who we are. You just need to tell me what you need from me tonight to forget about it.”
The last band around my heart snaps.
“You, Quinn. It’s always been you.”