Everlyn
The ride to Mobile, Alabama, had been tense.
Zephyr was preoccupied. I knew he was worried about me.
I was apprehensive, but if I were dying, shouldn’t I feel worse?
I mean, sure, I still had pain, but with the medication he gave me, it took a big edge off of it.
My breathing was much better. Hell, it felt like it had improved even more.
I wasn’t having extensive bleeding. Zephyr kept checking as we sat in the backseat of the Suburban.
Allegra was in the third row of seats, hanging over the seat, constantly checking on me.
She refused to stay behind. No one argued with her.
I knew how worried this had to make her, so I didn’t snap at her to relax.
Fenrir drove, with Harbinger as his navigator.
Barbarian was in the seat with Allegra, while Plunderer sat on the other side of the second row with Zephyr and me.
They all projected hyperalertness. Their eyes constantly scanned our surroundings.
And they didn’t hide their guns. They were out and in their hands.
I knew Allegra had to have a million questions, but she was holding them in for now. When she broke, it would be like a flood. And she had seen the clubhouse, so that would be on her list, too. But I couldn’t worry about that until I knew I was going to be okay.
We made the one-hour drive in forty-five minutes.
Fenrir had a device that alerted him to the police’s location.
Plus, he had a police scanner that let him listen in on what the highway patrol, county sheriff, and local police were saying.
He switched channels as we rode from one area to the next.
Those weren’t scanners that regular citizens could get. Fenrir’s was the real deal.
The address we were given was on the outskirts of Mobile.
It turned out to be a large property that sat back from the road.
The nearest neighbors were a couple of acres away on either side of the property.
We drove up a winding driveway. The porch light and those outside the attached garage were on.
When we came to a stop, a man stepped out of the shadows. He was older, probably in his late fifties or early sixties. Zephyr didn’t waste time getting out with me in his arms. The others did the same, forming a protective circle around Allegra and us.
“Pull your vehicle into the garage in the far left door. Don’t need any nosy neighbors asking who it belongs to. Bring her this way,” the man more or less ordered.
The far garage door was open. Fenrir hesitated only a moment before getting back into the Suburban to drive it inside. The rest of us followed the doctor, not inside the house, but around the back, where we discovered a second building.
Entering it, I felt like I’d walked into a doctor’s waiting room at a clinic. We kept following the doctor and ended up in an examination area. Except this one had more equipment than Zephyr’s. I noted my man was checking things out.
“Place her here. I was told she’s been shot. I need to see the wound. And then we’ll go from there.”
“What’s your name?” I asked. I realized he hadn’t said it, and no one had mentioned it.
The doctor froze. “Sorry, I got in the zone and forgot my manners. I’m Dr. Charles Wheaton, my dear.”
“Hello, my name is…” I paused, looking at Zephyr. Should I tell him my actual name?
“Her name is Everlyn,” my man answered for me, giving me a faint smile and chin lift.
“And I’m Zephyr. These are my club brothers and her friend.
It’s a rear entry wound approximately at the ninth intercostal space posteriorly.
She has a sucking chest wound that has a chest seal on it, which has greatly helped with her breathing.
No other injuries observed. She had one Vicodin HP approximately an hour and ten minutes ago.
Pulse and blood pressure slightly elevated,” Zephyr rattled off effortlessly.
I admit his knowledge stunned me. And I wised up to the fact that I hadn’t asked him why he was the medic for his club. From what he’d done to me and said so far, combined with his care of Raider before, he knew more than basic first aid.
Dr. Wheaton scrutinized Zephyr. After several seconds, he turned to me.
“I need to see your back.”
Zephyr helped to position me on my side. A shooting arrow of pain made me flinch, but it still didn’t hurt as badly as it did earlier. As Dr. Wheaton looked at the bullet hole, he spoke.
“Where did you gain your experience? Were you a military corpsman? Paramedic?”
I watched Zephyr's gaze move from mine to the doctor's, then back. There was an apology in them. Then, Zephyr answered.
“No, I didn’t gain it in the military. And I’m not a paramedic. I studied medicine.”
“Studied but didn’t finish?” Dr. Wheaton pressed as he straightened.
There was a longer pause before Zephyr answered him.
“I finished. I have a license.”
Hearing my man admit he had a medical degree, that he was a doctor, floored me. I gasped for a different reason this time. His gaze stayed on my face.
“So you’re a doctor. Why did you come here?” Wheaton asked.
“Because I don’t have access to the equipment you do. It’s never been necessary. But with a gunshot wound, you know the scrutiny at a hospital, and they’re required to report it. We don’t want the hassle.”
As soon as he finished saying that, Zephyr said quietly to me, “I’ll explain later.”
I didn’t say anything. Instead, I closed my eyes to block out the world. It was too much to handle on top of being shot. The mysteries of Leif Halvorsen would have to wait. And so would my response to him not telling me something that big about himself.