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“Next time, you can get shot.”
Men stream out of the clubhouse, guns drawn.
King is the first to reach us. “What the fuck happened?”
“Someone tried to kill me,” answers Dane, looking down at me. “But Dirt took the bullet.”
“Who?” asks King.
Dane shakes his head and gestures toward the prone form on the ground. “The piece of shit over there.”
“Help me to my feet, Prez.”
King and Dane place a hand under each of my arms, helping me stand. The throbbing pain in my shoulder intensifies, and blood begins to flow more freely down my front.
“King, lead me to your medic.”
“You’re a tough old bastard, aren’t you, Dirt?”
“You have no fucking idea. This happened on your watch. Don’t think I won’t be looking for compensation from your chapter.”
His eyebrows go up in surprise, and I glance at Dane, who’s smirking.
“He has a point, King.”
On my own steam, I walk into the clubhouse. One of the club’s girls takes one look at me and points to a door. “Keep walking toward the door in the back. I’ll be with you in a minute.”
This clubhouse is all tacky carpet and chrome, so different to our home in Tourmaline. When I walk through the door, I’m surprised to see no carpet or chrome. The woman from out front catches up with me.
“What?” she asks.
“It’s like night and day.”
Smiling, she points to another door. “Yeah, out there is for the tourists… back here is for the Savage Angels.” She walks ahead of me and opens the door. “I’m Katalyst, your friendly medic, and my ol’ man is Havoc.”
“I’m Dirt. Medic? You ex-army?”
“Guilty as charged.”
I sit in a chair. “Me too.”
Katalyst opens a drawer and pulls out a pair of scissors.
“You’re not cutting anything off me. It’s a through and through.” Grunting in pain, I slip off my cut and pull my T-shirt over my head with one hand.
She puts the scissors down, puts gloves on, and presses on my wound.
“Fuck me sideways,” I say through gritted teeth.
“You’re right. It’s a through and through. Doesn’t feel like you’ve broken anything.” Katalyst’s gloved hands work quickly as she applies pressure to the wound.
Antiseptic meets torn flesh, and a hiss escapes me. Katalyst skillfully dresses the wound, the sterile bandage turning crimson as she works.
“I’m going to need you to lie down so I can clean and sew you up.” She pulls off her gloves, opens another drawer, and puts a sterile paper cloth over a bed.
With effort, I stand and lay down as she puts on another set of gloves and places everything she needs on a tray.
Katalyst carefully unwraps the dressing from my shoulder, revealing the ragged entry and exit points of the bullet. Her brow is furrowed, her eyes narrowing in concentration. She reaches for a basin filled with sterile saline solution, the liquid catching the dim light as she moistens a sterile cloth.
