“Let me look,” I direct, and the prospect slides out of the way.
From behind and above, I hear Thor snap out instructions, “Check the perimeter, make sure he’s alone. Bolt, check the bike for explosives.” I’m not the only one thinking the injured man could be a distraction.
Is he playing possum?
Knowing Thor will have my back if he is, I lean forward and place my fingers to the pulse in the neck of the man who’s so still. I’m not surprised that Brute thinks he could be dead. As I feel the very faint beat, I know he’s still alive, but possibly not for much longer. The pulse is weak, bradycardic. Still measuring the beats, I examine the body. It’s twisted, broken. Some of it no doubt from the crash, but with my expert eyes I see there are too many injuries to have only just happened. In the light spilling out from the clubhouse behind, it’s clear some of the bruises on the man’s face are yellowing. His jaw is swollen, and one eye’s firmly shut, the other only just open and blood’s obscuring his features. This man has been badly beaten.
“Bike’s clean.” Bolt reassures me we’re not at risk of being blown up in an explosion. “He breathing?”
“Barely.”
“Need a bus?”
I make another assessment. Could we call in our friendly doc and have him check over the intruder? It’s apparent that the answer is no, this man’s hanging onto life by a thread. “Yeah.” If any man ever did, this one needs serious medical attention. That’s if we want to keep him alive and find out what the hell has disturbed our evening.
Is he a messenger bringing something to tell us, or, maybe, he’s the message itself? But he’s not one of us, though I only know that because we’re all present and accounted for. This man is a stranger. With his facial injuries and his body lying so crooked, it’s hard to tell if he’s tall or short. Even if I’d met him before, I’d have difficulty making an identification.
“Recognise him?” Thor asks, sinking to his haunches by my side with his knees cracking nosily. He certainly does not, as he starts searching gingerly through his pockets. He brings out a driver’s licence.
The denial I was about to voice fades from my lips when something catches my eye. My breath hitches and reaching out, I peel back the collar of the injured man’s jacket, recognising a jagged lightning tat. “God-fucking-dammit. It’s fucking Stormy!”
“You sure?” Thor sounds incredulous as he rocks back. “Stormy?”
“I’m sure. See that tat? That’s his.”
“Jesus H Christ.”
“Stormy?” Bolt roars. “He dead or dying?”
I stand. Honestly, if I was going to try to do anything like stem the blood flow, I’d be hard pressed to know where to start. As it is, my own hands are already bloody. I wipe them off on my jeans. “Almost the first, probably the last,” I reply.
“You think we should move him?” Preacher asks, looking dubiously down at the body.
“Nah.” Thor rises to his feet. “He’s smashed up pretty bad. We’ll wait for the paramedics to get here.” He glares down. “If we want to find out what the fuck’s going on, we’ll just have to hope they can patch him up and get him talking.”
The way Stormy’s looking though, I wouldn’t waste betting any money he’s going to make it.
The VP glances down at the licence he holds in his hand. “He’s travelling undercover. This says he’s Jeremiah Briggs.”
“Stolen?” Prez having just arrived, steps up and asks. “Are you certain,” he glances dubiously down at the body, “that it’s really him?”
“Nah, not stolen. And yeah, it’s Stormy. The photo is of him.” Thor hands it to Snatcher. “It’s a good fake.”
Fuck it, Stormy. Why come back like this? One thing I don’t like is mysteries, well, when I can’t solve them that is. If he dies right here and now, I doubt we’ll ever get to the bottom of where he’s been or who beat him so badly. Two months ago he’d walked out on the club, leaving his cut behind. We’ve been searching since then and have never found the hint of a trail leading to him.
Everyone is here now, all standing around. Rascal kneels, but makes the same assessment as I did. We might know first aid, but fuck, where do we start with a man injured within an inch of his life? Blood is flowing from multiple wounds and staining the concrete.
I roll my neck back. Catching Road’s eye, I shake my head. Why did this have to happen, and how?
Stormy’s never been a favourite of mine. Most of the time when he was here, I ignored him, and it’s safe to say there were more than a few times I actively hated him. Though he is, was a brother, I’d have given my life for his, but in his case, I wouldn’t have done so gladly. Stormy was an objectionable ass. There had been nothing, in my view, to redeem him.
He nearly lost the club its charter.
Accepting there’s nothing I can do now, I go to Road and lean into him, feeling his arm come supportively around me, while in my head I go back in time to that meeting with Drummer, the prez of the mother chapter of the Satan’s Devils, and three other prezes of the club. Of course it sticks in my memory, it was also the meeting where it was accepted that I, as a female of exceptional calibre, would be allowed to be a full member. It had been touch and go at first. I’d spent a soul-destroying half-hour thinking I was going to be kicked out.
I’d then been relieved that it had been decided Stormy’s crimes were all his and not sanctioned by the Utah chapter. His punishment? Well, that might have been my suggestion. I thought he deserved to be hit where it hurts. Drummer had quickly agreed to my proposal. Stormy was to be busted back down to prospect for six months and was to receive a beatdown. But instead of waiting to take his punishment for the wrongs he had done to the Satan’s Devils, Stormy had run. In doing so, he’d committed the major offence of disrespecting his cut and leaving it behind.
As enforcer, I’d wanted him dead. Such disregard to his brothers could mean he was a danger to the club. But others were more understanding and prepared to give him space and time to get his head around his sentence. They were convinced that he’d return and do his penance like a man.
However, as days, then weeks passed with no sign, those periods of seven days had all added up until finally they became a month, and that quickly became two. We had to face that we’d harboured a coward within our ranks.
Of course we’d tried to locate him, but even with all the technical skills at our disposal, no trace of him could be found. I’d started to side with those who thought him dead already, his bike run off the road, his body waiting to be discovered.
Bolt held out that he’d left the country.
Stormy might have been gone, his absence an embarrassment to the club, but that wasn’t all. The Utah chapter itself was on probation, and that we failed to locate one of our own was met with suspicion. Snatcher, our prez, had had his work cut out convincing Drummer we weren’t lying, and we weren’t giving shelter to a man who disrespected the Satan’s Devils’ patch.
Goddamn it, Stormy. You’ve got to wake up and give us answers, or else Drummer could dissolve our chapter.
As I tense, Road tightens his arms around me.