Blood (Kings if Sin MC #1)

12. Death wish

CHAPTER 12

DEATH WISH

D ropping to my knees in front of Kitty, I try to move her hands away to look at the wound, but she’s strong. “Let me see.” My head spins as movement from the door catches my attention. The pistol guy is propped up against the door with a knife in his chest.

“Cutter threw his blade at him, but he got a shot off before it hit its target.” Kitty jerks her head between Cutter and the pistol guy.

“That’s a cop’s son,” Winslow calls out, his words a gurgled shriek. His shrill cries send chills down my spine.

“We need to get him to a hospital.” Kitty ignores the new information and focuses on Cutter. His breathing is raspy. His eyes flutter.

“No,” Callan and Cutter bark in unison. “Bullet wounds—they have to report them to the police.”

“Fuck that, Callan. He’ll die!” Kitty shrieks, her eyes blazing. Blood oozes from the wound, squelching against her fingers.

Snapping my fingers in front of her face to focus her attention, I say, “I can help him. Let me see.” My tone confident despite my heart racing and mind fighting to make sense of what’s happening. Prying her fingers away from his stomach, I lift his shirt. The circular hole weeps a scarlet river. My fingers feel around to his back. “No exit wound.”

“Fuck,” Callan growls. He runs his hand through his hair, pacing next to us.

“What does that mean?” Kitty pleads, tears leaking from her eyes. Cutter strains to reach up to wipe them, but his hand falls away and he winces in pain.

My mouth dries, my tongue sticking to my teeth. I attempt to keep the wobble from my voice. “Means the bullet is inside him. We need to see where it is.” I look to Callan, attempting to convey with my eyes the seriousness of the situation. “Now,” I mouth only to him.

“We have the equipment at the club.” He nods. “Call the doc and get the car as close to the door as possible.”

“Tim drove us,” she stutters, her chin trembling.

I rip off my sweater and wrap it around Cutter’s body to stem the bleeding. Checking his pulse, I gently smack his cheek. “Hey asshole, look at me.”

He coughs, trying to chuckle. “You going to fix me, Princess?”

“You bet your ass I am. Then you’ll owe me twice.”

“Take my truck.” Ray throws the keys at Callan, who drops them to Kitty. They almost slide out of her hands, there’s so much blood. That’s normal for a gunshot wound , I reassure myself. I’ve seen a few. I’ve never had to doctor one, but I suppose it was bound to happen at some point.

“I don’t want to leave him.” Her face pinches, her eyes closing.

Gripping her shoulders, I force her to look at me. “He’ll be okay. Go get the truck so we can get him to the clubhouse.”

A new focus comes into her eyes. She darts to her feet and out the door. Callan goes over to the man against the door and heaves the knife from his chest. The squelch roils my stomach. Callan rips the mask from the guy’s head and grips his jaw.

“Was he lying about you being a cop’s kid?” He looks to be in his late twenties. Bags under his eyes. A scruffy beard. Greasy hair. Callan pats down his pockets and comes up empty.

Shaking his head, the guy says, “No, my dad’s a cop.” Blood soaks his entire torso. He wheezes, a death rattle in his chest. “Help me.”

“There’s no mercy for crimes against the Kings.” Without hesitation, Callan drags the blade across the man’s throat. Blood squirts like ketchup squeezed from a bottle, painting Callan’s face. He looks like a psychopath. There’s no emotion in his eyes, just black pits of hell. Without pause, Callan moves to Winslow.

“Don’t kill me, please don’t kill me,” he pleads for his life, screaming as he rips his hand through the blade to free it from the bar. I’m surprised he’s still conscious. No doubt high on adrenaline. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, please.” His body slumps to the floor, and he attempts to drag himself in the opposite direction from the killer stalking him. With almost unnatural strength, Callan stabs the blade through the side of his skull.

The thud as his head hits the floor makes me flinch. Callan retrieves a wallet from Winslow’s pocket and takes a photo of his ID. Turning to Ray, he barks, “They broke in while you were closing and turned on each other when they realized there was no safe or money.” Callan wipes down the handle of the blade and points to Cutter’s blood puddling on the wood floor. “Clean that for me before the police get here.”

“Of course. Go,” Ray demands, shooing him toward the front door.

“I’ll take his legs,” I say as Callan bends down in front of Cutter. His features soften as he inspects me. “I’m good, I promise.”

“I can stand,” Cutter croaks, his face pale, limbs sagging.

“No, you can’t. We need as little movement as possible. On three.”

“Three,” Callan says, lifting nearly all of Cutter’s weight. I struggle with his legs, almost slipping in the blood. Kitty yanks the door wide open and helps me with Cutters legs. It’s dark, and the streets are empty. We feed Cutter into the back seat of the truck pulled almost to the bar. His groans of pain make Kitty cuss.

“We’re in. Go,” I tell them, climbing in with Cutter. I squeeze in beside him and hold my hand to his stomach, putting nearly all my weight on his wound. “You’re going to be fine,” I soothe, but I’m terrified. I have no idea how bad this is.

“I called the doc. He’s in surgery.” Kitty scrubs her hands down her face, flakes of blood sticking to her skin. My heart pounds. We can’t wait . “Maybe we just go to the hospital and say it was an accident or a drive-by,” Kitty says, talking a mile a minute.

“That fucker is a cop’s kid. The bullet is probably from a cop’s gun. We can’t risk that,” Callan snaps. The way he’s driving, we’re probably going to get pulled over anyway.

“So, we risk him dying?” Kitty smacks at her brother.

“Stop it,” he bellows. “I’ll fucking crash, then we’ll all be dead.”

“We can’t let him die, Callan.” Her voice is deathly quiet.

“If we take him to hospital and he lives, he goes to jail for life—if they let it get that far. Use your fucking head, Kitty.”

“I can do it,” I shout over their noise. My legs want to flee, but my heart won’t allow it. I rub my free hand down my jeans, trying to clean some of the blood off so I can get a decent read on his pulse. It’s not strong, but not weak either.

“What?” Kitty blurts turning her body to look at me. The walls push in on us, dread drenching the air we’re breathing.

I nod my head in assurance, “I can help him. I’ve done this before. Well…on animals.” I state, a slight wobble in my voice.

“Animals with bullet wounds?” Callan asks, looking back at me.

“Um…no, but I’ve performed surgery. I can do this.” You can do this .

“Are you sure?” A tear leaks from one of Kitty’s eyes.

“Let her do it,” Cutter groans, his eyes drooping.

“Goddammit,” Callan yells, smashing his fist against the dashboard.

“It will be okay,” I say, hoping it’s true. An ominous silence falls over us, the hum of the engine and soft drone of passing vehicles is deafening.

Yanking his phone from his pocket, Callan hands it to Kitty. “Call the club. Tell them to get ready.”

* * *

Pulling up to the gates, both guards aim their weapons toward the car. Callan rolls the window down and hangs out of it, shouting for them to open the gates. He drives around the side of the buildings to a side entrance. Brothers already waiting with a gurney race up to the truck. The truck door swings open, and I climb out. They quickly move Cutter out and onto the gurney with ease.

“Everything is waiting in the doc’s room,” Dodger assures Callan, slapping him on the back. “Do we need to go take care of anyone?” he asks.

“No, but there might be some cleanup that Ray needs help with. Call him, but don’t show up in case someone heard the shots and called the police.”

“On it, Pres.” Callan flinches, but doesn’t correct him. Pulling his phone out, Callan approaches another brother and shows him the picture he took.

“Find out everything there is to know about him.” Callan gets a firm nod in response, and the brothers all move into action.

“Do you really think you can do this?” Kitty asks, following me into the room they have set up. It’s like a doctor’s office. Medical equipment is set out on clean white countertops. There’s cabinet with medications inside. Nausea threatens my stomach when too many people follow us into the room, all eyes watching me.

Running to the medicine cabinet, I rummage through the materials and collect a bowl, swabs, and a scalpel, just in case. A bottle of morphine catches my eye, and I snatch it up along with a syringe.

They lift Cutter onto a surgical table and push the gurney out of the room. “Take the bandage away,” I order them, washing my hands in a little basin in the corner of the room. Please let me be able to help him .

“Do you know your blood type?” I ask him, but he’s not responding.

“He’s losing consciousness, Doc,” Daddy points out.

“I’m not a doctor.” I hold my hands up, my heart beating frantically, my mind clouding. “Put the gloves on me, Kitty.”

“What the fuck are you then?” I hear, though I don’t see who asks.

“A vet. I need room,” I state, inspecting the wound. It’s angry, but hasn’t started to swell. The blood is slowing to a weep.

“Out,” Callan barks, gesturing to the door, his voice bouncing around the room.

“Do you have blood here?” I ask.

“O positive. I think.” Callan nods to someone out of view.

“Great,” I tell him with a smile meant to reassure him, but inside I’m screaming. “We might need some of that.”

“If not, that’s our blood type,” Kitty announces.

“Great. Don’t go anywhere.”

I tap Cutter’s arm to find a vein, and then inject him with the morphine. “I need him still. I’ve dosed him, but just in case, Callan, I’ll need you to hold his shoulders. Kitty, hold his legs.” I rip the scalpel from its packaging, placing the scalpel into a bowl, and swab around the wound to clean it. “I need forceps or something to grab the bullet if I need to get it out.”

“There’s, like, these tweezer things I saw.” Kitty rushes over to the counter and grabs them. “These?” She holds up small forceps.

“Perfect.”

“Wait—what do you mean, ‘if’?”

“If it’s not doing further damage, it can stay in there,” I inform her. “I’m going to put my finger inside to see what we’re looking at,” I say out loud so it doesn’t feel so daunting. Their attention is so intently trained on me, I feel the weight of the world pushing down.

Please don’t die .

Strengthening my backbone, I push my finger inside the wound. Cutter flinches and grunts, making my stomach stir, but my hands are steady. “Hold him down,” I warn as I go deeper. Cutter’s body tenses, his legs jerking, trying to coil upward. Kitty lays across them, keeping them down. He wails an agonized growl then passes out. Soft, warm, wet tissue is all I feel. No pulsing.

“I can’t find the bullet. If it traveled, it could be lodged anywhere.” Sweat beads across my brow.

“He looks really pale,” Kitty cries out, lifting off his legs and pacing the floor.

“He lost a lot of blood, but his body will make more.” Just when I’m about to give up hope of finding the bullet my finger scrapes against something foreign. A hard little nugget. “I think I found it.” I gasp, pulling my finger out, and shining the overhead light in the hole. “Lucky bastard,” I breathe, “It’s okay. It went in a straight line. Nothing important has been hit.” He’ll live. He’ll live.

“Are you going to get the bullet out?” Kitty asks.

“No, I don’t want to risk fucking around in there when he can live with it just fine. I need to sew him up and get antibiotics into him.” Callan grasps my face and pushes his lips to mine before releasing me. He then bends to drop a kiss on Cutter’s head, and then then Kitty’s. “We stopped the bleeding with the pressure. That saved his life,” I breathe.

“You saved his life,” Kitty sobs, throwing her arms around me.

“We don’t know that,” I say. I want to cry, but I hold it together.

“Yes, we do.” Kitty’s eyes glass over. “Thank you.”

“I need to get him stitched up.”

Callan brings over a suture kit and places it on the table beside me. “We go through a lot of these.” He runs his bloody hands through his hair, leaving it sticking up all over his head. There’s dried and flaking blood splattered all over his face. He looks like an artist or a serial killer back from a spree.

“You okay?” he asks me with a frown for the millionth time.

“Yeah, it’s been a lot.” I smile without humor, my body starting to uncoil. Opening the kit, I begin sewing Cutter up.

“He will have a cool scar to boast about.” Kitty laughs, but it turns into a sob.

“You’re okay. He’s okay,” Callan reassures her, pulling her into his arms.

“I know. It’s just so fucking crazy—a robbery!” She throws her hands up. “It’s so random and doesn’t seem real. Especially after Dad.” She sniffles into Callan’s shirt.

“Was your dad random too?” I ask, not looking up at them.

“He was found shot. Three times. Two to the stomach. Once to the chest. He was left by his bike in the middle of fucking nowhere.” She curls into her brother’s chest.

“What was he doing out in the middle of nowhere?” My hands tremble a little, making Cutter’s sutures not nearly as pretty as he is.

“We don’t know. Meeting someone we think.” Callan’s gaze burns into me, and I turn to look up at him.

“No suspects have been arrested?”

Kitty scoffs, pushing off her brother. “The cops wouldn’t have a chance to figure it out before we do. Any attack on one of us is an attack on all of us. Dirt is the only prison we offer.”

“I wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side.” I turn my eyes to her briefly.

“Oh, Rogue, you’re one of us now. We’re bonded for life. We’ve spilled blood together.” She reaches for my hand as I step away from Cutter, finished.

Callan tucks a finger beneath my chin, turning my head toward him. “She’s right. You’re a King now.”