I expected to spend my first free day after completing my final exams in bed with Logan, relaxing and staying under the covers until well past noon.
Instead, I was roused out of bed early by a frantic phone call from Gemma. She mentioned something about Tara getting a death threat and instructed me and Logan to get to the compound at once.
Althought Logan was unhappy about the arrangement, we did as Gemma requested—mostly to get her off our back.
Stepping out of the Teller-Morrow office, I watched several vehicles and bikes pull into the compound.
"They're here." I announced.
Gemma and Tara followed me out of the office, the doctor holding her medical bag. I trailed after the women, who headed straight for the clubhouse.
"Where's Jax?" asked Tara as we passed Clay.
"Went after the shooter." he answered. We stopped walking and looked at him.
"What shooter?" questioned Gemma.
Her inquiry went unanswered, as Bishop and Taza got out of a blue pick-up truck and helped an injured Alvarez get out.
"Jesus," muttered Tara. "Get him into the clubhouse."
The Mayans did as instructed and it wasn't long before we had Alvarez laying down on the redwood table in the chapel, the left side of his chest exposed as Tara assessed the damage done to his shoulder.
Taza and Bishop guarded the doors of the chapel, watching the doctor closely. Chibs has scrubbed in on the surgery, putting on a pair of latex gloves and standing by to assist as needed.
I timidly approached the open chapel doors, leaning my shoulder against the doorframe.
"Anyone need anything?" I offered, wishing to feel useful. The two Mayans shook their heads, their eyes on their president.
"You got a joint, lass?" inquired Chibs, looking at me.
"Mhm. Lemme get it." I walked over to the bar, which turned into a makeshift gallery from which SAMCRO watched the surgery.
Grabbing my purse from the counter, I browsed through it for my pack of cigarettes. Opening it, I pulled out my second to last joint.
Tossing the bag onto the counter, I walked into the chapel. I passed the joint to Chibs, who swiftly lit it and handed it to Alvarez--but not before taking a drag, himself.
"Here, man, that'll help."
Marcus thanked him, taking a drag of the blunt. His breath was coming in fast and heavy, and his hand was shaking.
He was afraid. Afraid he was going to die.
"Hey, you'll be okay." I assured, hoping to ease his fears.
Marcus exhaled sharply. "You know the first thing about medicine, Theo?"
"I sure know a lot about emergency room treatments of gunshot wounds."
"Oh yeah? How's that?"
"Grey's Anatomy." I said proudly.
The Mayan president mustered a small, forced smile.
"My wife watches that shit."
The remark made me chuckle and earned a smile from Bishop and Taza. The doctor switched places with the Scot, instructing him to keep pressure on the wound. She looked through her bag, no doubt looking for a local anesthetic.
I faintly hear Ope and Bobby announce they are leaving to look for Lyla and bring her to the compound for the lockdown. Clay and Tig walked into the chapel. They were soon followed in by Juice, who headed to the armored safe.
"You got any idea who this was?" asked Clay.
"Some guy that wanted me dead." replied Alvarez, taking another hit of the joint.
"Well, he almost got his wish. Two more inches, he would've hit an artery." commented Tara, filling a syringe with the anesthetic. She approached the table and leaned down over Alvarez.
"It's a local. It'll help a little." she told him, injecting the syringe into his shoulder. Marcus sighed quietly, thanking her.
"I've got some oxycodone." I admitted.
"Where they hell did you get oxy from?" questioned Tig, putting his hands on his hips.
"You really wanna know?"
"Yer knee givin' you trouble?" asked Chibs, frowning.
"Every time it rains."
"Is that the only reason you take it?" wondered Tara, making me narrow my eyes at her.
"Don't you worry about me, Dr. Knowles." I gave her a forced smile, walking out of the chapel. Grabbing my purse, I dimly registered Tara following me out of the chapel and heading into the kitchen.
"Will he be okay?" spoke up Chucky, appearing behind the counter.
"I hope so."
"I can see you care about him."
I smiled a little. "I used to date his son."
Giving Chucky a thumbs up, I made the kitchen my next stop. Gazing at Tara, I grabbed a bottle of cold water from the fridge.
"Jax will be okay." I assured.
Tara sighed. "You don't know that."
Shaking my head, I walked back into the chapel. Tara followed me, grabbing a pair of gloves on the way.
"No," spoke Clay, referring to a part of conversation I had missed. "this is some turf shit that came over the border or Romeo would've given us the heads up."
"Targeting families is what drug cartels do." disagreed Juice.
The doctor and I both froze in our actions, exchanging a single look with each other.
Drug cartels?
Seeing the effect Juice's words had on us, the men did not say anything in response.
Tara's face was set as she snapped on her gloves, now more on edge than before.
She took her place by Alvarez's side, relieving Chibs. The Scotsman's phone rang as he stepped away from the table. Taking it out of his pocket, he announced the caller to the audience before accepting the call. Jax.
I listened to Chibs's part of the conversation, approaching the table. I gave Alvarez take two oxy pills, holding the bottle for him as he watered them down.
"They're pretty strong, you shouldn't feel any pain soon." I assured him, capping the bottle.
"Thank you," he said sincerely, sighing in relief. "You didn't have to do anything for me."
"Just trying to help." I brushed it off.
"Can I talk to him?" requested Tara, looking at Chibs expectantly.
"Don't you have other things to worry about, doctor?" I asked her, cocking my head to the side.
Ignoring me, Tara requested for Gemma to come hold the phone to her ear, which she did.
Chibs excused himself, leaving to go wash up. Tara soon removed the slug out of Alvarez's shoulder, dropping the lead bullet into a bowl.
The Mayan President looked at his two men.
"Bishop, Taza, get the crew. They should be with the Sons to track those putos."
"No, no, no," butted in Clay. "You need your guys to hold down your shit. I got a call into Laroy. We're gonna handle it."
"We could call Yuma, get them up here." said Bishop.
He received a single headshake from Alvarez, which put the idea at rest.
As several Sons excited the chapel, I was right on their heels.
"Clay, I need to talk to you."
"What the hell do you want?" demanded Clay, his hostile tone not going unnoticed by the other men.
I walked into the kitchen, not answering. My stepfather followed me, glaring.
"You got till the end of the week to decide if you're going to come clean." I said in a hushed tone. "If not, I'll show the club everything."
"You think you can make demands and get away with it? Who are they going to believe?" he asked, motioning to the group of men heading out of the clubhouse. "Their President, or the spoiled princess?"
"I know who Jax is going to believe." I countered, crossing my arms.
"You do what you have to—and so will I." he said darkly, leaving the kitchen.
I stayed behind, thinking his words over.
__________
Once everyone aside from the two Mayans left Marcus's side, I made my way into the chapel.
"Coffee?" I asked, nodding down at the two steaming mugs in my hands.
"Sure, thank you." answered Taza, gently taking one of the cups from me.
"Thanks, kid." replied Bishop as I handed him the other mug.
"Nothing for me?" mustered Alvarez, slightly turning his head in my direction.
"Nope. Oh, I'll give you some oxycotone to take with you when you leave."
"No, that medication's yours."
"I think we both know I don't get it on prescription. My doctor doesn't think I need them."
"What happened to your knee?" asked Taza.
"I got shot. A ruptured patellar tendon and a scraped tibia." I explained, perching down on the edge of the redwood table.
"Club-related?" he pressed with a frown.
"Pretty much any physical harm that bestows a family member or friend is club-related," I shrugged a shoulder. "That's the life."
The men drank their caffeinated brews in silence, enjoying the calmness of the moment. Marcus's breathing was slower than before, his body under the influence of the pain-numbing drug.
I reached down to trace the smooth texture of the wooden surface of the table, racking my brain for how to approach the topic I so desperately wanted to breach.
"What is it, kid?" asked Marcus, as if reading my thoughts.
"Juice mentioned a drug cartel. Is SAMCRO doing business with them?"
The man exchanged a look with the two Mayans. He looked back at me.
"Yeah, they are. They're selling them guns."
"What about drugs? Is the club moving their product?" I questioned. Marcus didn't say anything, but the look in his eyes said it all.
I bit the inside of my cheek, not wanting to expose my genuine feelings to the men. Taking a long inhale, I slid off of the table.
"Lemme get you those pills..." I said with a sigh, shuffling out of the chapel.
Stupid Redwood idiots. They'll get themselves killed.
***
Rolling over in bed, I sat up to lean on my elbow. Gazing at Logan, I watched his face as he typed away on the laptop.
"Whatcha doin'?"
"Posting entries to a general ledger." he replied, not taking his eyes off of the screen.
"Adjusting entries?" I asked.
"That comes later."
"It's too early for accounting." I sat up, stretching my arms above my head.
Draping my legs over the edge of the bed, I reached down and grabbed my shirt off of the floor. Pulling the cotton material over my head, I got to my feet.
"Is Clay okay with you spending the night here?" voiced Logan, glancing up at me.
"I don't know and I don't care. It's not any of his business."
"Well, you're living under his roof."
I rolled my eyes. My phone vibrated, stopping me from commenting. Picking up the touchscreen phone, I read the text message.
"Who is it?" asked Logan.
"Oh, shit..." I whispered, blinking down at the screen. "I gotta go, Tara's in the hospital."
"What? Is she okay?"
"I don't know!"
I quickly got dressed, shrugging on my leather riding jacket. Picking up my helmet, I grabbed my keys.
"Wait, let me get dressed." protested Logan, in the midst of tugging on his jeans.
"Just meet me at St. Thomas." I said dismissively, rushing out of the apartment. I bounced down the stairs, bursting out the door of the small building complex.
Straddling my crimson Sportster, I fastened on the helmet and lowered the visor. Bringing the machine to life, I drove onto the road.
After several minutes I approached the last intersection before I'd have to take the ramp and get onto the Northbound CA-99.
Seeing the light at the upcoming intersection turned yellow, I sped up, hoping to make it in time.
A dark van pulled up beside me, its side door open. A masked figure stuck a crowbar out the door, sticking it right under the back wheel of my motorcycle.
The Harley jerked sharply, the engine giving a sharp cry as I lost control of the vehicle. It turned onto its side, pining my leg underneath it and dragging me with it as it scraped down the pavement of the intersection and slid right into oncoming traffic.