Page 101 of Ordinary Girl

I turn my head for a second, to see Renard in a heap in the doorway. Skip must’ve taken him out, but right now I don’t give a fuck about him.

“You told me she knew what she had to do.”

“She wasn’t meant to be here…” I repeat, dropping to my knees, blood pooling around me, and I don’t know if it’s Renard’s or hers and I don’t know what the fuck to do next. It’s like I’m suddenly frozen, unable to move.

I look over at Skip, he’s on the phone, he’s making sure this mess is cleaned up… I can’t think straight, and I’m trying so hard not to let the fear spill out of me as I frantically try to find out if she’s still breathing: where the blood is coming from…

“You weren’t supposed to be fucking here, Ana…”

“Get her in the car,” Skip says, his voice calm, because someone needs to be. “Now, Joel!”

I gather her up in my arms and we leave through the back door, Skip first, he’s making sure nobody is watching. If anybody sees us…

“Wait a second.” Skip holds up a hand, his gaze focused on a man walking past, his head bent down over his phone.

“Come on, Skip,” I hiss as I cradle Ana’s limp body.

“Okay. Let me go first. Wait for my signal.” He walks out through the back gate and down the path, calmly but quickly, flinging open the back door of the car and signaling to me to run, which I do, as fast as I fucking can, Skip pulling away as soon as I close the door.

“What the fuck happened in there?” Skip asks as we drive away from the cul-de-sac, past a dark blue Kia going in the other direction, Skip nodding as we pass it. The cleaners are here.

“I don’t know. She wasn’t meant to be there.”

“So you keep saying.”

“This wasn’t my fucking fault, Skip!” I find a pulse, and it’s faint, but it’s enough to make me feel relief. “She’s still alive.”

Skip briefly glances back over his shoulder, and I can see the relief on his face, too. The realization that Ana nearly met the same fate as her mama, we’re both feeling that.

“We’ll take her to Mads. Try and avoid any hospital visits,” Skip says, pulling out his phone.

Mads Frederiksen. A doctor who’s been on the club’s payroll for over a decade and a man who’s saved many of us more than once.

“We can do without any extra heat on us.” Skip checks his watch. “We should be getting word back from Wade.”

The hit on the Blackhawks’ clubhouse is about to happen. And that is not going to go unnoticed. Unlike the execution of Emil Renard and Linus Bagdonas, an entire clubhouse being taken down in the middle of the day, that’s going to attract attention. And that attention is going to fall on us, so we need to make sure that’s the only shit we’re dealing with. We’re ready for that. What we’re not ready for are any curveballs. But I’ve just thrown one.

“Jesus, Ana, why the fuck can’t you just do as you’re fucking told…” I murmur under my breath as I stare down at her face, it’slike all the blood’s drained out of her, but she’s still warm. And all I can do is hold her close, we’re almost at Mads’.

“Where did you hit her?” Skip asks as we pull up to an unassuming, white-brick building next to a narrow alleyway.

“Her hip, I think. I’m not sure.”

“Where’s the fucking blood coming from, Joel!”

Skip’s voice is becoming more agitated, and it’s not helping. I fucked up, I get it, but it wasn’t my fucking fault.

I feel around Ana’s torso, and when I bring my hand up it’s covered in blood, and I feel a fresh wave of panic wash over me. “She’s bleeding from her waist. I must’ve nicked her side, I can’t tell exactly where from here.”

Skip swings right and drives a little way up the alleyway that’s only just wide enough to get the car through, stopping in front of a red front door with no number or markings of any description on it.

“Get her inside,” he instructs, opening the back door, and I tighten my grip on Ana as I climb out, the red door opening the second Skip slams the car door shut.

“Stay with me, Ana,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady as we run up a steep flight of stairs, the smell of antiseptic and bleach filling my nostrils, so strong it’s almost unbearable.

“Get her on the table,” Mads instructs as he ushers us into a bright white room with no windows and walls lined with metal shelving housing all kinds of medical equipment. In the center is a long, wide trolley, and I lay Ana down as gently as I can and take a reluctant step back while Skip explains everything to Mads.

“How long ago did it happen?” Mads asks as he pulls on latex gloves.

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