Page 123 of The Fire We Crave

My heart sinks, and I run in the direction of the raised voices. Wraith stands over Butcher’s body, firing at the man I’m guessing took the shot. There’s pure venom in his expression as he empties a full clip into the man, who flails as he falls to the ground.

I slide to my knees by Wraith’s feet and press my fingertips to Butcher’s neck.

“There’s a pulse,” I say to Wraith. But the pools of blood forming on his shoulder and abdomen don’t look good. One glance tells me there’s more blood than I’m capable of stopping with my emergency triage skills.

“Get him out of here,” Wraith says.

Despite my own injuries, I manage to get Butcher up over my shoulder.

Carrying Johnny out of the fire comes flashing to memory, but it doesn’t control how I feel.

I don’t panic; I stride.

I can’t control Butcher’s destiny. All I can do is increase his chances.

His breathing is raspy, a strange gurgling sound.

Two prospects stand guard over the van. It was a precaution to have it with us, since most of us brought our bikes.

“Keys. Quick,” I say.

They unlock the door, and I fumble Butcher into the front passenger seat. I shove my hand into his pocket and remove hiskeys. “Take his bike back,” I say to the first prospect. “And take mine too.” I hand over my keys to the second.

Then, I remove Butcher’s cut, his wallet, weapon, and his rings. Anything that will readily identify him as an Outlaw. He needs help, not a life sentence in prison if they’re able to link what happened tonight to us.

I jump in the driver’s side and careen away from Zakharov’s house, thinking through where I’m taking him.

“Smoke,” Butcher croaks.

“Hold on, Prez. I’ve got you. We’ll get you help.”

I wish I had blue lights so the fucking flashy car in front of me would do what its designer intended and put his fucking foot to the floor or move out of the goddamn way.

“No,” Butcher says. “Not…safe.”

My heart races in my chest. “Yeah, Butcher. Better you’re alive for another day.”

He gingerly shakes his head. Eyes closed. Face screwed up in pain. “Can’t face…a cage. Tell Em…Tell her I love her.”

“Fuck you, Butcher. You aren’t dying. Not to-fucking-day.”

As I approach the emergency room, I see an ambulance ahead of me. Blue lights flashing. Must be headed where I’m headed. I speed up, following it as it cuts through traffic.

“Don’t…do this…” Butcher gasps.

“And what’s the alternative, Prez? Sitting in the van while you struggle to breathe.”

I pull into the hospital parking lot, ready to abandon the van if I have to carry him into the goddamn hospital.

Leaving the engine running, I run to the other side of the vehicle to grab Butcher.

“No,” he says, trying to reach for the door so I’m unable to get him out.

“What the hell are you doing?” a woman asks. Her white-blonde hair is pulled back in a tight bun. She’s dressed in scrubs,but it’s clear from her face that she was in the middle of some crying fit. “You’re going to kill him, jostling him around like that.”

“You a doctor?” I ask.

“Was,” she says. “He’s bleeding out. Lie him down. Keep him right there.”

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