Page 24 of Spyder
Doc was a field surgeon back when he served. And since we can’t exactly take our guys to a hospital when they take a bullet because of state reporting laws, it’s his responsibility to pull it out. Even though he’s the Veep, he actually patches up all our hurts if need be.
Boogie’s gripping the leather strap hard enough with his teeth, I’m surprised he hasn’t bitten it in two. But as Doc moves the instrument in the hole in his arm, Boogie cries out and starts to thrash around in the chair, the pain obviously excruciating.
“Grab him, kid,” Cosmo says. “Hold him down.”
I do as he says, grab hold of Boogie’s shoulder with one hand, and place my other on his chest, keeping him pinned to the chair. Doc goes back in, and after a bit of manipulation, is able to extract the bullet. He drops it into a metal tin with a hard clank then turns and sets about cleaning and bandaging the wound. Boogie’s face is stricken, and his breathing is labored as he slumps forward in the chair, rivulets of sweat rolling down his face.
“Fucker was lodged in his bicep. Hard to get to without a proper operating theater,” Doc says.
Prophet shrugs. “I remember you always doin’ just fine in a tent with nothin’ but lanterns to work by and bombs goin’ off all around us.”
Doc smiles. “That’s because I’m damn good at what I do. I’m just sayin’, it’d be easier with the proper equipment and maybe a dedicated space instead of tryin’ to patch our guys up in the bar here. Especially if I’m going to keep on bein’ the ‘club doctor’ on call.”
Prophet chuckles. “We have enough space to build you a small building on this lot. I’ll see that the boys get something set up for you.”
“That’d be good, prez.”
I’ve always been tempted to ask Doc why he chose to give up a career in medicine to run with the Pharaohs. I imagine it has something to do with the brotherhood of the club because he could be making a lot of money and be legit doing it. Operating in a filthy clubhouse, risking his life to run weed and guns, and getting mixed up in a war with one of the most notoriously violent cartels in the world doesn’t seem like a smart decision to me.
But then, I’m not Doc and have no idea what he went through. So, even though I want to know his story, I’ve always held my tongue. It’s not my business. Like Milo said out there, if he wanted me to know, he’d tell me.
Disco is slumped over in another chair, a bright white bandage with a crimson stain in the center on his shoulder and a butterfly bandage on his cheek. It’s not as bad as I feared it would be, but Domino was right. They are lucky to be alive. Cartel sicarios don’t usually leave people still breathing when they’re done. That Boogie and Disco both only have relatively minor injuries is something of a miracle.
“Thanks for helping out,” Cosmo says.
I nod. “Just glad the guys are going to be all right.”
“You and me both, kid. Don’t think Prophet would’ve handled losing them all that well,” he replies.
“What the hell happened?”
Cosmo leads me off to the bar and fetches a couple of beers, pops the tops, and slides one down to me. He takes a long swallow and I look back at Prophet, who’s leaning close to the two wounded men, speaking to them in low tones.
“Boogie and Disco were on a run up north, just outside of Sacramento,” he tells me. “Zavala’s men must’ve been tailing them because when those two got onto a wide-open stretch of highway and had nobody around them, this black SUV pulls up and lights them up. They laid down their bikes and returned fire. Drove ’em off.”
“They kill any of the sicarios?”
“They think they tagged a couple, but no telling if they killed ’em or not. They loaded up and got out of there,” he tells me.
“Spyder.”
Prophet’s voice carries through the room and cuts into my thoughts. I look over at him, fully expecting him to tear into me for coming in when I was told to stay out. I’m mentally bracing myself for it when I walk over to where he’s sitting and stand before him. Prophet’s looking better the last couple of days. His color’s coming back, and he seems to be moving around with less stiffness, which is good. And his snarling demeanor is most definitely coming back along with it.
“Got word from Tarantula today,” he says. “There’s a shipment coming up through the Central Valley. It’s product he’s supposedly going to use to start his operations up here in Blue Rock.”
“We can’t let that happen,” I tell him.
“Damn straight. That’s why I want you and Domino to head out there. Scout the area. I want to know what he’s bringing and how much, also who he’s bringing and how many,” Prophet says.
“I’m on it.”
He nods, his face grim. “Be careful, kid,” he says. “I don’t want you to end up like Boogie and Disco here.”
“Yes, sir.”
I turn and head out of the clubhouse, trepidation swirling inside of me. Things are starting to heat up. And I’m worried, to say the least.
Chapter Eleven
