“Throttle’s gotta go to the hospital. Now.”
“You can’t help him?” Banger asked.
“He’s lost a lot of blood. It’s too risky to give him a transfusion here without cross-matching and monitoring for allergic or hemolytic reactions. I can’t tell how deep the wound goes, or whether it nicked an organ, tore muscle, or worse. The hospital can run the tests I can’t. What he has isn’t superficial.”
Banger scrubbed a hand over his face. “The fuckin’ badges are gonna be all over this.”
“I’ll ride with him and handle the paperwork,” Doc said. “I’ll make it sound like an accident—roughhousing, something like that. I’ll say he was here at a party.”
Banger nodded and looked at Smokey. “Will the gurney fit in the van?”
“It’ll fit in the Ford Transit,” Smokey said.
“Pull it around. We have to go. Now.” Doc spun and hurried back to the surgical room.
“I can ride with Smokey,” Rags said.
“No. You follow. I want Smokey to drop Doc and Throttle off, then get his ass back here. If the fuckin’ badges show up, we gotta look like we just had one hell of a party.” Banger locked eyes with him. “You know what to tell ’em when they question you.”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll call his ol’ lady,” Banger muttered.
“I’ll reach out to Kimber,” Rags said, pulling his keys from his pocket. He lifted the bag of clothes. “I gotta dump this. My cut’s in there. I used it to stop the bleeding.”
“Leave it here. We’ll stash it where the fuckin’ badges won’t find it.” Tank took the bag. “Go.”
“Make sure you set Kimber straight,” Banger added.
“I will.”
Rags shoved his hands into his pockets and headed out. The cold air bit at his cheeks as he pushed the Harley hard, the engine’s roar drowning out everything but the need to get to Pinewood Springs Hospital. Thoughts blurred like the asphalt beneath his tires—fear, jagged and cold; anger, hot as the exhaust. He tightened his grip on the handlebars, forcing down the grief burning like molten lead in his gut.
The hospital’s sterile glare spilled across the parking lot, a harsh, white beacon against the dark. He killed the engine and dropped the kickstand in one clean motion, the silence of the lot feeling heavy after the roar of the ride. He crossed the lot in long strides. The automatic glass doors hissed open, exhaling cold, antiseptic air that nipped at his skin. Before he could even scan the room, a security guard stepped into his path, thumbs hooked in his duty belt, the holstered gun impossible to miss.
“Can I help you, sir?” the guard asked, his eyes dragging over the chains hanging from Rags’s pocket, then down to his biker boots.
Behind the security gate, a dozen citizens sat in faux leather chairs, hunched over phones or staring at a flickering TV.
“I’m here to see my friend,” Rags said, stepping toward the steel conveyor belt. He unclipped the chains and placed them, along with his phone, keys, and wallet, into a gray plastic bin, before walking through the metal detector.
“Driver’s license,” the guard said.
Suppressing the urge to tell the wannabe cop to fuck off, Rags pulled it from his wallet and dropped it on the counter. The blond security guard with the buzz cut took his time, reading every line on the license while Rags ground his teeth. If he snatched it back from the asshole, he’d never make it past the front desk.
“And why’s your friend here?” the guard asked, glancing up.
“He’s not in a good way. Isn’t that why people come to a hospital?” Rags held his stare.
For a long second, neither of them moved. The guard cleared his throat and handed the license back.
“Rags!”
He turned and saw Kimber rushing through the doors. He met her halfway and pulled her into a bear hug, feeling her shiver against him.
“What the fuck? He’s going to be all right, isn’t he?” she said.
“Let’s talk about this in the waiting room,” Rags whispered in her ear.