21. A Wolf Amongst Ravens

"Dora, is that really you?" the old man said, a smile breaking on his weathered face. He slid off his barstool and enveloped her in a hug. Dora was caught off-guard by so many things, his face, his smile, the hug... his odor—he smelled like the underside of a car—but not the least of which was that she knew him too. She returned the hug awkwardly.

"Wow, you've gotten so big!" Reilly said, finally pulling back.

"Um," Dora said, looking him up and down. "You too."

Reilly looked down at himself. He was a stout Afro-Latino man, equal parts muscle and pudge. His skin was a medium brown and covered in tattoos. He had short cropped hair and a full beard, mostly black but grizzled with gray. A faint scar crossed his right eye, its iris slightly lighter than the other.

"Dora, how do you know Reilly?" Jessie finally asked, having watched the two with curious amusement. "I thought I was your only connection to the Demonz."

"Well, I thought you were too. I didn't know Reilly was a member." She looked at him intensely, trying to jog her memory. "Plus I haven't seen him in... what's it been?"

"I think nine or ten years." Reilly settled back into his seat and took a sip of the coffee Dora made him. "Last time I saw you, you had just started high school."

"So he's your uncle, and you haven't spoken to him in ten years?" Jessie asked them.

"Reilly's not really my uncle," Dora explained. "He was my father's best friend."

"Hey, I might as well be your uncle. We're both Priscan and I'm your godfather, after all." He showed Jessie a Marine Corps tattoo on the inside of his arm. "I served with her dad during the Gulf War, did tours in Qurac and Bialya."

"Huh, didn't know that you were my godfather."

Reilly scoffed. "Yeah, no surprise. Your mom's not my biggest fan anymore."

"Yeah, why's that? Why did you ghost us?" Dora asked, serious concern on her face. "Last time I saw you, you were an EMT, not a biker."

A groan rumbled out of Reilly. "Well, yeah, I was a paramedic after leaving the Marines. The job gave me access to scripts, so I stole 'em, ran 'em, and sold 'em... The ambulance was also a pretty good way to dispose of dead bodies for the mob... until it wasn't. Got caught and spent five years in the clink. Joined up with the Demonz inside for protection... became fully-patched when I was released. That's when your mom forbade me from seeing Monty and you kids..." He chuckled and shook his head. "So I stayed away." Then Reilly slouched. He reached out and grasped Dora's hand. "I was sorry to hear about your dad passing away, kid. I tried to go to the service, but your mom wouldn't have it."

"Thanks, that means a lot." Dora patted his hand. "Sorry about my mom."

"Tu madre es una bruja insana, mija..." Reilly chuckled. Your mom's a crazy bitch.

Dora snorted. She agreed a little and vaguely remembered some resentment her mother had towards Reilly. Anita always complained about Monty staying out too late or shirking his responsibilities to hang out with Reilly. And she always called him by his real name, Raúl.

Despite that, Dora only had fond memories of him. Reilly himself reminded her so much of her father. For too long while growing up, Dora had believed that Reilly and her dad were actual brothers because they were inseparable. She should have known better. Her father was white and Reilly was Latino. Dora's parents got married when she was five years old, and she remembered Reilly being her father's best man while she was her mom's maid of honor. And during a ride along, Reilly was actually the person that introduced Dora to Leslie Thompkins. She wouldn't have gone to nursing school if not for that introduction.

"So, what do you do for the Demonz?" Dora asked.

"On the record, I'm head mechanic and manager of Morrison Motors. We mostly fix semis and construction vehicles, sometimes cars and bikes. Off the record, I'm the secretary for the club." He tapped the patch above the breast pocket of his vest.

"What does a biker secretary do?"

Reilly sniggered and took a sip of coffee. "All kinds of shit."

Jessie rolled her eyes. "He means he's in charge of logistics. Getting everybody the shit they need to get shit done."

"That's one way of putting it. Shit shoveler." He tilted his drink toward Jessie and looked at Dora. "She would know, her old man had this gig before me."

"Ex-old man," Jessie emphasized with some bitterness in her voice. She obviously held resentment for her ex-husband. She poured herself a cup of whiskey. "But yeah, I guess that unofficially made me Assistant Secretary, since he couldn't do his job without me."

"You're right, he couldn't. They demoted him a little while after you left, and put me in his place."

Jessie tossed back her whiskey, and slammed the cup back down on the table. "That patch should be mine. Why they don't let women hold rank is fucking beyond me."

"I agree with you, kid, but I didn't write the charter. A lot's changed recently, though. The chapter got a new president since you've been away. Young, progressive type. He might be open to patching you in."

Jessie raised her eyebrows, intrigued. "I want to meet him." Dora cleared her throat, and Jessie backed off. "But we can talk about that later. Dora's got more pressing business."

"Yeah, Reilly," she said, "Being the club's secretary, you're exactly the person I need to talk to. Have you seen an old Chevy Impala pass through here?"

"An Impala... Yeah, we just got one in." Reilly's eyes widened. "Hold on, you don't mean..."

"My dad's car—why I'm here. You guys boosted it and I want it back."

"I knew something felt familiar about that ride." Reilly frowned. "Shit, sorry, kid. If I had known..."

"Is it still in one piece?" Dora asked, hope welling in her chest.

"Last time I saw it, yeah, but the president called dibs on it, and I really don't think he's going to give it up, especially since it's a classic. Even less likely for someone outside the club."

"I'm willing to buy it back," Dora said, reaching into her pocket to show him the money.

Suddenly a clamor erupted near the entrance of the warehouse.

"MEDIC!" Someone shouted. "Help! Someone get Reilly!"

A group of men shuffled in, two of them carrying another man. He was groaning in pain, blood soaking his clothes and smearing the floor.

"Damn it!" Reilly stood. "Cali, get my kit!"

The bartender disappeared under the workbench and reappeared with a large duffel bag. She shoved it across the counter at Reilly, who grabbed it and hustled to the pool table. Dora followed him.

"Get him on the table!" Reilly ordered.

The man that was getting tattooed on the pool table clambered off. In what looked like a practiced motion, the artist reached under it for a tarp and spread it across the felt. The other bikers hoisted their injured friend on top of the table as he snarled in agony. Dora could see several bullet wounds on his upper chest and arm, and some road rash on his leg from falling off his bike. With a naked eye, she couldn't see any broken bones. "What are you doing? This man needs a hospital."

"Don't worry, kid, I got it handled," Reilly said, slipping on some glasses.

"He's been shot!" Dora was surprised that he wasn't understanding the gravity of the situation.

"Exactly. ERs report gunshot wounds to the cops, it's the law. We're outlaws, so no hospitals!" Reilly hoisted his duffel onto the pool table. "This isn't the first time I've dealt with bullet wounds in the field."

"This isn't the field! We're not in fucking Qurac or Bialya!"

"You're right, kid, but this is Gotham and it's a war zone too." Reilly turned his attention to the injured man. "What happened, Chuck?" he demanded, looking him over. "Hey! Talk to me, man."

The man answered only with a grunt of pain, but someone else spoke, a weary looking man with blood on his hands. "We jumped the False Facers' gun run like the president told us to, but they were ready for it. They opened up on us. Chuck was taking point, so he caught the brunt of first round of gunfire. Had us an old-fashioned Gotham shootout."

"Did you get the guns?" Reilly asked while unzipping the duffel and pulling out supplies.

"Hell yeah, of course we fucking got them."

"Good, the prez will be happy. One less thing to worry about."

"What the fuck, man?" Chuck finally shouted, breathless. "I'm about to fucking die and all y'all care about are the boosted guns?"

Dora was inclined to agree with him.

"Hey!" Reilly said, grabbing Chuck by the chin. "You're going to be fine, kid. Calm the fuck down. You're not going to die." He smacked his cheek lightly.

"I got shot a bajillion times in the chest!"

"And you still have enough breath to bitch and moan about it, so shut the fuck up and let me do my fucking job!"

Dora stepped forward, taking off her vest and handing it to Jessie. "Let me help."

"Don't worry, I got this, kid," Reilly said, pulling on latex gloves.

Dora grabbed a pair from his bag and snapped them on with a deftness that only comes from years of routine. "Did you know I went to nursing school? You're part of the reason I did."

Reilly paused, smirking. Dora could see a glint of pride in his eyes. "Fine. Help me get his vest off."

Dora did so and finally noticed that under his leather vest, Chuck was wearing a bulletproof vest. It had served its purpose and stopped a handful of bullets from penetrating his lungs and heart. However, some bullets had missed or gone through the ballistic fabric and gel to hit flesh. Dora counted three wounds, one each in the upper arm, shoulder, and chest. Fortunately, they were nowhere near any vital blood vessels or organs. Dora knew from experience that shoulder wounds bled a lot and hurt like bitch, but were easy to treat and non-fatal—but only if taken care of quickly. It looked like this Chuck person had already lost a lot of blood, so the clock was ticking, and ticking fast.

"No exit wounds, all the rounds are still inside," Dora reported. "We have to get them out ASAP. He could bleed out before he makes it to the hospital."

"No hospitals," Reilly repeated, then patted Chuck's cheek. "Hear that, Chuck? We're about to have some fun. Cali, get the vodka." The girl did so and tossed him the bottle. Reilly took a swig and offered some to Dora. She shook her head no. "Alright, Chuckie, open up, take your medicine."

The man did so, taking several large gulps of liquor.

Dora snatched the bottle from him. "Please don't tell me you're going to pour vodka on his wounds. That shtick is a myth—"

"Relax, mija." Reilly pulled out a bottle of saline from the duffle and handed it to her. "Irrigate, let's go. We need to see where we're digging."

Dora pressed the nozzle into a wound on Chuck's upper arm, the closest to a major blood vessel, so the first that needed to be treated. The man screamed as Dora squirted the solution into the wound. "I can dig this one out while you work on the next one. Forceps?"

Reilly quickly traded the saline bottle for a small medical tool and the two got to work. Only a few minutes later, two bullets had been removed from Chuck and gauze put in their place. His bleeding had stemmed a little.

"This third one is in a tricky spot." Reilly noted the one in Chuck's upper chest.

"Yeah." Dora looked closer, prodding around the wound. Chuck yelped in pain. "Looks like it nicked his clavicle. Can you move your arm?"

"Hurts like a bitch when I do," Chuck grimaced.

Reilly whistled. "Drink up, Chuck, this is going to hurt like a bitch."

"You two are fucking butchers," the man slurred painfully, but took another long gulp from the bottle. He coughed some back up painfully. Dora was grateful to notice that there was no blood in his spittle. "Do your worst," Chuck groaned.

Reilly took the lead with the forceps and flashlight while Dora kept the wound clear with saline and gauze. Chuck squirmed and grunted while Reilly dug around for the bullet. "You're fucking killing me, Reilly!" Chuck gasped in agony.

"Stop moving!" Reilly complained.

"Pretty soon I will, because I'll be dead, you'll be the one that killed me!"

Reilly sighed. "Cali, do me a favor and put him to sleep."

"You have sedatives? Why didn't you start with that?" Dora asked, then her eyes widened. "WAIT!"

CLUNK.

But it was too late. Cali the bartender had taken the empty bottle of vodka and conked Chuck on the head, knocking him out cold.

"He's going to have a concussion now!" Dora complained.

"That's the least of his problems. I can't get the bullet."

"Well, he's not moving now, so give it another try."

"His squirming wasn't the problem. This round must've missed the flak vest completely. It wasn't slowed down like the other slugs. I'm not a surgeon and the bullet is dug in deep, behind bone."

"They why did you knock him out?"

"Well, you get your wish, kid. He does need the ER. Unconscious, he won't fight us while we drag him there. He'll probably catch some jail time, but at least he'll be alive and keep full use of his arm."

Dora stared hard at Reilly, the looked around at all the people watching her. Through the grit and pith, she saw real concern for the brother in arms.

"Let me give it a try. You clean up his road rash and start stitching him up," Dora said, trading places with Reilly. She put a flashlight in her mouth and grabbed a forceps and a scalpel, one in each hand.

"Double fisting it? Impressive," Reilly noted.

"Thanks," Dora mumbled around the flashlight, and leaned in to work. She had to slice the entry wound open wider in order to reach the bullet, and she had to be careful while doing it, or she would nick a critical vessel and Chuck would die.

A few tense minutes later, she pulled out a little gray and copper lump. "Got it!" She flushed the wound and stuffed gauze into it.

"You fucking did it, kid." He gave her a fist bump.

"Um, he still needs to be stitched up," she said. "And that hospital, no avoiding that anymore..."

"Yeah, you're right, we can't do anything about his broken clavicle." Reilly inspected the wound, then used some clean gauze to wipe the sweat from Chuck's brow. "He's not going to be happy when he wakes up. He's still on parole; only got out a few months ago. Once the cops find out he was involved in a shooting and refused to report it... He'll go back to prison, for a few years at least..."

A thought weighed heavy on Dora. She shook it off.

"Take him to the Park Row Clinic. Remember Dr. Leslie Thompkins? She's cool. She'll stitch him up, set the bone, and won't report to the cops. So long as you make a donation for the kids."

Reilly looked skeptical.

"I promise," Dora insisted.

"Alright." He turned to his men. "You heard her, boys. Park Row Clinic. Can't hurt to try."

The bikers that had brought Chuck in picked up his unconscious and bloody body, placed him on a dolly, and rolled him away. Dora finally noticed their audience had grown. Everyone that had been outside in the lot, including Alex, who had glared Dora down with contemptuous eyes, was now inside the bar looking at her in a new light.

Jessie was staring at Dora too, her face paler than normal. "You never told me you could treat bullet wounds."

"You never told me you ran logistics for a biker gang."

Jessie scoffed and rolled her eyes. "We'll catch up later. Let's get you cleaned up first. Cali, do you have an extra t-shirt lying around?"

Dora looked down, finally remembering she wasn't wearing scrubs. Luckily, she had taken off her battle vest before treating Chuck, but her tank top was ruined—covered in blood. Cali handed her a brand-new shirt with the garage's logo on it. Morrison Motors.

Jessie led her to the bathroom and Dora washed up as best she could. She would have preferred a whole shower after all that, but cleaning her hands and arms up to the elbow would have to do for now. The tank top Cali gave her was much smaller and more revealing than the one she walked in with, but Dora slipped her vest back on cover up. After she finished, she sat in a stall and tried to process what had just happened.

She had just illegally field treated on a man without following any proper medical procedures, under an expired license, and not even a full one at that. She could be charged with assault and sentenced to jail time, no matter how grateful the guy was. She hadn't treated a patient in over a year, not since the gang war, and not since she dropped out of nursing school and quit her job at the Clinic.

Tears welled in her eyes. She looked at her hands.

They were perfectly still.

A pang hummed in her chest. Some might call her a ghoul, but she missed the rush of the ER and ICU. Nursing was the one thing she was good at. While she didn't hate managing a bar or being a bartender, Dora had to admit she wasn't great at those things—as evidenced by the debt that the Alibi had mounted under her management, and the shady deals she had to make to repay it. But what other choice did she have? Let her father's bar shut down and let her family's livelihood die?

Some people were fortunate enough to make a living doing what they loved, what they were good at, while helping society at the same time... but some people weren't. Dora loved the Alibi, but there was a reason why she chose nursing over it, back when she did have a choice.

Dora walked out of the bathroom to find Reilly waiting by the bar, having cleaned up himself. He was smoking a cigarette. "Man, if your pops could see you now..."

"What, he'd be proud?"

"Damn right he would be, kid. I'm fucking proud."

"Would he be proud of me for letting his Impala get stolen?"

Reilly snorted and flicked his cigarette. "Right, the Impala. Like I said, the president has it and doesn't want to give it up."

"Just let me talk to him. If you vouch for me, maybe I can convince him to sell it back." Dora pulled out her wad of cash and set it on the workbench.

Reilly avoided her eyes and pushed the money back to her. "Look, Dora. Our president... is a fucking hot head. He's young and smart, but angry and violent too. He took this charter by killing the last president and all his supporters, all by himself. Those False Facers that hit our friend Chuck back there? I'll bet my bike they were defectors from the little civil war we had when he took power. You don't want to deal with this guy, Dora."

"Please, Uncle Reilly," Dora begged, touching his arm. "Do me this favor. You owe me one for Chuck."

Reilly looked at her, taking a drag from his cigarette. "Cash in that favor for something else then."

Dora locked eyes with him, her chin quivering. "Para me, tio. Por favor."

Reilly held her gaze for several seconds, but then reeled back, sighing in frustration. "Ay, los ojitos. Not fair, kid, using them puppy-dog eyes." He put out his cigarette, finished his whisky, and walked off to the rear exit of the bar. "Meet Let's go."

"Do you mind if Jessie comes along?" she asked.

Reilly shrugged. "Just meet me outside."

As he left, Dora found Jessie perched at the end of the bar, away from Cali and the other bikers. Her eyes were narrow and shifty.

"I saw that trick you pulled on him," Jessie said, snickering.

"Yeah, I used to do it to him all the time growing up. He's a bit of a softy under all that grit."

Jessie shook her head. "They all are. You just gotta find where the chink in the armor is."

Dora and Jessie met Reilly out behind the bar, a cool moist breeze wiping way the mugginess of the bar. Dora heard waves crashing softly against a dock. It was hard to tell from where she was standing, but apparently the Morrison Motors' lot was right on the river waterfront, closer than she had thought.

They followed Reilly a few dozen yards down the concrete pier to another building, a freestanding garage with some ground level doors; identical the one they just left. All the bay doors were closed, so Reilly walked up to the small one on the side. He pounded on the steel. "Hey, open up, it's Reilly."

Dora heard a series of deadbolts coming unlocked, then she saw a tall young man emerge from the door, his vest fully patched. He eyed Dora and Jessie up and down. "Didn't ask for any girls, man. We're busy. We'll grab some pussy later."

Jessie shared a look with Dora, telepathically saying, Do you see the kind of bullshit I have to put up with?

"You lay a finger on either of these girls, and I'll tie your dick in a knot," Reilly growled. "We need to talk to the president."

"Prez said nothing about no meeting, Reilly."

Reilly just grunted, impatient, and shoved the man aside, walking inside the garage. "Get out of the fucking way, kid."

The tall man held up his hands. "Fine, fine, let the prez grill your asses, I tried to warn you."

Dora entered the building behind Reilly, returning the hard look the tall guy gave her as she passed.

While the building was identical to the Demonz's bar, the interior was set up differently. At two and a half stories tall, there was room for a large floating loft up in one corner, accessed by a steel and concrete staircase that wrapped along the wall. Dora couldn't see all of it, but she guessed it was some sort of office. The ground floor was what you would expect from a mechanic's garage, decked out with tools, workbenches, and equipment. There was space to park for at least four cars, and...

There it was. The Impala.

It was jacked up slightly, its hood propped open. It had brand new tires, gleaming chrome wheels, and everything under the hood looked pristine and untouched by rust or grease. The car wasn't tricked out and transformed, it still had it's natural patina. The black paint was dull, worn, and fading, and some panels still had rusty holes in them. The interior still sported the cracked and frayed leather upholstery. Her lavender air freshener hung from the rearview mirror, and her cell phone clamp was attached to the dashboard. It was simply being refurbished.

Dora heard clanking and looked down. Someone was still working on the car, laying on a creeper underneath it. He was wearing black combat boots and gray fatigues, but Dora couldn't see the rest of him.

Two other bikers were leaning on workbenches off to the side, drinking beers. They stood and did their best to look intimidating at Dora and Jessie.

"No outsiders right now, cos. The prez isn't wearing his colors."

"Stand down, boys," Reilly said. "The girls are with me."

"It's your ass, man." They backed off.

Reilly walked up to the Impala and slapped the door panel. "Oye, rojito, I got someone here to talk to you."

"Tell them to fuck off! I'm busy!" the president yelled from under the car.

Dora's heart leapt into her throat, throbbing.

"She says it's important. Involves this ride," Reilly said.

A clang emitted from under the car and the president's legs twitched. "She?"

Blood rushed into Dora's face. She felt light-headed. That voice. She knew it.

The president slid out from under the Impala and deftly hopped to his feet.

"Oh, shit," Jessie gasped, staring at him.

The president wore a grease-stained t-shirt, stretched over a lean muscular torso. A small red mask covered his eyes, with glowing white lenses.

Notes

He's back! Ironic considering someone commented on the last chapter saying they missed Jason. It's been like... 11 chapters since we saw him last? Well, you're about to see that Dora noticed it's been a long ass time too. I want to thank you guys for sticking with my story and enjoying it despite how I basically only feed you scraps of canon characters. To me that means you appreciate my original ideas as much as DC's. Thank you so much. My dream is to write for them one day. Who knows?

I also wanted to take this chapter to remind/show readers that Dora is a great nurse, because it's been mentioned, but we've never actually seen her treat anyone. Spoilers, but she'll have more opportunities to show off later on.

This chapter concludes the so-called "Find the Impala" arc. I don't want to spoil anything but the next arc starts ramping things up. I'm calling it the "Reunion" arc. I've written up to Chapter 26, so expect that much before the summer is over. At least one chapter a week. My goal is to get to Chapter 30 before August.

Also, the title of this chapter references my absolute favorite song by After the Burial, "A Wolf Amongst Ravens." Awesome riffs aside, the lyrics are about being different in a world where everyone is the same. The wolf is a majestic outcast surrounded by lesser toxic people who are the ravens. Look at the situation in this chapter, and ask yourself. Who is the wolf, and who are the ravens?

Version 41.1