Summary: Emotions run high as SAMCRO tackles unforeseen obstacles when attempting to pay off their debt.
Author's Notes: The only new content as of 2/1/2022 will be chapter 13. Any story updates/messages you may receive beyond this chapter update are from my efforts to update chapters 1-3 for grammatical purposes (as these are the first words new viewers will see of this project). As always with editing updates, no content/plot points will be altered, and you may continue to read uninterrupted.
This chapter was initially intended to be longer; however, Feb and Mar will be hectic for me personally as I face many life changes. Story updates should continue once life settles into a reliable routine. Also, the chapter title is subject to change, depending on how the next few chapters round out, so don't be alarmed as the content will remain the same.
Enjoy the Update!
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**Four days later. Monday – a quarter to Midnight. **
**Four days later. Monday – a quarter to Midnight. **
SAMCRO managed to deliver the pharmaceutical truck to El Boticario's coyotes and return from Nevada the next morning. The driver walked away unscathed. No product was lost in the retrieval. Several days later there remains no trace of the shipment leaving the state. No witnesses have surfaced, and the authorities are hard pressed to release information to the public. The fact is they have no leads. Astoundingly, the ATF hasn't resurfaced to add their expertise. Which is a shame, Schuyler considers. Perhaps she had given the female agent too much credit. Or, Schuyler hadn't given her friends enough.
Alonso promised the shipment wouldn't be going to or coming from the clinic where Schuyler works. What resulted was a lack of investigations at Overton Hospital. This doesn't mean there was no gossip. The veterinarian monitored her colleagues' conversations in the days that followed. Her alibi insists that she hadn't seen the story when it broke on the local news station. Convincingly, she acted as though it were the first time she had heard of an instance where pirates targeted medical supplies. Her coworkers, appropriately, responded with repulsion. Referring to the unknown thieves as amoral monsters on more than one occasion. Schuyler refrained from reminding them that even monsters have dues to pay.
Someone's wife works at the hospital where the truck began its journey. Someone else is close to the radiologist at the practice where the supplies should have arrived. But everyone involved, no matter how deeply or circumstantially connected, has an idea of how the truck was stolen or by whom. Rumors spread that the perpetrators would have had to have been organized. Others hinted at the possibility of an inside job. A tax evasion scheme. A plot to collect insurance. The name Sons of Anarchy was never uttered. And not because the hospital staff are unaware of the notorious group. It is possible no one considered the motorcyclists because thievery seems so far removed from what is their suspected wheelhouse. Another conclusion: the job was too smooth. Too professional. And everyone knew the score would be big. Much of the gossip was channeled into jealousy and curiosity over exactly how much merchandise was made out with. Schuyler gave a flippant, sarcastic answer. Many in her field had made similar remarks. "Likely enough."
Jackson had been tasked with poking around St. Thomas where his son received treatment. Jackson told Schuyler he had a friendly relationship with the doctor overseeing his child's recovery. Said contact knew of the robbery in mere hours. However, word hadn't been as widespread at this practice. No active investigations were being pursued either. It seemed any connections the club had to the world of medicine would continue untainted. He also gave a fair warning to his sister that he would be spending considerably more time at the hospital in the coming days. He chalked it up to an alibi, but Schuyler assumed Jackson would want to anyway, considering Abel was soon to be released. She hasn't seen him since.
She caught up with Opie on Saturday. She told him about her tricky surgery. It had been a success. And that no one suspected her of having ties to the club – much less to having ties to the truck heist. The gentle giant recounted his exploits with Jackson. How, before the robbery, the two had spoken with Unser. Without probable cause there was little the Chief could do on his own. Afterwards, they went into Pope and cracked down on the Aryan Brotherhood themselves. Darby would be kept at bay for the time being. At least until his men were released from the ER and could replace the product that had been destroyed. Opie admitted he wasn't a fan of violence, but he wasn't a fan of drugs either. That's why, he had speculated, that he and Jackson made a good team. "Divide and conquer," as he had put it. Schuyler praised his commitment but reminded him that loyalties would stretch so thin. He could choose to interact with the club to his own comfort level – for the most part.
Opie spent the rest of his weekend toiling away in the garage. Non-club members were sent home and Patch holders were all hands-on. Another convincing alibi. So long as investigators reframed from checking employee hourly records; in which case, they would realize it was a rare occurrence for the group to work together as opposed to in stagnant shifts. Luckily, no one came around to ask difficult questions.
Schuyler was informed about a complication in club matters Sunday evening. Juice recounted what his ex-sponsor was willing to let on. According to the VP, the remains of bodies had been excavated within Charming's limits. Clay had worried the club could be tied to the bones, so he took Tig and Jackson to soil the evidence. Jackson wouldn't say more. He had left for the clinic in a huff.
Tig had come back pissed. Juice watched him down a fifth of a vodka bottle before approaching. "Bodies were IDed before we got there," Tig had let on, sulking. He followed up the confession with another fifth and an assurance that Clay would handle the damages. Juice wasn't sure what he had meant by that. "Only that its old business, and Tig told me not to worry about it." There was little Schuyler could do. She, after all, hadn't been present for the incident, and knew as much as Juice when it came to Charming's past discrepancies. She took her younger brother's lead. The conversation was dropped.
Prior to the break of dawn on Monday, black duffle bags were found on the roof of the Teller-Morrow garage. It was discovered the Sons' percentages from the heist had been left there by a covert coyote. The profits were substantial. Bobby managed to set aside five percent for the Nevada charter. The rest he calculated with haste. Enough to pay off Cameron and his men while leaving a few thousand left over. Chibs made contact soon after. A meeting would take place hours before the deadline was set to expire. It would go down at a dive bar beyond Charming before last call. This came as a great relief. Finally, a light flickered on at the end of the tunnel.
Schuyler spent her days at the clinic. Six days, six shifts. The last one ending with a double, and another major surgery. Due for a long weekend, the doctor could feel her reserve batteries faltering in her preparations to save yet another life.
Schuyler, leaning upright over a metal table, looks down upon a furry patient. An eighty-pound lab undergoing a notoriously strenuous surgery within the chest cavity. The canine hadn't been on her books, but she agreed to take the case when another physician canceled their hours. Two elbows deep and two hours in, Schuyler expects to have the mutt on anesthesia for at least as many more.
Surgeries have a straining yet calming effect. The stress of a high-risk procedure mixed with the adrenaline of cutting into a living creature is a familiar sensation. One she experiences when filling the role of private practitioner for her family and their 'inexplicable' injuries. The difference being animal surgeries are done in controlled and sterile settings. It doesn't hurt that she has an extra pair of hands standing by to assist.
The one thing capable of distracting Schuyler in her element is her assistants. The women have been in her company before. The nurse, Abigail, more often than most. Although Casandra, the anesthesiologist, speaks with such a fast-paced northeastern lilt that she makes up for the lack of shared hours with her sheer number of words and personal details she shares on a whim. Between them, the assistants devote as much of their efforts to chatting as they do to the patient.
"He cooked this piece of lamb that was absolutely to die for," Casandra remarks. "I'll never know what I did to marry such a fine cook."
"I should be so lucky. Most of the guys I date don't know the difference between an oven and a stove." Abigail hopes to spur on the conversation by reeling Schuyler into the mix. "What about you? Have you started seeing anyone?"
Casandra doubles down. None too covertly. "Someone you can bring to staff lunches. The office is due for new eye candy."
Schuyler's hyper fixation renders her response lackluster. "I'm not the type to participate in 'bring your significant other to work-day'. The people I hang around with are not the type to amuse such an event either."
"Oh please," Abigail says with a know-it-all tone. "I've worked with you more shifts than anyone. And you've been different these last few weeks. Everyone's talking about it. Especially the day crew."
The anesthesiologist confirms. "You hop shifts so much I could have sworn it was the exhaustion getting to you, but Abbie's right. You've been, I'm not sure, livelier? Is that how you would describe it?"
"If you use the term 'glowing' you'll be the next slab of meat I prep on this table. I'll see to it you're sent home for your husband to slow roast."
The middle-aged women laugh. They are oblivious to Schuyler's second life or the company she keeps.
"Always so hyperbolic. Would it really be such a terrible thing if you found someone in this microscopic town?"
"It would be for me. I grow bored easily." A phone chimes under the florescent lights in the operating room. Schuyler shrugs disparagingly. "Ah shit. Help me out, will you? In my left back pocket."
Abigail snaps to the present task and considers a phone call to be ever so slightly more distracting than the teasing of her superior. "Are you sure you want to take that?"
"Oh, I get to feel up the merchandise." Casandra feels around dramatically for the ringing cell.
"Hurry. It could be family."
Abigail reconsiders with sudden intrigue. "Family? That's an improvement."
"Not as exciting as a new squeeze, but it is something personal for a change." Raises an eyebrow at the outdated technology. "I thought you owned a smartphone. Supported innovation?"
"I do." Schuyler doesn't offer a further explanation. Casandra balances the flip phone on her friend's shoulder. A delicate incision is completed before Schuyler's hands pause. "Yeah. Hey."
A tinge of anxiety accompanies Chibs' response. "Are you occupied?"
"I'm elbow deep in a patient. What do you need?"
"Well so am I." Chibs relays his message in a covert manner. "Got a situation in church. It's turning fer the worst."
"Was Kip playing with fire again? I told him I'd help pay for barista classes, but he shouldn't go lighting drinks on his own."
"This is serious. All the training I got in the British army couldna prepared me for this. What I've tried has made it worse."
A denigrating comment passes Schuyler's lips before she can stop herself. "Of course, you were in the service." Her assistants look at her, confused. Unhappy they are unable to adequately eavesdrop on the conversation. Schuyler knew the money exchange was to take place during her shift. A wave of worry that one of her friends was harmed overtakes her and she becomes about business. "Anyone I know?"
"A friend from across the pond. He's in a bad way. I need you to run interference. Bring everything you can with you. Quick as you like."
"Listen, it's going to be at least two more hours before I'm out of here. I'll have to go home first to gather –."
"Damn it." The phone shifts on Chibs' end. The prepay is dropped and there's a struggle accompanied by shouting. "JUST KEEP YOUR FINGER IN HIS ARSE!"
Schuyler nearly drops her own phone from the laughter that overcomes her. "Whose finger are you sticking in where? I might come home early just to find that out for myself."
Casandra's eyes rake across her impersonal colleague. "Now we're getting somewhere."
Chibs reappears on the other end. "I'll keep this guy alive. Jus' get here with as many tools as you can. I need you to take over."
Schuyler arrives at the clubhouse at half past two. She's surprised to see Gemma's SUV in the lot, although there is no need to be. Most everyone has gone home, and those who remain are aware of the present emergency. Schuyler unstraps her home-made medical kit from her bike, and she jogs into the bar decked out in black scrubs.
Despite coming off a double shift, she treats this call like any other, and has made up her mind to give her undivided attention to the person she expects to know nothing about. "Alright everybody, settle down. The doctor is in the building."
The chapel door pushes outwards and Gemma ushers the physician inside. "At least someone is able to pick up their goddamn phone."
"Is he conscious?" The chairs have been shoved against the walls, allowing for ease of access to the stranger who lies on his stomach upon the meeting table. Towels are rolled up under his neck and further litter his body, soaking up stray bodily fluids. Juice stands next to the man whose pants are pulled clear off his body. The Puerto Rican's hand seemingly rests on the stranger's upper thigh. Both are covered in dried blood which makes an immediate diagnosis impossible.
"He's in and out. Conscious now." Chibs stands at the head of the table where he tips the neck of a liquor bottle towards the injured man's mouth. "Cameron. The doctor's arrived."
Gemma goes to occupy the length of the workspace opposite Schuyler and Juice. "He's been like this for hours. We're not sure how much longer he can hold on."
Schuyler sets her bag between the man's legs. It has been stuffed with as many tools as she, in her current standing with the clinic, may take off site with her, along with reserves from Valor. Pulling on a pair of surgical gloves, the veterinarian takes control of the room. "I see you've managed to keep the patient medicated. Three ounces of whiskey every hour. No more, no less."
"It's what the NHS intended."
"Cameron. If you can hear me, my name is Doctor Schuyler."
"Schuyler," he sputters to life, choking on alcohol and his own phlegm, as if the name were the cause of his resurgence. "What is that? Dutch?"
Schuyler smiles, confident that the man's psyche has gone unaffected by the trauma. "I've always been told German. Though I've also got a bit of Irish, and English, maybe some French mixed in, too. Who's to say? I'm a mutt like everyone else on this side of the aisle. But let's see if I can help you anyway. How does that sound, mate?" She uses a friendlier tone than when she last conversed with an IRA member.
"I wonder if the doctor part is found on the Irish side." A hint of an Irish accent makes its way through painful whizzes.
"Anything is possible." Schuyler examines the wounds around Juice's hands. "You've been holding his leg together the entire time?"
Nodding off where he leans against the table, Juice is awake enough to continue to be embarrassed by his hand placement. Schuyler sets to work, sterilizing her surgical tools and filling a syringe with a mild numbing agent.
Gemma demands, "Can you save him?"
"More than likely. First thing's first, catch me up on what happened."
Chibs fills in the blanks. "There was an attack. Mayans attempted an assassination on Clay. Tig was there." Chibs doesn't pause in his explanation, but Schuyler nods sharply in recognition of the Sergeant's involvement. "He protected Clay. It was Cameron who took two slugs to the arse."
"That's terrible. Are we whole? You know, apart from him."
"Aye. The Irishmen volunteered to clean up the bar. The cash is with Clay. Should be discussing next steps with Tig. No one's sure what prompted the attack. They're somewhere safe. For the time being."
Schuyler waves her hand, cutting Chibs off. "Alright Juicy. I'm ready. When I count to three, jump out the way."
The two switch positions in an instant. Juice pulls his fingers free. Cameron shouts a protest. More blood gushes theatrically from the hole, and he faints. Schuyler replaces Juice's digits with a metal tool held tight to a ball of cotton. "Nice work man. You're the reason this guy has lasted this long."
"You really think so?" Elation shines clear across his tired face.
"I know so. Why don't you head on home? You've earned the rest."
Gemma smirks at the stupid grin on Juice's face while he exits. "That was sweet. He's not one to hear approval."
"I believe in positive reinforcement." The truth of the matter is Schuyler wanted him out of the way. The less inexperienced bodies cluttering her the better she can work. The cotton buys her vital time. Time that wouldn't be required had the bullets been left inside the leg. Schuyler injects the shot above the points of entry, hoping the ease of pain with aid in Cameron's ability to sleep. With a plan of action mapped in her mind, she preps needles with thread. "You removed the bullets yourself?"
Chibs does his part to look dejected. "You should have left them alone. I could have told you this one hit an artery. It would have saved much of this needless blood loss if you had." With needle in hand, Schuyler beckons for his participation. "Come over here, soldier boy. Let's fix your mistake."
His eyes narrow. "I spent an excoriating five months as a field medic. It ended when I was court-martialed." Rounding the table swiftly, he offers his hands with his palms facing down. "I refused an order I thought unjust at the time."
Chibs' words take time to process. When they do, Schuyler pauses, grasping his wrist above the patient. "Wait…really?" Confounded, she searches his face for the truth.
Chibs detects her fears, despite not understanding their source, and seeks to reassure her optimism in him. "Basic training – down the drain."
"You actually…" Morbid curiosity replaces her confusion. Schuyler draws Chibs closer by his hand, and they are compelled towards one another. A gravitational force field enveloping them. The thin needle steadily slips from between the doctor's fingers.
Gemma's distraught words, sounding far across the table, sever the connection. "Irishman dying on the table!"
Schuyler catches the needle by its thread. She's first to tear her eyes away. Only because Chibs inclines his head down towards at his hands, cautious in avoiding his maternal figure's steel gaze. Schuyler's mind races, trying to come up with a suitable distraction while orchestrating her assistants' hands. "If-if," she clears her throat, "If Clay and Tig are hiding out with the money then…"
The distraction works. Gemma has eagerly been awaiting a chance to have an outburst. "Don't ask me where my good for nothing son is. I've been trying to reach him for hours. He wasn't at the exchange. The staff at ST. Thomas haven't seen him since this morning. Clay is furious with him."
Eyes shifting about, Chibs includes, "I sent Half-Sack after him. We haven't heard back."
The bleeding is gradual to slow. First the crucial artery is repaired followed by the entry wounds. The veterinarian wraps them in bandages to avoid further loss of blood. The procedure takes less than thirty minutes, yet the closer Schuyler nears the end the wider her frown grows. "We have a problem."
"I thought you were done?" Gemma has been keen to observe the extent of Schuyler's medical capabilities.
"He's stable. His body temperature needs to be kept down. I can numb him, for a while, and help him sleep." Schuyler cleanses her supplies, so she can return her kit to order. "But if this leg isn't already infected it will be soon. I don't have the reach at the clinic to be swiping meds. This man needs antibiotics that I don't have, or the sickness that follows will be what kills him."
Chibs and Gemma lock eyes. "We still need her help," Chibs asserts.
Gemma snaps back. "You're welcome to try him yourself. I've called every number."
Schuyler disposes of her gloves. "Whose help? Does this charter have a doctor?"
Chibs shakes his head. "Not exactly."
Gemma throws her hands in the air while storming from the room. "Fine. I'll try again, but if he isn't answering me, it's because he's with her."
"She'll find Jax. He can bring help." Chibs wipes his hands on a soiled washcloth. "Thank you, though, for coming. I know how busy you've been, but I couldna done what you did."
Schuyler dusts her hands on her scrubs. "What's another twenty-four hours without sleep? Bills have to be paid somehow." Schuyler goes to sit in a chair along the back wall where she clutches her hands between her knees. Sitting, even momentarily, allows her exhaustion to catch up with her. "I'm glad Clay made it out. And that no one was hurt." She keeps from mentioning him by name in case Gemma overhears their conversation, but she has a particular person in mind. "At least, no one I know. Do you know this guy?"
A step behind the woman, Chibs lowers himself into the chair beside her. "I knew McKeevy better. They were cousins. Cameron was stationed in Ireland for the most part and jus' got transferred. I'm sure that's something he's regretting right about now."
"I'll bet. Where was Cameron's douchebag cousin tonight?"
Chibs' eyebrows knit. "He was killed after we set the meeting. Cameron, he was frantic. Says he knows who's to blame. Wants us on retaliation. He's willing to forgive us our debt. Let us keep the two hundred k we spent that time raising if we handle it." Chibs zips his riding jacket up to the neck and pulls his kutte tighter. "Problems for another day. Clay can't consider proxying revenge with a target on his back. I think he'll have us in lockdown before too long."
"We're sure it was the Mayans?" Schuyler receives an affirmative. "Is it possible this was blowback from when we blew up their safehouse?"
Chibs breathes deeply through his nose. "Who's to say? Tiggy killed two of them, so we're sure of their allegiance. The Mexicans couldn't have known about the money. It was a hit on our Pres to be sure."
"The Mayans," Schuyler emphasizes. "No, the Mayans wouldn't have known about the trade. They timed it perfectly. How is it they knew where Clay would be, and that he'd be traveling light?"
"Great questions. We're looking for answers."
"It could be for any number things. SAMCRO has history with their club, right?"
"There was a war in the early nineties." Chibs considers the ceiling, futilely remembering exact dates. "The bones county discovered were casualties of that time. Our history with them goes back further than that. Always a feud for territory and profit."
Regardless of the circumstances, Schuyler is enjoying their conversation. She baits him, "You're a part of that 'ancient' history."
A smile threatens to sprout on his face. "You've got me. I immigrated around the time it started. Became close with JT during that time."
She presses her shoulder into his. "I patched in '98, so I wasn't that far behind you." They share a smile. "Which did you prefer? The military, or the Army?"
"Both were fighting fruitless wars." The admission takes Schuyler's breath away. "We struggle with the weight of this business. Even so, I've gained a lot more in Charming than I've lost."
Schuyler offers insight into her own experiences. "We had a similar war across the border in '02." Chibs hangs onto her every word. He wants to invest in and learn about her. "It was tough. Tougher on my brothers in a lot of ways. We didn't make it out whole…I've been trying to better the club ever since. Reparations, in a way."
"Do you ever suspect you put too much pressure on yourself?"
Jackson ramps up a once familiar driveway at a low rumble in an aged impala which had belonged to a man he once knew but who is no longer here. He borrowed the vehicle because he needed the trunk space. Using the steering wheel for leverage, he stretches the muscles of his back, but ultimately experiences little relief.
The last few days have been a whirlwind. To think, he had convinced himself he was happy, ready to be a father after devoting time and his undivided attention to his son for the first time in the infant's short life. Only to spin on a dime and spend an equal number of hours breaking into a morgue and burying a dead man Jackson is solely responsible for.
Not for the sake of the innocent, or in self-defense, or even in the name of protecting his hometown. In a fit of jealous rage, and little more than to protect the life of the man's daughter. He sits rigidly in the driver's seat while contemplating his motivations. The woman he'd sought to protect was the same one who left him shattered to pieces ten years ago, but who came back to Charming in time to prevent the death of his newborn and add to the litany of things sending his life spiraling out of control. He knew the moment he laid eyes on Tara that his feelings hadn't wavered. And when she needed his help the most, he was there as though time hadn't passed. They proved as much in their shared act of feverish passion, followed by the mad dash to bleach tiles, and tuck the body of the repellant assailant into the trunk of her father's car.
Jackson isn't sure which feels worse. The lack of regret for extinguishing a life so hastily and without hesitation or the newly acquired knowledge that he is physically capable of delving into the absolute extremes to protect those he feels absolute devotion towards, which would include his son. Revelations he feels ill-equipped to process.
He makes his way through the house until he finds Tara, freshly showered and compulsively organizing her bedroom. Understandably, she appears to have gotten little sleep after Jackson stepped out.
Her remorseful face stops Jackson in his tracks at the door. "Tell me what you've done with him." Jackson shakes his head. She slams a dresser door closed. Her voice starts loud, but trails to a whisper, more disturbed than anything else. "Tell me what you've done with Joshua."
"Never say that name again." Jackson's voice is low. Residual anger swelling. He sees the effects the agent's memory have on her – clear as day. "That name no longer has meaning. What's important is that you are safe. He can't get to you anymore."
"If his body is found, I'll be blamed." Tara's hands tremble.
"A body will not be found. As far as anyone knows a man left Charming on his own. He's not coming back because he has no reason to."
Tara flushes pale and darts into the bathroom. Jackson follows to hold her hair back, but she finishes, and the nausea subsides before he can offer much in the way of help.
Beginning in a kneeling position on the bathroom floor, he gently wraps his arms around her waist and pulls her into his lap. He leans his back against the tub and her weight grounds him. Where he hadn't known what was real in the woods where he disposed of the body, he's reasonably assured by her presence that he is real and everything that had taken place had been a result of his choices, as opposed to being a random occurrence of events mindlessly happening to him.
"A doctor should have a stronger stomach."
"I'm not laughing." She doesn't pull away either.
"What's important is this ended the right way," Jackson whispers next to Tara's ear. Her hair is freshly shampooed, sweet smelling.
"Becoming an accomplice? How is that right?"
"You survived. And if it hadn't been you, it would have been someone else. Maybe it always was. He was sick, and you did the right thing, getting him out of the picture. Forget him."
"How can it be so easy for you?" Tara pleads, needing to understand.
"I never said it was…" Jackson huffs a sigh. "It felt different this time. I've never killed someone like this before."
Tara turns in his arms to face Jackson. She brings a hand up to his face and tilts their foreheads together. "I hadn't thought about what this must be doing to you. How it feels. Living with the memory. It was wrong of me to bring you into my mess."
"I wanted to help. It was my decision. I could never live with myself if I knew you were hurt, and I didn't try to stop it from happening."
"You've always had protective instincts." Tara brushes Jackson's hair behind his ear. She places a kiss on his forehead. "You get it from your parents. I should have known this was difficult for you. Is there anything I can do? Can I repay you, at least, in some way?"
Jackson pulls away to look her squarely in the face. He shifts her weight and pulls a flip phone from his jeans. "You may regret asking."
Gemma barges into the room with a loud proclamation. "Jackson was pulling up when I called. He's right behind me."
Graciously heeding the notice, the couple separate to stand at opposite ends of the redwood. At the head of the table, Schuyler watches a rattled Jackson approach. A petite raven-haired woman walks by his side as though she personally recalls the building's layout.
The front of Jackson's pullover hoodie is covered in dirt, and he looks like he has had as much sleep as Schuyler in recent days. "Sorry we're late. Got here as soon as we could."
"It's alright Jackie-boy." The group converges around the sprawled man.
"Don't do that. Don't coddle him," Gemma rebukes. "When I call the prepay, you are expected to answer. Our world has fallen apart in a matter of hours. Not that you can be bothered to care when you're off rescuing princesses out of high towers."
Jackson snapping at his mother surprises Schuyler. "Mom, you don't know what you're talking about. You've no idea what I've been going through."
"I have no idea what you're going through?" Gemma's insulted.
"No, you don't! She's here as a favor to me, so leave it alone."
"It's alright." The brunette speaks up. Far from appearing intimidated, her gaze is cool, calculating. Her language professional. "I knew what I was in for. Gemma, I'm here because I can help. I'm not here to argue."
Schuyler takes an interest in the newcomer's blue carryon sized bag. "Don't suppose you packed meds in there that can help me cure the patient?"
Dressed in civilian clothing as though she rolled out of bed and dressed for a morning jog, the newcomer seems surprised to see an unfamiliar face. "The…patient? I'm sorry. Are you a doctor?"
Schuyler tugs at the label on her scrubs. "DVM, but I understand the confusion. I'm Doctor Schuyler."
Jackson introduces them. "This is Doctor Tara Knowles. She's a pediatric surgeon. And a friend of the club."
"You're seeing to Abel's recovery, is that right?" Schuyler puts the puzzle pieces together. "That means we're both a little out of our element here."
"I guess so." Realizing she's met with a fellow physician; Tara closes herself off personally. Her mindset shifts to be clinical. "Jax is right. I'm…a friend. Although I'm not usually involved in these situations. Are you used to performing under these strenuous conditions?"
"As comfortable here as I am at the practice. I've done more than a few freehanded operations."
Tara asks, skeptically, "How long have you been taking these sorts of house calls?"
Gemma subtlety signals to Schuyler that she should keep her cards close to her chest. Jackson has other plans. "She's a member."
"Is nothing private?" Gemma shouts.
"Like Tara isn't smart enough to figure it out on her own!" Jackson shouts back.
Tara sounds inquisitive. "I didn't think such a thing was allowed."
Schuyler replies, "I got in on a technicality."
Gemma interrupts the flow of conversation. "I'm glad you could become fast friends. But maybe we should save pleasantries for when a man isn't threatening to die in my place of business!"
Tara steps towards the table and sets her bag parallel with the man's body. "Right. Can you tell me anything about…the patient?"
Schuyler supplies, "Two bullets lodged inside the muscle of the upper left leg. The one closest to the gluteus maximus nicked an artery. The bullets have been removed, and I was able to stop the excessive bleeding. You're welcome to see for yourself. I placed temporary bandages over the entry wounds because he lost a damaging amount of blood. Luckily there's no bone damage, but gangrene has started to set in and it's triggering a fever."
Tara examines underneath the bandages. Cameron shifts groggily in his sleep yet stirs no further. "I can see that. There's a great deal of swelling. I'm surprised he's asleep."
"I injected a local sedative which has eased his pain. This one's kept the booze steadily flowing." She motions towards Chibs. "My medication stock is low. I'm afraid I haven't anything to treat the infection."
"These stitches look good considering your limitations. I don't see a reason to redo them." Tara glances between the bag and its owner.
"You mean to say: not a bad job for a veterinarian. The university didn't know they were training me for two careers for the price of one."
"This leg, on the other hand, will have to be sterilized frequently and thoroughly. I have something for that." Tara passes Schuyler supplies from her own cattie. "I can't do anything about the blood loss, but if you want to pull a chair up next to his head you can start an IV drip. As for the infection, I have a prescription which will kill anything." Tara passes Gemma a bottle. "Get him to take two pills now and one every four hours after that until they are gone."
Gemma stares indignantly at the medicine before taking it and begrudgingly rousing Cameron. The tension between the women is palpable, so Schuyler sets up the IV without further discussion. Tara busies herself with the sterilization process and places a long-term bandage on Cameron's leg.
When the emergency subsides, Schuyler extends her respect. "Thank you for the assist."
"It was no trouble." Tara winces at the pressure Schuyler applies in the handshake. The veterinarian would be first to admit she had been asserting herself as the lead practitioner, but Tara never attempted to change the outcome of this assertion.
Thinking of the long term, Gemma asks, "What do we do with him now?"
"He's good for four hours," Schuyler summarizes. "You can change the IV bag when you give him his next pill. Change the bandages every six hours. In two or three days he can do it himself."
"All we can give him is an opportunity to rest and time to heal." Tara further insists, "He'll need a caregiver until the fever breaks, but he's out of the woods. There's nothing more we can do for him without taking him to a hospital."
Chibs gathers Tara's meaning. "Entirely out of the question. It's up to Cameron to pull through."
Jackson says, "He can stay at the cabin. I'll send the Prospect to play nurse and Piney can keep his eye on them." In a show of gratitude, Jackson places his hand on the small of
Tara's back. "I'll take you up there in a few days to make sure he's made progress."
"Great. It's settled." Schuyler goes to claim her bag. "I'm coming off a twelve-hour shift and I'm in desperate need of sleep. I think I'll head home."
"You can't go home," Gemma stipulates. "Clay will be back soon and he's going to want everyone at the table."
Schuyler tries to shrug the suggestion off. "Then Jackson will have loads of help taking Cameron to Piney's."
Chibs adds, "It's safer if everyone stays put. No one needs be riding alone for a while."
"You can take my room," Jackson speaks up. "Crash out in the apartment. Someone will grab you for church."
"Really?" Schuyler pokes fun. "When is the last time those sheets were changed?"
Jackson not so slyly releases Tara; his arm hanging limply at his side. "This morning. Do you want the room or not?"
"I'll take it. I won't be far. Holler if anyone else gets shot."
Chibs excuses himself. "I'll walk you out."
Together Chibs and Schuyler walk down the hallway towards the private apartments. "How is it we know Doctor Knowles?"
Chibs has an answer, though he doesn't appear intrigued by the new topic. "One of Jackson's old flames. He was in love with her."
Schuyler rolls her eyes a bit. "That explains Gemma's fondness for her. Do you trust her?"
"Enough not to poison Cameron where he lays. First chance, she left Charming. Never approved of the club." Without much thought, Chibs follows Schuyler into the private room. Neither bothers to firmly shut the door. It's left ajar. "I'm impressed she agreed to help Jackson in this way. But the time those kids have been spending at the hospital is bound to drudge up old feelings."
Schuyler drops her bag on a chair beside the bed. There's one pillow and a cheap blanket thrown on top. An anarchy symbol has been ironed on it. "Gemma can't blame him. Things are changing fast, and Jackson is being put through the ringer. Familiarity and stability are what he's missing out on the most."
"We tend not to struggle against the things we recognize." Schuyler drawing back the top cover is the cue Chibs takes to leave. "When the guys are back some of us will take Cameron to the cabin. But someone is bound to stay behind. You'll be safe."
Schuyler peers over at Chibs, intrigued by his choice in words. "I know."
"I should leave you to it then."
Schuyler appreciates how hard Chibs has worked to keep from imposing on her. Despite his best efforts to be considerate, Schuyler chooses to test the waters again. "Is that something you 'should' do?" She approaches determinedly and takes note of the foot he drags backwards to maintain the distance between them. Schuyler proceeds into his personal space, not giving him room to run away, because she needs him to understand that her plans are to do anything but.
Chibs' eyes rove over her face. It's unclear whether his motives are to memorize every feature or to prevent himself from staring at her lips for an inappropriate length of time. He's considering something intently, carefully, and clearly struggling internally with the element of the unknown. "This isn't the place."
Schuyler reaches forward, trailing feather light fingertips across Chibs' forearm, up his bicep, until her arm settles, wrapping across his shoulder. "This isn't the time or the place, and this is something you shouldn't do." She presses their chests together, pulling herself up on her toes. "But these things have nothing to do with what you want."
Chibs catches her around the waist, and steadies her, so she can hold herself at eye level with him. "If I had half a mind, I would go about this the proper way. I've been here before, and I should know how to do it better, so this turns out for us."
Ever a complete gentleman. Even his arm, wrapped tightly around her back, comes across as cordial. The notion drives Schuyler mad. "What, were you imaging picking me up on my doorstep? Going out for dinner and a movie."
"No, but…"
Schuyler silences his doubt. "From where I'm standing, you are doing just fine." Her eyes flutter shut, and she edges forward, doing the one thing she can think of to assure Chibs that her desires are her own and they are directed at him.
A knock so strong, so resolute, penetrates the apartment and nearly startles Chibs clear out of his skin. Schuyler is so impressed by the volume that she is only able to pry her eyes in amazement and step outside of Chibs' reach. "Come in. You can see the door is open. Plain as day."
The door swings open to reveal Tig who wears a shit-eating grin.
Schuyler takes a centering breath. "Glad I wasn't asleep. You could have given me a heart attack."
"Why, was I interrupting something?" Tig's eyes dart between them. Chibs, especially, appears guilty.
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
Tig leans his forearm heavily on the doorframe. "Don't threaten me with a good time."
Chibs hangs his head between his hands completely at a loss for words. He contemplates how he wound up caught in-between two loose cannons.
"It's alright. I'm alone." Tig peers down the hall to reaffirm his claim. "Everyone's in the chapel. We're about to head out, though. Got a few loose ends to clean up. Are you up to tagging along?"
Chibs affirms, "Yeah, alright. I'm on my way."
Schuyler asks, "Did something else come up? Did you need me for anything?"
Tig playfully bats the frame of the door before disappearing. "Thought never crossed my mind."
Chibs' hands fall from his face. "He's a real handful."
Schuyler perks up. "That's one of the things I like about him. He's incorrigible."
"Bound and determined to keep me on my toes, that one." Chibs finds himself stepping out of the room. "I'll come by when you're needed. If that's alright."
"Careful when you do. If you get popped it's on your ass." Before Chibs is fully outside the door, Schuyler falls on the bed with graceful ease. She bends her right leg, pointing her knee towards the ceiling, and uses her left hand to adjust a pillow under her head. "All I ask is that you buy me as much time as you can."
Chibs stands inside the doorway for a time. The young woman pulls the blanket up to her nose and her breath evens out. He feels he is observing more than he is invading her privacy in some way. He watches her head lull to the side to tuck her face into the pillow when she embraces sleep. A sense of wanting to make sure she is comfortable overcomes him. His self-conscious thoughts, however, reprimand him for harboring such feelings. He quietly closes the door, literally creating a barrier to separate them. A barrier he longs to tear down.
The Seargeant waits for him a quarter down the hallway. The Scotsman stops opposite Tig. "What the hell? She told me she was covering a shift tonight."
"Aye, she was. I removed the bullets from Cameron's leg, but it wasn't enough. He was getting sick, and I couldna stop the bleeding. She did. She's earned a respite."
Tig kicks his foot up and leans backwards against the wall. His eyes glue to the door where the woman in question sleeps on the other side. "I shouldn't be surprised. Between that and her plan to get us money to pay off the Irish. It's starting to look like there isn't a thing she can't pull off. Man, I mean it, she's fucking…"
"Brilliant," Chibs finishes his sentence.
"Sharp as those blades she carrier, and twice as lethal." Tig's eyes dart back and forth between Chibs and the barroom. Bodies shuffle passed the window view created by the hallway. They are too preoccupied with their duties to pay the incognito men attention. "I like this. Seeing you spend time with her. If that's something you want." Tig's voice drops to an almost imperceptible decimal. His breathe catches when he sees Chibs flush white. "Sorry it had to be under these circumstances. Thanks to our Chicano friends. Except I'm glad you called her. This way I don't have to worry about her whereabouts."
Reminded of the present threat looming, Chibs gathers himself. "Tell me where everyone lands on this."
"Sack made it back when we did. He's helping Jackson load Cameron into that dumb as shit ambulance he nicked. Clay's on the phone. Said he wanted Gem and him to stay in one of the spare apartments until things cool off." Tig's voice returns to a conversational volume. He curiously accounts for the out of place body. "Speaking of Gemma. See your plan was to hide out and avoid whatever trainwreck is brewing in the chapel. What's Tara doing back, and why's Gemma bothering to wait and pounce?"
"Jackson brought her around. Mother's playing nice because we needed help. She had meds Cameron needed and Schuyler couldna get." Chibs catches a glimpse of the accused. Jackson busies himself with farewells to his mother and the surgeon. The young man isn't shy when making his affections known and falling into old habits that were once routine. "Although, if you ask me, I'd say Jackson has been grinding away at that stone for some time."
Tig's demeanor becomes rigid, reliving his near-death experience. "He was screwing around with the doctor when he should have been at the drop. Jax has been pushing back against me since we discovered the Nords are working with the Mayans. He all but refused to attend because I went, and you see what happened when we were outnumbered. He's looking at every angle to avoid the fight that's coming. The last thing he needs is to be pussy whipped by that damned wetblanket. If she gets back in his head, there's no telling where he'll spin off to."
Chibs defends his brother. "You forget he's jus' a boy. He's got enough on his plate without you adding pressure on top of him."
"No, no, his being a kid is my problem. You forget he hasn't grown up yet. He's not prepared for the kind of shit it takes to wage a war and win. We are. You can't expect him to lead us through this!"
Chibs doubles down. His eyebrows furrow into a hard line. "He'll come to a decision that's best for the club. Would it be wrong of us to avoid a fallout? Maybe we should help our VP look for ways around another pointless war that can only end in bloodshed."
"The Mayans were not firing warning shots at the bar." Tig pins his shoulders back like a dog who is readying to leap. This is the same argument he plans to take up in church, and he determines Chibs is a good audience to practice on. There are benefits to their disagreements in club matters. "I killed two of them because they were aiming at Clay's head. At mine! You think I should drop that?"
"I don't want to fight. If push comes to shove and our clubs can't sort out this beef, we may not get another chance to fight."
"Everything's always got to be Armageddon with you. It's more than a 'beef' and you know it. That's why we're still standing here." Tig walks further down the hall to put distance between himself and Chibs, and he gestures flippantly behind himself towards the apartment door he'd referred to. He fingers with the handle of his buck knife until his posture slouches. In the distance, he hears murmurs calling for the absent members' presence. The day has only begun. "Anyway, we have time to hash this out. Time to get a move on. I said the prospect would stick around, but if you want, you can head out while I stay behind. Tell Clay I'm staying back to guard homebase."
Chibs resolutely states, "The last thing she needs is our protection."
His mind remaining on the serious nature of the conversation, his words are deadly serious. His goading language let on his true intent. "Maybe not. But anything that wants to get through that door is going through me first."
"How will you protect Clay and this door at the same time?"
Wounded, Tig asks, "Have I ever given you reason to doubt me?"
Chibs cracks a smile, and he throws one last glance at the apartment. "We best be off. They wouldna get a thing done without us." Chibs meets Tig down the hall and throws an apparently fraternal arm around the other man's shoulders. He drops it as soon as they enter the barroom. A small gesture meant to communicate that there are no hard feelings between them. "Suppose I'll have to dispose of that goddamn ambulance when we're rid of Cameron. What the hell was my Prospect thinking?"
"Beats the hell out of me. I don't know what you were thinking letting that numbskull prospect in the first place."
/ /
Author's Notes: They are short, but meaningful moments that needed to take place between these central characters to establish the building blocks of their relationships. I know I've said they will arrive at a point where the triad will become more covert in their interactions and stop having these hazardous interactions where they can potential get caught, and this chapter should be the last time such an interaction occurs. Future interactions should be carried out with more tact, and in private settings.
I've also become aware of how often I write phone call and church meeting scenes (both happen frequent in the canon series; I believe is what has attributed to my usage of them) which is partially the reason I ended this chapter before another church scene. I will be aware of the fact that I use these story telling devices in the future and try to write in new settings/devices to communicate information between characters.
Other than these few minor housecleaning issues, I hope everyone has enjoyed their New Year, and thank you so much for returning for this update! I hope you enjoyed the new content, and you may optimistically look forward to more in the coming months!