Razor (Twisted Devils MC Book 1)

by Zahra Girard

  I finish the forms and head back to Colleen’s desk.

  “Here you are,” I say, handing the forms over. Then I say, “What room is she in?”

  She doesn’t look up from the forms she’s working on. The woman is an ice-cold paperwork robot. “She’ll be in room 328. But she’s not there right now, hun. They’ve got her out for some tests.”

  “Where are they doing these tests? Can I check on her?”

  Colleen glances up from her paperwork. But only to give me a look that gives me frostbite.

  “You can’t go back there.”

  Samantha says this woman is into me? Is she blind?

  Still, I’m not going to just sit around in the ER’s lobby doing nothing.

  I put my hands on her desk and lean in.

  I up the heat in my smile by a few hundred degrees and use the voice I reserve for women I plan to take home after a night out. The voice that gets them to drop their inhibitions and their panties.

  “Listen, Colleen, that woman back there means a lot to me and I’m just trying to do right by her. I’d really appreciate it if you could give me an idea of when I can see her, because there’s nothing more important in my life than making sure that lovely woman is treated right. Can you help me? I’d be real grateful if you could.”

  She hems, she haws, her cheeks color, and there’s a momentary flash of insatiable hunger in her eyes; a hunger that screams that if I — or any of my brothers in the club — ever crossed paths with Colleen in the wild, there’s a good chance none of us would survive.

  “So, you’re more than just a cute face, huh? Well, with the state your grandmother’s in and the tests they have to do, it’ll be four or five hours before you can see her. Come back then, hun. Oh, and give me your number and keep your phone on. I’ll call you if there’s any news.”

  What the hell have I just stepped into?

  I put my hand on hers and force my smile to stay the same.

  “Thank you, Colleen. I really appreciate it.”

  Then I take a scrap of paper from her desk, scrawl my number on it, and head to the exit. There’s four hours to kill and I need to keep focused on my mission: finding out who the fuck the new gang in town is so I don’t get my ass sent to Omaha.

  Stepping out into the parking lot, I pull out my cell phone and, gritting my teeth, I dial our club’s contact in the Lone Mesa PD: Officer Bill Hanratty.

  “Razor? Crash told me you’d be checking in. How’re you doing today?”

  He’s polite. Professional. Kind.

  I hate this motherfucker.

  “I’m looking to see if you got any information for me, Hanratty. Anything on these new players in town?”

  “Not yet. I’m working some of my contacts, but it’s a little slow. And my usual sources aren’t talking — whoever these guys are, they are connected. These guys have friends in some high places, if you get my drift. Don’t worry though, I’ll keep working on it.”

  “Don’t fuck around on this one, Hanratty. You call me as soon as you find something.”

  “Will do, chief. Hey, I’m about to go see a contact of mine that might have some info for me. He’s a little unreliable, so he might take some persuasion, but his stuff usually turns out good. You want to tag along? I plan to hit the donut shop along the way for a cup of coffee and a bear claw and I’d be happy to pick you up something, too.”

  “Whatever. I don’t fucking care about the donuts. When and where are we seeing this contact of yours?”

  “Half an hour. You know that old warehouse off Genesee street?”

  “I know it. See you there.”

  * * * * *

  “What’s this?”

  Hanratty holds out a paper bag to me and hands me a cup of coffee.

  “Coffee. There’s an apple fritter and a bear claw in the bag. Didn’t know which you’d prefer, so I got you both. They’re fresh.”

  I hand him back the bag, but I keep the coffee.

  “Not interested.”

  “Suit yourself, sport.”

  “Where’s your contact?”

  “Inside. His name’s Simon. He’s a small-time dealer, usually works the nearby towns, like Shady Pines and Torreon, but sometimes his business brings him over here. He doesn’t deal in the usual stuff like meth or heroin, though I’m sure he’d hook you up if you asked.”

  “I’m not fucking interested in heroin. What’s he deal in?”

  “Scrips. Black market cancer drugs, painkillers, stuff like that.”

  Simon sounds like a solid lead; the perpetual frown that I have on my face whenever I’m around Hanratty might be wavering. And, unfortunately, he sees it.

  “That good news for you, tiger?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Let’s see what he’s got to say.”

  We enter the warehouse and Simon’s there waiting for us. Wearing an Iron Maiden shirt and sporting a shaved head, a patchy goatee, a tattoo of a dragon running down his entire right arm and a tattoo of a knight on his other arm — he looks like he belongs at some kind of fantasy convention.

  “Who’s this guy?” Simon says to Hanratty, nodding in my direction.

  “A friend,” Hanratty answers.

  “I’m not your friend, Hanratty,” I say.

  “Then who the fuck are you?” Simon says.

  “An associate. A business partner. Not a friend,” I say.

  “Razor here is interested to hear more about what you told me, Simon. About these new guys.”

  “You mean the motherfuckers who are pushing me out of my territory?”

  “Yeah, those guys. Tell us what you know.”

  “They’re the Makris family. They’re from down south. Their territory runs from, like, Los Angeles all the way east to Phoenix and Tucson. They might be Greek, I dunno, but this is a big family and they’re tight with a bunch of other Eastern European motherfuckers. They do gambling, black market medicines, Medicare scams, stuff like that. They don’t fight with the big boys like the cartels and they like to stay out of the spotlight.”

  “Sounds like them. How connected are they?” Hanratty says.

  Simon shrugs. “The real big players like the cartels and Russians leave them alone. They sort of exist in different markets — Russians and cartels smuggle the hard stuff, smuggle people, whatever — so they leave each other alone. Kind of like a peaceful co-existence.”

  I look over at Hanratty. “How the fuck have we never heard of these guys?”

  “Plenty of potential reasons, champ. But except for the occasional poker game or big money score in bringing in a lot of black market drugs, what the Makris family does isn’t really the sexiest kind of crime. It doesn’t draw as much attention as a big heroin bust, if you know what I mean. So it doesn’t get the coverage.”

  Simon coughs. “Your cop friend is right. They fly under the radar. They’re still dangerous and they’re still massive assholes, they’re just quiet about it.”

  “He isn’t my friend. Say that one more time and I’ll rip your tongue out.”

  Hanratty puts a hand on my shoulder. “Relax, Razor. Maybe you should have that bear claw. It might help with your attitude.”

  “I don’t want a fucking bear claw, Hanratty. Stop with the fucking bear claws. Jesus Christ. What else do you know about these Makris bastards, Simon?”

  “If they’re moving in on this territory, it means they’ve got people in town here on their payroll. That’s the case down in LA. Buddy of mine ran a loan sharking enterprise down there. Before he disappeared, he told me he had a beef with this Makris family. They shared clients — some people took out loans from my friend to pay down some gambling debts to the Makris gang. But the Makris gang has a vicious way of collecting on their debts. People were turning up dead, with missing hands, toes, and hell, they even found one guy without his head. Cops never really looked into it, just framed a few homeless people. Then my buddy went to confront them and he turned up dead, too. Don’t fuck around with these Makris guys, man. Not u
nless you’re ready to get real bloody.”

  I nod. “Thanks, Simon. Get in touch if you hear anything more. Now get the fuck out of here.”

  We start to leave when Simon calls out after us. “Yo, Hanratty, where’s my money?”

  Hanratty, grinning sheepishly, pauses and takes a small wad of cash out of his pocket and strips a decent number of bills from the clip. He hands it over to Simon, who counts it, nods, then heads for the back exit of the warehouse.

  “Lot of cash for a cop. Even a dirty one,” I say.

  “Stone gives me an allowance for working expenses. Doesn’t want me to have to pay too much out of my own pocket when it’s for important club-related intel. Learned a long time ago that you don’t skimp with paying for important stuff.”

  “Sounds like Stone.”

  Hanratty grunts. “Yeah. I’ll still have to report it to Crash. Make sure he clears it. You know how Crash is. He doesn’t like unexpected expenses.”

  I don’t answer. We’re back in the parking and I’m already figuring how I’m going to kill the remaining couple hours before I can check on my nana. My usual options — time with Carla or any of the other club girls — aren’t on the table thanks to Mack. And thanks to Samantha; other women just aren’t as interesting now that I’ve met that nurse.

  My phone rings.

  Hanratty’s does, too.

  We eye each other sideways.

  I answer my phone. It’s Mack.

  “Lad, I’ve got an update for you on that little search you’re running: you’re doing a shit job. Those motherfuckers have found us.”

  “What’s wrong, Mack?”

  “Grab a fucking bucket and get the fuck back here. The club’s trucking yard is on fire.”

  Chapter Ten

  Samantha

  Garlic breath and body odor that reeks like an inferno in an Italian restaurant’s pantry. A habit of standing so close that personal space is just a fond memory. A smug grin and a look in his eyes like he knows my job better than I do. This is my current patient.

  “Now, darling, I know you can just refill my prescription for me. It’s not that hard.”

  “No, sir, I can’t. Not without your doctor and your insurance company signing off.”

  “Look, in a lot of ways, you’re too smart to be a nurse. But how you’re acting right now is just darned inconvenient. Honey, all you have to do is walk back to that pharmacy and put a few pills in that little bottle there.”

  “No.”

  His voice changes. It’s needling. Whiny.

  “Won’t you just look at the label? You can see I’ve taken this stuff for a long time. All I need is for you to do this simple task and refill the bottle. You’re smart enough to do that, aren’t you? Or are you just a pretty face in a sexy uniform?”

  Oh, hell no.

  “I am so sorry, sir. I’m actually not capable of refilling your prescription. They don’t give nurses like me that kind of access. I’m sure you can understand. But, you know what, I know just the person who can help you. Wait right here.”

  Stepping out of the examination room, I cast my eyes about and find the man I’m looking for: Dr. Grant Henley. Dr. Henley trained as a field medic in the Army before joining our ER team. He’s six-foot-three and built like a granite statue of a gladiator.

  I wave to him. “Dr. Henley, I could use your help in here.”

  He weaves his way to me through the crowd. “What is it, Sam?”

  “There’s a patient in there who needs to have something I’ve told him a dozen times repeated to him by a man. Pretty sure he’s drug-seeking and absolutely certain he’s a dick.”

  Dr. Henley chuckles. “Not a problem. I’ll sort him out.”

  He enters the room behind me and, before the door shuts, I hear the patient say: “Finally. I’m glad they sent someone with real authority to help me.”

  Fuck him.

  I shake my head clear, cast a worried glance at the clock — it’s been almost five hours since Razor left and it’s unlike him to be late where his grandmother’s concerned — and then I get back to my rounds.

  In the next room, I check on another patient. This one’s recovering from an overdose; we gave him a dosing of activated charcoal to bind the drugs in his system to his bodily waste, and then some drugs to speed up the evacuation of his bowels. He’s recovering now, sleeping and on an IV drip to prevent dehydration.

  There have been too many like him lately. The vulnerable people in this city are taking it hard and I’ve got this sinking feeling that it will only get worse with the Makris family in town.

  I check his vitals, mark his chart, and, sad to leave the relative quiet of the room, step back outside.

  Then I see Razor.

  His face is ashen — not pale, not gray, literally peppered with ash — and he reeks of smoke.

  I run to him. “Are you OK? What happened?”

  “Fire at the trucking warehouse. It’s contained, not too much damage, just a damned inconvenience and an upset boss. It was a warning from our friends from the other night.”

  I turn away from him to call to a passing CNA. “I need a wheelchair over here immediately.”

  “That’s not necessary. I’m fine,” Razor says.

  The wheelchair arrives and, ignoring his protests, I push him into the chair. “A fire at a place like that, where there could be any sort of dangerous chemicals, is not something I can just let you wave off. You need to be examined.”

  He stands up, though I try to keep him in the chair. I keep forgetting how much stronger than me he is. And how much more stubborn.

  “I’m fine. Can I see her?”

  “You really should get checked out.”

  “We both know I won’t let that happen.”

  “Fine. Follow me.”

  I lead him down the hallway to his grandmother’s room. It’s a private room, one that I had to pull a few strings to get for her, especially considering the influx of overdoses we’ve had.

  Before I open the door, I put my hand on Razor and stop him short.

  “She’s had a hard day. More than just getting hit on the head. She’s been in and out of consciousness, had a battery of tests, and she’s on some heavy painkillers. Be gentle with her, OK?”

  “I just want to see her and let her know I’m here for her. That’s all.”

  We head inside. In a heartbeat, Razor’s pulled a chair to her bedside and put his hand over Ruby’s. He’s so focused it’s like I’m not even in the room.

  Ruby’s eyes flutter at the touch. They half open.

  “Nana?” He says. His voice barely above a whisper. “It’s me. Eli.”

  “Where are we? What is all this?” She says.

  Razor looks back at me.

  “Some short-term memory issues are to be expected after the head injury that she’s had,” I say. “They should be temporary.”

  “We’re in the hospital, nana. You fell in the bathroom and hit your head. Bad.”

  “Is that why I feel like shit? I’m nauseous and feel like I’m floating,” Ruby says and then she feels her head. It’s wrapped in gauze and she’s on a heavy dose of painkillers, but she still winces. “I can’t feel a damn thing thanks to these drugs, which means I must be a total mess underneath these bandages.”

  “It was bad.”

  “Fuck,” she mutters, then her eyes widen. Slightly. It’d be hard for her to do more as drugged as she is. “Did you get my paperwork all taken care of, dear? Or am I going to have to get ready to run the fuck out of here in this goddamn ass-revealing robe?”

  “It’s sorted. As far as the hospital knows, you’re Ruby Bogart.”

  I can’t resist opening my mouth. “Any relation to Humphrey Bogart?”

  Ruby nods. “Yes, dear. Just a bit of wish fulfillment. I love my dear deceased husband, William — I used to call him ‘Rascal’ because, like the scooter, he’s what I wanted to ride even in my old age — but there’s always a part of me that knew, from the mome
nt I laid eyes on him, that I wanted Humphrey Bogart’s cock. Me, him, and the only stitch of clothing between us that handsome hat of his is my vision of heaven.”

  “Jesus, that’s graphic. Maybe I should lower your dosage,” I say. Then, noticing Razor’s eyes on me, I explain, “Sometimes people can have some issues with their filter while under medication.”

  Razor shakes his head. “No. If anything, she’s filtering herself more than usual. Give her half a chance and she’ll tell you all about how she’d spend a weekend with that man. I’ve never, not once, been able to listen to the full story.”

  “Oh my God, no thanks,” I say. “Listen, Razor, I have to check your grandmother’s vitals, so I will have to cut your visiting time short. But while you’re out there, get yourself checked out.”

  “I’m fine,” he says.

  “You smell like your grandfather’s ash tray. What happened, Eli?” Ruby says.

  “Fire at Stone’s trucking. Arson.”

  “So there’s going to be some retaliation, huh?” Ruby says. “What sons of bitches will your club bury now?”

  “The Makris family,” Razor says. Though he’s speaking to his grandmother, his eyes are focused right on me. “Some crime family out of Los Angeles. They’re moving in on our territory. They deal in gambling, black market medical supplies, and in ripping off Medicare.”

  Ruby snorts. “They sound like a sleazy bunch of ratfuckers. Medicare scams, really? What kind of person rips off the elderly? Where’s the challenge in that? Or the respectability?”

  Razor only takes his eyes off me for a moment. “There is none. But we’ll track them down soon enough. And anyone that’s working for them.”

  I meet his gaze and I don’t flinch. The man isn’t subtle about the games he’s playing and I’ve got too much depending on me to fall for them. “Time to go, Razor. And, please, get yourself checked out.”

  “Do it, Eli,” Ruby adds.

  Razor lets out a noncommittal grunt and leaves.

  As soon as he’s gone, I go about checking Ruby’s vitals. With the injuries she’s suffered — which are not as bad as originally feared but still more than considerable — she needs frequent monitoring and will require it for the near-term future.