BANE: A Devils' Due MC Romance Novel (26 page)

"I want Dr. Edwards!" the man screamed at me as he dropped his beagle on the examination table. "Dr. Edwards knows what to do just by looking at my dog!"

"I told you, Sir, Dr. Edwards has been MIA since last week," I explained to him once more. He refused to listen, insisting instead for the missing vet who I haven't even seen before.

When I was hired to be an assistant at St. Cornelius' Animal Clinic last Monday, I always thought that I'd be working under the tutelage of a licensed vet. I never knew that I would be left alone to man the station until the doctor would report back to work. Thankfully, the only patients so far have been two pups who needed some shots and a cat who broke her paw. They didn't require an experienced vet's expertise. Their needs were simple enough for me to fulfill.

This morning, however, a burly man with balding hair brought in Pepper, his pet beagle who he claimed was sick. The poor dog, eight years old by my approximation, did seem lethargic and her eyes were sad. She kept whimpering for reasons I couldn't immediately diagnose... and her owner didn't have the patience to wait.

"Bullshit!" the man yelled as he dropped his fist on the table, producing a loud sound that jolted me and the dog. "When will he be reporting back to work?"

"I... I'm afraid I can't answer that, Sir," I replied. "As I’ve said, no one has heard from him since last week."

The man grunted and began to pace around the room.

"So what should I do now?" He asked angrily. "Wait for her to die?"

"Again, Sir, as I've suggested earlier, you can leave Pepper here and I can perform some very basic tests to see what's wrong with her."

"Fuck that stupid idea! Are you even a vet?"

"No, Sir."

"You're not even a vet?" he sarcastically chuckled. "I'll leave my dog in the care of someone whose previous work experience was waitering at Hooter's?"

Patience, my mother always reminded me, is a virtue. I always repeated her words in my mind whenever I was at the brink of losing my composure. The man's insulting words was quickly pushing me over the edge, so much so that I had to make a mental picture of my mother shouting her mantra over a megaphone.

It didn't work.

"Did you know that two out of every three Hooters waitresses are college graduates?" I asked him. "Not that I was ever employed in one of their establishments, Sir, but to use their line of work as a derogatory platform would be most unfair for those young, beautiful and intelligent girls."

His eyes widened. He didn't expect me to deliver such a passive-aggressive response.

"Whatever!" he uttered in exasperation. "I'll leave her here, but no one should touch her except for Edwards. Do you understand?"

"That will be fine," I answered. He noticed the chill in my voice. He gave me one last menacing stare before making his way to the exit, finally leaving me alone with his unwell pet.

I heaved a sigh of relief and checked the paper I asked him to fill up earlier. He didn't even bother to put in most of the details that were asked. All he jotted down were the dog's name, Pepper, and his name, Anton. He didn't even indicate his last name.

I looked at the dog who was still sprawled on the table. Her movements have been few and far in between, limited only to slight jerks of her head whenever she would hear her name. I kneaded her back and she didn't react. I tried to turn her over but she grimaced as soon as I touched her tummy.

Her tummy.

It was sensitive. Could that be it, though? Was that the area that was hurting? Was it possible that she ate something she shouldn't have, hence the pain that has been causing her so much agony?

A licensed vet would immediately know. But I wasn't one. My college degree was so very unrelated to this field. But when I graduated from Emerson in Boston a little over two years ago, I had to find work as soon as I could to start paying off my student loan which was accumulating interest at a rate faster than a brick sinking in water. A veterinary assistant was the first opportunity I found.
No experience necessary
, the ad said. All that was needed was a four year degree and a genuine love for animals, and both requirements I met with flying colors.

It was a very enjoyable and rewarding job.

Ironically, last week, when I moved back here, in Rogue Town, an opening for a vet assistant was the first one I chanced upon. My resume - which counted a similar position as its lone entry - helped me bag the job. Or so I thought. I only realized a few days ago that Rosalinda, the proprietor who usually served as the receptionist, was just desperate for someone to hold fort until the resident vet would show up again.

Pepper grunted and won back my attention.

"It's okay girl," I tried to reassure her. "We'll find out what's wrong and fix you up as quickly as possible."

Standard protocol dictated that I should wait for a licensed vet to make the diagnosis. I didn't have that luxury. The dog needed help, fast, and I had to act just as expediently.

I sent her through the x-ray ring and waited for a few minutes for the result.

I gulped in horror as soon as I saw it.

There, in the middle of her stomach, was a pouch that was as long and as wide as three fingers joined together. A pouch! A freaking pouch! How did it get there? Pepper couldn't have swallowed it whole. She would've gagged before that thing went through her throat!

The pouch was just too big. It was stretching out her large intestine so much that it could burst open at any time. That would be bad. An emergency procedure was the only way to go. The pouch had to be removed if the dog was to be saved.

I sedated her. It took a while for her to go to sleep. The pain must've been too much for the effects of the sedative to be delayed that long.

I turned her over flat on her back as soon as she lost consciousness. I grabbed the incision knife to begin the procedure. I've done similar operations before, in Boston, but none of them were as pressing as Pepper's case.

I held the side of her body as the tip of the knife touched her soft tummy.

It was then when I felt it.

Stitches. Covered by her fur. Meticulously hidden at the seam of her hind leg and her torso.

Oh my God...

The pouch... she didn't swallow it. It was placed there, on purpose, in her body!

I checked the x-ray result again and cursed myself for missing it! The pouch wasn't inside her intestine. The pouch was beside it, covering the colon with a shadow that made me assume otherwise. It would've been a costly oversight. 

I dropped the knife and grabbed the surgical scissors. One by one, I cut off the knots of the stitches. They were clumsily made, the work of an amateur who knew little about what he was doing. I could only imagine what the poor dog went through.

I pressed her body and her leg to open up the cut. She flinched a little despite her slumber. I had to finish fast as the pain may become unbearable for her despite the sleeping agent.

Blood poured out as the wound opened wider. I pressed harder. A portion of the pouch peeked through the gash. I grabbed it and pulled it out. More blood spilled... a necessary consequence of my attempt to cure her.

I placed the container - its aluminum wrapper protected by plastic - on the table as I quickly closed her wound. I cleaned up the opening before stitching it up once more. I gave her an antibiotic shot to help stave the infection that was sure to follow.

The difficult part was done. It was all up to Pepper now. Her recovery would be difficult and uncertain. She just had to be strong.

After removing my gloves and cleaning my hands, I decided to study the pouch. It was sealed. It seemed like whoever prepared it invested more care and concern in packaging its content than in patching up the poor dog. So many questions ran in my head. Why would anyone do such an abysmal thing? What kind of sick mind would do something like that to a hapless dog? What was inside the pouch that warranted endangering a dog's wellbeing?

There was only one way to find out, professional standards be damned. I wasn't a licensed vet anyway.

I unwrapped the packaging, removing the plastic before opening the aluminum foil inside.

What I saw shocked me.

Powder.

White and grainy and compactly pressed.

At first I didn't know what it was. My confusion caused me to study it further. Was it baby powder? Milk? Talcum? Cement mix? None of them were that important to hide inside the body of an animal.

Unless..
.

Oh no...

A lump formed in my throat as my knees weakened. I dropped the pouch on the surface as I took a step back. I didn't want any part of it, but my fingerprints were all over the damn thing already. Shit!

I needed help.

I needed help quick.

And there was only one person in Rogue Town who I knew could sort out this mess.

As soon as I placed the cigarette between my lips, Bolo started to run towards me. He searched his pockets for a lighter. With a trembling hand, he lit up my stick. I should remind him that he's no longer a prospect, that he has been fully patched for a little over ten months now. But I've been with so many newly patched brothers throughout the years to know that old habits - especially the habit of proving one's self worthy of the kutte - were very hard to forget. In time, though, and when the current prospects would get their rockers, Bolo would be able to shed off his overly subservient skin.

I savored a puff as I rested my back on my bike. I looked at the trees in front of me... large and thick and ancient... and I wondered: did they really provide enough cover for what we were about to do?

My chopper, a Defender Series 8, was parked behind a black van, a 2008 Ford Econoline, at the open ground just outside the main highway. Bolo drove the van and he got here a good hour or so before I arrived. He had to be early. He had to make sure that everything was set.

"How long has he been with us?" I asked Bolo as I thought about how we should proceed.

"Two weeks to the day," he snappily answered as he lit up a cigarette of his own.

"He's been eating well?"

"The old fart just wanted soup. Soup, soup, soup. He lost like thirty pounds or somethin' since we held him at the warehouse."

"I'll go talk some sense into him. He deserves a meal."

"Okay. I’ve got a leftover Whopper at the van."

"Bring him out and take him to the
Field
."

The
Field
was a barren tract of land surrounded by old trees just beside Kilometer 39. It has always been part of the Club's rich history since the eighties. The Field was practically an extension of our headquarters... an extension of the Club itself, albeit a dark one.

Bolo went back to the van and opened the backdoor. He grabbed an elderly man with white hair, blindfolded with his hands tied behind his back, and led him out.  The man was garbed in a white polo and black pants, the same outfit he wore the day we took him. He was only wearing a shoe. God knows where the other fell off. I should remind myself about that later. It might cause a problem.

Just as he was instructed, Bolo dragged the guy to the Field just beside the last tree before the empty stretch began. The old man sat beneath its foliage, resting his back on the trunk. He was breathing hard and he looked very weak.

I sat in front of him.

"Hey," I greeted.

He didn't reply.

"You gotta eat, man," I said. "I've ordered the boys back at the warehouse to feed you well. One of them told me that you always refused and that you only ate soup. That's not enough."

"W-When... When can I go back home?" He took that opportunity to ask a question the he most probably wondered about the whole time.

"Home... home is a relative word, my friend."

"Shit!" he responded with agitated alarm. "I... I know where you're headed. I... I don't want to die. I have grandkids! I w-want to see them grow up!"

"Listen," I tried to pacify him. "All we want is for you to cooperate. You haven't done that since we... placed you under our custody. If you'll just give us what we want, we can find a way to fix this and your grandkids will grow up to be lawyers, accountants or doctors like you."

"T-This... This is it, isn't it? The last stop? My last chance to squeal?"

"Two weeks is a very long time. We reserved the warehouse for two weeks just to keep you. Sadly, some new... business... requires that warehouse to be appropriated for another use. We had to bring you here. There's no other choice."

"So... you're just gonna kill me, right?"

"Doc... we just want you to say something... anything that will lead us in the right direction."

"I squeal, I don't squeal... it doesn't matter now. I'm a dead man walking. I know that. They will kill me if you don't. There's no way out."

"If that's what you believe is true, then choose the lesser of two evils, my friend.  Make your grandkids proud."

He fell silent for a good minute or two. That was all I needed to know that I had him. I untied his hands and removed his blindfold. He was shocked to see me. Fear immediately flooded the whites in his eyes.

"Shit!" he yelled. "It's you? Of all the people the Bastards can send, it had to be you? The
Demon of Rogue Town!
Shit! I'm dead! I'm really, really dead!"

"I dunno if this is a case of my reputation preceding me, but I promise you... just give us what we want and we'll work things out."

Bolo approached us with a burger and a cup of Pepsi in his hands. He placed the meal beside the old man.

"I'll leave you for a bit but you have to eat," I informed him.

"What? This is like a Last Supper kind of thing?" I would've found his mocking tone insulting were it not for the rather pitiable state he was in.

"Last supper?" I repeated his words with a half-laugh. "I promise you, this isn't anything like that. I just want you to eat and be well."

I got up and asked Bolo to join me by the van. We left the old man alone, hoping that he'd finally enjoy a decent meal.

"How accurate is the intel on this guy?" I asked Bolo.

"Mouse never gave us false info before," he answered. "If Mouse says that this guy knows something, then this guy knows something."

I took a final puff from my cigarette and drew a new stick from my pocket. Bolo was quick to offer a light once again.

"You having second thoughts?" he asked me.

"Yeah. I have come to learn that doubting is the only way to be certain about things."

I looked at the old man. He was beginning to eat the burger, hesitantly at first. Eventually, he started to chomp on it like a rabid dog until he consumed everything, licking his fingers for whatever taste was left. I walked towards his spot again and knelt before him.

"Good thing you ate, man," I said. "Last thing we want is for you to starve to death."

"As if that would make a difference," he answered satirically. His full stomach reinvigorated his belligerence, it seemed. I smiled.

"We need to know what you know."

"I don't know anything."

"Everyone's pointing at you. Even the people you thought you trusted. Come on, man. I want to get you out of this mess. But I need you to cooperate."

"Really now? You're telling me that? After bringing me here? This is your club's killing field, is it not? I'm here because I'm done, right?"

"No," I contradicted him. "Our
pres
ordered us to bring you here. But I can change his mind. You just have to give him... us... what we need."

He shook his head in resignation before sighing.

"We know you've been used to bring Coke to Rogue Town," I continued. "But we also know that your participation is minimal, at best. We know that you just take care of the transporters. You're not who we're after. Just give us a name, and this will be over."

He raised his head to look at me. The will to resist has abandoned his eyes.

"Orly," he uttered. "Orly Hendricks. He owns a bakery at Eastville that fronts as a distribution house for the black market."

"Good," I replied as I gave his shoulder a light squeeze. "That's all we need, man."

"Is... Is that it?" he asked with nervous optimism. "Will you let me go now? Please free me soon. I have to leave town quickly. I have to gather up every family I have here and bring them somewhere far, far away from this godforsaken place. I... I have to do this fast!"

"I'll... just make a call, alright?"

I went back to Bolo at the van. He gave me a curious look.

"Made him talk, huh?" he wanted to confirm.

"Yup."

"Fucking finally!"

"I gotta call Max."

Bolo went to one of the trees near the middle of the copse to take a pee. I dialed our president's number.

"Yep?" he answered after three rings.

"We got him to talk. He mentioned a name. Orly Hendricks. He also gave an address."

"Good. Is that it?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Finish the job then. It's still early. Maybe you and Bo can make another run after that."

"Uhm..."

"What's wrong, boy? Something else you want to tell me? Make it quick 'cos I got some pussy licking to go back to."

"Yeah, well... this old geezer... we have what we want from him. I was wondering if... I dunno... maybe we can just let him go. He's not a major player. He's not even a foot soldier. He's just some hired help."

"Bull fucking shit!" he screamed over the phone, so loud that it caught Bolo's attention as he emerged from the grove after his short break. "What? You're Mother Teresa all of a sudden, kid?!"

"No... it's no that. It's not mercy. I just don't think the punishment is commensurate to his sin."

"That's the stupidest thing I've heard this week, boy!" He was still livid. I heard Lala, his Old Lady, trying to calm him down in the background. "You think we'll just be punishing him? That dickwad brought Coke to our town. Our town! Behind our back! If you go all Catholic on him, that will fucking send the wrong message to everyone! The Scourges, the Wangs, the Blades, the Nation, the Brats... everyone! They'll start thinking that we've gone soft and they will just do the same thing!"

"Yeah, I get that, but..."

"No buts, boy! You've been doing this for so long... you know how it works." His voice started to mellow down. "Son... what do I always tell you? What?"

"The Club above all else, Sir..." I replied defeatedly.

"The Club above all else. That faggot disrespected our club by doing business in Rogue Town without our consent. We can't forgive that. Otherwise, our associates will take advantage of us... and our enemies... they'll see that as a sign of weakness. Do you understand?"

"Yes... Yes, Sir..."

"Son... the Club needs this done. I understand if you can't do it. If Bolo's too green to do it, I'll get Crowbar there to finish the job."

"No," I said firmly. "I got this."

"You sure?"