Chapter 1
CHAPTER 1
SAW
The clinic still smelled like fresh paint and bleach. I hated both. One reminded me of new beginnings, the other of old blood. But the place was clean, sterile, exactly what people came here for. Not to be judged. Not to be questioned. Just patched up and sent on their way.
I unlocked the front door, the sun barely creeping over Bunbury’s sleepy rooftops. Another early start. Another day of keeping my head down and my hands busy now that the club had gone quiet.
The sign was plain:
Highway Jokers Medical.
No questions. Just help.
Didn’t need anything more than that.
I flicked on the light, the buzz filling the silence. My boots echoed across the polished floors as I moved through the reception area, past the waiting chairs no one used unless they had to, and into the back rooms. We had a surgery, an exam room, a decent stash of meds, half legal, half not. All necessary.
Lolita had brought in some plants last week. Said they made it feel less like a butcher’s shop. I didn’t argue. Didn’t care much, so long as they didn’t get in the way. Lolita is my step sister and is married to one of the brothers at the club, Stone. I loved her dearly but lately she was asking whether or not I was ever going to get married and settled down.
I was halfway through prepping a tray of sutures when the front door slammed open hard enough to rattle the windows.
“Help! Please…” I heard a woman say before I came rushing out of the exam room.
The woman stumbled in, half dragging, half holding up a young bloke who was bleeding all over my clean floor. Blood soaked through his shirt, dark and fast. “He’s… been stabbed.”
I moved quickly. Helping the young guy onto the exam bed. Her tears streaking her dirt-smeared face. She looked tough, like she’d tried to hold it together until now.
“He… he didn’t want to go to the hospital. Said they’d ask questions.”
“Smart,” I muttered, already cutting away the fabric around the wound. “Lucky you knew we were here.”
“I didn’t. He said to find the Joker’s doc.” That’s when I finally looked at the kid’s face. Shit.
“Isaac?” I muttered.
He groaned, blood bubbling from his lips.
I knew this one. He’d been sniffing around the clubhouse for the past few months. Wanted to prospect. Young, keen, thought he could ride with the big boys. Thrasher told him to come back in six months when he’d grown a pair and learned how to shut the hell up.
“What happened?” I asked, grabbing gauze, pressing hard on the wound.
“Some guys jumped us outside the servo near Carey Park,” the woman said, her voice breaking. “They didn’t take anything. They just… came at him.”
Gang hit. No doubt about it.
Isaac’s eyes cracked open. “Saw…” he slurred. “Told you… I’m serious about prospecting…”
“Now’s not the time, you little idiot,” I growled, keeping pressure on the wound while I reached for the anesthetic. “You’re bleeding out on my damn floor. Let’s keep you alive first.”
He gave a weak chuckle, then passed out cold. The bleeding wasn’t slowing as much as I wanted it to. I was gonna have to dig deep and fast. But I’d done worse with less. And I wasn’t about to lose a kid like this. Not today. I flicked on the overhead light, gloves snapping into place.
The sister, tall, dark hair matted from sweat and panic, stood frozen beside the table, her hands stained red.
“You can’t be in here,” I said, gentler than I meant to. “Let me work.”
She looked at her brother, her jaw clenched tight like she was chewing on glass, then gave me a stiff nod and backed out of the room. I caught a glimpse of her dropping into one of the waiting chairs, face in her hands.
I turned back to Isaac.
“You better not die on me, kid,” I muttered, grabbing the scalpel. “You want that patch so bad, you’ve gotta earn it first. And surviving this? That’s a damn good start.”
He didn’t answer, barely breathing now. But I’d seen death before. This wasn’t it.
Not yet.
*************
Three hours. That’s how long I was elbow-deep in blood and muscle, patching up the kid on my table.
Isaac. Eighteen, cocky, eager to earn his patch. Now unconscious, stitched up, and lucky to be alive. I’d done everything I could, mended the damage, pumped him with antibiotics and fluids, and left him in the recovery room with a worn-out heart monitor that beeped just slow enough to keep me from pacing the walls.
I shoved the gloves off and washed my hands until the water ran clean, then took a breath before heading back to the front of the clinic.
The waiting room wasn’t empty.
A couple of blokes sat hunched in the chairs, one nursing a busted knuckle, the other looking like his arm had been through a blender. A woman in her sixties sat by the window, flinching every time a car passed outside.
Behind the reception desk was the girl who’d brought Isaac in.
Dark hair pulled back in a messy braid, shirt stained in blood, face set in this hard, focused way like she was trying not to unravel. She wasn’t staff, but she’d taken over like she owned the place. Answering the phone. Taking names. Telling some guy to sit down and stop being dramatic about his ribs.
I stopped just short of the desk.
“He’s alive,” I told her.
She blinked up at me. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Holding steady. Might be out for a while, but he’s through the worst of it.”
She exhaled sharply through her nose and nodded. No tears. Just a tight nod like she was banking the emotion for later. Strong girl. Stubborn too.
“You don’t have to stay back here,” I said, jerking my chin toward the chairs. “I can handle it from here.”
“I’m fine,” she said, picking up the intake sheet. “He’s still unconscious, right? No point hovering.”
I grunted, not arguing. There was something about her. Didn’t break down. Didn’t ask a million questions. She’d seen worse, or was used to pretending she hadn’t. I scanned the clipboard she’d filled out. Quick handwriting. No name.
“You didn’t write your name down.”
She didn’t look at me. “Didn’t think it mattered.”
“Matters to me,” I said. “You helped when you didn’t have to.”
She finally looked up. Eyes sharp. “I’ll tell you my name after my brother wakes up.”
Fair enough.
I turned toward the waiting room. “Busted knuckles. You’re up.”
The guy followed me in. While I cleaned and bandaged his hand, I kept thinking about the stabbing. No robbery. No message. Just a knife to the gut and a getaway car. Isaac had told me he wanted to prospect, and had started doing errands for the club. That made him a target. Someone out there wanted to send a warning. And I didn’t take kindly to warnings.
By the time I finished with the third patient, the girl was still behind the desk, cleaning up spilled coffee and resetting the intake forms. Like she belonged there.
“You’re good at that,” I said.
She glanced up. “I manage a gym in Perth. Small place. You learn to do a bit of everything.” That explained the calm. The hustle.
“Your brother ever mention who he was running with lately?” I asked casually.
She hesitated. “Just said he was helping out at a shop near the beach. Working nights. Didn’t mention names.”
I nodded slowly. “It was us. Highway Jokers. He wanted to earn his patch.”
That landed like a punch. She looked away, gripping the edge of the counter like she was holding herself up.
“I didn’t know,” she murmured. “I thought he was just... drifting.”
“Nah. He was trying. And he’s still got a shot, if he pulls through.”
I left it there and stepped outside to light a smoke. The sea breeze rolled in from the west, sticky and warm. Bunbury in late afternoon always smelled like the ocean and diesel fuel. Familiar and a little bit bitter, like old memories you can’t quite shake.
My phone buzzed. Text from Thrasher.
Carey Park’s been heating up. Could be a warning.
I typed back:
Looks personal. Kid trying to prospect. No robbery. No message. Just a blade.
Thrasher: We’ll handle it. Keep the kid under wraps. Let me know when he wakes.
I took one last drag of my smoke and flicked the butt into the gutter. Behind me, inside the clinic, the girl was still holding things together. Didn’t even know her name. But I had a feeling I’d be seeing a lot more of her.
