Chapter 26

CHAPTER 26

Butcher

G roaning, I opened my eyes. I frowned as Isla's tear streaked face filled my vision. "Terror?" Why was she crying? A thought occurred to me and I ignored all the shouts for me to lay the fuck back down as I bolted upright and dragged Isla onto my lap on the couch. My hands were roaming all over her. "Where are you hurt?"

Toxic's asshole face appeared next to her. "Right here, Big Guy. She's hurt right here." He folded his hands over his heart.

She pushed him away. "I'm not hurt," she said with a watery laugh. "You are. Lay down."

She shoved at my chest, and her words sank in, so I laid back down. My damn head was throbbing. I'd heard her scream my name, and turned just in time for that bitch behind me to pull the trigger. I'd managed to jerk far enough that the bullet hit me in the side. Now that I thought about it, that was throbbing too.

I'd just gotten to my feet when some fucker had tried to bash my head in with the stock of his rifle. He'd cold clocked me from behind. Chicken shit. "What the hell happened?"

"I heard Isla scream," Toxic told me. "By the time I got to you some asshole had knocked you out. I killed him and was trying to drag your sorry ass inside while the rest of the guys finished off the assassins and their crews."

My eyes flicked around the room. Everyone was here. "They're all dead?"

"Yeah, they are," Lock told me.

Toxic leaned in and whispered, "Lock had one of his little tantrums after he saw you shot. Decided to end things himself."

That didn't surprise me. Lock's been a bit pent up lately. When he blows his top, he goes big. I was just glad he'd lost his shit on our enemies rather than me and Toxic. It was always a tossup as to whether we were going to push him over the edge. My eyes locked on Isla again. "You sure you're not hurt?"

"I'm fine," she said, cupping my cheek. She was still sitting on my legs, my hand on her hip, keeping her in place. It was as if she knew that moving would make me lose my shit and drag her back again, so she stayed.

"Drifter did what he could to stop the bleeding," Lock told me, motioning at the Saint's Outlaw who was packing medical shit back into a bag, "but we need to get you looked at. Smoke, too. He took a bullet to the arm."

"Looked at?" I asked, narrowing my eyes.

"He means you're goin' to see Crash Cart," Hush answered with a smug grin.

"The fuck I am," I growled. "You can bring Smoke there, but I'm fine. I don't need shit."

"That wasn't a request, Butcher," Lock said, glaring down at me. "You're going."

"Dammit," I muttered, closing my eyes. "Just give me another bandage. I'll be fine. No need to go to that place."

"Let me get a hold of Switch real quick," Isla said, "then we can leave. I need her to take down that hit on us before someone else gets the bright idea to try."

"We'll stay and take care of the bodies," Kilo offered.

"That's a lot of work," Lock replied. "I'll leave some of my guys to help you."

"Naw, get them home. I'm sure their families are anxious to see them," Kilo said. "I'll call Ruck, get a few more men up here."

"The place is yours for as long as you need, or want, it," Isla told him. "Use the pit trap in the back, it doubles as a fire pit."

I kept my eyes closed as they spoke. It kept the damn world from spinning. I fucking hated being injured. It was best to pretend like nothing had ever happened and eventually the injuries just went away. I really hated the idea of going to Crash's. No wound was worth it.

"Take this."

Opening my eyes, I stared at Toxic suspiciously as he tried to hand me something. "What is it?"

"Just some pain killers. Drifter had them in his bag. Guy was a field medic," Toxic answered.

"Here," Rip said, handing me a glass of water.

I waved them both off as they tried to help me sit up. Felt like my side was on fire, but I didn't need help sitting up. "Thanks," I muttered and downed the pain killers.

"You pissy because you're hurt, or because you have to see Crash?" Priest asked with a chuckle.

"Not seeing him," I growled rather groggily. Glancing over, I watched as Isla typed away at the computer she'd brought. I'd nearly swallowed my fucking tongue when I saw her running toward me like a fucking Viking warrior queen. The fear had been sharp and all consuming. I knew she was more than capable of taking care of herself. It didn't mean I wanted to put it to the test. That was why she'd been on that hill during the fight. Or the start of it anyway. Plus, she was a damn good shot with that rifle of hers.

When I blinked and there were two of Isla, I glared over at Toxic. "You dosed me. You fucker," I slurred .

"Lock's orders," Toxic said, tone too happy for my liking. "He knows how you are about seeing doctors. Blame him."

I wasn't blaming anyone because all I could do was fall back against the couch and let the darkness take over.

"How are you holding up back there?" Toxic asked.

I groaned, shifting away from whatever was pressing against my side. It fucking hurt.

"He's still bleeding. I told you to be careful of those potholes."

That was Isla's voice. I tried to fight my way through the drug induced coma those assholes had put me in so I could wake up.

"Don't worry, we'll be there soon." Lock said. His voice was close.

Prying my eyes open, I managed to pick my head up. "Where are we?" I slurred. "What did you give me?"

"Just relax," Isla said, rubbing her hand on my chest to soothe me.

"Just take me home," I ordered.

"So you can bleed to death?" Toxic asked. "Not happening."

Everything was swirling again. If I puked because they drugged me I was going to kick all their asses. Reaching down, I pressed my fingers into the bullet hole in my side. The bright blaze of pain helped hold back the nausea.

"What are you doing? Stop that," Isla snapped, smacking my hand away. "We should just take him to the hospital."

"Can't," Lockout explained, "Police will get involved. Besides, no one in this city is as skilled as Crash."

I shook my head. "I don't need to see him."

"Butcher isn't a fan," Toxic said with a laugh. He hit a pothole, making me groan.

"Watch the fucking road, asshole," I barked. Then I focused on Lock, who was turned in his seat, watching me from the front. "I'm fine. I don't need to go see that psycho."

Isla's brows shot up. "You're calling him a psycho? Who is this guy? "

"Butcher, lay the fuck down," Lock ordered, because I was struggling to sit up. To prove I didn't need to see Crash. "You're going. End of discussion."

"What's going on?" Isla asked, clearly worried by my reaction.

My head was in her lap, so I stopped fighting. Didn't mean I had to stop bitching though. "Just leave me here." Wherever here was, it didn't matter. I'd make my own way home. "I'll rub some dirt in the wound and walk it off. I'll be fine, just don't take me to that Frankenstein house of horrors."

Isla glared at Lockout. "Someone answer me. Who is Crash Cart?"

"Ex Special Forces field medic. Practically a surgeon. Better really. He's good at what he does," Lock told her. "He takes care of all our guys when we need it."

We slowed down and pulled into a driveway. Toxic hit the horn a few times. The others must have been right behind us because Priest came to the back of the SUV and opened the door. "Have a good nap?"

"Fuck off," I told him.

He chuckled and shook his head. "You good to walk? Or should we have Crash bring a gurney?"

"I could carry him," Hush offered, crossing his arms over his chest. "Like a big baby."

"No one is fucking carrying me," I snapped. "Get the fuck out of my way. I'll walk." Sitting up was like someone raking shards of glass down my sides and banging on my head with a damn shovel, but I managed. I shoved Hush out of the way as he hovered close by while I got out of the vehicle. "Move."

"Make sure he doesn't try to run off," Lock ordered.

"Fine. Fall on that pretty fuckin' face of yours," Hush said with a shrug.

"What am I looking at?" Isla asked from the other side of the SUV.

"I fucking told you this was a bad idea," I said, pointing toward her. "Even she sees that this place is an unholy nightmare."

There were goats. Everywhere. But not whole goats. I stared at one as it made its way over to me. Its back end was in a saddle, with wheels supporting it. The little thing had no back legs. It strolled over to me and bleated suspiciously before chewing on my pant leg. My eyes slowly panned around and took it all in. There must be dozens of goats here. Some were in saddles like this one, some were walking on their own. All of them were missing at least one leg.

Isla turned to Lockout. "What. The. Actual. Fuck? I thought this guy was a doctor?"

He held his hands up in a calming gesture. "It's not what you think. Part of Special Forces medic training is learning to do amputations and surgeries in the field, under fire, in helicopters, and in moving vehicles. The Army uses goats to practice because, well, they can't use humans. It's sad, but necessary training."

Her eyes were wide as saucers as she came to stand next to me. I didn't say anything. I just pointed to the two-legged goat that had moved on from my pants and decided that the bottom of my shirt was much tastier. "Quit that," I told it.

Lockout continued, "Crash is softie at heart. Loves animals. He never liked that the Army used goats. He probably would have preferred practicing on people. Anyway, he did his best to rescue as many of the animals as he could and brought them here. I told you that Crash was good at his job." He waved his arm out, indicating all the goats. "Real good. He made sure they survived, in fact, I don't think he's ever lost one. And well…now he makes goat prosthetics and such."

"You make him sound all noble and shit. Guys a fucking weirdo. Nobody sane has this many goats. It's not too late to get me out of here," I muttered.

"He saved them?" Isla asked.

I scowled at her, because I could hear it in her voice. She was already starting to respect the man who'd rescued the goats. Sure, it was a good thing for him to do. That didn't mean I wanted to let him work on me . I wasn't a good patient at the best of times and right now wasn't even close to the best. Those damn field surgeons were too damn hack-happy. I never let them near me if I could. Not that they just amputated limbs anymore like they used to back in the day. Still, it was the principle of the matter. He might patch a bullet wound and chop off my foot just for funsies.

Priest was coming back now, an older man with a cigar in his mouth following close behind. He was carrying what looked like a medic's bag. He ambled over and placed it on the back seat, peering at me through the cigar smoke. "You again?" His voice was gruff and partially muffled by the cigar. "What stupid shit did you get yourself into this time?" He reached out and prodded at my gunshot wound.

"Fucking Christ! Don't play with it!" I barked.

"Yeah yeah, let me get my torch."

"Torch?" Riptide asked.

"Torch?" I echoed. "What do you need a torch for?"

Crash narrowed his eyes at me, grasping his cigar in two fingers he pointed it at me. "I don't need any commentary from the peanut gallery. Especially some civilians. I'm going to cauterize it."

"No torches," Lock said with a sigh. "Just use the shit in the packets."

"Won't work, needs a torch," he said with the cigar hanging out of his mouth, arms folded across his chest.

There was a chemical agent that cauterized wounds these days, but guys like Crash were stuck in the past. They liked to use old school methods and those methods usually hurt like a bitch. "Motherfucker, this is because I kicked your stupid goat isn't it?" I accused. I hadn't actually kicked it. More like nudged it because the creature had been trying to eat my damn clothes. Kind of like what was happening now.

"You said it asshole, rule one is don't fuck with my goats." Now he was pointing the cigar at me. He looked over at Isla, feigning innocence. "He kicked Gary," he said, pointing to the wheeled goat at my feet. Gary was now giving my shoelaces a taste. Then he jabbed the lit end of the cigar into my chest. I hissed and slapped at it as he continued, "Knocked him out of his wagon. Poor boy was dragging himself around by his two front feet. Pitiful sight."

Isla placed her hands on her hips, turning, and giving me her full attention. "Is that true? "

"No," I argued, still rubbing the cigar burn. "I nudged him and that damn wheelchair tipped over."

Isla's glare was far more threatening than anything that Crash could cook up. She reached down and ran a hand over Gary's back. "Apologize," she demanded.

"What?" I asked, shocked. I knew my girl loved animals but this was ridiculous. "I'm bleeding-"

"Apologize," she repeated.

Sighing, I looked around at the guys and they were all fighting back grins. Hellfire was struggling. It was his damn fault this was happening anyway because this all happened when we brought him here after he'd been shot during our raid of the cult. I glared over at Crash. "Sorry," I muttered.

"Not to him." She smacked my arm and jutted her chin at me stubbornly.

I glanced down at Gary. He was making his way over to Lockout now. My clothes weren't tasty enough apparently. Shooting Isla a scowl, I looked over at the goat again. "Sorry for kicking you." Even though it hadn't been a kick , I added, but kept that as an inside thought.

"Good," Isla said, then turned to Crash. "Now that that is settled, can we get him fixed up please?"

"Before he falls on his face," Ricochet added. "Then we'll have you take a look at Smoke, too."

Smokehouse grinned. "No need to rush this. I'm enjoying seeing Butcher this way."

"Fuck you," I replied.

Crash glared at me for a long minute, then smiled. "I like her. Sure, let's do this." He placed the cigar back into his mouth and opened up his bag. He removed some gauze, bottles of what I assumed were antibiotics, though knowing the way he held grudges it could be bleach, and a needle. Handing a wad of gauze to me he gave me the plan, then said, "Alright I'm going to clean this shit up. See what we're working with."

"Maybe we should go inside," Lock suggested. "Sit him down. He already took one blow to the head. Don't need him passing out and having it happen again."

"I'm not going to pass out," I replied, offended that he would even think that.

"Inside," Crash said, waving at everyone to follow him.

By the time I was settled into a chair, cut and shirt off, I was resigned to the fact that this was happening. "Hey," I snapped. "Careful." Crash had slapped a cloth on my side so hard my ears were ringing. "Need to work on your bedside manner."

"Quit tellin' me what to do." He looked at me like I was bothering him. When I glared at him, he eased up on cleaning the blood from my side. "Yeah, yeah, fine. Not like the big baby is in any real danger. Missed all his organs." He cleaned the outer wound before sticking his finger in it. "But since you're so insistent, I'll feel around to make sure."

"Could you at least put the cigar away? That can't be good to have during an operation," Toxic said.

Crash stopped dead and looked at the man. "Do I tell you how best to get warts on your dick fuck boy?"

"Oof," Smoke chuckled.

Crash pointed at him. "You're only slightly better. Shut it."

Everyone fell quiet after that and let him work.

I gritted my teeth. "I swear to fuck if you don't get your fingers out of me..." Closing my eyes, I breathed through the pain as he cleaned out my wound. He announced gleefully that it was just a flesh wound and the bullet had passed all the way through. "Told you I was fine," I muttered. Then Toxic put a bottle of whiskey in my hand and it got better from there. It didn't seem to take too long before Crash declared I'd live and I was able to put my shirt and cut back on.

"Now what do we say?" Lockout asked, shooting me a pointed look.

Rolling my eyes, I muttered, "Thanks Crash. No hard feelings?"

Crash pulled the cigar from his mouth and stuck the lit end into my leg. "None whatsoever. Now."

"Fucker!" I snapped, yanking my leg away and patting at my jeans. The cigar hadn't burned through, but I shot him a glare anyway. "Let's get the hell out of here."

"Uh, some of us still need the help," Smoke pointed out. "Had to wait for your whiny ass to get fixed up first."

It took at least another hour, and my pants didn't survive the curious goats. By the time Smoke was ready I'd lost my pants legs from the calf down. But finally we were able to pile into the SUVs and head toward home. I wanted to finish this bottle of whiskey, get into bed with my woman—preferably naked—and sleep away the pain. When I woke up I was going to talk to Lock about going after Randal.