Zachariah wasn’t a regular run-of-the-mill Disciple. While he rode with everyone, he absolutely never went on the arms runs, or even the drug runs. That wasn’t his bag, and everyone knew it, but instead of giving him a hard time, everyone respected it. It turned out that being a former Navy combat medic gave him a certain amount of clout. At first, he had kept that under wrap, and he never spoke about it afterwards, but one day, a runner named Flores took a bullet to the knee. It was nasty, and the wound had been inflicted under a shady enough circumstance that they didn’t want to chance things at the hospital. Everyone had been all set to take him to a vet that some guy knew in order to get the bullet out when Zachariah stepped up.

 

Apparently, being a Navy combat medic wasn’t something Zachariah felt like bragging about. Griffin had been too young to see this himself, but apparently, a bunch of guys watched while Zachariah fixed up the leg with a no-nonsense sense of professionalism. While there had originally been concerns about Flores losing a leg, he recovered well enough that he managed to make his way up the ranks to become the head of the Vallejo charter of the Disciples.

 

Zachariah, in turn, became the Disciples’ unofficial surgeon, and after that, not a single person asked about why he never made a run. Zachariah was far too valuable for something like that.

 

It was the reason why Griffin knew he had to get there as soon as possible. Sure, getting patched up was important too, but the idea of Zachariah being compromised filled Griffin with a certain kind of terror. It was bad news if that were the case.

 

However, as Natasha and Griffin rode up to Zachariah’ trailer, he could tell that the only motorcycle outside of it belonged to Zachariah himself. Griffin coughed, feeling lightheaded, and nearly tumbled off the motorcycle as Natasha came to a stop. A large, imposing figure stood, framed in the open door of the trailer, and Griffin recognized it as the form of Zachariah.

 

He was a large, black man with a shaved head and was clearly dressed to make dinner, which smelled like a rack of ribs smoking in the portable grill, Zachariah’ prized possession. The smell of it made Griffin’s mouth water, but his stomach heaved a little bit. Zachariah’ face had a cruel bent to it. His mouth seemed naturally made for frowning, and a scar carved deep into his left cheek only made the effect worse. He crossed his arms over his chest and looked down at the two of them.

 

“What have you gotten yourself into this time, Griffin?” he asked, his voice ripe with a jovial tone that cut through the tension of the situation.

 

“He’s been shot,” Natasha said.

 

Immediately, Zachariah jumped into action, climbing down the stairs of his trailer and helping Griffin off the bike.

 

“How did this happen? A run?” Zachariah asked Natasha. She looked at him, her tongue tied, wondering if she should even tell him what happened. How do you tell someone who doesn’t know that their entire club had imploded? It was a miracle that he had come out unscathed so far.

 

“Damon Stokes,” Griffin wheezed, sparing Natasha the need to explain things herself. Zachariah didn’t bat an eye at the news that his president had shot the vice president. Instead, he picked Griffin up over his shoulder, as though saving him from a fire, and moved back to his trailer.

 

“We’re going to have to discuss that,” Zachariah said. “But first I’m going to make sure that you don’t die.”

 

Natasha stayed still, as Zachariah entered his trailer, afraid to go in and see what was happening. She had been so relieved that she had found Griffin alive that the thought that he might still die had seemed so distant to her. Yet, it was still on the table. She stood outside of that trailer with the full understanding that if she entered it, the seriousness of Griffin’s situation would become real, as though she had been the one responsible for his death. If she didn’t enter the room, there was still some sort of hope. It was an incredibly selfish way of thinking, and Natasha knew that, but as she heard a strangled cry come from the inside of the trailer, a cry that could only belong to Griffin, it felt as though her knees were locked in position, as though her feet refused to move of their own volition.

 

Don’t be a wuss, Natasha. You killed a man today; you can see a little casual surgery.

 

Taking a deep breath, she took one step and then another. It wasn’t going to be nearly as bad as she thought she would. Every step she took up the steps into the trailer made her feel more confident about it. Her hand didn’t shake as she turned the doorknob to enter.

 

For a moment, Natasha thought she had walked into a slaughterhouse. That’s how many bloodied paper towels there were scattered across the small space. Zachariah had put Griffin in his own bed, using only a few towels underneath him to soak up what blood there was, leaving the door open so Natasha had a direct view into the room.

 

She had walked into the kitchen section, surprised at how spacious the trailer looked on the inside compared to how it was on the outside. It was also homier than she would have expected for a man living alone, complete with coasters and a small shrine to the men he had lost in the Corps. Natasha looked at them for a while, studying the faces of the men who had died for their country, and wondered why Zachariah would turn around and join a biker club after all he had been through. It seemed like too personal a question to ask, so she understood that she would probably never know, but it nagged at her anyway. How did anyone get into this business? Griffin had explained a little bit, but it hadn’t sat well with her.

 

Of course she was in the business now, and how did she get into it? She just sort of fell into it, but Natasha also knew she could leave whenever she wanted.

 

She heard Griffin let out another cry of pain, and immediately moved into the doorway of the bedroom.

 

She stood with her mouth agape as she looked at the mess that had been made out of Griffin’s chest. Although it wasn’t nearly as bad as she had originally thought, it was still shocking to see all the blood. To make matters worse, Zachariah was digging pretty heavily into the space between Griffin’s pectoral muscle and shoulder, sweat beading on his forehead as he worked. Griffin was still awake, balancing a bottle of whiskey on his thigh and occasionally wincing.

 

Zachariah looked up and saw Natasha. “Figured you’d be coming in here before this was over. Wash your hands.”

 

He nodded to the sink in the kitchen, and Natasha dutifully complied, washing her hands as quickly and thoroughly as possible. She tried to keep her eyes on Zachariah’ gloved hands as they rooted around inside Griffin’s chest, but the visceral realness of it made her feel a little queasy, so she ended up looking away.

 

“He’s lucky,” Zachariah told her. “Probably another inch or two and the bullet would have gone into his heart, and then there would have been nothing I could do.”

 

“Boy, aren’t I lucky,” Griffin said. His color was already better, and he was able to sit up halfway, as Zachariah worked. Natasha guessed that he had been put on some sort of painkiller, and for that, she was glad. His eyes were a lot clearer as he looked up at her, and the two exchanged a smile.

 

“You are lucky, and never forget that,” Zachariah said. “You’re feeling okay?”

 

Griffin took stock of the fact that Zachariah’ fingers were still lodged in his own muscle. “About as okay as I can be in this scenario.”

 

“Good, now tell me what’s going on.”

 

Griffin looked over at Natasha, as though seeking permission, a gesture that impressed Natasha in a way, given the fact that it was just as much his story as it was hers. She gave a slight nod and entered the room, absolutely ready to chime in with any detail that she could.

 

“I don’t know how to say this, Owen,” Griffin said. “But I’m not sure if the Disciples are going to last beyond tonight.”

 

If this upset Zachariah, he didn’t say anything. Instead, he pulled out the small bullet that had been lodged in Griffin’s chest. All three of them looked at the small piece of metal for a moment before Zachariah put it aside and took the bottle of whiskey from Griffin’s hands.

 

“What makes you say that?”

 

“Well, you heard about the raid we did on the Los Diablos?”

 

Zachariah gave a dark sneer. “Yeah, I heard of it; I voted against it.”

 

“So did I, and it went straight to hell.”

 

“Big surprise there.” Zachariah took a deep swig of the whiskey before he picked up one of the few clean towels still in the room and doused it with the alcohol. “This is going to hurt, I suggest you talk through it. Uh...you.” He turned to Natasha.

 

“My name’s Natasha.”

 

“That’s great, but can you go get my sewing kit? Should be on the couch behind you.”

 

Zachariah’ strident tone would have usually annoyed Natasha, but the man commanded such power with his abilities as a surgeon that she had no plans to fight him on this. Instead, she turned and walked into the small living room area, picking up a small sewing kit and praying that it wasn’t going to be used the way she thought it was going to be used, but knowing that there was really no other alternative at the moment. Griffin screamed in more pain than she had ever heard him thus far, and she motored back to the bedroom as fast as her legs could carry her.

 

Zachariah had just finished pouring the whiskey onto Griffin’s wound, looking at him with the best poker face Natasha had ever seen.

 

“I told you it was going to hurt… thanks.” He reached for the sewing kit, and Natasha took a seat next to the bed, putting a reassuring hand on his shoulder as he did so. He leaned towards her a little bit for comfort, still wincing as he moved. Zachariah cleaned the wound and opened his sewing kit.

 

“Continue.”

 

“Damon has gone off the deep end; he was the one who set up Emanuel to get killed, and during the raid, he killed most of my men. I think Julian got away.”

 

“He did,” Natasha chimed in. “I saw him.”

 

Griffin looked at her as though she said something shocking. “You saw Julian?”

 

“That big guy who was watching us at the bar? Yeah.”

 

The relief on Griffin’s face was palpable, but Natasha had a fair bit of bad news to give him.

 

“Well, Damon has teamed up with the Los Diablos to get rid of anyone still loyal to Emanuel.”

 

“It’s more than just that,” Natasha said. “Someone tried to kill me, and he was definitely a member of the Disciples.”

 

She shrugged off the leather vest and set it in her lap, a little unwilling to get rid of the symbol of her power, but also knowing that it was easier to show them when it wasn’t on her. As Zachariah began to sew up Griffin, Griffin studied the vest with an unreadable expression.

 

“That’s a Disciple’s vest alright. This might go deeper than I think.”

 

“And why would they want to kill you?” Zachariah asked, not looking up from his work.

 

“Probably because I’m Emanuel Morrison’s only kid.”

 

Zachariah paused in his sewing and turned to look at her. “Damn…no wonder you looked familiar. I saw you at the funeral, right?”

 

“Yes, before the shooting happened anyway.”

 

Zachariah chuckled, as though it were all just a game. “Right. I had my hands full once the asshole started to actually hit people. It’s a dangerous thing, being a part of the Lost Disciples.”

 

“That’s what I’m saying, Owen. There aren’t any Disciples anymore.”

 

Zachariah fixed Griffin with a hard stare. “That’s where you’re wrong, kid.”

 

“How many Disciples might be in Damon’ pocket at this point?”

 

“Probably not as many as you think.”

 

“Think about it, Griffin,” Natasha said. “Do you think that it would have gone over that well if Damon was part of a vast conspiracy to kill off the former president, murder his remaining family, and then kill people who had no idea about what was even happening?”

 

“She’s not wrong,” Zachariah said. “It seems like Damon had a few friends on the inside and the rest is a blitz. It’s a cowardly way to do it, but I guess it’s working out for him.”

 

“So far,” Griffin grumbled. “But he doesn’t know I’m alive.”

 

“That’s an advantage.”

 

“Aren’t there four chapters of the Disciples?” Natasha asked. “There’s no way he’s gotten to all of them, and there’s definitely no way that they’re all just going to blindly follow him without a bit of a fight.”

 

“They’re called charters,” Griffin replied. Natasha rolled her eyes.

 

“Yeah, super-important information right now.”

 

“Stop it, and you’re right,” Zachariah chimed in. “Just be careful. It’s not as though these kind of coups always fail; some people might not care who’s in charge.”

 

“Like you?” Griffin said in a challenging manner. Zachariah tugged on the thread in his wound a little too hard, causing Griffin to wince.

 

“No, I thought Emanuel was the best leader we possibly could have, and if what your saying is true, I don’t think Damon going to make it out of this alive, do you?”

 

Griffin didn’t say anything; he was still wrapped up in everything that had happened. Zachariah finished up his work and asked Griffin to lay back in order to rest. He handed the whiskey bottle back, and Griffin took a deep, reassuring swig. Natasha reached for it next.

 

“Let me get a look at you too while you’re here,” Zachariah told Natasha. It struck her by surprise although she knew that it shouldn’t have. She was probably still bleeding from her own interaction, and she helped Zachariah move her hair aside so he could get a better look at the cut at the base of her skull.

 

“It’s a lot worse than it looks,” he said, as he dabbed at the cut with a whiskey-soaked paper towel. It stung, but not in a terrible way. The fire felt almost good. It felt purifying.

 

“Thank you,” she said. Zachariah gave her a smile, and it seemed genuine. In fact, it lit up his entire face, something that previously seemed very dark and forbidding. Natasha wasn’t sure if this was actually the case, but it seemed as though he didn’t give that type of smile very often, and she was thankful to receive it.

 

“So, Emanuel’s daughter, huh? Come to take over the family business?”

 

Natasha opened her mouth to answer, but Griffin beat her to the punch. “She’s not in this. She’s not a Disciple; she’s just trying to keep from getting killed.”

 

Griffin’s ready answer threw Natasha off her game a little bit, to the point where she almost immediately wanted to speak up to the contrary. She couldn’t blame him, however, knowing that up until the moment she pulled the trigger and killed the man who was trying to kill her that that had been her very stance. Zachariah nodded solemnly.

 

“Sometimes that’s all it takes to get in, but there are different ways that happens,” he said. She looked at Griffin, who finally looked relaxed against the pillows of Zachariah’ bed, and once again felt that nervous tug, that annoying fight against the future that could be hers. Griffin had almost died for her, and yet she still couldn’t say the words to properly get into the game.

 

“I understand,” was all she could say.

 

“I’m going to go smoke a cigarette,” Zachariah said, standing and throwing his bloodstained paper towel aside. “Give you two a moment.”

 

He tossed Griffin a wink and left the room, gingerly closing the door behind him.

 

Natasha knew that she couldn’t throw herself into his arms, so instead she gave a slow, shuddering breath and leaned towards him, focusing on his good side. Griffin wrapped an arm around her and held her as tightly as he dared, pressing his face into her hair and breathing in the smell of death that she knew must cling to her.

 

“Damon said that he sent someone to take you out,” Griffin said after a while. Natasha nodded against his chest.

 

“Yeah, it didn’t work.”

 

Griffin didn’t say anything to that, and Natasha couldn’t bring herself to explain what happened further. It was still too new, still too terrible to think about. He gently ran his fingers through her hair, teasing out the tangled strands absentmindedly.

 

“You’re tougher than you look, Morrison,” he told her gently. She smiled.

 

“I try,” she replied. “But now we need to come up with a plan.”