Page 26 of Isaac

Friendships like this are like gold.

When we push through the warehouse doors, every head in the room spins our way. A string of angry questions fly at me.

"What the fuck, Blade!"

"Why is this fool here?"

"Are you serious?"

I ignore the stares and approach the metal table where Flynn is currently lying on a quickly thrown-together makeshift operation site that reminds me of a battlefield after an explosion, reeking heavily of iron-rich blood.

Something crunches under my shoe as I move and when I drop a quick glance down I notice tools scattered across the floor, must have been discarded to make room for the wounded man. There’s a puddle of blood and I realize I stand in it, in this sticky crimson.

"Hey, man." I lean forward and whisper in Flynn’s face, cupping his head. "Hold on a little, alright? Doc is on the way."

I don’t know if he can hear me. He’s only half lucid.

"What’s this puto doing here, man?" Hector snarls under his breath while staunching Flynn's wound with trembling hands.

"He’s got medical combat experience," I counter tersely, watching Hawk from the corner of my eye as he urgently wrestles out of his suit jacket and rolls up the sleeves of his white dress shirt.

Without a word, he darts over to Flynn's side and begins examining the wound. My crew is circling him like starved predators over prey as if waiting for him to make a mistake so they could tear him apart. At least until Ricky shouts, "Make some fucking room, ya’ll! Let the man do his job."

They reluctantly shuffle backwards, creating breathing space around Hawk. Everyone except Hector, who is still pressing on Flynn’s wound per Hawk’s quick instruction.

I edge away from the chaos too. Distance aids clarity of thought.

With everyone’s emotions raw and exposed, now more than ever calm needs exponential personification: Me.

"Boss," Jeremy sidles up to my side and whispers, "I don’t like this, how he wormed his way in."

"We’ll talk about it later," I say, my mind focused on Flynn, even though tension bunches my muscles so tight it could snap any moment if stretched any thinner.

I watch him—this stranger who works in my club—watch him move with an unsettling calm and precision. His hands are steady, unflinching, as he assesses the damage.

"Can you keep him alive until the surgeon gets here?" I ask over the noise filling the warehouse.

"I think so," he mumbles back, gaze glued to the job at hand. "I'll do my best."

"He better live," Jeremy warns, his words grinding out between clenched teeth.

I rest my palm on his shoulder and we exchange stares that speak volumes. Understanding passes between us.

This is our only option.

And Jeremy, no matter how much he hates this, knows it too.

Hawk doesn't respond. He’s already launching quick orders of his own.

He needs scissors.

Marco thrusts his recently christened pocketknife into Hawk's palm without skipping a beat.

Antiseptic. Or something of the sort.

Ricky blunders toward us holding an open bottle of low-grade vodka like holy water.

Towels.

---