ONE

      Shannon Livingston ignored the splashes of blood on her scrubs. She shoved the mask off her face and dropped it into the waste container.

      Her patient, T.J. Willis, was alive in Los Angeles Mercy Hospital—at least for the moment—a fall down the stairs having left him with a basilar skull fracture and internal bleeding. His rowdy biker clan was waiting for a report. Hospital security was already apprised. The nurses had done what they could to placate the members of the Scarlet Tide: easing off T.J.’s “colors” instead of cutting the clothing and making sure Willis’s entourage had a private waiting area for the more than two dozen biker brothers. They’d followed hospital protocol for the known “one percenters,” an ironic name to set apart the bikers who were outlaws from the 99 percent who weren’t.

      The bikers gathered in the waiting area were not law-abiding motorcycle enthusiasts, according to the police bulletins. They were criminals, and they wanted only one thing from Shannon, something she could not give them: a guarantee that T.J. would be okay. She sucked in a breath and exited the recovery room and headed to the waiting area, past a nervous security guard.

      The raucous conversation ended abruptly as all eyes slid to her. Shannon noticed a young woman, barely out of her teens, clutching a baby in a lace-trimmed blanket.

      “I’m Cruiser. Talk to us, Doc,” said the largest biker, whose face was covered by a black beard.

      Cruiser was flanked by several equally hairy individuals with similar tattoos. To his right stood a tall, lanky man with his hair in a long braid, who regarded Shannon with undisguised hostility. “T.J.’s gonna live, right? He’s gonna be all right?”

      “I can’t give you any guarantees,” she said. “He sustained serious injuries in the fall.”

      “We know what happened,” the braided man said, jutting his chin at the girl. “She did this to him, pushed him down the stairs.”

      “I didn’t,” the girl said, swallowing convulsively. “It was an accident.”

      Veins stood out on Cruiser’s jaw. “We’ll deal with her later.”

      Shannon’s heart dropped. The woman’s dark eyes caught hers, wet with tears. “What’s your name?”

      “Dina,” she whispered. “Dina Brown.”

      “Not your business, Doc,” Cruiser snapped. “She’s ours to tend to.”

      Ours? As if she was some sort of property. Shannon lifted her chin. “Are you threatening her?”

      He walked closer, almost close enough that his wiry beard touched her face. She did not back down, though her throat went dry. “I don’t make threats,” he said. “Just promises.”

      Shannon stood her ground until he finally backed away. She took the opportunity to swivel on her heel and make an escape, figuring this was a matter for the cops. She’d make sure they’d