[b][u]Midday – 12:08 PM[/u][/b]

Beth couldn't go home. TJ knew where she lived, as did a few others in the crew, and that was just a few blocks from her mother's apartment. No one but the Ciprianos knew just how much TJ had told them. He could have given them the locations of all the important players. That little [i]rat[/i]. Fortunately for Angela Callahan, her daughter never mentioned having a living mother. Nobody knew where Angela lived or that it wasn't far from Beth's own apartment. Her mother was safe.

After twenty minutes, she slowed down. A racing motorcycle in the middle of the day wouldn't go unnoticed, and she didn't plan on attracting the attention of the Ciprianos' thugs for a second time today. The bullet wound in her upper arm needed covering up too. Where could she go? [i]Conor's place?[/i] The man had a lot of guns, and he wasn't afraid to let people know he could use them. Still, how trustworthy was a guy she only ever spoke to in a bar or in the occasional phone call. “Friends” was not the way Beth would describe any of the people at Fiddler's Green. More like... highly familiar criminal drinking buddies.

Then again, she [i]had[/i] known them for years. But, no, she couldn't just turn up at Conor's pet shop with a bullet in her arm and a target on her back. Couldn't turn up at the bar like that either. She'd never hear the end of it if she spilled blood all over Sheehan's precious bar.

In the end she parked somewhere secluded and texted someone on the crew, then waited. She removed her shirt, now ruined, and thought, [i]Great. I liked that shirt. Fuck you, TJ, and your Ciprianos buddies[/i]. Tying the shirt around her waist, she inspected the bullet wound. The majority of the blood had dried, leaving cracked red stains all over her arm. Fresh blood seeped out at a much slower rate. The adrenaline had long since worn off, the hole in her arm felt much bigger than it was, and pain shot up and down her arm whenever she moved it. Nothing she hadn't experienced before.

[b][u]12:53 PM[/u][/b]

When she saw her crew-mate arrive, a bottle of tequila in one hand and a burner in the other, her relief was marred by distrust. She pointed her gun at him, made him swear his loyalty, before she let him near her. He was a tall guy, the kind you'd call dark and handsome if you cleaned him up and put him in a suit. His name was Jordan, or something like that. She didn't care to learn the names of the people she worked with. 

Under threat of being shot if he fucked up, Jordan removed the bullet from her arm with a pocket knife – sterilized by the flame of his lighter – and slapped on a bandage of cloth strips. The tequila cleaned the wound, and made it easier for Beth not to break poor Jordan's nose when he stuck the knife in her arm.

“Right, now fuck off,” she told him when it was done. “Warn everyone we've got the Ciprianos hunting us down.” At the name, Jordan paled. Beth rolled her eyes and shooed him away, “Go on. I'll keep the tequila.”

Now without the possibility of staining Sheehan's bar, she waited for her head to clear somewhat and drove straight for Fiddler's Green. It was a couple hours early, but either Sheehan knew something she might find useful or someone else did and they'd be there soon enough.