19. Hellena

19

HELLENA

S hock jumpstarts instinct. Instead of overtaking me, making me lock up, it cannonballs me into action.

I'm dressed and sprinting out the door before I even have a chance to process. The line went dead. He won't answer.

So I have to find him.

But I have no clue where he might be. He could be fucking anywhere!

A million horrible possibilities rush through my mind.

The first is to call Tell, hope that he can come help me. But he left me to go to work. He may not answer. And I can't just risk someone else's life dragging them into whatever took down Gavin Rorshak.

Next is Evan. I'm sure he might have some method of finding out where Gavin is, but by the time he does, it may be too late.

Come on, Hellena, think!

I'm clutching the truck keys so hard my hand stings, and I open them, staring at the ring. There's one unfamiliar key on the ring. And I'm pretty sure I know what it goes to.

The office in the garage.

Rules be damned, I find myself jerking the rolling door up, barely waiting for the fluorescent lights to warm up before jamming the key into the lock and praying it turns. The low, hollow click of the bolt sliding back is like music.

I only hope there's something in here that can help me.

What I find inside is… disturbing.

A medical table graces the center of the room, vats of chemicals along one wall beside a huge tub, equipped with a massive sprayer and a drain trap. I know without a doubt what he uses this room for. This is a butchering room, designed to dissolve and dispose of remains.

I force the thought out of my head, scrambling for the desk on the other side of the room. It's as organized inside as I would expect from Gavin, spartan, minimalistic. Which works in my favor as I look around, my eyes settling on an old rolodex of cards, most of them faded and wrinkled.

Flicking through them, I swiftly realize they're all in some code.

Shit.

"Dammit, Gavin! What do I do?"

Slamming the metal card file down, I slump down in his chair, powering on his laptop. Password protected. Of course.

My hands start to shake.

He's dying, and I'm letting it happen.

I'm on the verge of tears, about to scream when I see it. Just behind the filing cabinet, a tab sticking out with the letters E.R. on it. It's almost unnoticeable, a tiny sliver of green tape. Tugging on it drops a small leather case, the kind they zip money up in at the bank.

Inside, I find a tiny black remote with a number taped to the back.

Alongside the device is a short note in Gavin's handwriting. "If you ever need to track me down."

No way he left this for me. Like he knew I'd break in here if he ever needed me. Either way, it pays to be prepared.

The little remote powers on, pinging my phone.

It's a lojack for his work van.

I'm in the truck, flooring it down the old backwoods road a minute later, hauling ass toward wherever the GPS is taking me. What starts as twenty minutes on the drive time estimate drops to twelve for me to make it to the series of old wooden warehouses out along the southern end of Dockside. It's in a part of Sanctum Harbor that I haven't seen before. The Industrial section.

Probably because I would never, ever have a reason to come here.

I've only seen Gavin's van a couple of times when he left the property. He keeps it somewhere else, not in the garage. Figures he'd have a backup location for his illegal operations.

Even so, the black van catches my frantic eye in the orangey street lamps lining the complex.

I pull in, checking to catch a glimpse of what I'm heading into before I get out of the car, but the alley between the buildings is too dark. All I brought for protection was Gavin's Maglite. Not that a gun would do me any good.

Throwing caution to the wind, I race from the car, around the van, slowing as I flick on the flashlight and swing the beam around. There's blood everywhere.

It looks like Gavin was in the process of spraying it down, a lawn care pump and nozzle lying discarded by a bleach-flecked wall, rust-colored streaks already drying.

"Gavin?" I hiss in as loud a whisper as I dare.

A low groan reaches me from a ways back, along the darker face of the warehouse.

Creeping foot over foot, flexing up on my toes from anxiety and anticipation, I nearly shriek when my foot hits a dark shape. My hand shoots over my mouth, clapping so hard it stings as a body shifts, the head lolling to the side, blank eyes staring up at me.

I'm going to puke.

I steal myself to the horror, the smell.

"H–Hell…" Off to my right. There!

"Gav!" I'm at his side, ignoring the scrapes on my knees and shining the light over him. One hand is pinned to his side, holding what might be his dark work shirt, wadded up and completely soaked in blood.

Lower, I notice he tied off another strip of cloth over his thigh, more blood soaked through, but not as wet, not as fresh. My throat closes, tears threatening to burn their way out as I check his face. His eyes are half closed, his head sagging to the side.

"One of them… not so dead. Caught me off guard," he mumbles. "I–is he dead?"

"Don't talk. He's dead. Hold on, I'll get help." I start to pull out my phone to call 911 when Gavin's free hand jerks toward my phone, waving back and forth slightly. Old habits from another life spring to my memory.

I can't call the authorities.

Gavin will go to jail.

Memories flood through my head of Uncle Vincent's "accident", and then Davi, the night I killed him. It flashes unwillingly through my mind, wreaking havoc on my resolve, physically hurting me as I remember.

A deep, ragged breath steadies me.

"Fine. No ambulance. Then tell me where to go. What to do ." I pat his face, rubbing my thumb over his cheek to get him to come to, to focus. "Gavin. Stay awake. Please."

The taste of vomit rises in the back of my throat.

No. Stay calm.

I can fall apart later.

"V–van. Kit," he murmurs. Right. The med kit is stashed behind the seat, a big old tool box full of more things than I possibly know what to do with. Still.

I raise the bunched up fabric of his shirt to check the wound. It looks horrible, dark blood oozing out from behind his undershirt. Carefully, I shine the light behind him, tilting him away from the wall to see. Another hole. Straight through.

That could be worse for blood loss.

Two large patches of gauze and a whole lot of tape around his middle keep both holes covered and under pressure. The leg wound seems to be staunched for the time being, so I start to plan how to get him out. I check the van, finding the gurney already occupied by several body bags.

Gavin is going to have to help me come up with something.

"Hrm… gotta clean up." He's lucid, clearly in a lot of pain.

"Are you kidding?"

"Spray. Last body. Then me." His breathing is coming in slow, long breaths. I know he could still die, that he's a veteran soldier and is probably a lot worse off than he's letting on. "Can't leave it like this."

Arguing with Gavin Rorshak is a losing battle when he's healthy.

The look in his eyes now tells me he might as well die if we leave the scene the way it is.

To be fair, some logical part of my brain recognizes that he is as good as dead if he doesn't finish the job. Either from his employer or the cops, with the possibility of a life in prison.

"Fine." A version of myself from just a few weeks ago cowers in the back of my mind, screaming that we can't handle this. That I am in so far over my head.

Too fucking bad, Hellena.

I already have Gavin's blood on me, and the sight should freak the shit out of me. Instead, it bolsters my courage, that I've already got my hands dirty. What's a little more?

The thug with the bullet hole in his face is a solid, dead weight, but I manage to get his feet into the bag, rolling him inch by inch, tugging the edge of the zipper around until he's in. Dragging the bag is slightly easier once it's closed, but I'm gasping, sweating buckets by the time I drop the edge of the bag by the side door of the van.

A few heaves and growls of pure rage get him inside the door.

Next comes the spray bottle.

The pump on top charges it with air pressure, and I canvas the area, starting at the top of the wall, down to the concrete, periodically checking every inch of the alleyway with my light.

Time stopped having meaning a while ago, but I know I need to hurry.

It will be light soon.

Gavin is half standing when I make it back to him, holding himself up against the wall. Slipping an arm under his, I take some of his weight, my knees almost buckling.

"Geez, Gav, have you been eating lead weights?" I force out through gritted teeth, stumbling back to the van. He slumps down behind the front seat, catching his breath, eyes half closed.

I run back, finishing the job of spraying down the spot where he was shot and bleeding.

Two shell casings gleam in the pool of chemicals, and I snatch them up, my fingers stained with red. Fortunately, the rusty muck that I created is draining straight into the gutter, leaving barely any trace.

Unless someone goes fishing through the drains, there's no reason anyone would suspect a gang murder took place here. I rush back, check the ignition. Keys. Good.

"I gotta stash the truck. Then what?"

"The Block. Compound out in the woods. Southeast. GPS up front." I barely make out the words. He's fading fast.

My phone's to my ear as I start the van, slamming it into drive and speeding toward the exit. "Pick up. Pick up."

"Yes?"

"I need a… a favor."

"What's wrong?" Evan's voice sharpens.

"I can't explain. I just need someone to go get the tan truck from the address I'll text you."

"Hmm. Fine." He doesn't hang up. "Hellena?"

"Yes?" My voice is shaking.

His tone shifts to something almost caring. "Stay calm. Be careful. I'll see you on Monday. Don't be late."

I almost burst out laughing hysterically, or sobbing. He's outrageous.

But hearing his voice centered me somewhat.

The GPS guides me off onto unmarked roads, winding off into rocky hills. Barbed wire marks off several checkpoints, cameras mounted to see me coming.

Shock has my mind numb, my sense of danger all thrown off. I'm driving us straight into a horrible situation, but I have no alternative.

I see the gate up ahead, flanked by two enormous men in leather vests.

The absurdity of the situation mocks me as I pull up, slowing and rolling down my window like I'm making a delivery. The colossus on the left steps forward, his bald head reflecting the headlights.

"I—I need to?—"

"Turn around and leave," he growls.

I'm opening my mouth to answer, to protest, when I hear a tap on the passenger window. My spine locks up as I turn to find the barrel of a shotgun pointed straight at my head.

Two, as the bald behemoth raises his own, snapping the pump in warning.