Havok: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (12 page)

W
hen I wake
up later in the night, Havok's gone, and my head is fucking pounding. My brain flashes back to earlier—me on top of Havok, him deep inside me. It was unlike anything I've ever experienced. But now I'm finally at the end of the line. No pills left. All I can do is face my withdrawal.

I wish I had just one more, though, to get me through what I have to do: get the hell out of here. Because no matter how good he was, no matter how complete his kisses made me feel, I don't know the truth about him. And now, with no handcuffs on me, this might be my only chance ever to escape.

"Havok," I yell. "Havok!"

I count to 60, and nothing happens. He's not in the house.

I rustle around in the dark, sitting up, cradling my aching head. I'm dizzy, lightheaded. The only light in here is the dim neon glow of the alarm clock, and I use its radiance to guide me across the room to the light switch. When I flip it on, the light stabs me in the eyes a million needles. I clasp my hands over my eyes, trying to adjust, trying to fight through this awful chemical headache.

I open my eyes after the impact. My head hurts, and the rear passenger door next to me is jammed up against me, hard. I feel a trickle of warmth, and when I look down, it's blood. Outside the car, a horn blares. I begin to realize what's happened as I come out of my daze. We're in the middle of the intersection, and we've been t-boned.

Another sharp wave of pain courses through my body. "Dad?" I say.

I yank the bedroom door open and stumble out into the loft hallway, making my way to the stairs. My head feels like a construction site, and even the tiniest noises send shots of pain through me.

I descend the stairs, nearly falling onto my knees. My joints feel like they're ceramic, and my stomach threatens to empty its contents everywhere. This is bad. I've never had a withdrawal this bad before.

When I'm at the bottom of the staircase, I beeline for the front door. I'm going to get my shoes on, get out of here, and hitchhike with the first car that takes me. I'm going to check into rehab, then take a Greyhound bus to the other side of the country.

But then I turn my head, and I see Havok's study. He's always told me it's off-limits. And he's never let me in, even when I'm cleaning the house. Even through my haze of pain, it piques my curiosity. If there's anything he doesn't want me to see, anywhere in this house that will reveal the truth about what he is and why I'm here, that's where it'll be.

I struggle across the house, the low roar of the waterfall scraping the inside of my skull like sandpaper. When I reach the stained French double doors of the study, I grab the handle and rattle it.

Locked. My head throbs.

Briefly, I consider searching for the keys. But I'm in this too deep to back out now. It doesn't matter how much damage I cause at this point.

I limp to the fireplace, where there's a poker and broom set. I grab the poker, and return to the study's double doors. Raising the poker, I thrust it through one of the glass panes with a loud crash.

I've treated my body wrong for all these years, putting off the inevitable crash with pill after pill, but the party is coming to an end.

I grit my teeth. I just need to hold it together another hour or two, and then I'll be long gone.

I want to have Havok again. So bad. It would be so easy to go back upstairs, get in bed, and beg for his forgiveness when he gets back. But I can't. Something in my gut tells me he's the one kidnapping the girls, and that I might be headed for a very unpleasant end.

Carefully reaching through the jagged hole where the glass pane used to be, I unlock the doors from the inside, then enter Havok's study.

The decor is rustic. The walls are bookshelves, from floor to ceiling, filled with Russian books. The wood is rich and dark, the trim carved ornately. But in the center of the room is a wide mahogany desk bookended by filing cabinets. That's what I'm after.

My feet thud heavily against the dark wood floor, and each vibration seems to travel right up my spine into the pain center of my brain.

When I get to the desk, I yank on the pencil tray. It slides open easily, and I hastily rummage through its contents. An old, expired passport with nearly a dozen Russian visa stamps, a letter opener, a lot of junk and a handful of Russian coins. Nothing.

"Dad?"

There's no response. I force my eyes to focus, and when they do, I see my dad's head laying sideways against the headrest. He's not moving.

Outside the car, I hear bystanders murmuring. I think to myself that someone should call an ambulance, but I can't muster the presence of mind to yell for help.

Yanking my shoulder, I free my arm from the twisted interior of the car. I reach out and put my hand on my dad's shoulder, shaking him.

"Daddy?"

I try another drawer, a tall and wide file drawer on the bottom of the desk.

Locked. Now I might be onto something.

I take another look in the pencil tray, looking for a key amongst all the gold and silver coins, but there isn't one.

My heart wallops against the inside of my chest, and I've got dread in my stomach. I just have an awful feeling about what I'm going to find. I almost don't want to continue. But I have to know the truth.

The poker. Ignoring the agony inside my skull, I return to the study's entrance and retrieve it. I jam its tip into the lip of the drawer, and pull on it with all my weight.

There's a loud bang as the lock gives way, and the file drawer pops open.

As I peer inside, I start to shake. Not because of my body's desperate need for another dose of drugs, but because of what it contains.

Instead of an orderly file of papers, the drawer is a jumbled, tangled mess of guns, knives, wires, bullets, brass knuckles, syringes, scalpels, and other weapons and instruments I can't even identify.

I fall backwards into the leather chair, horrified. I've suspected that Havok is a bad man who does bad things, but this is horrific. I've never seen anything like it.

My hands shaking, I steady myself against the chair's armrests and breathe until I calm down. I grab the poker off the desk again, gripping it so hard that my knuckles blanch white.

I bend down to the file drawer on the opposite side of the desk, and slide the poker into the gap above the drawer. With a mighty shove, I pop it open, too.

Inside this drawer is a stack of papers. I swallow a lump in my throat and pick it up.

It's biographies of people, each one pages and pages stapled together. There must be a hundred of them. Each one has a photograph paper clipped to the front.

As I read them, leafing through the pages one by one, I notice something else. Most of them have a newspaper clipping stapled onto the very last page.

Obituaries.

Now I'm standing on soft soil, a light pitter-patter of rain falling on my head. I'm wearing all black.

"I'm sorry, Penny," says my uncle. I look up at him, tears in my eyes.

"Why is this happening to me?" I ask.

He sighs. "I don't know. Sometimes the world just doesn't make sense."

I try to breathe, to swallow, to cry, to do anything at all to release the pent-up ball of emotion inside me. But instead, I just let out a wail of dismay.

I should run, bolt as fast as I can, and get away from this crazy, gorgeous killer's house. Go somewhere far away, where he'll never find me. But I'm immobilized. Instead of running, I keep leafing through the papers.

I get to the bottom of the stack, There's only one file left. I open it up, my heart racing at full speed. I just know what it's going to be.

And it is.

A picture of me. Clipped to a five-page document with all my past addresses, my social security number, my phone numbers and email. Everything. All that's missing is the obituary.

I feel faint, as though I might pass out. Instead, I start to heave. I lean forward, and then I puke my guts out, right into the open file drawer. It's mostly just clear green bile. My body is running on fumes.

When I've finally composed myself, I stand up, gathering all the files under my arm. I'm going to get the hell out of here, turn these over to the cops, and end this nightmare once and for all.

But as I start to cross the room, I suddenly get dizzy, and everything fades to black. My feet slide out from under me, and I crash down to the floor, hard. I slip into unconsciousness.

F
or the first
half of the drive to the drop point, the racket in my trunk doesn't stop. It annoys the fuck out of me, reminding me of the dirty deed I'm doing.

Even killers have morals.

But I turn up the radio to drown out the banging and crying. Out of sight, out of mind. That's how I deal with guilt. And by telling myself that this is all for a noble pursuit, that everything will work out in the end and Mackenzie will emerge unharmed.

Eventually, she stops struggling. I could turn down the radio and be alone with my own thoughts, but I don't.

She begged and pleaded after I stuffed the burlap sack on her head. Thought I'd come to fuck her. Tried to remind me of that. Offered to suck me off, to let me fuck her in the ass, to pay me money. Anything I wanted.

But there was only one thing I wanted, and she couldn't give it to me. Penny's safety. My need to protect her is the only thing keeping me going right now. I've got to get this job done as fast as I can and get back home to her, to make sure no one else has found her.

If anyone ever lays so much as a fucking finger on her, I'll kill them without hesitation.

Finally, as the sun rises, I arrive at the drop point. It's an old, abandoned factory along Route 78, far away from civilization. No one comes out this way.

It's a great place to hide a criminal operation. I have to give Igor credit for that.

When I shoved Mackenzie into my trunk, I was half a second away from apologizing, untying her, and sending her on her way. But I forced myself to follow through.

I park outside the facility, and a couple of street-level goons emerge from a guard station. I roll down my window, and one of them speaks.

"You dropping off?"

"Yeah."

"Pull around back into the loading dock."

I comply, driving around the building and backing into a loading dock made for semi-trucks. Then, I pop the trunk and get out.

I raise the trunk, and there's Mackenzie, curled up into a fetal position, the burlap sack still on her head. Poor girl. I reach down and pull it off, and she stares up at me with puffy blue eyes, a gag in her mouth, a frightened look on her face.

A different pair of guys emerges from the loading dock, and they inspect the goods. "Aw, shit, she looks like a horny little bitch," says one of them, and the other grins, nodding his approval. "The things I'm gonna do to her..."

I feel like a flare gun has fired off inside me. I grab the man by his shirt, lifting him off his feet. "You don't fucking touch her," I hiss into his ear. "You fucking got that?"

"Shit man, what's the matter, you want in on that?"

"Shut up," I say, shaking the man. "Do your fucking job, and don't fucking touch this woman."

There was a time when I wouldn't have hesitated to fuck him up on the spot. Back then, I could afford to throw my weight around. Everyone knew me, respected me, especially the bosses who trusted me with the most difficult jobs. I was a revered soldier, I had leeway.

But now, no matter how much I fucking hate it, I have to fall in line. I can hold my own against any man, shit, even against a group of men. But if I alienate my own organization, they'll never stop sending assassins until they get me. And I can't watch my own back my whole life. Even I have to sleep sometimes.

I let the man go, and he glares at me, smoothing his shirt and his hurt ego. "I'll take care of this," I say. "Get out of the fucking way."

I reach into the trunk, slide my hands under Mackenzie, and pull her out. I set her on her feet. "I'm sorry," I repeat. "It wasn't personal." She looks at me with tears in her eyes. I imagine some other man doing this to Penny, and it fills me with rage.

"Come on." I put a hand on her shoulder and guide her into the factory, walking behind her.

* * *

I
nside
, it's damp, musty and dark. We walk down a depressing corridor. The ground is all cracked gray concrete, worn down by years of foot traffic back when this place was a legitimate operation, and the ceiling is covered in rusty, exposed pipes. On either side of us, there are rooms that've been converted into cells with bars over the windows. Behind some of the windows, there are terrified faces of women being held captive.

It sickens me. They must be bringing in women from all across the eastern seaboard, because this goes far beyond what the West Ark mafia is capable of. I only expected five or six girls here, but there must be at least a few dozen.

I don't know where we're going, but the hallway only goes one direction. As we walk, I memorize everything about this place. Every intersection, every door. It won't be hard to come in, take this place by surprise.

We finally get to an office, and through the window I see Igor inside. He holds a clipboard, standing in front of a couple girls on the couch, hands tied behind their backs. I trade places with Mackenzie, walking in first, her behind me. She squeals in shock when she recognizes Igor.

All the people she thought were protecting her are betraying her.

Igor looks up at me and gives me a sick, twisted grin. "Good job, Vladimirovich," he says. "Good thing you didn't fuck this up."

I grit my teeth, holding my tongue. He's trying to provoke me into saying something stupid, but I won't fall for it.

He laughs. "Now get the hell out of here. Be at the White Bear on Tuesday. I'll have your cash and another job for you then."

I don't say another word to him. Instead, I turn and look at Mackenzie. She's so scared.

I walk out without looking back.

* * *

"
P
enny
," I announce loudly as I close the front door behind me. "I'm back."

There's no response. She's probably pissed at me, or still asleep. But as I climb the stairs, something catches my eye. The study door. It's hanging open, and broken glass litters the floor.

What the fuck? I put my hand on the butt of my gun as I move closer. As I approach the door, I see someone lying on the office floor.

It's Penny. Fucking shit.

My conscience shoves an endless stream of emotions through my brain. Anger, sorrow, regret. How could I have left her alone like this? What happened to her? Is this my fault?

Sweat running down my forehead, I bend down and take her pulse at the neck.

It's there, but it's weak. And slow. Fuck.

I frantically dig in my pocket for my cellphone, pull it out, and dial one of my medical contacts, a veterinarian in West Ark. He picks up after two rings.

"It's Havok," I say. "I need you here, now."