Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Helle
I make it to the tree line before my knees give out.
The woods behind the clubhouse have always been my escape.
When I was a kid, I'd run here after Dad yelled at me, after Elfe got praise I never earned, after club events where I felt invisible.
The oaks are old—older than the club, older than the compound, maybe older than Florida itself.
Their branches create a canopy so thick the sunlight barely penetrates.
It's dark here. Quiet.
Perfect place to fall apart.
I collapse against a tree trunk, bark rough against my back, and finally let myself break.
The sobs come violent and uncontrolled.
My whole body shakes with them, three years of guilt and grief and self-hatred pouring out in gasping, ugly sounds that don't even sound human.
His hand.
They sent his hand.
My father's hand, severed at the wrist, delivered in a fucking cardboard box to my mother.
Because of me.
Because I killed Andrés Medina and made it look like club retaliation.
Because I wanted revenge more than I wanted safety.
Because I'm my father's daughter—violent and vengeful and incapable of letting shit go.
I press my palms against my eyes, trying to stop the images, but they come anyway.
The box. Mom's scream. The way Rati's face went cold when he said "his fucking hand."
How much more of him are they going to send back?
How many pieces before there's nothing left to save?
My stomach heaves.
I barely make it to my knees before I'm vomiting into the underbrush.
Nothing comes up but bile and beer—I haven't eaten since yesterday.
Can't remember the last time food seemed possible.
When the retching finally stops, I sit back on my heels, wiping my mouth with shaking hands.
I did this.
I killed a man, and now everyone I love is paying for it.
The forest is silent except for my ragged breathing.
No birds. No wind.
Just me and the suffocating weight of what I've done.
I don't know how long I sit there.
It could be minutes, or it could be hours.
Time feels meaningless when you're drowning.
Eventually, I hear footsteps.
Deliberate. Careful. Someone who knows where to find me.
"Go away, Elfe."
"How'd you know it was me?"
Because you always know. Sisters always know.
She settles beside me, back against the same tree, our shoulders touching.
For a while, neither of us speak.
"Mom's sedated," Elfe finally says. "Fenrir got the doctor. She's... she's not handling this well."
"Is anyone?"
"No." She turns to look at me. "Helle, what are you doing out here?"
"Trying to breathe."
"Bullshit." Her voice sharpens. "You've got that look. The one you get when you're planning something stupid."
I almost laugh. Almost.
Instead, I say, "I'm leaving."
"What?"
"Tonight. As soon as everyone's distracted with the rescue prep." I force myself to meet her eyes. "I'm turning myself in to Los Coyotes."
The silence that follows is deafening.
"You're—" Elfe stops, starts again. "You're going to do what?"
"Trade myself for Dad. They want whoever killed Andrés. I'm whoever."
"Helle, that's—no. Absolutely not."
"It's the only way—"
"No." She grabs my arm, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. "You're not doing this. I won't let you."
"You can't stop me."
"The fuck I can't. I'll tell Runes. I'll tell Fenrir. I'll lock you in a fucking room if I have to."
I pull away from her grip. "Then Dad dies. Is that what you want?"
"I want you both to live!" Her voice cracks. "I can't—Helle, I can't lose both of you."
"You won't lose Dad. That's the point."
"You don't know that. You don't know they'll honor the trade. They could take you and keep torturing him. They could—" She can't finish.
I know what she's imagining. The same things I've been imagining for hours.
Los Coyotes cutting pieces off me while I scream.
Sending those pieces to my family.
Making everyone suffer because I had to play vigilante.
"I have to try," I say quietly. "Elfe, I have to. This is my fault. All of it."
"What do you mean, your fault? You dated the guy. You didn't know—"
"I killed him."
The words hang between us like a grenade with the pin pulled.
Elfe goes perfectly still. "What?"
"In Houston. Two years ago. I tracked him down and I shot him. Three times." My voice is flat, dead. "Twice in the chest, once in the head. Execution style. Just like they said in the meeting."
"You—" She's staring at me like I'm a stranger. "Helle. What the fuck."
"He used me. He destroyed everything. He nearly got you killed, got Dad killed, got the whole club killed." The words are pouring out now, unstoppable. "I couldn't just let him walk away. I couldn't—"
"So you murdered him."
"Yes."
"And you made it look like club retaliation."
"I didn't mean to. I just—I was angry. I wanted him to pay. I didn't think about the consequences."
"Didn't think—" Elfe laughs, high and slightly hysterical. "Jesus Christ, Helle. You didn't think Los Coyotes would want revenge?"
"I thought I'd get away with it! I thought they'd never connect it back to us!" I'm shouting now, years of guilt and rage boiling over. "I thought I could make him pay and it would be over and we'd all be safe!"
"Instead you got Dad tortured."
The words are a knife straight through my chest.
"Yes," I whisper. "Instead I got Dad tortured. And now I'm the only one who can fix it."
Elfe is crying now, silent tears tracking down her face. "By dying."
"If that's what it takes."
"Helle—"
"They sent his hand, Elfe. His fucking hand. How much more are they going to send? How much more can he survive?" My voice breaks. "I can't watch him die piece by piece knowing I caused it. I can't."
"So, you're just going to give yourself to them? Let them do the same thing to you?"
"Better me than him."
"It's not better!" She grabs me again, both hands on my shoulders, forcing me to look at her. "You dying doesn't fix anything. It just means I lose both of you. Mom loses both of you. Don't you understand? We need you here. We need you alive."
"For what? I'm the fuckup. I'm the one who betrayed the family, who got people killed, who—"
"You're my sister." Her voice is fierce. "You're my baby sister and I love you and I will not watch you throw your life away because you think you deserve to die."
"I do deserve to die."
"No. You deserve to live. You deserve to fight. You deserve—"
"I deserve nothing!" I'm shouting again, pulling away from her. "I killed a man, Elfe. In cold blood. I tracked him for months, I planned it, I executed it. I'm a murderer. Just like Dad. Just like everyone in this fucking club."
"Then be a murderer who stays alive!" She's shouting too now. "Be a murderer who fights for her family instead of dying for them!"
We're both breathing hard, faces inches apart, years of unspoken shit finally erupting.
"I'm going," I say finally. "You can try to stop me, but I'm faster than you. Faster than anyone here. And I know these roads better than they do."
"Helle—"
"I'm doing this. Tonight. As soon as everyone's distracted." I stand up, brushing dirt off my jeans. "You can hate me for it. But at least Dad will be alive to hate me too."
"I don't hate you." Her voice is small. Broken. "I'm terrified for you."
"I know." I crouch down, pull her into a hug. She holds on tight, face pressed against my shoulder, and I memorize this moment. This feeling.
Because there's a good chance I'm never coming back.
"I love you," I whisper. "Take care of Mom. And Dad. Tell them—"
"Tell them yourself." She pulls back, wiping her eyes. "When you come home."
I don't answer.
I can't promise something I don't believe.
Instead, I kiss her forehead and start walking back toward the compound.
She doesn't follow.
The clubhouse is chaos when I get back.
Members everywhere, gearing up for war. Weapons being distributed, bikes being prepped, tactical discussions happening in angry clusters.
Runes is in the center of it all, issuing orders like a general preparing for battle.
"Two teams," he's saying. "One for extraction, one for cover. We hit them fast and hard, get Ivar out before they know what's happening."
"What if they're expecting us?" someone asks.
"Then we fight our way out." Runes's face is cold. "Either way, Ivar comes home tonight. Even if we have to burn Los Coyotes to the fucking ground to do it."
Roars of agreement.
These men are ready to die for my father.
Because that's what club means. What family means.
And I'm about to betray them all. Again.
I slip through the crowd, heading for the stairs. I need to get to my old room, grab what I need, get out before anyone notices.
"Helle."
Fuck.
I turn. Bravos is standing behind me, arms crossed, dead eyes seeing too much.
"Need to talk to you."
"Not now. I'm busy."
"Make time." It's not a request.
I glance around. No one's paying attention to us—too focused on the mission prep.
"Fine. Upstairs."
He follows me to my family’s old bedroom—one that mom and dad let me take over.
It's exactly how I left it three years ago—posters on the walls, books on the shelves, a life frozen in time.
The life of a girl who thought she could be normal.
Who thought she could escape what she was.
I close the door behind us. "What do you want?"
"To know what you're planning."
"I'm not planning anything."
"Bullshit." He moves closer. "I saw your face when Rati opened that box. I saw you run. And I see the way you're looking at everyone now—like you're saying goodbye."
Damn him.
Damn his dead eyes that see everything.
"It's none of your business."
"The fuck it's not. I'm here to negotiate an alliance, and that's hard to do if one of the Road Captain's daughters does something stupid that gets everyone killed."
"I'm not going to get everyone killed."
"No? What's your plan then? Turn yourself in? Trade yourself for your father?" He reads the answer on my face. "Jesus Christ. That's exactly what you're planning."
"It's the only way—"
"It's a suicide mission." He's in my space now, crowding me, anger and something else burning in those dead eyes. "Los Coyotes won't just take you and let him go. They'll torture you both. Use you for leverage. Kill you slowly, but before that they’ll rape you while they make him watch."
"You don't know that."
"I know cartels. I know how they operate. This won't work, Helle."
"It's better than doing nothing!"
"It's not better than waiting for the actual plan! Runes has people working on intel. Damon has DEA contacts. We're in the process of getting more intel every hour, orchestrating a fucking rescue mission that will actually fucking work."
"And if that fails? If my Dad dies while you're all trying to be heroes?"
"Then he dies fighting. But you turning yourself in?" He shakes his head. "That's just dying for nothing."
"It's not for nothing. It's for him."
"It's for your guilt." His voice is brutal. Honest. "You want to die because you think you deserve it. Because you killed Andrés and you can't live with what you've done."
I slap him.
Again.
Harder than in the hallway earlier.
My palm stings, his cheek reddens, and we're both breathing hard.
"You don't know me," I say.
"I know you better than you think." He doesn't touch his face, doesn't back away. "I know what it's like to carry guilt that crushes you. To wish you could go back and undo what you've done. To think dying is the only way to make it right."
"Then you understand why I have to do this."
"I understand why you think you have to. Doesn't mean you're right."
"Bravos—"
"Stay." The word is rough. Almost pleading. "Wait for the intel. Come on the actual mission if you have to. But don't throw your life away on a plan that won't work."
For a second—just a second—I almost listen.
Because the way he's looking at me feels like someone actually gives a shit if I live or die.
But then I remember the box. The hand. My mother's screams.
"I can't," I whisper. "I'm sorry."
I move before he can stop me—grab my go-bag from the closet, the one I've kept packed for three years in case I needed to run. Shove in extra cash, my fake IDs, the .380 from under my pillow.
"Helle, don't—"
"Tell Elfe I love her." I head for the door. "Tell my mom I'm sorry."
"Goddammit—"
But I'm already running.
Down the stairs, through the chaos, out the back door where my Kawasaki sits waiting.
I hear him behind me, boots pounding, voice shouting my name.
But I'm faster.
Always have been.
I throw my leg over the bike, jam the key in, engine roaring to life.
Bravos bursts through the door, running toward me.
Our eyes meet.
His are pleading. Furious. Desperate.
Mine are already dead.
"I'm sorry," I mouth.
Then I twist the throttle and disappear into the night.
The Kawasaki screams beneath me as I hit the main road.
Behind me, I hear another engine—Bravos on his Harley, trying to follow.
But this is what I do.
I race.
And nobody—not even a Nomad from Texas with scarred knuckles and eyes that see too much—can catch me when I don't want to be caught.
I know these roads.
Every curve, every shortcut, every place where asphalt turns to dirt and back again.
I've been riding them since I was sixteen, sneaking out when Dad thought I was studying.
I lean into the turns, push the bike to speeds that would terrify anyone sane, and within minutes, his headlight is gone from my mirrors.
I'm alone.
The way I've been for three years.
The way I deserve to be.
Los Coyotes have a known territory on the Florida-Georgia border.
Not their main base—that's deeper in Mexico—but a safehouse they use for operations. A place where they take people they want to hurt slowly.
I know from when I was looking for Andrés.
That's where Dad is.
That's where I'm going.
The highway stretches dark and empty ahead of me, broken white lines disappearing under my front tire faster than heartbeats.
I should be terrified.
Should be crying, or praying, or doing something other than feeling this cold, calm acceptance.
But all I feel is purpose.
For the first time in three years, I know exactly what I need to do.
Los Coyotes want whoever killed Andrés Medina.
Well, they're about to get her.
I twist the throttle harder, the engine screaming, wind tearing at my jacket.
Behind me, Florida disappears.
Ahead, only darkness and the promise of blood.
I'm coming, Dad.
I'm going to fix this.
Even if it kills me.