Chapter 7 #2
But she's also cornered. Surrounded. And so fucking stubborn she rode here anyway.
Our eyes meet across the room.
Hers widen—shock, then immediate fury.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" she hisses.
"Saving your stubborn ass. Let's go."
"I'm not leaving without my father."
"Then we'll get him together. But we need to—"
The nearest Los Coyotes member—big guy, tattoos covering his neck and crawling up onto his face—grabs her arm and yanks her toward him.
"Who the fuck is this?"
She jerks away hard, stumbles back. "Nobody. He's leaving. Right now."
"Like hell I am." I raise my Glock, point it directly at tattoo neck's forehead. "Let her go. Last warning."
Everything freezes.
Eight guns swing toward me.
Helle's .380 comes up, pointing at the guy closest to her.
The room crackles with tension—everyone's finger on a trigger, everyone knowing that one wrong move means everyone dies.
"Helle," I say quietly, not taking my eyes off the men surrounding us. "We need to leave. Right now."
"Not without my father."
"We'll get him—"
"He's here! They have him here!" Her voice cracks, raw emotion breaking through. "I'm not leaving him to die in this place!"
A voice comes from the back hallway.
Calm. Cold. Authority. "Nobody's leaving."
A man steps into view—older, maybe fifty, with salt-and-pepper hair and eyes that have seen too much violence and enjoyed it.
He's wearing expensive clothes, gold rings on his fingers, and he's holding a phone up like he's recording.
"My name is Javier Ruiz," he says, speaking English now with barely an accent. "Lieutenant for Los Coyotes. And you—" He focuses on Helle like she's a specimen he's studying. "—are Ivar's daughter. The little college girl who fucked Andrés. The one who made him soft, distracted."
"I didn't make him anything. He used me. That was his choice."
"Yes. He did. That was his job—get close to you, gather information, report back.
" Javier smiles, and it's the smile of a man who enjoys causing pain.
"And then someone killed him. Shot him three times in a Houston alley and left him to rot.
We thought it was your father. Revenge for the intel operation.
But maybe—" His eyes sharpen, focusing on her with laser intensity. "—maybe it was you."
Helle's jaw tightens. Her grip on the .380 tightens too.
Don't say it. Don't fucking say it.
"Take me to my father," she demands instead, voice hard. "Let me see him, and we'll talk."
"Oh, we talk now." Javier nods to two of his men. "Bring the Road Captain."
The two men disappear down the hallway.
The silence while we wait is suffocating.
Then they return, dragging a man between them.
Ivar.
He's barely conscious.
Face swollen and bruised beyond recognition, eyes nearly shut from the swelling.
His body is covered in cuts and burns—methodical torture designed to cause maximum pain.
His left arm ends in blood-soaked bandages where his hand used to be.
But he's breathing.
He's alive.
Helle makes a sound—half sob, half rage, completely broken.
"Dad."
One of the men holding Ivar puts a gun to his head. Presses the barrel against his temple hard enough to leave an indent.
"Now," Javier says, still recording on his phone. "We talk about who killed Andrés Medina. And you tell me the truth, or I put a bullet in your father's brain and make you watch."
Everything happens too fast and too slow at the same time.
Helle's screaming—the words tearing out of her like they've been trapped inside for years.
"I killed him! I killed Andrés! Not my father—me!"
The confession pours out of her in a rush, unstoppable now that it's started.
"I tracked him down in Houston two years ago! I found him in an alley behind a bar where he thought he was safe!" Her voice is raw, shaking with rage and grief. "I shot him three times—twice in the chest, once in the head! Just like you found him!"
The room is dead silent except for her voice.
"He betrayed me! He used me! He made me fall in love with him and the whole time he was gathering intelligence to destroy my family!
" Tears are streaming down her face now, but her gun hand is steady.
"He nearly got my sister killed! Nearly got my father killed!
Nearly destroyed everything I love! So yes—I killed him! I'm not sorry! I'd do it again!"
She's breathing hard, weapon still raised, staring at Javier with pure defiance.
"You want justice? I'm standing right here! Let my father go and take me instead! I'm the one you want!"
The room is frozen.
Every Los Coyotes member is staring at her—this blonde college girl who just confessed to murdering one of their prospects.
Javier studies her for a long moment.
Then he smiles.
"Brave words, little girl." He lowers his phone, pockets it. "Very brave. Your father would be proud—if he were going to live long enough to hear about this."
He raises his gun.
Points it directly at Helle's head.
"But you both die today. Him for raising a daughter who thinks she can kill Los Coyotes without consequences. You for actually doing it."
I don't think.
I can't fucking think.
Just act on instinct and muscle memory and something deeper than training.
The Glock kicks in my hand—one shot, perfectly placed.
Javier's head snaps back, a hole appearing dead center in his forehead. He's dead before he hits the ground.
Then all hell breaks loose.
The Los Coyotes members open fire.
I'm already moving—diving behind a couch that's more stuffing than fabric, returning fire.
My first shot takes down the guy nearest to me—two rounds center mass, he drops.
Helle's shooting too, her .380 cracking again and again.
She hits one in the throat—he goes down gurgling, drowning in his own blood. Another in the chest—he stumbles back, falls.
We're moving like we've done this together a hundred times.
Like we practiced this choreography.
She goes left, I go right.
She covers my reload, I cover hers.
We don't speak—don't need to.
Just move and shoot and trust that the other one's handling their sector.
Four down.
Five.
Six.
The man holding Ivar shoves him aside—Ivar hits the floor hard, barely conscious—and raises his weapon toward Helle.
She screams "No!" and puts three rounds in his chest before he can fire.
He drops like a stone.
Seven.
The last one runs—makes it to the doorway before I drop him with a shot to the back.
He falls face-first into the hallway, twitches once, goes still.
Eight.
Silence falls.
Sudden and deafening after the thunder of gunfire.
My ears are ringing.
The room smells like cordite and copper and death.
Helle's standing in the center of the carnage, breathing hard, weapon still raised and shaking in her hands.
"Dad—"
She's moving before I can stop her, dropping to her knees beside Ivar.
He's conscious. Barely. But his eyes open—swollen and bloodshot—and focus on her face.
"Helle," he rasps, voice destroyed from screaming. "You—you shouldn't be here—"
"Shut up. Save your strength." Her hands are moving over his body, checking wounds, assessing damage.
She's crying and trying not to, tears cutting clean tracks through the blood spatter on her face. "We're getting you out of here. You're going to be okay. You have to be okay."
"Helle—"
"Don't talk. Just—just stay with me." She looks up at me, and her eyes are desperate. "Help me."
I move to her side, holster my weapon, and kneel beside Ivar.
He's in bad shape.
The hand is the obvious injury, but there are burns on his torso, cuts on his arms and legs, bruising that suggests internal damage.
He needs a hospital.
But we can't take him to a hospital.
Too many questions. Too much law enforcement involvement.
"Can he walk?" I ask.
"I don't know. Dad, can you stand?"
Ivar tries, gets about halfway up before his legs give out.
I catch him, take his weight—what's left of it. He's lost maybe thirty pounds from trauma and dehydration.
"I've got him. Helle, you lead the way out. Check for more guards."
She nods, reloads her .380 with shaking hands, and moves toward the door.
I follow with Ivar, one arm around his waist, supporting most of his weight.
Outside, I can see headlights in the distance.
Multiple vehicles, moving fast down the dirt road toward the property.
Backup.
"That's Runes," I say. "We're okay. Just keep moving."
We make it outside just as the first bikes roar up the driveway—Runes and Fenrir leading, followed by a truck and more members on bikes behind them.
The truck skids to a stop and Runes is off his bike before it fully stops moving.
He takes one look at Ivar and his face goes pale.
"Get him in the truck! Now! Carefully!"
Two Raiders of Valhalla members—both big guys, one with medical training judging by the bag he's carrying—take Ivar from me.
They lift him as gently as possible, carry him to the truck bed where someone's already spread blankets and prepared a makeshift stretcher.
Helle moves to climb in after him.
I catch her arm. "Helle—"
She spins, and before I can finish the sentence, she's kissing me.
Hard. Desperate. Tasting like blood and gunpowder.
Her hands fist in my cut, pulling me down to her level.
My hands go to her waist automatically, holding her steady—or maybe holding myself steady, I can't tell anymore.
The kiss is rough, graceless, fueled by adrenaline and the razor-thin edge between life and death we just walked.
It says everything we can't say out loud.
We're alive. We survived. Thank you. Don't leave me.
Someone whistles—one of the Raiders, probably.
Helle pulls back, breathing hard, eyes wild.
"Don't you ever follow me like that again," she says.
"Don't you ever run off to die alone again," I counter.
"I mean it."
"So do I."
We're staring at each other, faces inches apart, both of us covered in blood that isn't ours.
"Helle!" Elfe's voice cuts through. "We need to go! Now!"
Helle blinks, like she's just remembering where we are. What just happened.
She pulls away from me, climbs into the truck bed beside her father.
Elfe appears, looks at me, then at Helle, then back at me.
Something like understanding crosses her face. "Thank you," she says quietly. "For bringing her back."
Then she's climbing in too, and the truck is moving, kicking up gravel and dust as it speeds back toward the compound.
I stand there watching the taillights disappear.
My lips still taste like her.
My hands still remember the shape of her waist.
Runes appears beside me. "You want to tell me what the fuck happened in there?"
"Eight Los Coyotes. All dead. Ivar's alive but in bad shape. We need to move fast—clean this place, burn it if we have to. No evidence, no witnesses."
"Already on it." He's studying my face. "You okay?"
"Fine."
"You don't look fine. You look like you just went through hell."
"Maybe I did."
He watches me for another moment, then nods. "Let's get this cleaned up and get out of here. Local cops will show up eventually, and we don't want to be here when they do."
A prospect or someone rides Helle’s bike back, I don’t pay enough attention.
The ride back takes an hour.
I follow the convoy—Runes and Fenrir leading, other members fanned out around the truck carrying Ivar, me bringing up the rear.
The adrenaline is crashing now, leaving me hollow and shaking.
I killed four men tonight. Maybe five. I lost count.
Did it without hesitation.
Did it to save her.
The sun is starting to rise by the time we reach the compound.
Pink and orange spreading across the Florida sky, too beautiful for the blood we're all covered in.
The truck pulls up to the clubhouse and the doc is already waiting—older man, seventies maybe, with steady hands and a calm face that says he's seen everything.
"Get him inside," he orders. "Carefully. I need to assess the damage."
They carry Ivar in on a stretcher.
Helle follows, still covered in blood, still not looking at anyone.
Still not looking at me.
I stand in the parking lot as members file past, some heading inside, others dispersing to clean weapons and gear.
Fenrir stops beside me. "You did good tonight."
"Just did what needed doing."
"You saved Ivar's life. Helle's life. That's more than 'what needed doing.'" He pauses. "What she said in there. About killing Andrés. You heard that?"
My jaw tightens. "Yeah."
"You going to report it? Tell your Prez? Tell anyone?"
I think about it. About what the right answer is. The professional answer.
"No," I say finally. "I didn't hear anything. Just a lot of screaming and gunfire."
Fenrir studies me, then nods slowly. "Good. Because that girl's been through enough. She doesn't need more blood on her hands, even if it's her own."
He walks away, leaving me alone in the parking lot.
The sun is fully up now. A new day. A fresh start.
But all I can think about is the taste of her kiss.
The way she looked at me before she climbed into that truck.
The words she screamed in that room: I killed him. I'm not sorry. I'd do it again.
I should be horrified.
Should be disgusted.
Should be running as far and fast as I can from a woman who's capable of cold-blooded murder.
Instead, I'm standing here wishing she'd look at me again.
Wishing she'd kiss me again.
Wishing I didn't have to be a Nomad who leaves.
Eighteen years I've been running from attachment.
Eighteen years of dead eyes and a dead heart.
And now—
Now I don't know what the fuck I'm doing anymore.
All I know is that I followed her into hell tonight.
And I'd do it again.