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The man grabbed her upper arm, his fingers digging deep. Her thin muscles offered no protection. She felt his grip grinding against bone. Move,” he ordered, dragging her toward the door. Helen stumbled along, wondering if she’d ever see daylight again, if this nightmare journey would truly lead to Zayn, or if she’d simply disappear like so many others who crossed these men.
They exited the room and walked through a series of corridors, each one dimmer than the last. The broken-faced man’s grip never loosened on Helen’s arm. Finally, he stopped at a black door, its paint peeling like diseased skin. He yanked it open, revealing a staircase descending into darkness. The temperature dropped with each step down. At the bottom, another black door waited.
The man pushed it open and shoved Helen through. She stumbled, nearly falling, but he caught her arm again and jerked her upright. The room that greeted her was a nightmare made real. Red walls, red floor. Then she realized with horror when the smell hit her like a physical blow. Raw meat and human waste.
The stench of a slaughter house mixed with a septic tank. In the room center, three women knelt in a line, blindfolded, gagged, hands bound behind their backs. They trembled but made no sound. A man stood with his back to them, gun raised, aimed at the first woman’s head. Gerald, wait. Where’s Bruno? The broken-faced man called out.
I need him to deal with this. Supplier sent us old woman for mole. The man called Gerald turned and Helen’s world tilted. Despite 19 years, despite the different context, she knew that face instantly. Ricky Mareno, her son’s friend, the lead guitarist of Crimson Fireline. His baby face had barely aged, still boyish even now. Their eyes met.
Recognition flashed in his, followed immediately by alarm. I think you are, Helen began. Ricky cleared his throat loudly, cutting her off. Get me, gag, blindfold, zip ties. He barked at the broken-faced man. Now, the items were produced quickly. Ricky moved with practiced efficiency, gagging Helen first, then blindfolding her, finally securing her wrists with plastic ties.
His hands were steady, professional, nothing like the gentle boy who’d played guitar in her garage. “I’ll take her to Bruno,” Ricky said. “Let him deal with this.” He pressed the gun into the broken-faced man’s hand. “You finish with these three.” Even through the blindfold, Helen sensed the man’s pleasure. “Duh, I finish.” Ricky’s hand closed around Helen’s arm, gentler than the previous man, but still firm.
He guided her toward what she assumed was the door. Behind them, she heard footsteps, a woman’s muffled whimper. They were climbing the stairs when the first shot rang out, then the second, then the third. Three precise executions. Helen’s stomach heaved, but the gag prevented her from vomiting. Tears soaked into the blindfold. Ricky kept pulling her upward through the black door back into the upper corridor.
His pace was quick but not panicked. This was routine for him, Helen realized. Her son’s friend, the shy boy who’d blushed when girls spoke to him, had become this. They walked in silence down another corridor. Helen counted her steps, trying to maintain some sense of direction, but the blindfold made everything disorienting. Finally, Ricky stopped.
She heard a door open, and he guided her inside what felt like a smaller space, an office perhaps, away from the warehouse’s main floor. The horror of what she’d witnessed, combined with the shock of seeing Ricky, made her legs weak. If Ricky was here, alive, working for these monsters, then maybe Zayn was, too.
They entered the room, and Gerald stopped. He knocked on an inner door, three sharp wraps, a pause, then two more. Helen heard locks turning from inside. The door opened and she was pushed through. “Sit,” Ricky commanded. Helen lowered herself carefully into what felt like a leather chair, still blinded and bound. She heard the door close and lock again.
Then hands were at her face, removing the gag. She gasped for clean air. The zip ties were cut next, freeing her wrists. Finally, cold fingers lifted the blindfold. Helen blinked in the fluorescent light and her heart stopped. Zayn knelt before her. Her son, after 19 years, her son. The same long wavy hair, though now stre with premature gray.
The same pale skin that strangers had often mistaken for albinism. The same full lips and deep set eyes. Older, harder, but unmistakably Zane. Zane? Helen’s voice cracked. Is that really you? She turned to look at Ricky, confirming what she’d suspected. You’re Ricky, aren’t you? Edric kept his promise, Zayn said quietly. Ricky scoffed.
That man’s no less evil than Alex Okalof. Helen’s eyes swept the office. A name plate on the desk read, “Manager.” Her stomach sank. What? What happened? You both work for these people. No time to explain, Zayn said urgently. And no one can know we’re related. Understand? Before Helen could respond, chaos erupted outside.
Men shouting in Russian and English. The sharp crack of gunfire. Screams. Ricky moved instantly, throwing the deadbolt on the office door. Zayn went to a filing cabinet, yanked open a drawer, and pulled out two handguns. There’s a phone. Helen spotted it on the desk. We should call the police. They’ll rescue us.
We can return to our lives. No, mother. Zayn’s voice was hard. This is our lives now. What? Edric’s men are taking this place. He promised to reunite me with you if I took his side. He’ll protect us. No. Helen stood, reaching for the phone. It doesn’t have to be this way. Zayn stepped between her and the desk, blocking her path.