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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.
