Page 9 of Breaking the Code

“You fucked up, Graeme. You forgot one.”

“Whaaa…I don’t know what you’re talking about. What did I forget?”

“A Helvig.”

I dinnae think it’s possible for his face to get any paler, but it whitens until it turns ashy and gray.

“I d-don’t know what you’re talking about,” he stutters, backing up until his ass hits the sink behind him.

“I am Draven Helvig. Son o’ Dillon and Cora Helvig. Grandson o’ Carl and Arabella Helvig. Brother o' Maeve Helvig. Ye murdered my family, and I am here to return the favor.”

“I di-didn’t do what you say. I haven’t murdered anyone.”

“Dinnae waste yer breath. My husband, Simon Helvig, found the evidence o’ yer crimes before ye murdering cockstains killed him as well. Now, it’s yer turn.”

His face turns gleeful, and he says, “You fucking Helvigs. Tell me Draven, are there any more o’ you?”

Before I can answer, I am grabbed from behind. A large forearm presses against my throat, cutting off my oxygen. My axes are pulled from my grasp and tossed to the bed.

Graeme prowls forward, tossing his towel to the side. He presses a finger to my cheek, pushing hard. The tender skin inside slides against my teeth. Blood seeps into my mouth from the cut he caused.

I stand still, biding my time as his finger trails down my face, over my beard, to my mouth. He smashes my lips against my front teeth before letting his finger fall to my chest. Nothing I’ve found on him led me to believe Graeme Buchanan fancied men, but there wasnae anything that said he didnae either.

Graeme isnae a small man, the big side o’ average, and fairly attractive if murdering bastards who sell kids to the highest bidder is yer thing.

“If you weren’t so damn big, this pretty face would bring a very big payday,” Graeme laments.

Taking a deep breath, I clear my sinuses, gathering all the blood and spit I’ve collected in my mouth, and spit at him. Blood, snot, and spit covers Graeme’s face, dripping from his chin to mix with the thick mat o’ graying chest hair.

Pain explodes across my head and face as the back o' his hand connects with my cheek. Lights flash behind my eyelids. My eye pulses painfully like it’s about to pop out o’ its socket.

“Tie him up, Andrew,” Graeme orders as turns for the towel to wipe his face clean.

I see his cock plumping as he turns his back and walks to the closet. Using his distraction, I kick the knee o' my captor. The crunch o' his bones shattering and the pop o' ligaments tearing fill the air with his grunt o’ pain. I lunge for my axes and they slice through him like a hot knife through warm butter when I swing them in tandem.

I’m bathed in his blood. The arterial spray drenches me as I sliced through bone and soft tissue. My axes are sharp and lethal, cutting the man down in seconds and with little sound or fanfare.

I turn to Graeme, who had disappeared into the closet. Clearly, he felt the big guy holding me would be able to handle me. Ten years ago, hell, a year ago he may verra well could’ve taken me out without thought or effort, but nae today.

I enter the massive walk-in closet, nae longer trying to conceal myself or my path. Graeme turns to me. His eyes widen and dart over me, his face turning pale once again at the gory sight I present. His mouth drops open to scream, but it is cut verra short.

Wielding my axes, I slice them across his throat, nicking the carotids. Blood spews from his neck, covering my chest, neck, and abdomen. I chuckle, thinking I’d make a fabulous model for a horror flick.

The gurgling sounds the blood makes as he gasps for breath like a fish gawping in the bottom o' a boat is a symphony to my battered soul. Raising the axes overhead, I plunge them downward, burying them in his chest.

“May ye rot in hell, ye murderous letch. Not even an eternity o' fire and damnation will be an adequate payment for the lives ye’ve ruined.”

I yank my axes from his body. The squelching, sucking sound nauseates me, but I bury the feeling and walk away from the mess I made, only to stop dead in my tracks.

Is that…

A jackhammer takes up residence in my chest, pushing blood through my body hard and fast. So hard, I can see it in my eyes and hear it in my ears.

It cannae be…

I walk toward a dresser covered in photos o' various shapes and sizes. Big or small, they are all arranged in ornate frames. I dinnae know how one photo out o’ the multitude caught my eye, but it did. I reach for the frame, picking it up gingerly.

The photo is o’ Graeme Buchanan and several other members o’ the Order. They all have their arms around a girl each. Young girls. Some o' them are very young. I suck at judging ages, but these girls cannae be old enough to be hanging out with men as old as the ones in the photo appear to be. And they certainly aren’t old enough to be doing what they are most likely doing with these men, given what I know o' the Order and its members.

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