Page 96 of Hell Breaks Loose

It’s a longer drive because of the debris and washed-out roads. I recognize the area, though.

And I’m not entirely surprised when we pull up to Devonde’s old offices, the medical building he used to run his drug operations from.

“Time for another checkup?” I quip, keeping the quaver out of my voice as Vance shoves me through the shattered doorway.

The whole place is a burnt-out husk.

Yet, as we descend the steps into the basement, red backup lights illuminate the rubble strewn halls. The way has seen some traffic.

Despite the lighting, darkness and shadows prevail.

And that slithering terror from my time in solitary rears its head. Especially when I see the door at the end of the hall.

“Please. Can you at least tell me what this is all about, Marco?”

“You know, in all of the dealings I had with Mayor Vanderbelt, my initial conversations with the Block, the Holy Ghosts, hell, even the Herald of the Sinful. Every one of them seemed to think that I would just play along. Like each of them was waiting for the other to show their hand.”

He stops right outside the door.

“But you know what? I think there is no treasure. No stockpile. Or if there is, no one knows where it is. They all wanted someone to slip up. Or hoped I would have the sheer manpower to come in and find it for them.”

My heart thunders in my chest.

“If there’s nothing to find, nothing to have, then why are you still here?” And why can’t I keep my mouth shut?

“Because regardless of whether any of the powers have anything to offer me, your mother told me the truth on her deathbed. That it was your father, Damon, who held the strings.”

“I told you, his notes are?—”

“Are probably a waste of time.” The door opens, creaking loudly in the uncomfortable silence.

Inside, the lab is shoddy, thrown together.

It’s the centerpiece that catches my eye, though.

The chair, an old leather upholstered bed, really. Equipped with straps for hands. Feet. Head.

“And if they aren’t, and you read them—and I know you read them, Hellena—then you’re holding out on me.”

Dread drops the bottom out of my stomach, through my feet. Grico drags me forward, and my body reacts all on its own, kicking, fighting, pulling.

But they slam me into the frame.

Buckle the straps.

No. No. No!

“Marco, stop! You can trust me, I swear, I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.” The words rip out of my lips. Desperate. Fearful.

Because I know what’s about to happen.

Panic closes my throat, tightens my chest.

Especially as a filthy white coat with glasses turns toward me, holding up a syringe. Dripping sickly, yellow liquid from the needle.

“Who needs trust when I can just force feed you obedience?”

18

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