The Way to Hell

Chapter Ten: Speak of the Devil

The residents of the floor gape at the torn girl making her way through the lit corridor. Whispers and mumbles wriggle their way into her brain like hungry little worms while she drags her exhausted limbs through the hall. Her ears are still ringing from the burst of gunfire, blood and dust coating her tousled hair.

Her entire body feels broken, yet nothing compares to the harrowing sensation in her ribcage; it's as if an animal ate both her heart and lungs and left her open chest gushing with blood. She feels dead, yet walking alive. A dying expedition parades in her bloodshot eyes, ghosts and skeletons raving in the grey matter of her sullen gaze.

All she needs to do right now is keep moving, just a few steps into sanctuary.

'August Walker really did a number on you.'

Ingvild swallows a pained whimper, the furious throb in her groin and the sticky filth lining the triangle in her underwear reminds her of his weight, hovering on top of her, pushing back and forth, in and out. In the blinking fluorescent light, images of August grunting and growling spark behind her eyes.

'It hurts.'

She manages to make it to the entrance with considerable effort, unlocking and twisting the knob with a bloodied hand. A sick feeling rises in her throat as she stumbles into the cold, timid apartment. The wheeze of air thrusts itself through her nose before she collapses against the white wooden door with laboured breath. Holding a hand over her mouth, she sustains the vomit that begs to burst out. Liam once said that when the adrenalin depletes, the pain kicks in 10 times stronger.

'Liam, he's waiting...'

Pained grunts squeak in her throat, the sinew of her muscles sears as she reaches for her pocket. The device is badly cracked and she can't help herself as the laughter bubbling through her lips swiftly turns into a shaking wail.

Liam would be pleased to hear she ruined another device in less than a week. As if the old grunt was ever pleased.

A rumbling thunder reverberates through the heavy sky outside while Ingvild unlocks the phone and gingerly swipes through the folders. The task is simple: send evidence of the eliminated target along with the coordinates. Icarus' hound dogs will then find and extract the corpse.

A corpse, that's what he is; no warmer than the storm clouds outside. She tries to remind herself of this as hesitation strikes her red-stained fingers, trembling at the reflection of the man's pale face. He looks serene girdled by sombre.

Dead, while she's alive.

But the life she earned is suddenly depleted of purpose, and the bleeding sensation in her chest extends to her guts.

Agitated, she takes a deep breath and texts Liam the photo as quickly as she would rip a bandaid before dialling the old man's number.

"Ingvild," he answers nearly instantly, calling her name devoid of emotion. It sounded different on another man's lips, who called her "sweet, sweet Ingvild."

She takes a moment trying to see if she is even capable of any verbal communication other than groans and pathetic husky wheezing sounds.

"It's done," she reports with a quiver in her voice. Her grey eyes peer blankly into the dust that floats in the air of the blank room. "He is gone."

Liam remains silent on the other side, observing the image to make sure the evidence will please Sloane. "The target," he corrects her chidingly. "I'll send an extraction for you and the body."

Ingvild shudders at his words; the thought of sharing a helicopter ride with August's cadaver sounds like a pure nightmare. How is it that a girl who's seen so many dead bodies in her life is suddenly terrified to the bone?