Page 12 of Ravage
I’ve only seen Jackson one time, and already my nightmares are bringing me back to a time that I wish I could forget. I don’t need the pain of seeing him or the others and reliving everything I’ve done and everything I’ve been through.
Between stopping for food, buying a new outfit to change into, and walking the twenty blocks to get to the address, it's nearing eight at night, and the sun has set.
The address brings me to a warehouse in the middle of a manufacturing district. There are small, rectangular windows along the top of the building that would barely allow any light into it during the day. It’s all wall and garage doors, with a single man door at the front left corner.
After dropping my backpack in a corner, I pull my gun and flashlight from it and then lockpick my way inside. Heavy breathing, followed by the cloying scent of copper, floods my senses. What the fuck am I walking into?
My hand tightens on my gun, and I raise my flashlight with the other hand to sweep over the area. It’s a single, open space with a concrete floor. A man is tied to a chair in the center of the room, with rows of chains piled on the floor ten feet from him. His shoulders quake with the effort of his labored breathing as his head hangs forward.
I shine the light over the rest of the warehouse again to make sure there are no other entry points or hiding places aside from the door I entered and the closed garage bay doors. Satisfied, I close the distance between us and squat to get a look at the prisoner. There’s dried blood pooled at his feet and spattered over the concrete.
How long has he been here? At least a day, considering when Jackson gave me the card. And he’s been sitting here waiting for me. Oops.
He tilts his face up to look at me, and it’s swollen and bloody.
“Are you here to rescue me?” he whimpers.
I smile, resting my arms on my knees and angling the flashlight into his eyes so he can’t get a good look at me. “No, I’m not. I’m here for answers.”
There must be a reason Jackson left this guy for me as a gift. I don’t recognize him, but I have a good guess he’s related to Gifted Enterprise.
The man simpers, and I curl my lip when snot drips from his nose. “I’m just a recruiter. I don’t know anything you’re looking for except for the upcoming gala. You’ll be able to get what you need there.”
My attention perks up at that. “Tell me everything about the gala.”
He mumbles about already telling my buddy everything, and I press the barrel of my gun against his kneecap to regain his focus.
“O-okay, okay! Rich socialites gather to donate to their cause. It’s being held at the Reynard Museum of Art on the twelfth of the month. You need to have an invitation to get in.”
My blood chills. Were these going to be all the investors of our misery? I planned on going after the board of directors and anyone directly involved in the project, but what about those who gave the money for it?
“Are they investors of Gifted Enterprise?” My hand with the gun shakes in anger against his kneecap, and his eyes widen.
“W-what? No, most of the donors don’t realize what it’s for. The organization is fake. It’s a front for helping children with mental illnesses and birth defects.”
One second, I’m seeing red, and the next, the guy is screaming, and my ears echo with the sound of a gunshot.
Whoops. Too bad I don’t care about hurting people who kidnap children and then brainwash and torture them.
Or kill them when they don’t get what they want out of them.
Agonized, he screams and wails. I stand and point the gun at his face. “Quiet, or I’ll shut you up permanently.” He bites his lips to stifle the cries, and I count to thirty before I continue, “How do you know all of this if you’re just a recruiter?”
“No outsiders are allowed. Only employees can do catering and serving.”
Fuck. There’s no way I can get an invite, but I thought I’d at least be able to pretend to be staff.
“How can I get in?”
“What? Y-you can’t,” he sputters, spittle flying.
I push the gun into his forehead. “Think harder. Are there any non-staff members aside from the invitees?”
Sweating, he mutters incoherently under his breath, and I force myself to take a deep breath of my own. Even though the warehouse is thick with the smell of his blood, I’ve learned how to breathe through it. When it’s the blood of my enemies, it doesn’t bother me so much.
Being a recruiter means being the lowest on the totem pole in the hierarchy of Gifted Enterprise. They find “problem” children, kids who are put in extra programs or maybe mental illness facilities when they show strange behavior, or those who do things that can’t be possible.
It started by stealing them off of the streets and out of parks. But when the parents went out of their way searching for them, and one set of parents recognized their kids years later, brainwashed, it brought too much attention to the organization. Now, there can be no loose ends.
