How much did they know about her?
About Tristan?
Until they had that information, trying to figure out anything else was pointless.
"Shit," Jason swore as he made it to the street and started running toward the Rover.
And they all knew the bastard wasn't going to talk willingly.
"We're out," Dodd announced, the headset crackling.
"The redhead?"
"We weren't able to find her, sir."
Of course not.
Vodka. He really needed a shot of vodka. And aspirin. His head pounded, the beginnings of a migraine forming behind his right eye. "Call Warner and have him meet Tristan at the penthouse," he said, shoving the key into the door a little more forcefully than necessary. "Send McGregor to help get the asshole to the street behind the club and then call headquarters and let them know we're on the way to S.P.D. with a kidnapping suspect." He swore under his breath, trying to get some semblance of a plan together through the painful throbbing in his head. "And get someone to meet us there to look at Kincaid's hand."
"Yes, sir."
"Alvarez and Garrison, keep an eye out until we get Malachi loaded. I want him brought in without incident." Vetrov would realize sooner or later that Malachi had failed, but fuck if Jason was going to give him a damn thing until then.
Chapter Fourteen
"I'm sorry," Lillian said as Tristan paced around the living room of the penthouse. She sat on the sofa beside Zoë, watching him as John examined her. He looked like hell, his entire body rigid, his hands clenched in tight fists at his sides. The muscles in his arms and chest were solid rock beneath his black t-shirt, the tension apparent. Fury burned in his eyes.
He stopped pacing and spun toward her. "What are you apologizing for?"
"I shouldn't have gone in without the–"
"Stop," he said, holding up a hand. "Just stop."
She clamped her mouth closed.
Zoë shot her a sympathetic smile, though neither she nor John said a word. Neither had said much at all since they'd arrived. No one had. The look in Tristan's eyes held their tongues, each afraid to set him off when he already hovered so close to the edge of flipping out, she thought. Telling him and Warner her account of the evening had only made things worse. The more she talked, the angrier he grew. And, stupidly, she'd blurted out that she hadn't taken her gun with her.
Guilt plagued her until she shifted, unable to sit comfortably beneath its weight.
"I'm sorry," she whispered again, not sure what else to say.
"It's not your fucking fault, Lillian," he ground out, glaring at her. "You didn't try to– Fuck!" His hands knotted into fists in his wild hair. His eyes fell closed as a shudder ran through him.
"John–" She started to tell him to let her up, but she didn't have to say anything else.
He rose to his feet and held out a hand for her, the grim expression on his face matching Zoë's as he watched his nephew unraveling right before his eyes. She let him help pull her to her feet, wincing when she put weight on her bad leg. It hurt like hell, but not nearly as bad as her heart. That felt as if it were being ripped apart.
Hobbling across the floor toward Tristan, she drew to a stop in front of him.
He didn't even open his eyes as he reached out to drag her into his arms, crushing her to his chest. She went willingly, seeking his touch and the assurance that he was safe. She'd been in his arms almost constantly since the moment he'd gotten to her. After thinking Paulo had him, that he'd surrendered to keep her safe, she needed him. He was here now, his arms around her. And it wasn't enough.
Fear still coursed through her, stabbing at her heart over and over.
She'd never seen him like this before. Not even when he came home from the morgue had he seemed so broken, so afraid. So angry. She pushed herself closer to him, burrowing her face into the hollow of his neck.
"You're safe," he breathed into her hair, his voice breaking.
The way he said those words made her want to cry. He kept saying it, telling her that everything was okay, that she was safe. She knew he really tried to reassure himself, but she didn't know how to make him actually believe what he said though.
"I love you." Tears burned at her eyes when another shudder went through him. He was so strong, so much stronger than anyone she had ever met. It killed her to see him so vulnerable, so defeated. "I love you so much."
He readjusted his hold on her and tilted her chin up. This close, the look in his eyes nearly knocked her to the ground. A dizzying parade of emotion ran through the bright blue. Fear. Regret. Rage. Guilt.
Tears spilled over, running down her cheeks.
"Baby, no. Don't cry." He brushed at her tears with his thumbs, but she couldn't seem to stop the flood.
Malachi had tried to kidnap her after she'd promised she would be fine. She'd broken the one person she never wanted to hurt. He was drowning, and it was all her fault. How was she supposed to fix that? How was she supposed to make it better?
"I'm sorry," she sobbed as he rested his forehead against hers, holding her to him. "I'm so sorry, Tristan."
"You're lying," Jason ground out.
He clenched his fists on the tabletop in an attempt to keep from strangling Malachi as the man stared at him across the table in the interrogation room. He appeared completely calm and collected. And given the black eye, knot on his head, broken nose, busted lip, and bruised ribs, not to mention the laundry list of crimes the son of a bitch had confessed to committing, that was a big damn feat.
"Believe what you want," he sneered. "I told you what happened."
"You told us dick," Warner inserted, tossing his pen down on the table in disgust.
Malachi lifted his cuffed hands to flick a piece of dead grass from his shirt. He didn't even flinch, though Jason knew moving with bruised ribs had to be painful. Asshole.
"I don't know a damn thing about any dead girl beyond what you"—he nodded derisively at Warner—"told Hannah when you came in a couple days ago. I saw the ballerina and I wanted her. I was a big fan back in the day."
The way his eyes gleamed and he licked his lips as he said it, Jason could almost believe the man was telling the truth. That Malachi really had planned this whole thing to get Lillian in his grasp. A convicted rapist he might have been, but his story was utter shit and everyone in the room knew it.
That he claimed sole responsibility to protect his bosses pissed Jason off. He'd fully expected the bastard to demand a lawyer and not say a word once they had his injuries attended to. Instead, he'd confessed to kidnapping and planning to rape Lillian. Claimed he'd hired the redhead to get her out of the club. Said he'd been planning the crime since the first time he saw her at Teplo, maybe even since she'd moved in across the street.
Jason was all for loyalty, but Malachi had gone far beyond that. He was fanatical.
Thank god Tristan was still at the penthouse with Lillian. He would lose his mind when he heard this, and good fucking luck keeping him under control then. When he finally snapped, Jason wasn't sure anyone would be able to stop him, not until Vetrov and every last one of his people were in body bags.
"Who is Elijah?" he demanded.
Lillian was in no condition to give a full statement, but she'd given Warner as much as she could when he arrived at the penthouse, starting with the redhead and Elijah, whoever the hell that was. The blond? Jason would bet his left arm that's exactly who he was.
"Elijah Wood. Elijah Burke. The fucking guy from the Vampire Diaries. I told you I don't know any Elijah," Malachi answered, resting his arms on the tabletop.
"And the redhead?" Warner asked.
"Like I said, she's some crack whore I met at the club. Fucked her in the bathroom a few times. She said her name was Mariah. Those types will do anything for a couple of bucks and a little blow." Malachi shrugged his shoulders as if unconcerned. "That's all I needed to know."
More bullshit. Whoever the redhead was, she worked for Vetrov or
Francisco. And that pissed him off, because no one had known a damn thing about her until she pointed a gun at Lillian and marched her off.
"What do you do at Teplo?"
"I'm a fucking bouncer, I already told you that, too." Malachi glared across the table at Jason. "I walk around and make sure everyone plays nice."
"And Hannah Ramone keeping Miss Maddox occupied in the bathroom was a coincidence that worked in your favor, correct?"
Lillian had managed to tell Warner about her, too. And that pissed Jason off all over again. They'd all assumed the danger for her would be approaching the blond, not standing in the bathroom beforehand. They couldn't have been more wrong, obviously. She hadn't gotten anywhere near the blond and had damn near been kidnapped anyway. Would have been kidnapped and who knew what else if Jason hadn't sent Kincaid to cover for McGregor while he went inside to pull her out once Vetrov appeared.
Why had he put in an appearance tonight?
Surely he hadn’t expected his crew to kidnap her tonight, or he would have stayed away, unwilling to be anywhere close to the crime. Plausible deniability and all that. Which meant his people had seen an opportunity and jumped at it. Which meant every other fucking thing Malachi had said tonight was total bullshit.
"Answer the question," Warner said.
"Hannah's always in front of a fucking mirror," Malachi retorted. "How was I supposed to know she'd run off to reapply lip gloss at the same time the ballerina had to piss?"
More bullshit. Hannah striking up a conversation with Lillian in that bathroom and delaying her had been no coincidence. They'd sent the bitch in there to keep her occupied long enough to get Malachi positioned outside to grab her.
"And the gun we found in your waistband?" Dodd asked, stepping away from the wall. "Seems to me your bosses should know better than to give a convicted felon a gun. Hell, you'd think they'd know better than to hire one at a place like that at all."
"They didn't give me the gun, lady. Do you people listen to a fucking word anyone says to you?" He sent a cold look around the room. "I bought the piece myself. My bosses didn't know dick about it and I'm fucking done talking. Get my lawyer."
And there it was.
"Son of a bitch," Warner swore under his breath.
Dodd ground her teeth together.
Jason wasn’t surprised by Malachi's sudden recalcitrance. They'd all known he'd ask for a lawyer sooner or later, and the son of a bitch had talked for almost an hour when they hadn't expected him to say a word.
"Yeah," he muttered, rising from the table, "we'll get right on that." He glanced toward the two-way glass and jerked his head, indicating for someone to come take the bastard away.
He, Warner, and Dodd filed out as a uniform from S.P.D. came in to take Malachi to holding.
"I want a guard on his cell," Jason murmured to the uniform, watching in frustrated silence as the man led a smirking Malachi away.
"What do you think?" Warner asked when the door closed behind him.
"I think he's lying through his teeth," Jason said. "He copped to kidnapping and conspiracy to commit rape to keep his bosses out of it. Christ!" He slapped his hand down on the wall, his frustration boiling over.
"Talk about loyalty," Warner grunted. "How do you want to proceed?"
"Book him on all of it," he answered. "And make damn sure he doesn't get bail. I want our involvement kept quiet for as long as possible. If they don't already know that we were out there and not S.P.D., I'd like to keep it that way until after we raid. We'll have to convince the D.A. that it's mission critical that our involvement in this not go beyond his office until after then." Jason dropped his head back against the wall with a curse. It's not like the D.A. had much choice at this point anyway—there were too many coincidences for anyone to believe Malachi's story—but suppressing details was a big fucking headache.
Nondisclosure could be a beautiful thing though. And if suppressing that information gave him time to pin conspiracy to commit kidnapping charges on Vetrov and his people, they might very well be able to convince the judge that they'd tried to kidnap Lillian to cover up their other crimes…specifically murder and drug trafficking. Bringing down every one of the bastards would be worth whatever headaches were coming his way. And one way or another, he would hamstring every single one of them.
They weren't walking away from this unscathed. None of them.
Tristan would take them out one by one if Jason let any of them go, and that could not be allowed to happen. Hell, unless he worked fast, Tristan might very well take them out one by one anyway.
Never again would he involve a civilian in something like this. Never again.
"Can you send one of your uniforms to the club to talk to the other guards? Someone you trust not to fuck it up and let anything slip," he added.
"Yeah." Warner nodded. "Anything in particular you want floated?"
"Go with his bullshit story," Jason sighed. "Tell them a fucking gangbanger noticed him dragging the girl off and decided to intervene." Thank God for Kincaid. If the D.A. could convince the judge not to disclose DEA involvement just yet, his gangbanger persona would come in handy for screwing Vetrov over. They might doubt the "official" story, but fuck that, too. Let the bastards worry over it. Actually, he hoped they did worry about it. Long and hard.
"The kid managed to knock Malachi out, and called you guys in. Malachi confessed to the crime, said the only accomplice was a club-goer he'd hired to lure her outside so he could get her off the property."
"Any details on the accomplice?"
"Have your composite guy draw something up—not too accurate—and float that at the club. I want to keep them guessing on how much we know for as long as possible."
"Think it's going to make a difference?"
"I have no clue," Jason laughed bitterly. "But what else can I do? This entire situation is–"
"Fucked," Warner finished for him.
"Yeah." He pushed away from the wall. "It's fucked, and I'm not willing to let them walk away from this because he's decided to play fanatic and take the fall. I'm going to go check on Lillian and then see if I can find anything on this redhead in the system." If Mariah was even her name. Who the hell knew anymore? "I'll send over the rest of the paperwork in the morning."
"It is morning. Three in the, as a matter of fact."
"Don't remind me."
"How is she?" Tori Dodd asked as Tristan stepped out of the bedroom.
He glanced across the room, not even really looking at her or Liam sitting beside her on the sofa. He barely even registered that Jason had arrived at some point while he'd been in the bedroom with Lillian. All he could see was her, nasty bruises on her arm and tears running down her face.
His hands clenched into fists at his sides. He was so angry. So fucking gutted. He'd never felt like this, as if his entire world threatened to crumble around him. The pain was so much worse than when his parents died. Then, he hadn't understood how hard life would be with the crushing weight of guilt hanging over his head. Now he knew. And he couldn't deal with the fact that mere hours ago, he'd almost lost the one thing that had brought light into his life since it all fell apart.
That she'd been hurt because of him destroyed something inside of him. And she kept apologizing for the damn gun as if that mattered to him. Right up until the pain medication John had given her kicked in, she'd kept apologizing. He hadn't known what to do to make her drop it. He wanted to yell at her and tell her to stop. To please stop before she killed him. He wanted to go back in there and hold her, feel her heart beating against him until he felt rational. So many different urges tore at him, ripping him to shreds, and he couldn't deal with any of them.
Leaving her in the bedroom with Zoë to watch over her was torture, but he couldn't be in there right now. He couldn't see those bruises on her arm or hear her whimpering his name in her sleep and not lose his mind entirely.
"Malachi talked," Jason said when he didn't answer Tori's question.
Tristan spun toward him.
"Sit down."
"Fuck that." He was tired of people telling him to sit down, to calm down, to do this, to do that, or that it could have been worse. Did they honestly think he wasn't aware of how much worse it could have been? Did they honestly believe the how much worse wasn't running through his mind on a loop and had been since the instant he'd realized Malachi had her? "What did he say?"
"A lot of bullshit."
"Tell me."
"You don't want to know."
"Jase, don't fuck with me," he warned. "Just tell me."
Jason glared at him, and then gave in with a sharp curse. Tristan listened, getting angrier by the minute as his friend relayed Malachi's story in monotones. And then he lost it.
"Fuck," he roared, slamming his fist into the wall. The plaster crumbled. "Fuck!"
"Son," John came at him, his hands up as if trying to placate him. His lips were pressed into a grim line. "Don't." He reached out and grabbed Tristan's arm before he could hit the wall a second time. "You'll break your hand."
"Screw my hand." Tristan whipped his head toward his uncle. "He said he wanted to–" He couldn't say the words. Christ, he couldn't even think the words without parts of his soul breaking. The thought of anyone touching Lillian like that, of anyone even thinking about touching her like that…there were no words to describe the type of pain he felt right then.
He was going to kill Malachi. Today, tomorrow, five years from now. One day, he would cut the motherfucker's cock off as painfully as humanly possible and shove it down his throat. Whether Malachi had really planned to rape Lillian or not didn't matter. He would die for even thinking about it. Slowly. Painfully. Until he screamed for mercy. And there would be none.
"I'm going to kill him," he said, heat and promise radiating in his voice.
"That won't solve anything, son," John said.
"John's right," Jason inserted into the pregnant silence that followed. Tristan glared at his friend while John inspected the scrapes on his hand. "We need to figure out how to proceed."
Rhapsody (The Teplo Trilogy #2) Page 20