"Why the hell…bring him here?"
"Need him…divert attention."
"You should have…somewhere else."
"Not part of the plan."
His eyes watered as he tried to focus on the distorted voices rising and fading with each painful throb of his head. He could feel cool cement beneath his cheek, and he couldn't move his hands, but beyond the fact that his skull fucking hurt and he wanted to vomit, everything else seemed to be in order.
He cracked one eye open to assess the situation.
Table legs, dollies, three pairs of shoes attached to legs working around the tables.
And his guns were on the floor across the room.
Ah, hell.
Lillian was going to kill him if he got out of this alive.
He snapped his eyes closed and continued to breathe in the deep, even rhythm of one knocked the hell out as one pair of said legs shifted in his direction.
"He came alone," the blond bastard, Elijah, said.
"You sure about that this time?" A higher-pitched feminine voice retorted. "You got rid of the car?" A pair of heels clicked across the floor. Four pairs of legs then.
Worse and worse.
Had he gotten his phone turned on in time for Jason to track him?
He couldn't remember. Thinking was not easy after being pistol-whipped. Christ, he'd love to know which of these assholes was responsible for that so he could repay the favor.
"Fuck off, Hannah," Elijah snapped. "His car isn't an issue. And you were supposed to be watching last night."
"Yeah, I was supposed to be watching the ballerina, which I did. Not my fault you misjudged the situation." She laughed. "I'm surprised you haven't fled already. Wouldn't want that tight ass hauled off to prison, would you?"
"If I go, you're going too," he retorted. "Now shut the fuck up and help them with the rest of this shit so we can get out of here."
Hannah laughed again. "Better deal with him first because he's awake."
Well, shit.
Tristan didn't even get his eyes open before a foot slammed into his ribs.
He groaned and rolled, gritting his teeth as the pain in his head, his stomach, and his ribs all protested the movement. He popped his eyes open in time to see Hannah swaying across the room in another painted on miniskirt. Paulo Vetrov scowled down at him from overhead, dressed in a suit and tie with a scowl on his face.
"Welcome back to the land of the living," he said, staring down at Tristan.
"Not that you're staying here for long or anything." Elijah added from his position behind Paulo.
Tristan grunted in response and maneuvered himself to a sitting position. His vision swam, but he fought through it. When he had time, this is what he taught every agent who approached him wanting to learn. Didn't matter how much it hurt, you didn't give the bastards the advantage of knowing it. You fought through the pain until you couldn't fight anymore.
"You've been quite the inconvenience, Agent Riley," Paulo said, his tone polite and friendly.
"Fuck you," he grunted, not in the mood to play games with the asshole.
"No thank you. I prefer pretty little brunettes like your ballerina." Vetrov watched him for a moment, laughing when Tristan's hands curled into tight fists, the tight handcuffs digging into his flesh. "You just couldn't keep your pig nose out of it, could you?"
"And let you keep murdering people?"
Something dark and predatory flashed in Paulo's eyes. Something damn close to arousal, like he got off on the senseless death. As Tristan watched, he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was the one responsible for all the killing.
"Fucking psycho."
"And yet you dangled your pretty little ballerina in front of me anyway," Paulo said, smiling. "She is something else, isn't she? So fragile. So breakable. So fuckable."
"Hell, yeah." Elijah laughed, crudely grabbing his dick.
"Don’t talk about her," Tristan warned softly, rage boiling to the surface.
"Why? Not eager for her to join Paulo's other victims?" Elijah taunted. "You can't stop him if you aren't here, now can you?"
"You know killing me won't save you. Any of you." He glanced over at Hannah and the other man in the room—Stephan. Hannah didn't even look up from where she was shoving something into a briefcase. Stephan glanced his way, grinned, and went back to hefting gallon sized jugs onto a work table. Didn't really matter if they were packing up though. If he managed to walk away from this, he'd seen enough in the last two minutes. And if he didn't walk away…well, the evidence they were carting out wouldn't do him any good then, anyway.
Elijah threw his greasy head back and laughed. "Who said we were killing you, Riley?"
"No?" He tested the cuffs on his hands again, fighting back a grimace as they dug into his wrists. Too tight. Hell. "You can't let me go, either. I've seen too much now, asshole."
"See, if I gave a shit what you saw, this is where I'd gasp and barter," Paulo said with an amused shake of his head. "But I couldn't care less, and I have a better philosophy anyway."
Tristan didn't even bother to ask what that might be.
"Since I don't have time to take care of your little ballerina the way I'd hoped, we'll have to make do with this. It won't be nearly as satisfactory, but sacrifices had to be made." Paulo jerked his chin at Elijah, who smirked and reached into his back pocket.
"Always have a plan," he said, holding up Tristan's cell phone.
Tristan stared at it blankly as Elijah flipped it open to reveal that it was, in fact, turned on. The problem, though, was the confident smirk on the asshole's face. Tristan doubted that boded well for him.
Elijah pressed a few buttons and turned the phone around so he could see it. A picture of him lying on his side with a gun pressed to his temple appeared on the screen. He didn't even bother reacting to it. Wasn't the first time he'd seen photos of himself in some really messed up situations. Still, he suddenly felt a lot more wary than he had two minutes prior.
"In about two seconds your little ballerina will be getting that picture," Paulo said. "We were going to use her to get you here—after we had a little fun with her, of course—but since you were nice enough to show up on your own and all, we'll have to make do for now."
That certainly got his attention. He might have seen shit like that photo before, but Jesus Christ! Lillian hadn't. "Go to hell, you sick son of a bitch," he snapped. She was going to lose it if she saw that picture. Even if she was furious with him, she was going to lose her mind when she realized they had him.
Paulo tsk'd as Elijah waved the phone in front of him. "I'm not so sure your ballerina is going to be okay with this plan of mine though." He grinned widely. "Think she's going to cry like she did last night when she sees that? Oh, I hope she does. I love it when they cry and plead, don't you?"
Tristan snarled wordlessly and threw himself at Paulo. He didn't even make it off the ground before another well-aimed kick sent him sprawling again. He grunted and rolled onto his back, glaring up at Paulo.
"I'm almost disappointed I can't stick around to enjoy this," the bastard laughed. He squatted down next to Tristan, smirking. "We have a plane to catch." He rose to his feet and then paused. "We'll be sure to send you a postcard from Mexico."
"Fuck you and your piece of shit father," Tristan panted.
Paulo scowled, the heel of his shoe connecting with Tristan's cheek. His head snapped back on his neck. His vision went black for a moment, pain ricocheting through him. When he opened his eyes this time, Paulo was across the room, gathering packages of white powder into a briefcase.
Elijah hovered over Tristan, a knife in his hands.
"Who else knows about the storm drain?" the man asked.
"Go to hell," Tristan mumbled, spitting blood.
"Jason." Lillian blinked down at the cell phone in her lap, not sure if the horrific image on the screen was real or if her imagination had conjured up her worst nightmare. Her hands shook hard around the small phon
e. "I think you need to pull over," she stated far more calmly than she felt as her stomach heaved and churned.
Jason glanced over at her from the driver's seat and cursed. He barely had time to jerk the Rover onto the shoulder before she flung the door open. Her stomach heaved hard, emptying the contents onto the shoulder of the road. She still clutched the phone in her hand.
Another wave of nausea hit her as she shoved it at Jason, causing her to double over and vomit a second time. Tears rolled down her cheek as he swore violently, wiping away any doubts whatsoever that she'd imagined that photo.
"Tristan," she whimpered, collapsing back into the seat when her stomach finally stopped rebelling.
"Breathe, Lillian," Jason said. His eyes were still trained on the phone. On the picture of Tristan handcuffed and bleeding, with a gun to his head. Even in the photo, he appeared too still, like he was unconscious.
No, no, no.
"They have him," she said, fighting back the urge to scream.
The phone rang in Jason's hand, Tristan's ringtone blaring through the car.
Jason met her gaze across the console. Neither said a word. Neither had to. His team was still waiting on the arrest warrants to come through, and Vetrov had Tristan. They both knew that was what the picture and this phone call meant. Everything else—right, wrong, duty, responsibility, the fact that she wasn't an agent—ceased to matter. Keeping Tristan alive, that's all that mattered right then, and they both knew it.
Jason handed her the phone, squeezing her hand before shooting off a text on his own phone and then dialing a number. He didn't say a word, but she knew he'd called it in. Whoever was listening on the other end of the open line, they could help save Tristan.
She clung to that knowledge as hard as she could when he nodded for her to answer.
"Hello?" She pressed the button for speaker phone.
"I assume you've received my picture by now?" The voice was deep, pleasant. The way he chuckled as if he found humor in the situation made her stomach heave.
"Y-y…." She cleared her throat and tried again. "Yes. What do you want?"
For a second, the only sound in the car was the rush of traffic flying by.
"Here's the thing, ballerina," the guy finally said, "I know you aren't alone right now, am I right?"
Jason motioned for her to answer the question.
"I'm not alone," she confirmed in a monotone. Her throat felt tight, swollen. She couldn't think. They had Tristan and telling her that wasn't a lie to keep her obedient this time. She was fairly certain if she thought about that for long, she really would start screaming.
She wouldn't stop if she started.
"Who's listening in, Tiny Dancer?" he demanded.
"Jason Ames," Jason answered immediately. "Who do we have the pleasure of speaking to?"
"Oh, the Assistant Special Agent in Charge himself. This gets better and better," the bastard laughed, the dark sound sending a chill through Lillian. "Don't worry about who I am, Ames. You want to be worried about your friend. Tristan Riley? Ring any bells?"
"I know who Riley is," Jason answered, his tone level. "I'm sure you're aware of who he is by now as well."
"Something like that," the guy grunted. "Definitely not a fucking writer, that's for sure."
"What are your demands?" Jason asked, looking as if he'd been down this road before. Lillian figured he probably had, but dear God, not Tristan.
"No demands, Ames, just a friendly little call to let you know that you have—oh, about an hour before he dies."
Lillian choked back a sob.
Jason's fists clenched around the steering wheel. "What do you want?"
"For you to save your buddy," the guy laughed. And God, Lillian wanted to scream at him for doing this. "I'm sure you can figure out where he is. If you want him back, the ballerina needs to get here. Alone."
"You know I can't let her go in there alone," Jason answered.
"Fine, you come with her. But she comes or he dies," the guy said with no hesitation at all. He'd been expecting that. "Bring anyone else in with you and he dies."
"I want to talk to him," Jason demanded.
"This isn't a negotiation, Ames." The guard laughed. "You federal agents are all the same, but there is no Guide to Saving Riley to follow here. No talking to him. No demands for a helicopter or any of that bullshit. You and the ballerina either get here or he dies. We clear?"
"What do you get out of this?"
"Don't worry about that. You might, however, want to worry about whether you can get to your buddy before the place blows. You have an hour." The call ended.
"Fuck!" Jason swore violently.
Lillian doubled over in the seat, shaking.
Michael ducked down behind a stand of flowery bushes as the club doors opened. "Fuck me running," he swore as several people began filing out and heading toward the two cars parked outside. The bartender, Hannah, Stephan, even Paulo Vetrov had a briefcase in his hands like some fucking blockbuster crook.
Originality.
Where the hell had it disappeared to?
Seriously. The gangbangers he worked with would have been more original than briefcases. Backpacks, knock-off Coach purses, fanny-packs, the good old behind the balls drug tuck—they might have been shitty choices for moving product, but at least they didn't scream "I'm too stupid to get a clue."
Michael pulled out his cell and shot the license plate numbers and descriptions over to Simon and Brett Warner as Paulo Vetrov and Anton's people piled into the two cars and headed out. "Idiots," he muttered. He had no clue how many of the assholes were left inside, but he was getting really tired of waiting. If shit didn't happen soon, he and his tear gas were going in after Riley.
When Tristan came to again, he hurt everywhere. Blood trickled down his face, and sight, sound and thought were all distorted, buzzing like a thousand tiny bees set loose in his head. His lungs were on fire, his shirt drenched in blood from the knife wound between his ribs. He didn't care. His first thought, his only thought, was of Lillian and that was clear enough. Paulo had sent her that fucking picture, demanded she come here.
He wasn't even sure why she was still in town. Didn't really matter though.
He started praying for Jason to keep her away from here. He didn't care how he accomplished it so long as Lillian didn't walk through those doors. He'd heard every word Paulo had said to her, watched through a bloody fog as Stephan poured gasoline around the work-tables they'd loaded with enough chemicals to blow the place up.
He was going to die here.
The fact that he'd been so close to getting out, to having an actual future, didn't matter to him right then. Not a fucking thing mattered so long as Jason kept Lillian away from Teplo. He'd deal with whatever else came his way just so long as she didn't come here. If she walked through the doors, she was going to die with him, nothing more than a distraction so these assholes could make a run for it.
"I'm sorry," he mumbled, wishing briefly that he could go back to this morning. Go back and tell her that he loved her more than life itself. Go back and feel her in his arms. Go back and watch her sleeping. Go back and do it all over again.
He couldn't.
He was going to die.
"Protect her," he whispered to himself, the words garbled thanks to the swelling of his face from where Elijah had tried to get information out of him. The psychotic dick hadn't gotten a goddamned word though. "Keep her safe. Make sure she's happy. Let her…let her fall in love again." He wasn't sure who he spoke with. Didn't matter. Saying it hurt like hell, but he had to say it anyway.
All the things she deserved—everything he couldn't give her—Jason, Zoë, her father, God, someone would see to it, make sure she was taken care of. They had to because he'd failed and he'd been too fucking stupid to even realize it when every sign in the world had been there.
That nightmare about finding her in a mortuary freezer…. All this time, he'd thought the dream was about his fear that he c
ouldn't protect her. He'd been right. He couldn't protect her. Because he was the one in danger. He was the cause of the terror and fear she'd felt in that dream. It wasn't Vetrov who destroyed her.
It was him. Him and his fucking issues.
He was the one who'd walked into Vetrov's trap.
He was the one who'd broken her heart.
He was the reason for all of it, and now he knew how it played out.
He didn't survive.
But she did.
His life for hers, that's what he'd told her.
Eventually she had to forgive him for that…right?
He closed his eyes, fighting to stay conscious.
Chapter Eighteen
"Kincaid, where are you?" Jason barked into the phone.
"Being jabbed in the ass by a goddamn branch again, Ames," he snapped.
"Lillian and I are on our way. Circle around to her house and meet us at the back door. And do not go in that club under any circumstances."
"What the–?" he started to ask, but the call ended before he could finish the question. "Fuckin' A," he muttered and shoved the cell back into his pocket before rising from his crouch. Jason and his contrary orders were starting to get on his last damn nerve. He didn't question them though, instead scooping up his misappropriated tear gas grenade and following fucking orders. As usual.
Goddamn, what he wouldn't give to be the one barking the orders for once.
"What the hell, Ames?" he demanded fifteen minutes later when a grim-faced and tight-lipped Jason opened the back door to let him in.
"Tristan's in the lab and they're threatening to kill him," Jason announced as soon as he made it over the threshold. "They say it's going to blow."
"Fuck me."
Little Mama leaned into the kitchen counter, gripping the edge for dear life. She looked bad. Pale face, red-rimmed and wide eyes. The sight made Michael's heart hurt for her.
"We have to go in," she whispered, her voice stricken. "They said…." She didn't finish the sentence so he turned back to Jason.
Rhapsody (The Teplo Trilogy #2) Page 28