"They want Lillian inside within the next forty-five minutes, or they're blowing the place up with him inside."
"Son of a bitch," Michael grunted. "They aren't bluffing?"
Jason held out a cell phone.
"Well, okay then. They aren't bluffing," he said when he saw what was on the screen.
"This is the second one they sent."
"Fuck me running," he said as Jason snapped the phone closed on the sight of Tristan beaten and bleeding all over the place. No wonder Little Mama appeared ready to collapse. That was some real grim shit right there. "What do you want to do?"
"We're no longer waiting for the arrest warrants. Davis has the team gearing up now, but we can't send a team in when we have no goddamn clue if they're serious." Jason grabbed a chair and plopped it down beside Little Mama. "Sit," he ordered and held out a hand to help ease her down into it. "And we can't afford to wait either," he finished as soon as she was in the chair.
"You can't take her in there, man." Michael shook his head, really not loving that thought. Beyond the obvious, if Riley did survive this, he would kill them both for taking her in there. "If they're serious, they could blow the place with her inside."
"I know that," Jason snapped.
"I'm going in," Little Mama said, her head shooting up from her study of the floor. Her eyes flashed in defiance when Jason denied her. "They have Tristan."
"And if you go in, they have you, too."
"And if I don't, they're going to kill him!"
"Lillian." Jason pinched the bridge of his nose. "I can't let you go in there. It's too dangerous."
"You're just going to let him die then?" she demanded.
Jason said nothing.
"She's right," Michael muttered. He didn't want to say it, but fuck if Little Mama wasn't right. Whatever Vetrov and his people were up to, they'd already broken more laws than he cared to count. Killing a federal agent probably wouldn't even register as a blip on their radar at this point. Said federal agent might kill them both for letting Little Mama go in, but if they didn't let her, he didn't even stand a chance.
He mentally retracted his desire to be the poor son of a bitch calling the shots.
Fuckin' A. No way in hell would he trade places with Ames right now.
"Tristan is going to have a fit," Jason groaned.
"Let him," Little Mama snapped. "At least he'll be alive."
"If they don't kill us all as soon as we walk in the doors," Jason said. "Which they may very well do."
"I'm going in with or without you," Little Mama warned him, her chin jutting out stubbornly. Christ, she was cute when she was mad, like a little kitten hissing and showing its claws. Riley was one lucky bastard.
"I will handcuff you to your door," Jason retorted, glaring at her.
Michael sat back and watched, amused as the former ballerina overrode Jason's command without hesitation. Grown men cowered from Ames, but not Little Mama. He didn't scare her at all. Once they rescued Riley, he intended to tell everyone about this shit.
"No, you won't. If they blow the place, I'm in as much danger here as I would be across the street." She smirked as she said it, knowing she had him. "I'm going in and you can either go with me or you can go to hell. You involved me in this to help save his life. Now you can deal with me doing it. They said I go in or he dies. I'm not going to sit here and risk his life when we have this chance to save him, so I suggest you figure out a way to get us all out of there alive because I am going in."
If the situation weren't so jacked up, Michael would have laughed his ass off.
"I can't wait to fire him," Jason muttered and then cursed. "I really fucking can't. Fine, you're going in. But we're doing this my way."
Lillian sagged in relief when Jason gave in. She knew he didn't want to, but she was right and they all knew it. If she didn't show up with Jason, they'd kill Tristan. She wasn't ignorant of the reality either though. If she and Jason walked in there, they might not live to walk out. She really didn't have time to think about that though.
They had thirty-eight minutes.
Mr. Davis and his team were on the way, but they wouldn't get here in time. Lillian had no clue how bomb squads worked, but she was pretty sure they took a lot longer than thirty-eight minutes to get into place, find whatever was going to explode, and stop it. They didn't have that long. Tristan didn't have that long.
She listened quietly as Jason and Michael discussed their options. There weren't many of them. All they could really do was walk in and pray Davis could get back up to them in time for it to make a difference.
"Are we even sure any of his people are still inside?" Michael asked. "They're probably hoping we'll be too focused on getting Tristan out to realize that they're fleeing."
"If they have the place wired, it doesn't matter if they're inside or not," Jason replied, leaning his head back against the refrigerator. "It'll be dangerous for her either way."
"True enough," Michael agreed. "You get the info I sent to Simon?"
"Yeah, S.P.D. located the Mercedes headed down the I-90, and they're working on getting the lien holder to activate the GPS on the Sebring. You have your vest?"
"Yeah." Michael pulled his shirt off and started stripping the vest off, his movements stiff and awkward with one hand in a cast. Lillian gasped when she saw the brutal scar where he'd been stabbed. It ran from his hip across his stomach, and up to his ribs. The edges were still red and angry, barely healed.
Michael winked at her when he caught her eyeing it. "Don't worry, gorgeous. I won't tell Riley you're enjoying the view."
Despite the severity of the situation, a small smile cracked at her lips at his ridiculousness. He was outrageous. She really liked him. "I'm glad Tristan has you for a friend," she told him sincerely as he held the vest out to Jason. That he cared what happened to Tristan was obvious. She felt a strange affinity for him, and was really grateful that they had his help. He'd already saved her life once. She trusted him to help do the same for Tristan now.
"Go put this on," Jason urged her as Michael thanked her as somberly as she'd ever heard him speak. He starting trying to do up the buttons on his shirt, but gave up with a muttered, "Ah, fuck it," within moments and left it hanging open.
Lillian allowed Jason to help her from the chair and made her way out of the kitchen to don the vest as ordered. She slipped it on beneath her shirt as best she could. The Kevlar was big on her, bulky, but at least she'd have a little protection going in. Funny how she wasn't really scared to walk through those doors. She was terrified for Tristan, but for herself? The only thing she felt was calm acceptance. They'd given her a choice and she'd made it. No matter where it led, she would see it through.
Still, she gave herself a minute to feel as she glanced around the bedroom she'd shared with Tristan. She wanted him here with a desperation she'd never felt for anything before. Even when she needed him inside of her, the feeling wasn't like this all over screaming, clawing need to see him, touch him, and ensure he was okay. Right now, every part of her screamed to touch him, and she couldn't.
And that's what hell really felt like. Not worry that something had happened to him or that he was going to do something crazy, but the absolute certainty that he was seriously injured, possibly dying because he had already done something stupid. That second picture had been bad. God, if she lived to be a thousand, she'd always remember the way he looked, slumped over and bleeding.
Was that how he felt about the things he'd seen? As if he couldn't do anything to remove the images or forget what it felt like to see them and know they were real? As if they were going to drive him insane? That's how she felt and she couldn't get those images out of her mind. Now that they were there, they were there. Forever.
Would that be her last image of Tristan as it had been for him and his parents?
She felt a tremor go through her and then another and another. Within seconds, her entire body vibrated with the fear and heartache racing through h
er. She let it take her, knowing she had to get it out and get it over with now. Soon enough, she wouldn't have time to feel or think or hurt.
She sank down onto the edge of the bed where Tristan had shown her how good love could really be and just…felt.
By the time she limped into the kitchen a few minutes later, the shakes had passed and she was calm. In control or as close a simile as she could manage. Jason and Michael both turned to her as she stepped up behind them.
"I need your phone," Jason said immediately, holding out his hand.
She fished it out of her pocket and handed it over before leaning on the cabinet and watching as he pushed a series of buttons. Michael arched a brow as if to ask if she were okay. She shrugged a shoulder, doubting he'd believe the lie if she voiced it.
"How do I get into the location history, Simon?" he asked.
"The program he installed for you and Riley shows your locations anytime the phone is on. He's trying to get a read on where Riley has been today," Michael explained. "See if we can figure out where their secondary entrance is before you go in."
"Oh." Her eyes widened. She'd forgotten about the tracking program in the pandemonium of the last twenty-four hours of her life.
"If he found their rabbit hole, you guys will have back up sooner rather than later."
Oh, thank God.
"I don't see a history option," Jason said. "Uh-huh."
She held her breath, too afraid to hope for good news and too afraid not to. She didn't suppose it really mattered one way or another. If they couldn't find a location, they were where they'd been two minutes before. But it'd be nice to have a little ray of hope.
"Yeah, got it. Oh, thank fuck."
Lillian's heart settled in the vicinity of her throat at Jason's prayerful curse and relieved smile. He caught her eye and nodded.
"Thank God," she whispered.
""I'm texting it now." He snapped his fingers at Michael who handed over his cell. His fingers flew across the buttons before he tossed it back to Michael. "I'm sending him to check it out."
Michael bounced on his feet like a little boy getting a lollipop for being good at the doctor and shoved the phone in his pocket before snagging his keys from the countertop.
"Tell Warner to meet him there. No. I don't know. Tell S.P.D. to stay on them. Find out where they're going. Hold back and don't engage until absolutely necessary. Yeah, send the other unit to sweep up Anton as soon as we know where he's at."
"Hey." Michael bumped her shoulder. "Riley is a stubborn son of a bitch. They aren't getting rid of him this easily, Little Mama."
"I know," she said. She did know. Tristan wasn't going to die. She wasn't going to let it happen.
Crap, she had to stay calm, breathe.
"Yeah, we're going in as soon as Kincaid is in place," Jason said into the headset attached to his ear. "Establish a perimeter behind the Maddox house. Kincaid doesn't know how many are still inside, if any." He lifted his gaze to Lillian after a minute. "You're sure about this?"
She swallowed hard and nodded, curling her hand around her phone as Jason handed it back to her. There were three addresses in the phone. The penthouse, the club, and another a little over half a mile away.
Tristan.
She stroked her finger across the screen as if it were a physical connection to him. She knew it wasn't, but the little pins on the map were the closest things she had. Please let him be okay, she prayed again.
"Kincaid, get to that address and find that entrance. Warner has his guys on the way to back you up." Jason pegged him with a hard glance. "Don't walk in there until they get here. And stop anyone who tries to walk out."
"On it," Michael responded with a serious nod. He glanced over at Lillian and smiled. "We'll get him back, Little Mama."
"I know," she said again. "I know."
He seemed to deliberate and then, "Here." He held out the little canister he'd set on the table to remove his shirt. "Take this. It's tear gas. Pop the pin and toss it at the cocksuckers if you have to."
Lillian's fingers clenched around the bottle. She had no idea if she'd even have to use the tear gas, but it made her feel a little bit better to know they had Michael looking out for them, too. "Thank you," she whispered.
He winked.
"Kincaid, you have ten minutes to get there before we walk through those doors," Jason warned him.
He gave them both a jaunty little wave and disappeared out the back door.
Ten minutes.
It felt like a lifetime.
Through sheer force of will, Tristan managed to keep himself alert, but he was fading fast.
"Paulo is an idiot, but he was right about something," Elijah said, sneering down at him. "Missing your ballerina's reaction when she finds you will be a damn shame. Watching her come while you had your hand in her panties on the dance floor was fucking hot."
"Fuck you," Tristan mumbled, wishing for the thousandth time that he could kill the motherfucker. Paulo, too. The fact that they'd seen what he did to Lillian made him homicidal. Unfortunately, killing them slowly wasn't in the cards at the moment. One way or another though, the bastards were going to die. Making it happen had become his new goal in life. Even if he didn't make it out of here alive, he'd find a way to destroy Elijah, Paulo, and Malachi for thinking about her.
He'd haunt the sons of bitches for eternity if he had to.
The thought brought a smile to his lips.
"Adios, Riley," Elijah laughed and then kicked him hard in the back of the head.
The last thing Tristan saw was him and the redhead walking away.
Chapter Nineteen
"Stay behind me," Jason cautioned as they stepped up onto the sidewalk outside the club exactly ten minutes later. Sirens blared in the distance, screeching closer, but not close enough yet. The sun beat down overhead, the sky a clear blue.
A raging storm would have been more appropriate.
"I will," she promised, stepping up behind him. Her gun was a comforting weight in the palm of her hand. She held it steady though she was certain it probably should have been shaking beneath the weight of her nerves. Nothing shook or trembled or raced though. Outwardly, she was still and quiet.
Jason depressed the door handle with his elbow.
"Ready?" he asked, his foot on the door and his gun aimed.
"Ready," she responded, tightening her grip on the weapon in her hand.
Things didn't slow down or speed up as they always seemed to do in the movies. There were no garbled shouts, and no heavy, thudding pound of her heart. There was only the sun beating down on her back, the gun in her hand, and the darker shadows of the club, but the scene reminded her once more of the curtain being raised on a set stage.
There was no music, but as Jason pushed the door open wide, using it for cover as he assessed the situation inside, she was Giselle, fighting the Wilis for Duke Albrecht's life. She was Swanilda trying to win her love, Juliet rebelling in order to follow her own heart, and Princess Odette sacrificing her life so Prince Siegfried did not remain forever cursed. She was every role she'd ever danced, channeling every bit of strength each one had found in the face of adversity. Giselle's courage, Swanilda's guile, Juliet's determination, and Odette's heart. She wore them all like armor now.
There was a certain identifiable choreography to every move they made now. Every single one was designed for survival. Hers. Jason's. Tristan's. If they were fast enough, smart enough, they might make it.
She had to believe they would.
As Jason stepped into the club, motioning for her to follow, she noticed three things at once. First, the door to the room that Tristan had tried so hard to find a way into stood wide open as if beckoning them onward. Second, they were alone in the club. And third, the stench of gasoline overpowered the place.
She took one last breath of fresh air and followed Jason's lead.
Michael threw the Rover into park and hopped out in front of the abandoned warehouse painted wit
h the same address Jason had given him. Sirens wailed in the distance as Warner and his men raced closer, but that was a secondary concern right that second. He stopped on the sidewalk and glanced around, trying to put the pieces together.
There was a dark blue sedan parked across the road, but who knew who it belonged to? The car was the only thing of interest in sight, though. The few businesses in the area were empty, weeds growing wildly all around. The other warehouses were exactly like the one in front of him, empty shells, long ago abandoned. Nothing so much as moved on the road.
He turned back to the warehouse, seeing nothing that screamed this is what you're looking for. The metal shell was rusted and battered. Broken glass gaped in the windows. Gang signs were tagged across the front, the doors boarded up. But Riley's cell had pinged here, so unless the system was making shit up, whatever he'd found had to be here. Either inside or on the property.
He eyed the warehouse warily, knowing full well that if someone were inside, he was a sitting duck out here. Little Mama had his vest and he was down a hand. Screw it though, right?
This was the shit he lived for.
He checked the earpiece in his ear, fumbled his gun from his holster and jogged across the yard. It took him no time at all to find what he was looking for. After all the bullshit these bastards had caused, he'd almost expected the entrance to look like some sinister door to Dracula's lair, but no. The way in was your every day, average cement and steel storm drain with a steel door halfway down the culvert like a storm shelter. Nothing unusual at all about it.
He squatted in the dirt outside and grimaced, quickly amending that opinion. Someone had shed blood and been dragged through it. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out whom that someone was.
Riley.
"I found it," he said into the earpiece attached to his radio. There was nothing really funny about the situation, but fuck if he didn't feel like laughing anyway. When shit could get worse, it would. And shit could always get worse. So there was no point in bitching, he'd learned that lesson a long time ago.
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