Cavanagh - Serenity Series, Vol I (Seeking Serenity)

by Eden Butler

  “Where is she?” she hears, instantly recognizing Emily’s voice. Mollie doesn’t need a mirror to know her own smile is looming, vicious. This stupid blonde really is thick.

  “She’s here, darlin’.” Jimmy, you’re an idiot too. Says the spider to the fly. “You took out that jackass boyfriend of hers but he won’t be too far behind. Look in the back.” Mollie makes out the long, tight braid down Emily’s back between the hinges of the door and Jimmy, repeating past behavior by disturbing her furniture snoops around her living room. That alone has Mollie thinking she should shoot him. But when Jimmy overturns the brand new bookshelf Declan and Autumn bought her, spilling her comics onto the floor and walking over them with his muddy boots, her faint calm breaks and she pulls back the hammer on her 40 cal. Jimmy stops cold, straightening as though in slow motion.

  He turns and that snarky smile pulls across his face when Mollie steps from behind the door. “Well, darling, got yourself a new toy?”

  “Nope. This one is mine.” Jimmy’s grin is obnoxious and Mollie’s fingers itch to scratch it off his face. “Had it since I was thirteen.”

  “Really, now? You couldn’t handle it before, I doubt you can now.” Mollie shoots over his head, causing him to duck and the grin momentarily disappears. The stupid smirk is back the next second. “You missed.”

  “I meant to.”

  “And I won’t,” Emily says, feet light, hand gripped around her gun pointed straight at Mollie’s head. The woman’s movements are graceful, cool as she sidesteps toward Mollie and jerks the 40 cal out of Mollie’s hand before she steps back. Emily’s body is rigid, confident, and Mollie cannot recognize anything of the girl she met briefly. She is a wonderful actress. Gary Oldman good.

  Mollie hears no sound from outside. No alarm, no Vaughn running in the hallway, but she will not let fear consume her. She needs to stall, at least until she can slip out of this situation. Or knock this bitch over her head. “The thing is, I know why you’re here. I know you won’t kill me.”

  “I don’t need to kill you.” Emily lowers the gun and doesn’t blink, doesn’t hesitate for a second before she shoots Mollie in the leg. Shock dulls her, for all of two seconds after the bullet pierces in her muscle and she collapses to the floor. A hot, burning pain throbs in her leg. Above her, Emily smiles. “I just need you taken down.” She nods to the hallway and looks at Jimmy. “Find her phone and hurry up.”

  The pain of being shot is worse than anything she’s ever felt. This is worse than the busted tooth Kristi gave her at fifteen. Worse than when her mother slapped her across the face when she asked to move in with Layla; the ice cube diamond of her ring cutting into her cheek. This is a surreal pain that sears, pounds and bites. This is what Spider felt when he came to the Compound at two a.m. and her father was too drunk to dig the bullet out of his shoulder. This is what her father had warned her about, what he hoped she would never feel when he first taught her about respecting the weapon at eleven years old.

  When Emily leans over her, eyes barely glancing down at the wet, dark blood dripping from her leg, Mollie pushes down the throb, tries to reason with this girl. “I don’t know where Mojo is.”

  “Like hell you don’t.” Emily is stronger than she looks. Her arms are bigger, more defined and the large veins lining her forearms tells Mollie that the girl spends time around weights. And psycho drug cartels. She grabs Mollie by the arm and drags her up, throwing her against the sofa. Mollie is too weakened by the thundering pain in her leg to put up much of a fight. “Viv is smooth, hiding all the details of the case from me, keeping her notes, her contacts with her. I had quite the time throwing Alex off my trail. That little puppy followed me everywhere.”

  That’s it, dumbass. Do your evil villain monologue. Take your time. I’m sure Mrs. Varela was dialing 911 the second Jimmy kicked in the door. “So you framed him.”

  “Wasn’t hard to do, but there were complications. Jimmy got antsy, attacked Viv before I could get information from her. Idiot.” A quick tug on the zip ties, presumably to make sure they are tight enough, and Emily smiles. She actually smiles as though she and Mollie are great friends. Psycho bitch. “But Alex spent every Saturday morning at that church, going to confession, talking to some old priest.” The blonde wipes the blood she’d smeared on her hand from Mollie’s wound onto the rug at their feet. “So it wasn’t hard to plant the receipts and the map. He caught on though, found out I’d called you, told you to head to the precinct.” There is a noise, but it is faint, quiet and Emily’s attention moves to the open door, to the empty hallway. She walks toward it and looks to her left before she steps back into the apartment and shuts what’s left of the front door. “That stupid Marine of yours had left a message on Viv’s voice mail confirming that she wanted you ID’ing the suspect. Alex got to the message before I could delete it. I guess he was trying to play the hero, stop you from getting out into the parking garage. It’s a good thing I check his phone and checked Viv’s. No way was I going to let some little grunt mess up a half a year of work.”

  Dark spots float in front of Mollie’s vision and she knows the blood is pouring too quickly, that soon she won’t be able to fight. She closes her eyes, saying a silent prayer that she will be found soon. When Emily lingers too long around the disarray of comics on the floor, Mollie catches her attention, clearing her throat. “You were hired by the cartel.”

  “Wrong again, darlin’,” she says, copying Jimmy’s inflection. “I was hired by my uncle, Vasquez. Jimmy just tagged along because I told him to.” Seeming to realize her accomplice was taking too long, Emily looks toward the hall, then sits on the recliner, moving her boots on top of the coffee table. “Hurry up, Jimmy,” she shouts. Mollie knows if she doesn’t try moving, she’s going to pass out and if she does, they’ll be able to take her anywhere, so she wiggles back, hits the sofa to readjust the circulation in her limbs. She doesn’t care that Emily watches her, that she’s likely thinking Mollie is incapable of putting up a fight now. “Your Daddy has a big mouth and the cartel isn’t going to take kindly to him spilling their secrets. Viv’s on borrowed time, but you, little Ms. Mojo, you’re a daddy’s girl. There is no way you won’t know where they stuck him.”

  Mollie starts laughing and the loud, racking cackle has Emily sitting up, has the blonde’s gaze bouncing from Mollie, to the hallway and back again. “Something funny?”

  Between her laughter and the labored breaths, Mollie smiles at Emily. “You’re pretty stupid if you think Viv didn’t know you were the mole.”

  “She didn’t.”

  “Of course she did.” Mollie rubs her knuckle into her eyes to keep the floating spots at bay. “But you’re right about one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I am my daddy’s girl.” Pulling from that constant whisper of encouragement, the one that told her to remember herself before these idiots kicked in her door, and the last stores of strength her weakening body will allow her, Mollie leaps off the floor and right on top of Emily, both girls falling back when the recliner topples over, knocking the gun out of Emily’s hand and it slides across the floor. She manages to muscle up¸ counting on Emily’s shock to keep the woman from striking out at her, and lands a hard punch straight into the blonde’s throat. When Emily sways, trying to pull up on her elbows, Mollie lays back, angles her body to put weight on her uninjured leg.

  “You bitch,” she hears behind her as Jimmy dashes toward Mollie and the flaying Emily who slips on the blood pouring from Mollie’s gunshot wound onto the floor. He manages to pull her up by her hair, yanking out several strands in the process, but before his fist can land on her face, Vaughn stumbles through the door.

  The flurry of movement makes Mollie’s head swim—Jimmy and Vaughn trading blows, knuckles and jaws cracking against each other; Emily’s high rebuke as she jumps to her feet and lands a quick kick right into Mollie’s wounded leg. Stars break behind her vision as the pain barrels all over her body, twisting up her spine
until Mollie’s rage bubbles, becomes a blaze of resentment, of pure enough-ness at being attacked, at being threatened by this nothing girl. When her roars sounds, Emily is shocked, held still just a second and how vicious Mollie’s voice sounds, how her adrenaline blocks out that overwhelming smart of pain and Mollie attacks, pushing Emily out into the lobby.

  The women roll and gouge, arms working at odd angles, nails clawing, drawing blood and though she is barely able to control her movements, Mollie lands another strike at Emily’s face, then one at shoulder, before the blonde deflects her, slams her back and they crash into the front entrance, just feet from Mrs. Varela’ door.

  Horrified, Mollie sees the old woman’s face peeking out of the crack she opened her door. “Mollie? What’s…?”

  “Inside!” she screams, falling to the ground as Emily attacks her again. Mrs. Varela’ gray eyes are round, fear pulling her lids back and Mollie can only think to keep her away, out of this ridiculous situation. “Get inside!” she tells her and releases the breath she holds when she hears the hard slam of the door.

  She is fading now, barely able to lift her arms, to register the damage being done inside her apartment as Vaughn and Jimmy continue their scrap. So it is easy for Emily to hit her again, for Mollie’s head to slam against the entrance, for Emily to slam her through until she is tumbling down the stone steps. Mollie isn’t sure if that sickening rack of skull on stone is from her landing on the concrete railing or from Emily jumping on top of her, missing Mollie’s face by inches when the brunette jerks her head to the side.

  The blonde tries again, pulling her arm back to strike one final time, but then sirens and flashing lights disturb the dark night and Emily’s gaze shoots up, forgetting her intended attack. She must see the cruisers, the paramedics and groups of uniformed men and women running toward them, because just as suddenly as the fight began, Emily jumps up, making for the sidewalk.

  “Going somewhere?” Viv says when Emily has taken three steps.

  “I…” Emily looks around the building, eyes jumping toward all the activity. On the ground, Mollie can make out the paramedics gathering their equipment, she sees the troopers circling to the back of the building and Viv, standing tall and stern in jeans and a simple cotton shirt, hands on her hips as she glares at Emily. And just like the good little actress the blonde is, she turns off her killer instincts, forgets, perhaps, that she was trying to kill Mollie in favor of digging her way out of the hole she so easily jumped into. “I saw Jimmy, followed him here.”

  She’s reverted to the faux shy introvert who follows after Viv like a groupie, she is still handcuffed; even manages a small gasp as the click of the metal slides into place.

  “You know,” Viv says, staring down at Emily’s innocent expression, “you had me fooled for a while. Until I realized you planted that stuff in Alex’s apartment.”

  “I didn’t…”

  “You did.” Another step, but Emily doesn’t retreat from her boss. “I knew why Alex was at the church. Knew he’d gone there every Saturday since he was a kid. Why the hell would he need a map of Cavanagh?”

  Emily glares at her, finally giving up the façade. “It doesn’t matter, Mojo is a dead man. As soon as he goes back to prison, he dies.”

  Viv nods the EMTs toward Mollie, her eyes still trained onto Emily’s pale face. “Mojo isn’t going anywhere. Neither are you.” The D.A. glares at Emily, her head in a slow shake. “You think that little act at the hospital between me and Mollie was real? You really aren’t very bright. And your bosses have already been arrested. I can snoop and lie too, you know.” Viv laughs when Emily’s curses ring out and the trooper walks her toward a cruiser. “Be sure to say hi to your uncle for me?”

  Viv’s conversation with Emily is little more than background noise to Mollie. A woman in a paramedic’s green uniform rips open her pants legs, does something that makes Mollie’s body jostle. She blocks out the woman’s activity. Her vision has gotten worse and Mollie can barely make out the bright constellations above her; the shining diamonds of starlight that pepper the black sky. She thinks that cluster to her far right is the Big Dipper, but she can’t be sure, can’t even remember if that constellation is even visible here in Cavanagh.

  “Mollie?” Viv interrupts her view, falls to her knees and lifts Mollie’s fingers into her hand. “You okay?” When Viv rubs her hand over Mollie’s face, then wipes her fingers on her jeans, Mollie wonders where all the blood has come from.

  Is that mine? I didn’t think I had any blood left.

  Everything hurts. Everything. Her face feels split apart. Her leg and feet have gone cold and though it is August and she knows the night is mild, Mollie’s skin is chilled and a shiver has her shaking her shoulders.

  “I’m okay.” She feels like she has to reassure Viv. It had been her idea, setting this up, making her wait until they attacked and Mollie can tell by the expression Viv wears—drooping mouth, worried, wide eyes, that she had not wanted things to get so desperate. Mollie attempts a smile, hoping it fools the D.A. “Just sore is all.” When Viv’s face doesn’t release the worry, she tries for distraction. “Where’s Vaughn?”

  “The cops went in your place. I’m sure he’s fine.” But Viv still glances toward the building, likely hoping to see her brother walking out of it. “He’s going to be so angry. He hated you being the bait.”

  “I… I know. We talked about it earlier tonight.” Mollie’s eyes are heavy and she feels cold, but her thoughts are jumble of worry. She hopes, fleetingly, that Vaughn’s anger at his sister will cool. It hadn’t been Viv’s idea alone. Mollie wanted to draw out Emily and Jimmy. She knew the only way to do that was to play the sitting duck. Her father’s face breaks through the worry, pushes aside any concerns Mollie has for Vaughn and Viv’s relationship. “Daddy…”

  Viv looks back at her, smiling and this time, the expression is genuine. “Still at the safe house, honey, don’t worry. You did so well. For a second there I thought you really hated me. I’m sorry we had to use you like that.”

  “Bait is better than jailbait.” Mollie doesn’t know why she finds that stupid comment so funny. But once her laughter starts, it will not stop and every giggle she releases is met with a rent of pain to match it.

  “Yeah, you’re losing too much blood, honey.” Viv turns, toward the EMT and to her partner who has approached with a stretcher. “Can we hurry this up?”

  “Daddy will be mad I got hurt.”

  Viv soothes her, shushes her with a few low murmurs. “I’ll handle Mojo, don’t worry.”

  “Where is she? Get the fuck off me!”

  Mollie watches Viv’s gaze dart around and her shoulders relax, breath releasing long. “Vaughn!” Next to Viv, his face comes into view. There is blood sliding from the corner of his mouth and a nasty wide cut opening the skin below his eye. Mollie wants to touch it, as though one kiss would heal the injury, but her arms feel like lead and her eyelids block half of his face, of Viv’s as well. The D.A.’s voice is confident, comforting, but even her reassurance of “She’s being treated” can’t settle the shake of Vaughn’s chin or keep his hands from covering his head as though if he moves them, fire will shoot from his scalp. Mollie frowns, worried, when Vaughn falls to his knees, hands interrupting the EMTs, moving over her arms, up to her shoulders. “Mollie, God. I’m so sorry.”

  “Sir, you’re going to have to back away from her. We need to put her on the stretcher.”

  “I’m not going anywhere—”

  “Vaughn, come on now, let them do their job,” Viv says to him, nudging him back. But Vaughn can’t seem to move more than a foot away from Mollie; not when the medics shift her onto a stretcher, not when a large police officer pushes against Vaughn’s chest as Mollie is rolled toward the ambulance.

  “Mollie, I’m sorry. I couldn’t… she tased me. I couldn’t get here and, oh God, shit…” Those rough fingers, the slight blisters that she loves to feel on her skin, inside her, filling her body, settlin
g the vibrations in her heart, move over her face as Vaughn slips around the cop trying to restrain him. Before she is lifted into the backdoors of the ambulance, Mollie hears the cracks in Vaughn’s voice, defeated, scared. “I should have stayed. I’m sorry, Mollie. I should have been there…”

  And then all Mollie hears is the slam of the doors and the high pitched sirens screaming in the night. She thinks she hears Vaughn’s voice, breaking between the noise of the siren. She thinks she hears “I’m sorry” and “failure,” but the heavy haze of medicine, the sharp pierce of a needle pricks her skin and there is nothing but the numb of pain and the silent darkness.

  SEVENTEEN

  When Layla’s nervous, she babbles. Well, Mollie thinks, she is always babbling about something, usually how much she hates Donovan, but today the babbles are reaching epic levels. It may well have to do with the green tint in her hair.

  “So I told Daddy if he didn’t kick him off the squad I was moving out and he would never see me or Honey again.”

  Next to Layla, Sayo’s giggle is a welcome, melodic sound that Mollie is happy to hear. “And what did he say?” Mollie can’t make out what her best friend says—she suspects it was something vaguely similar to ‘grouchy old bastard’ but when Sayo asks her to speak up, Layla exhales, finishing that off with a groan.

  “He said he’d be happy to be rid of the dog, that asshole, but that Donovan stays and then, um, he offered to help me pack. It’s not funny,” she tells Sayo, slapping their friend on her leg.

  Mollie’s eye is swollen again. This time, it’s the left and the purple and greenish tint, matches the nearly healed right eye. She is tired of hospitals, but Sayo and Layla’s presence here makes the too quiet, harsh chemical cleanness more tolerable.

  Her best friend comes to her bed, helps her reach the plastic cup of water. Even the cold liquid on her throat burns. That bitch had choked her, returned the throat punch Mollie gave her and she had barely noticed. “Thanks,” she tells Layla when she replaces the cup on the table next to the bed. Mollie tugs on Layla’s ponytail and then lets her hair fall. “Do I even want to know?”