Rhapsody (The Teplo Trilogy #2) (23 page)

He had to keep it together.

Christ, he had to keep it together.

"S-she m-made m-m-me g-go with M-Malachi. T-t-they t-t-t-old me th-they…h-had you." Lillian was crying so hard she couldn't even fucking talk.

He understood the gist of it though.

"I'm fine, beautiful. I'm right here," he promised, fury roiling through him. He fought hard to beat it back, to focus on her instead of the motherfucker lying on the ground three feet away. The one who'd tried to take her. If he thought about that…. His hand twitched against her back, the desire to grab his gun flaring hard.

Another shudder went through her.

He rocked her back and forth, murmuring nonsense to her, to him…he didn't know who he meant to console. Jesus fucking Christ, they'd tried to kidnap her.
Would
have kidnapped her had Vetrov not waltzed into
Teplo
and scared the shit out of all of them. He'd never been grateful to a drug dealing murderer before, but right then, some little piece of him found a little gratitude for Anton Vetrov. Enough to keep him from picking up his gun and blowing Malachi's head off.

"What happened?" he demanded, tucking her head into his shoulder.

"A redhead marched her out here at gunpoint. I don't know what they planned to do with her, but Malachi dragged her off. The redhead went back inside." Kincaid paused. "Dodd went in to find her."

Tristan avoided looking at the man lying face down beside him, out cold. That motherfucker had touched Lillian, tried to take her away from him. Rage boiled through him, hot and fast.

Maybe he didn't feel much gratitude to Vetrov, after all.

He closed his eyes and buried his face in Lillian's hair again, clutching her tighter. If he looked at the son of a bitch, not a fucking thing would stop him from grabbing his gun and blowing him away.

Lillian was his, goddammit.
His.

"Tristan," she whimpered into his throat.

"I've got you, baby. You're safe now." The feel of her in his arms and the truth of that statement were the only things holding him together. He took a deep, shuddering breath, his mind racing. She was safe. He hadn't lost her.

He hadn't cried since his parents' funeral, but right then, he wanted to.

"Kincaid," Jason barked into the radio as he raced toward his SUV a block over, his keys in his hand.

"Yo?" Kincaid said, and then, "Goddamn! My hand is killing me. Behemoth motherfucking–"

"I want Tristan and Lillian out of there now," Jason interrupted his tirade. Kincaid's hand could wait. Getting Tristan out of there couldn't. Fucking hell, this was a mess. Tonight was supposed to be a simple information gathering operation. Instead, Lillian had damn near been kidnapped. At least they had Malachi in custody, or would if they got Tristan away from the guard before he snapped.

There was no way Tristan would calmly walk away from this, and Jason couldn't let him kill the bastard, as much as he wanted to do exactly that. The son of a bitch deserved whatever Tristan dished out for touching his girl. But they had too much else to consider for him to allow that.

Being reasonable was a friggin' joke.

Had it been Zoë spirited out the back door, no power in heaven or hell would have stopped him from killing the bastard responsible. He would have torn
Teplo
down around Vetrov to get to Malachi and anyone else involved. But he had to keep Tristan from doing exactly what he wanted to do himself.

Fucking. Hell.

"Tell him to take her to the penthouse," he demanded, running full out across Lillian's backyard to the street beyond, trying to get to the Rover so they could get Malachi out of there before Vetrov and his people realized the bastard had failed. "John will meet him there to take a look at her. McGregor, Alvarez, and Dodd are still inside."

Kincaid muttered something unintelligible and then brief snatches of conversation came through the headset. "Dude, don't make me…. The redhead is still…. Yeah, well…."

Tristan clearly wasn't cooperating.

Of course not.

"Tell him either he takes her or someone else is taking her," Jason snapped, knowing full well that threat would stop whatever objections Tristan had. There was no way he would willingly let Lillian out of his sight again any time soon. "Either way, she's leaving immediately."

They needed to get her out of there before every other guard in the place realized Malachi had royally screwed up, or, worse, realized an entire team of DEA agents had amassed on the premises. He doubted they were aware of that fact yet. Only a complete idiot would have attempted to grab her had they been forearmed with that knowledge.

Didn't make the situation any better though.

How long had they been waiting to grab Lillian?

Since they'd murdered Emma Buford? Longer?

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.