Rhapsody (The Teplo Trilogy #2) (22 page)

"Lillian!" he shouted, but she didn't answer. He spun on the group crowded around the sinks, slack-jawed and high as kites. "Brunette with a limp?"

His phone vibrated.

The woman with the needle in her arm pointed toward the bathroom door as he fished the phone out of his pocket. "I think she was in the hall when we came in."

"How long ago?" He glanced down at the phone.

Jason. Thank God.

"Umm…five minutes?" The woman glanced at the other girls, who nodded. "Yeah, like five minutes ago."

"Lillian's missing," he snarled into the phone as soon as he had it to his ear.

"She was taken out the back," Jason answered in that infuriatingly calm way of his. "By a redhead. And…." He hesitated. "Malachi. The redhead went back inside. Kincaid's going after Lillian."

Malachi had Lillian.

"Motherfucker!" Tristan yelled, already grabbing for his gun. White-hot fury roared through him as he tore the bathroom door open and lunged for the back door.

Chapter Thirteen

"You're hurting me," Lillian protested, tugging at his hold as Malachi dragged her across the field behind the club. Her bad leg throbbed beneath her, screaming at how fast she walked trying to prevent him from yanking her off her feet. Roots and holes in the ground littered the area, tripping her up. By morning, the muscles in her leg would be a mass of knotted fury. Bruises already formed on her arm from Malachi's grip. She had a feeling her side would match where the redhead had dug the gun into her ribs.

Those were the least of her concerns right then.

"Keep up," Malachi snapped, not slowing. "Christ, you're slower than the little bitch who told us about you."

The little–?

Oh, God.

He had to be talking about Emma.

Lillian tugged against his iron grip, trying to fight back the waves of panic threatening to consume her. She had no weapon, and couldn't get to her phone without him noticing. Where was Liam? He should have been stationed out here.

Why hadn't he come for her?

Had Vetrov's people rounded him up already?

What about the rest of the team? Did Vetrov's people have them, too?

Why had she ever thought leaving the gun home was a good idea?

God, she'd been so incredibly stupid! She had nothing to protect herself with now, and no idea if anyone would be able to come for her even if she did get a chance to activate the panic button. Tristan would never forgive her when he found out.

Oh, God. Tristan.

Were he and Jason okay? Had Paulo killed them already?

She wanted to believe the redhead had lied to her about having them, but she knew Tristan. All Paulo had to do was tell him that Malachi had her. As soon as those words left his lips, Tristan would do whatever Paulo wanted in an attempt to save her life.

He'd told her as much a few short days ago, hadn't he?

Getting you out of this safely is my motherfucking job, and if I have to sacrifice my life for yours, so be it.

The thought that he'd surrender without a fight hurt worse than anything Malachi could ever do to her. If something happened to Tristan because of her, she wouldn't survive. Already, her heart felt as if it were being ripped apart. She bit her lip until she tasted blood, trying to contain the sob rising in her throat. There wasn't time for her to panic or fall apart right now. She had to get to Tristan, had to fix this before something happened to him.

"What do you want from me?" she cried to Malachi, once again tugging uselessly against his hold.

"Shut the fuck up and walk," he snapped.

The fact that he didn't even acknowledge her attempts to free herself galled. She'd always been physically fit, strong. Now she scrambled along behind him, all her struggles not even making an impact. She'd never felt so small before, so useless.

"Just let go of me and I'll come with you," she pleaded.

Malachi grunted wordlessly.

Her legs tangled in a tree root.

"Oh!" she cried, surprise and pain mingling as she pitched forward.

Malachi's grip tightened, yanking her off of her feet. For several long seconds, she dangled by her arm, her feet scrabbling to touch the ground. Pain shot up her arm, into her shoulder.

"What the–"

A scream ripped from her throat as someone slammed into her and Malachi, throwing her to the ground. She landed hard on her back, her scream ending abruptly as the breath left her lungs all at once. Momentarily stunned, she laid there, not moving.

"Move, dammit!" a male voice grunted in her ear.

Michael!

She rolled, instinctively heeding the command in his voice. Chaos erupted around her as she scrabbled backwards, trying to get away.  The back of the club was little more than a thicker shadow in the night, but it loomed like a lighthouse guiding her to safety. God, who would have ever thought she'd consider any part of
Teplo
the safer alternative to anything?

Searching frantically for something to help her get to her feet, she kept moving toward the building, inch by inch, biting her lip to keep from releasing the scream building in her throat. Fear, frustration…she didn't know which she felt the most right then. Both beat at her, demanding that she move faster, but she couldn't.

She'd never felt so helpless before, not even when Marc had stood over her with hatred burning in his eyes. That night, she hadn't registered how much danger she was in until it was too late. Now, she was all too aware. She had a chance to run for it, but she couldn't even stand up.

And that was what Marc had
really
stolen from her. Not her career, but her sense of safety and independence. Simple things like being able to get to her feet without something to hold onto had become impossible. Survival things like being able to run from danger when it appeared right in front of her face hovered out of her reach. Because of him, they always would. She didn't want to hate him anymore for what he'd done, but she did. For this moment and the devastating feeling of helplessness alone, she would hate him forever.

A grunt sounded, followed by a sharp cry. Something landed beside her head with a dull thud. Shadows whipped back and forth too fast for her to even attempt to figure out what was happening. All she knew was that she and Malachi weren't alone any longer.

Michael had come for her.

A harsh curse and then another rang out.

"Don't fucking move!" Michael shouted as she continued to inch backward, praying for anything to help her get away.

"Fuck you!" Malachi growled.

"Son of a bitch," Michael panted, sounding strangled.

The sounds of fists repeatedly striking flesh assailed her, but she couldn't see well enough to tell who had the upper hand in the fight. Malachi? Michael?

Please, God, let it be Michael
, she prayed.

"Oh, you motherfucking–" Michael cut off, his breath expelling from his lips in a painful cry. Something snapped like a tree branch. Something Lillian had heard before.

A bone.

Malachi had just broken Michael's bone.

Her stomach heaved violently. She slapped a hand over her mouth, fighting back the bile clawing its way up her throat.

A heavy thud and another sharp cry followed, and then nothing but panted breaths and the furious pounding of her heart. She held still, terrified Malachi had won the struggle with Michael, despite Tristan's promise that Michael was the most dangerous person he knew.

A frightened whimper bubbled in the back of her throat.

"Little Mama? You okay?"

Oh, thank you, God!

Breath left her lungs in a dizzying rush.

"I-I'm fine," she wheezed, falling onto her back on the ground as her entire body went limp. The arm Malachi had grasped throbbed as it twisted, pulling a soft cry from her lips. She was so relieved to hear Michael's voice, she didn't even care about the pain though.

"Thank Baby Jesus," he huffed and then metal clicked. Another groan sounded, though she wasn't sure if it came from him or Malachi. "You, motherfucker," he said, panting, "Have the right to remain silent. Don't say shit. Don't do shit. We'll fuck you six ways to Sunday in a court of law if you do. And call a fucking lawyer, you asshole. If you can't afford one, we'll find you one. But I swear to God, if you move so much as a finger, I am going to shoot you."

"Ha!" A third voice sounded—slightly breathless and amused—from somewhere to Lillian's left. She cried out in fear, and then realized the voice belonged to Tori Dodd. "That was the most pathetic rendition of the Miranda Warning I've ever heard," the woman said, coming closer.

"Yeah, well," Michael responded, "the asshole broke my hand. He's knocked out anyway. I just felt a need to say it."

Tori snorted and said something about "having her." Lillian dimly registered that she was talking to someone else, another member of her team probably. How many had Vetrov's people taken out?

"She's fine," Michael said. "This big bastard's out cold. He was–"

"They have Jason and Tristan," Lillian interrupted, the thought spearing through her like a lance again.

"What?"

"There was a woman, a redhead. S-she s-s-said they have Jason and Tristan." Tears started rolling down her face, adrenaline giving way to fear. She struggled into a sitting position, crying out at the pain shooting through her arm and leg in tandem.

It hurt. Christ, it hurt like hell.

"Little Mama." Michael shuffled closer and dropped down in front of her. Even up close, he appeared as little more than a shadow. "I talked to Ames a second ago. He's fine. And I guaran-damn-tee you these bastards don't have Riley either. No fucking way."

"Y-You're sure?" Lillian said, too scared to hope. If something happened to Tristan…. A shudder wracked her body at the thought. Her teeth started chattering.

"I'm sure," he promised. "Just breathe, gorgeous. He'll be here to retrieve you any second, a'ight?"

A relieved sob broke from her throat at his promise, and then another and another. She couldn't stop them. Too much,
way too much
had happened tonight. She couldn't process any of it. Right then, she didn't want to. She wanted Tristan. Nothing would be okay until she saw him. She wouldn't really believe
he
was okay until she could look him in the eyes and see for herself. Until that happened, nothing else mattered. Not her arm. Not her leg. Not whatever Malachi had been planning to do to her.
Nothing.

"Where's the woman?" Tori asked.

"Inside," Michael answered. "She's about five-nine, redhead, wearing a tight red skirt. She had a gun on Little Mama. I don't remember seeing her mug in the file. Who the fuck is she?"

Lillian wrapped her arms around herself and tried to get herself under control while Tori and Michael talked in hushed whispers. Her teeth chattered hard and she felt chilled from the inside out. She'd been through shock before, knew what it felt like, and was far too close to a repeat.

She tried to concentrate on her breathing—in and out, in and out—like they'd taught her when she was a little girl in a pink tutu and leg warmers. Tremors still wracked her body and she couldn't seem to stop crying as she sucked in air and released it in the same pattern, trying to calm down and regain control.

"Little Mama, you okay?" Michael asked again, kneeling beside her. "Shit. You gotta breathe for me." He patted her shoulder. "C'mon, gorgeous. If you're freaking out when Riley gets here, he's going to flip his shit."

Tristan flew out the back door of the club, his heart in his throat. Terror pounded through him with every hard pump of his heart, the lump in his throat almost strangling him. Malachi had Lillian.

If the son of a bitch touched her, he wouldn't survive the night.

Fuck, what if he'd hurt her?

Someone stepped up in front of him.

Tristan ripped his gun out of the holster without hesitation.

"Shit!" Dodd's hands came up in front of her as he aimed the gun, ready to pull the trigger. "It's me, Riley."

"Where is she?" he demanded, lowering the weapon.

"She's with Kincaid. Did you see a–"

The light spilling out of the door illuminated three shadows on the ground halfway across the field. Tristan took off in that direction before she could finish the question.

"Lillian!"

He ran without thought, trying hard to believe that she was fine. That she wasn't lying on the ground bleeding. She was fine.
She was fine.
He wouldn't believe it until he had his hands on her.

"Tristan," she sobbed his name as he raced toward her, stumbling over tree roots and God only knew what else in his haste to reach her.

"Baby," he groaned, falling hard to his knees beside her.

She threw herself into his chest, sobbing his name. He tossed the gun to the side and jerked her into his arms. Her entire body shuddered as he clutched her to his hammering heart.

"You're okay, you're okay," he chanted, unsure if he was trying to reassure her or himself. Every part of him hurt. His head. His heart. He couldn't calm down. Running his hands up and down her body, he checked her over for injuries. Only when he'd done so twice without feeling blood or broken bones could he breathe. A tremor ran through him and then another, relief hitting him hard.  He buried his head in her hair, breathing deeply as his throat ached painfully. Moisture burned behind his eyes.