Rhapsody (The Teplo Trilogy #2) (24 page)

"The kid managed to knock Malachi out, and called you guys in. Malachi confessed to the crime, said the only accomplice was a club-goer he'd hired to lure her outside so he could get her off the property."

"Any details on the accomplice?"

"Have your composite guy draw something up—not too accurate—and float that at the club. I want to keep them guessing on how much we know for as long as possible."

"Think it's going to make a difference?"

"I have no clue," Jason laughed bitterly. "But what else can I do? This entire situation is–"

"Fucked," Warner finished for him.

"Yeah." He pushed away from the wall. "It's fucked, and I'm not willing to let them walk away from this because he's decided to play fanatic and take the fall. I'm going to go check on Lillian and then see if I can find anything on this redhead in the system." If Mariah was even her name. Who the hell knew anymore? "I'll send over the rest of the paperwork in the morning."

"It is morning. Three in the, as a matter of fact."

"Don't remind me."

"How is she?" Tori Dodd asked as Tristan stepped out of the bedroom.

He glanced across the room, not even really looking at her or Liam sitting beside her on the sofa. He barely even registered that Jason had arrived at some point while he'd been in the bedroom with Lillian. All he could see was
her
, nasty bruises on her arm and tears running down her face.

His hands clenched into fists at his sides. He was so angry. So fucking
gutted
. He'd never felt like this, as if his entire world threatened to crumble around him. The pain was so much worse than when his parents died. Then, he hadn't understood how hard life would be with the crushing weight of guilt hanging over his head. Now he knew. And he couldn't deal with the fact that mere hours ago, he'd almost lost the one thing that had brought light into his life since it all fell apart.

That she'd been hurt because of him destroyed something inside of him. And she kept apologizing for the damn gun as if that mattered to him. Right up until the pain medication John had given her kicked in, she'd kept apologizing. He hadn't known what to do to make her drop it. He wanted to yell at her and tell her to stop. To
please
stop before she killed him. He wanted to go back in there and hold her, feel her heart beating against him until he felt rational. So many different urges tore at him, ripping him to shreds, and he couldn't deal with any of them.

Leaving her in the bedroom with Zoë to watch over her was torture, but he couldn't be in there right now. He couldn't see those bruises on her arm or hear her whimpering his name in her sleep and not lose his mind entirely.

"Malachi talked," Jason said when he didn't answer Tori's question.

Tristan spun toward him.

"Sit down."

"Fuck that." He was tired of people telling him to sit down, to calm down, to do this, to do that, or that it could have been worse. Did they honestly think he wasn't aware of how much worse it could have been? Did they honestly believe the
how much worse
wasn't running through his mind on a loop and had been since the instant he'd realized Malachi had her? "What did he say?"

"A lot of bullshit."

"Tell me."

"You don't want to know."

"Jase, don't fuck with me," he warned. "Just tell me."

Jason glared at him, and then gave in with a sharp curse. Tristan listened, getting angrier by the minute as his friend relayed Malachi's story in monotones. And then he lost it.

"Fuck," he roared, slamming his fist into the wall. The plaster crumbled. "
Fuck
!"

"Son," John came at him, his hands up as if trying to placate him. His lips were pressed into a grim line. "Don't." He reached out and grabbed Tristan's arm before he could hit the wall a second time. "You'll break your hand."

"Screw my hand." Tristan whipped his head toward his uncle. "He said he wanted to–" He couldn't say the words. Christ, he couldn't even
think
the words without parts of his soul breaking. The thought of anyone touching Lillian like that, of anyone even thinking about touching her like that…there were no words to describe the type of pain he felt right then.

He was going to kill Malachi. Today, tomorrow, five years from now. One day, he would cut the motherfucker's cock off as painfully as humanly possible and shove it down his throat. Whether Malachi had really planned to rape Lillian or not didn't matter. He would die for even
thinking
about it. Slowly. Painfully. Until he screamed for mercy. And there would be none.

"I'm going to kill him," he said, heat and promise radiating in his voice.

"That won't solve anything, son," John said.

"John's right," Jason inserted into the pregnant silence that followed. Tristan glared at his friend while John inspected the scrapes on his hand. "We need to figure out how to proceed."

"How to proceed? We arrest all of them is how we proceed, Jase."

Jason's expression blanked. "Tristan, listen to me, man."

"No!" He ripped his arm out of John hold, his fists clenching again. He already knew what Jason was going to say and screw that. "They tried to kidnap her, Jase. The redhead pulled a gun on her and let Malachi drag her off, and you want me to let it go? Fuck that!"

"With Malachi taking the blame, we can't prove anyone else on Anton's payroll was involved right now. You know we can't," Jason answered calmly.

"Bullshit," Tristan yelled. "Hannah got a fucking text message in the bathroom right before she started acting like Lillian's best friend.
After
the redhead saw Lillian alone. Don't tell me we can't get those phone records! We're the DEA, for Christ's sake!"

"That's not what I meant." Jason held his hands up.

"Then what the hell do you mean, Jase? Because I fail to see what the holdup is. Everyone knows they were in this shit together. And you're saying we pretend it didn't happen? They. Tried. To. Kidnap. Her. What part of that aren't you understanding?"

Jesus Christ, he wanted to take a swing at Jason. The only thing stopping him was John's hand on his chest.

"We don't even know who the redhead is, Tristan, let alone where to find her."

"You'll find her with Elijah!" They all knew who that sorry son of a bitch was, too.

"If we're lucky," Jason snapped. "Look, Simon is going through schematics on tunnels, sewers, and whatever else he can find for the area. Give me until Sunday and we can take them all down at once. For all of it. They messed up, Tristan. You just have to give us time to connect it all together, find that entrance, and cement the entire case."

"Right, because looking for the lab has worked
so
well for us thus far," Tristan sneered.

"Goddammit. Will you stop reacting and think for a minute? He was taking her somewhere, and he certainly didn't have a car stowed around back, which means he had a place to hide her. If the lab isn't in the club, and we aren't sure it is at this point, I'm going to guess wherever he planned to take her is where they took all of their victims. And that's the same place we've been trying to find for weeks."

If they found that entrance and could place any of the victims there—a drop of blood, a hair, a fucking fingerprint on something would be more than enough—they could take out every single one of the motherfuckers for all their crimes…the drugs, the murders. All of it. But Vetrov wouldn't wait around for the DEA to descend on them now. Malachi could make up whatever bullshit story he wanted—and god
damn
him for even thinking that shit about Lillian—but they all knew he was lying. Vetrov would have that lab cleaned out and be gone in twenty-four hours or less.

"Three days, Tristan. Give me three days," Jason said, his voice quiet but firm.

"I'll think about it," he lied.

"Do more than think about it."

"Or what, Jase? She's in there, bruised all to hell because these
twisted fucking psychos
told her they were going to kill me if she didn't walk out that door and let a serial rapist and murderer drag her away. It's my fault." He took a deep breath, trying to find a thread of calm through the furor in his mind. "And you're asking me to wait and hope they don't clean up and disappear in the meantime? That's bullshit, and you know it."

"I'm not asking you, Tristan. I'm telling you that you are not going in there yourself. You
will
wait until I tell you otherwise." Jason glared at him, his jaw clenched and his arms crossed. "If you don't, I will pull your badge. That's not a threat. I've already asked Davis to draw up the paperwork to suspend you," he said calmly, making it clear he wasn't bluffing.

Not that Tristan doubted him. This shit had become too personal for him and everyone knew it. He'd have done the same exact thing if he were in Jason's shoes. But he wasn't in Jason's shoes. And it wasn't Jason's reason for being sitting in there with vicious bruises on her body and tears staining her face. If it'd been Zoë, he knew damn well that Jason wouldn't let it ride and hope shit came together before Vetrov and his people disappeared into the sunset with the drugs.

"You do what you have to do," he finally answered. "And I'll do what I have to do. But I promise you, I'm not waiting three days, and they aren't walking away from this. I don't give a fuck if I have to kill every single one of them myself, Jase. They aren't walking away."

"Tristan, no!" Lillian cried out from behind him.

He turned to find her and Zoë standing side by side in the doorway. For a split second, he glared at her, not really seeing her there at all. All he could see was Jason's stony expression. As the naked fear stamped across her pale face finally registered through the dim haze of anger, his expression softened.

She looked so lost, so afraid. He didn't know how to fix that. All he could do was promise that Malachi, the redhead—every single one of those bastards—wouldn't have the chance to come at her once more. And they wouldn't. Not if he had anything to say about it.

He cursed—at himself, at Jason, he didn't know—and started across the room toward her, shaking off John's restraining hand. Lillian shook her head as he approached and took a step backward, away from him.

"Don't," she said, her voice a thin whisper.

"Beautiful."

"Don't," she repeated and took another step back.

He stopped advancing toward her, his chest aching when she continued backing away from him as if frightened. As soon as he stopped moving, she stopped, too. It killed him to realize she was afraid of
him
.

Zoë slipped past him, leaving him to face Lillian alone.

"Beautiful," he said a second time, not really sure what
to
say.

"No." She shook her head. "No, you can't do this."

"I can do this," he corrected. "I can and I will."

"I won't let you," she whispered, blinking rapidly as tears filled her eyes.

He wanted, desperately, to cross the remaining distance between them and pull her into his arms, but she'd told him no. That hurt more than he would have believed possible. Not that he could blame her for not wanting him to touch her. Now that she was through the shock, he wouldn't blame her even when she told him she never wanted to see him again. And soon enough, she would say those words. The bruises on her arm, her red-rimmed eyes, the tear tracks on her cheeks…every bit of her pain was his fault.

He'd promised her that he'd keep her safe; fucking
swore
to her that she wouldn't be hurt.

How could she forgive him for failing her?
Why
would she?

"It's not your choice, Lillian," he said, far more calmly than he felt. Inside, he was dying. "It's mine, and I've already made it."

"You aren't a murderer, Tristan."

He might as well be. His parents. Elizabeth James. Emma Buford. How many other innocent people had died because of his failures? How many people like Lillian had to suffer because he was a selfish prick?