Bound By Temptation (12 page)

T
he lead man
cleared the entertainment center. Lucas lined up a shot just in case the bastard turned, saw him, and opened fire. But the plan was to take the intruders down without weapon fire or bloodshed. Rio would have an easier time selling their scenario to his superiors if these bastard ended up with bruises or broken bones rather than bullet holes.

Mr. Amateur quick stepped to catch up with his partner. His hands shook as the Peacemaker wobbled through another of those stupid-stupid-stupid right to left sweeps. Only this time he misjudged the distance and the muzzle of his big-ass gun brushed the point man’s back.

Mr. Big and Burley jolted, jerking forward.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

If the bastard turned, they’d be eye to eye. Lucas’s heart skyrocketed into his throat and took off like an antelope escaping the jaws of a lion.

He focused, calmed, dropped into that all too familiar, crystal clear, Zen-like battle mindset. The point man’s thick shoulders twitched toward the left, a clear indication he was about to turn. Lucas sprang forward. He swarmed the second man—the amateur. Slamming the toe of his boot into the back of the asshole’s left knee and the butt of his MP9 against the guy’s temple. The moron should have dropped. Instead he flailed, squealing like a fucking piglet, his Colt flapping wildly.

Mentally swearing, Lucas wrapped his left arm around the scrawny neck and jerked back—hard.

The point bastard spun. Lucas tracked the movement, using his captive as a shield against the shimmering stainless steel barrel headed his way. Just before the point guy completed his turn Lucas drove his tango forward, slamming him into the big bastard’s chest, straight up against the Sig.

Boom.

The report was muffled. The acrid stink of spent gun power and gun smoke flooded him, the familiar metallic film coating the roof of his mouth.

Fuck. Which gun? Which tango had been hit…

His shield went limp. The sharp odor of urine permeated the air. The Peacemaker dropped from Mr. Amateur’s hand and hit the floor with a weak thud.

Son of a bitch. There went their no weapons strategy. Lucas lifted and shoved his captive against the point’s burley chest again, sandwiching the Sig between their bodies. Only this time the big bastard went over backwards. The point guy hit the carpet with a heavy thump, the Sig tumbling from his limp hand.

What the fuck?

Tag skidded to a stop next to the still body, kicked the Sig off to the side and bent, pressing two fingers to the still neck. After a second he straightened and drew his finger across his neck.

Dead.

No surprise considering the glistening black pool spreading beneath the limp body.

He dragged his captive away from the discarded guns and dropped him to the ground. The guy’s pulse beat hard and fast beneath his fingers. Son of a bitch, the asshole had simply fainted…after shooting his buddy.

Lucas swallowed a laugh. This was one for the record books. Their adversaries had taken each other down in less than a minute, without him or Tag firing a shot.

By the time he’d rolled his target over and zip tied his hands and feet, Russo and Hollister arrived. Hollister dumped a still, shadowy figure next to Lucas’s captive, while Russo shoved his zip tied target to the floor next to them.

“He dead?” Tag asked, nodding toward Hollister’s prisoner.

“Nah, napping.” Hollister holstered his Glock and cocked his head, staring down at the dark pool spreading across the carpet. “What the hell happened to no weapons? No blood?”

Rising to his feet, Lucas nudged the scrawny bastard at his feet with the toe of his boot. “This asshole didn’t get the memo.”

Russo stepped over, staring down at the urine soaked, passed out intruder. “He shot his own man?” At Lucas’s nod, he grunted. “That’s handy. Either of you discharge your weapons?”

Lucas and Tag shook their heads.

Tag cleared his throat, his gaze resting on the only man still conscious among the four men stretched out at their feet. “At least one of them is still capable of answering your questions.” His gaze shifted to the black puddle encircling the deceased point man. “Fuck, what a mess. How the hell are we supposed to get all this blood out of the carpet?”

Hell if he knew. With a grimace, Lucas headed for the entertainment center and his cell phone. Out on deployment they never had to worry about cleaning up the mess they made.

“Situation contained,” he said into the mouth piece of his cell phone without bothering to lower his voice.

“Sitrep?” Milly asked immediately. “We heard a shot.”

“One of our intruders was kind enough to shoot the other,” Lucas said, his voice wry.

“No fuck, that’s some—” Milly’s voice cut off, silence crackled. Suddenly, his voice surged through the mouth piece. “You got incoming. Repeat, incoming.”

Son of a bitch.

“Looks like—ah, hell. Looks like Rio.”

Rio?

“Front entrance. He’s moving fast.”

Lucas groaned beneath his breath. Addario must have realized something was in the wind and staked the condo out. Which raised the question—how in the fuck had he gone unnoticed by their guards?

“Head out. We’ve got things under control,” Lucas barked.

Rio had doubtlessly spotted the sentries already. To remain invisible, he would have to know where the look outs were positioned. Yet he hadn’t called anything in to his precinct. What the hell that indicated, Lucas wasn’t sure, but the only members of his team who’d been spotted by their intruders were Russo, Hollister, Tag and himself. The rest of his team were free and clear, as long as Rio kept his mouth shut.

A long, low bird whistle came from the entry hall.

“Living room,” Lucas called.

Swearing beneath his breath, he turned to glare at the three men hog tied on the floor. There went the interrogation he’d been looking forward to.

Russo flipped on the lights as Rio came around the corner of the entrance hall and stepped into the living room. Something flickered across his face at the sight of the men laid out on the floor, but it wasn’t surprise. Maybe irritation.

“Fuck,” Rio said, glaring at the dead point man and the bloody lake beneath him. “Did you have to kill him?”

“We didn’t touch him. His buddy here—” Lucas kicked the scrawny asshole’s boots “—lost control of his gun and took out the bastard’s heart.”

He swiped a hand over his face to hide the grin tugging at his mouth. He felt no sympathy for the bastard considering the plans he’d had for Emma. Judging from the height, bulk, and shaved head of the dead man, Lucas was almost certain he’d been driving the van Saturday morning.

Rio scanned the room, before focusing on Lucas. “None of your men fired their weapons?”

A round of head shakes greeted the question.

“The only weapon fired was this moron’s Colt Peacemaker,” Lucas said, nodding toward his bound captive. “After which he fainted.”

Another shrewd glance over the scene and Rio shrugged. “Might as well give me your story now.”

Lucas shrugged, maintaining a studious face. “Not much to tell. Holly and Russo decided to stay over, sleep off one too many beers, but we ended up bullshitting for hours. Next thing we know, someone’s trying to come through the sliding glass door and the front entrance. Russo and Hollister took the front, Tag and I the slider. They had guns, so we took them down.

“Right.” Rio fixed black eyes burning with annoyance on him. “Was this before or after Milly and Hodlen gave you a heads up? They must have spotted your visitors from their posts in the trees.”

Ah hell…

“Yeah, about that—”

“Forget it,” Rio snapped. Swearing softly, he scrubbed a hand down his face and twisted to stare at the tangos on the floor. “You recognize any of them?”

“The dead guy,” Lucas said thoughtfully. “He may have been the guy driving the van Saturday. Same build. Same hair.”

Rio raised his eyebrows. “If you’re right, it will show on the autopsy. You thought one of your rounds punched through the windshield and hit the driver.”

True enough. Although if this
was
the same guy and he
had
hit him, the wound hadn’t been bad enough to send him to the hospital—or stop him from breaking into the condo. Which explained why the bastard had been able to drive away.

“So what happened? They followed you from Emma’s place yesterday? That’s why you posted lookouts and brought in back up?” Rio asked black ice glittering in his eyes.

“There was a
chance
someone could have followed us from Emma’s house,” Lucas said evenly. “I wasn’t willing to gamble with Emma’s life, so I asked the boys to keep watch outside and let me know if they saw anything suspicious.”

Rio snorted, disbelief in the lift of his eyebrows and rounding of his eyes. “Just a chance, huh?”

Lucas folded his arms and planted his feet. “That’s right.”

Another snort, louder this time and more disbelieving—if an expulsion of air could sound disbelieving. “Do yourself a favor and don’t mention Milly or Hodlen in your statement. The rest of this fairy tale rings true, but your scouts will raise questions.”

No fuck.
Lucas relaxed.

“Where’d you stash, Emma?” Rio asked, scanning the living room as though he expected her to step through the walls.

“With Chris Quay and Racine.”

After an absent nod, Rio turned back to their captives stretched across the floor. “You find out why they’re after her?”

“Haven’t had a chance to ask.”

“You got a few minutes while I call this in. Make your questions count. This place is gonna fill up damn fast.”

Which didn’t give Lucas as much time as he’d hoped, but he’d make do. He nodded to the guy Russo had taken down. “Someone take him into the kitchen and convince him to answer our questions.”

His gaze skipped to Mr. Amateur Hour. The guy had finally come to and was twisting his neck around, trying to take everything in. He looked amazingly like that possessed girl from The Exorcist. From the sick look spreading across his face, he was about to start spewing, just like in the movie.

Shouldn’t be hard to convince this moron to spill his guts. He reached down and hauled their captive to his feet, shoving him down the hall toward the bedrooms.

“Hey, hey…I got rights.” Amateur Hour’s watery blue eyes widened until the whites showed and pure terror slackened his face. “You can’t do this…I’ve got rights.”

What the fuck did the moron think they were planning to do? Lucas exchanged puzzled glances with Tag, whose shrug was just as mystified.

“I’ll sue… I will…I got rights.” The guy flopped about like a fish on a hook.

Lucas tightened his hold and yanked their captive long. Jesus…what a fucktard.

Tag opened the door to the spare bedroom, and Lucas thrust their prisoner toward the foot of the bed. Another hard shove and the guy bounced off the mattress, landing on the floor with a shrill squeal.

While Tag hauled him up and forcibly seated him on the foot of the bed, Lucas squared his stance and crossed his arms.

“This is how this works,” Lucas said flatly. “I’m going to ask you a question and you’re going to answer it. If you refuse to answer, we’re going to hurt you.”

The moron’s face paled to the color of Lucas’s Navy’s dress whites. “You can’t touch me. I got rights. I’ll sue. I—”

“I
know a hundred techniques that hurt like hell, but won’t show on a physical exam,” Lucas broke in flatly. Although a hundred was a bit of an exaggeration. It was more like a dozen. “There will be no evidence we touched you. However, there is plenty of evidence that you broke into my
house. And when they dig the bullet out of your buddy they’ll match it to your gun. You remember your gun? The Peacemaker? The one with your finger prints all over it?”

The asshole’s mouth snapped shut, and wet wild eyes rolled to the left and right.

“Let’s start with an easy question,” Lucas said gently, no sense in freaking the bastard into another faint. “What’s your name?”

“You got no right—”

Lucas took a threatening step forward.

“William Callahan, but everyone calls me Willy.” He pushed the answer out in one long, breathless bleat.

“Good. That’s good Willy. The kind of cooperation we’re looking for.” Lucas paused, and hardened his voice. “What was the name of your point man?” From the confused look on good ol’ Willy’s face, this time his silence was caused by confusion rather than stubbornness. “The bastard you shot.”

“Oh, you mean Ned.”

“Ned who?”

“Ned Bristol.” Some of the wildness left the white rimmed eyes as their captive relaxed.

“Okay, so what were Ned and you looking for? Why break in?” Lucas asked, forcing patience into his voice, even though a silent count down had started in his head. The cops could show up any minute and when they did—there went his answers.

“Ned said your girlfriend had something that belonged to him. We were supposed to grab her, so he could get it back.” Willy turned slightly green again, as though he’d just remembered exactly what he’d done to his buddy.

“What was he trying to get back?” Lucas asked.

A knock sounded on the door.

Son of a bitch.

Willy’s eyes flew to the door, sudden hope glistening in the watery blue depths.

“You got a minute left,” Rio’s said without opening the door.

“What did Ned want back?” Lucas asked again, sharper this time.

“I don’t know. He never said. He was gonna give each of us five grand if we helped him grab the girl.”

“You were in the van Saturday?” Lucas locked down the impulse to slam his fist into the bastard’s face for hurting Emma.

“Not me. Ned brought me in after Marty died.”

Lucas scowled. Well, at least he had the name of the tango he’d killed. But the guy with all the answers would be taking them to the grave.

“So Ned was the brains behind this operation of yours?” Lucas asked slowly.

Willy nodded.

The deep, twisting tension in his gut calmed. If Ned had been the one after the couch, at least the threat against Emma had effectively been neutralized.