Player went down hard, blood pouring down his skull and face and into his eyes, making it impossible to see a target. He didn’t dare shoot, not with Zyah close. His stomach lurched, and for a moment the room went black. He hung on to consciousness through sheer will.
Where the hell was Maestro? How long did it take to get the fucking truck and a few weapons?
“Get to me,” Player called to Zyah, wiping at the blood. He couldn’t get to her. He could barely breathe through the pain in his head. He could hear running.
“What the fuck are you thinking?” a voice yelled. “He’s Torpedo Ink. You kill him, they’ll never stop coming after us. We have to get out of here. Get the bitch and let’s go.”
“Zyah, call out now, right now.” He needed to know where she was. He had the position of the other voice.
“Right here.”
She was off to his left. Close. Protecting his hurt side. Her voice was strained. She knew they were trying to take her with them, and he was down, but hell if he was out. Stretched out on the concrete floor of the garage, cradling the gun in both hands, steady as a rock, completely blind, he fired at the first voice, the one warning the others that he was Torpedo Ink. Yeah, he was, and he’d trained blindfolded over and over, weeks, months, years of training, but they didn’t know that, did they?
Someone screamed. High-pitched. Someone else grunted. Went down. “Shit. Shit. He’s hit. We’ve got to get out of here.”
He fired a second time at the second voice. Another loud grunt and a thud as a body hit the floor. The scream came again. There was the sound of dragging bodies, of running. Boots hitting the concrete. The roar of an engine. Silence.
“Don’t move, Zyah,” he whispered. His stomach lurched again. His head felt like it was coming apart. Maybe it was, but she was going to be safe before it did. “We have to clear the garage. Make certain all of them are gone and they didn’t leave any surprises behind.”
He couldn’t throw up. He couldn’t lose consciousness. Everything was black already in his mind. Blood was so thick in his eyes he couldn’t see. He wasn’t certain he could cover her adequately if they had to move position, but he doubted if any of their attackers were left behind. The purpose seemed to be kidnapping her. His Torpedo Ink brothers would be there in a few minutes; he just had to hang on. Maestro was supposed to be right behind him. How much time had passed? He had no idea. Time always slowed down in a gun battle.
“I have to check on my grandmother,” Zyah objected, but she went to her knees beside him, her hand on his head.
Her touch was gentle, trying to cup over the vicious wound, but it was very long, winding from the back of his scalp to the front. Player didn’t move, didn’t flinch. It hurt like hell, but he’d grown up in an environment where one never showed pain. Never. She pulled her blouse off and folded it into a wide band.
“Head wounds bleed profusely, Player. This one is terrible. I have to see how bad it is. I may need to call an ambulance.”
“I’m alive. Hurts like a mother. And I don’t do ambulances. Just be still for a moment. Hold your breath. Let me listen for movement. Breathing. Anything to give away an enemy.”
He took the blouse from her with a shaky hand and wiped the blood from his eyes. She was right, it was streaming. More took its place. He sent a voice text to Steele. He needed the doc, and he damn well wasn’t going to a hospital. He was counting on Maestro not being far behind him. Where the fuck was he? He was going down in another minute, and he wouldn’t be able to control the situation.
“We’re alone,” Zyah said with confidence. “The garage is small and there aren’t that many places to hide. I really have to check on my grandmother and then I’ll be right back.”
He glanced at his cell with blurred vision. The time. Shit. What seemed like forever to him had really only been a matter of minutes. The attack had lasted only three minutes, and then the men were gone. On the run. There was no waiting for his brothers to get there. Fortunately, the guns had silencers. No one had heard those little pops. Hopefully not her grandmother.
He had known all along he couldn’t stall her very long. He would have gone to check on the grandmother immediately—it had to be done. His head felt like it had already exploded, had come apart at the seams and was leaking his brains all over the place. The least movement sent his stomach lurching alarmingly. Still, there was nothing else to do—he had to cover her. There was no way he could let her go alone.
Player had extraordinary abilities thanks to his psychic talent. He could control his brain for periods of time by shifting what was happening in real time to alternates, which meant he had to take himself as far from where he was as possible and still be there to protect her. He’d never felt so sick in his life. He knew the wound was bad and it was possible he might not even make it, but he had to protect Zyah and her grandmother until Maestro showed up.
He took a deep breath and let it out. “Let’s go, then.” At least the blood was out of his eyes and he could see. He felt like a fool with a blouse wrapped around his head. The devil only knew what he looked like, but he wasn’t going to let her face whatever was in that house—good or bad—alone.
Zyah hesitated, shook her head and then turned toward the house. “You know you’re stubborn as hell.”
He couldn’t deny that charge, so he concentrated on not vomiting all over her nearly immaculate garage. She hurried, walking upright, while he had to crawl. There was no way for him to get up on his feet. After she punched the code into the door and used her thumbprint on top of the code, she glanced over her shoulder and said something very unladylike under her breath.
“What are you doing? Player?”
His name was whispered right along with a curse word. He could barely distinguish between the two, but he was concentrating on dragging himself to the door without his head falling off.
“There’s a trail of blood behind you wider than a river.” She was back, crouching down to circle his waist with her arm. “This is silly. You can’t even stand up.”
Yeah, he got that. He clenched his teeth against the nausea, praying to the fucking devil he didn’t throw up all over her. He went to his go-to place, trying to build bombs in his head, something he’d done since he was a child, to keep from losing his mind.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to stand. What do you usually do when you enter the house? The first thing, Zyah?” He rested on the stairs while he asked. He wasn’t even certain he was talking. Or making sense.
“I call out to her. Tell her I’m home.”
“Do that, then, but don’t go all the way inside. Does she answer you?”
“Yes, right away. She’s always up waiting for me no matter the time.”
“Pay attention to her voice. Does she sound the same? Under duress? Do you have a word or phrase you’ve worked out indicating one or both of you are in trouble?” He could barely think with the pounding in his skull. He had to speak through clenched teeth and hope she didn’t notice.
“That would have been a good idea. But yes, I would know if she was under duress.” She didn’t wait but stepped inside the open door and called out cheerfully. “Mama Anat, I’m back.”
“You ran late tonight.” The relief in her grandmother’s voice was evident. “I was worried, Zyah.” Anxiety made her voice tremble.
“Are you alone? Did Lizz leave already?” Deliberately, Zyah helped Player crawl into the hallway and then turned on the water at the sink in the kitchen as if she were washing her hands.
“Lizz’s granddaughter called earlier and needed a ride somewhere important. She waited as long as she could for you to get home. I told her I’d be all right. I have a sawed-off shotgun right here, sitting on my lap. She watched me load it before she left.”
“Mama Anat, that is illegal here in the States.” Zyah tried to keep the laughter out of her voice, but rel
ief clearly was making her a little giddy. “You don’t have a permit, or whatever it is you need.”
“If the cops came, I was going to shove it under the bed. I had a plan.”
Zyah kept her arm around Player, urging him forward, but he balked at moving another inch. He didn’t want to die in front of her grandmother. He could taste blood in his mouth. The edges of his mind were so dark now, he truly was afraid he was going to die before Maestro got there. Desperately, he worked on that alternate reality, trying to be meticulous about arranging his bomb, holding his brain together until he was alone and Zyah was safe.
“I don’t want to scare her, looking like this.” He couldn’t get to his feet. He was still on his hands and knees, even with her arm around his waist. “The brothers will be here soon, and they’ll deal with me.”
“Who’s that with you?” her grandmother asked, her voice sharp. Demanding.
“Zyah. Look at me. I can’t meet her looking like this.” Player was beginning to feel a little desperate. He wasn’t going to make a good impression by vomiting all over her grandmother’s floor, and that was about to happen. “Go in and let her see you. I’ll be fine right here. She needs to know you’re all right.” He poured persuasion into his voice, knowing it wasn’t right, but not caring. “Best not to say anything about all of this yet.”
“He escorted me home, Mama Anat. He rolled over the hood of my car and hit his head on the concrete.”
He was already looking around for a bathroom. He was going to be sick, and the moment she let go of him, he was going to topple over, straight to the floor. He was already on his knees, so he didn’t have that far to fall.
The door between the kitchen and garage flew open and Maestro was there, his gun tracking, centered on Zyah as he took in Player’s head and the blood-soaked blouse wrapped around his skull. There was blood all over his face and shirt and more on his shoulder and bicep. Even on his hands and knees, swaying, his vision going in and out, Player still made an effort to shove Zyah behind him.
“She’s with me, Maestro,” he bit out between his teeth. “They were after her.”
“Zyah,” Anat called out, her voice quivering. “Come to me now.”
Zyah let go of Player and rushed out of the kitchen, ignoring Maestro and his weapon. Player would have hit the floor face-first if Maestro hadn’t caught him.
“Going to get sick. Get me the hell out of here,” he managed.
Maestro indicated a door just to his left and all but carried him. Movement rocked Player’s head until he was certain his brain was going to explode into a million pieces. The image was starting to become difficult to keep at bay. His stomach lurched, thankfully disrupting the making of the bomb he had so meticulously learned as a child. He’d made them and dismantled them over and over until he could do it in his sleep.
The moment Maestro propelled him those last steps into the small bathroom, he found himself hugging the toilet and emptying the contents of his stomach repeatedly. Maestro thankfully took his gun and stood guard over him because he was incapable of guarding anything. He tried several times to indicate for his brother to check on the women and clear the house just to make certain everything was all right inside, but Maestro refused to leave him.
Within a matter of minutes, two more Torpedo Ink brothers crowded in, their broad shoulders filling the kitchen in complete silence, weapons drawn, faces grim. Savage meant business, and it showed in every deep line and the cold death in his eyes. Destroyer was with him, that same look etched into his menacing features.
“We’re clear outside and only the two women are inside. Doc is here to look after Player,” Savage assured Maestro.
Player had never been so relieved to hear anything in his life. He needed to warn them all that his brain was reacting in a confused, lethal way and everyone around him was going to be in danger. They needed to get him clear, not only of Zyah and her grandmother but of the club as well. Unexpectedly, before he could, everything went black.
* * *
Player woke to the sound of voices. He was very confused. Cold. Shivering. His head exploding with pain. He had no idea where he was. Or did he? A bedroom, definitely not his own. It hurt to breathe. To try to think.
When he dared to take a breath, he drew in combined exotic scents he recognized instantly. He knew the earth and all the various fragrances. Woods. Scents. Exotics and those closer to home. Very subtle, but definitely jasmine, a very distinctive cinnamic-honey background and a cassis- raspberry facet blending with the rich green floral mimosa he hadn’t been able to get out of his mind since he’d woken up from what he’d been so certain was a dream. Being surrounded by that scent now just threw him right back into that same uncertainty. His dancer. Zyah. Was she real? Was anything in his life real? He honestly didn’t know.
His head pounded. A jackhammer seemed to be drilling holes through his skull. He tried to surface all the way. His breath caught in his throat. He had to warn someone. Had to make certain they were going to get him away from everyone. He was dangerous when he had no control. Right then he definitely didn’t know what the hell he was doing.
“Stop fighting.”
He recognized Steele’s voice the moment he came close, but he couldn’t seem to pry his eyes open. Had they beaten the crap out of him again? Taken his skin off? Was the blood so thick his lids were sealed shut? He wanted to strike out. He didn’t know.
“Settle down, Player. I’m right here. You’re not going to hurt anyone.” Steele’s voice was reassuring. He was always calm in the middle of a crisis. “Maestro’s right here. Savage and Destroyer are outside watching the place in case the assholes come back. You need to hold still and let me take a good look inside your head and see what’s going on.”
“Can you really do that? Look inside his head? Shouldn’t you take him to a hospital and get an MRI?” A woman’s voice. He expected a child’s voice.
He was caught between the past and the present, but that had to be his dancer, Zyah, and her voice was filled with anxiety. Player couldn’t help but like that. But what the hell was she doing down in the dungeon with them? That must be why her scent was everywhere. The fuckers had gotten her in spite of his trying to stop them. Or maybe he was out of his mind again. He had to let Steele take care of everything when he was so far gone.
“You’re aware of certain psychic gifts, Zyah.” Steele’s voice was calm. Matter of fact. “I don’t need an MRI to tell me what I need to know. If I have to do surgery, I can do the surgery here, repair his brain.”
“Are you crazy?” Zyah’s voice dripped with tears. “He’s going to die. He’s bad. I’ve seen his brain. I can look into his mind. I can’t do surgery, but I can repair certain things. Even in a hospital, a brain surgeon might not be able to fix that damage. I had no idea it was that bad.”
“Zyah, leave the room if you can’t be quiet,” Steele commanded.
No one disobeyed Steele when he talked in that voice. Firm. Low. Definitely all doctor. Player felt him then, inside his head. Moving shattered pieces around. The pain was excruciating.
“Let go, Player,” Steele said.
Player tried to stay awake, to push at Steele, to tell him to take him away from all of them. He wasn’t safe. Couldn’t Steele see that? Steele only looked at his brain, not what was going on inside of it. He didn’t see the damage inside, where he was so fucked up he kept going back and forth between his childhood and present day. Between danger and safety. He didn’t know what really happened to him when illusion became reality.
Steele sighed with relief when Player succumbed to the pain of the terrible wound. Zyah gasped and moved closer as if she could bring him back.
“He’s not dead. Move around to the other side.” Sweat broke out on Steele’s forehead. He wasn’t altogether certain he could save Player. He glanced at Savage. Met his eyes. Shook his head.
He would
n’t give up. He had a gift—an extraordinary one. He’d trained from the time he was a child with the best surgeons Sorbacov could provide for him to study under. He was a prodigy. He devoured books, and once the information was in his mind, his gift took over, allowing him to use his mind to heal. It had taken years to strengthen that talent, shape it into what it was today, allowing him to do surgery, to give Player the chance to live when he wouldn’t have survived going to the hospital and undergoing brain surgery. No possible way would he have made it. Although the brain was an extraordinary thing and Player was an extraordinary man.
Steele fought for him for hours, working meticulously, healing him as he put him back together. He was aware, and a little shocked, that Zyah was right there with him, watching him, in Player’s mind, which connected to him. How she’d gotten that way already, he had no idea, but he knew, from what Player had said about her, that she was talented.
It took the better part of the night to repair the damage to Player’s brain. Steele had never attempted a surgery and healing of that magnitude before. It left him shaky and exhausted but triumphant. He was certain Player would heal very fast, especially if he continued to work on him daily.
* * *
Pain exploded through Player’s head, bringing with it images of White Rabbits and caterpillars and lobsters on cyclones. He felt sick to his stomach and didn’t want to open his eyes or move one inch in case he might vomit. He was aware of Steele close. Talking to him. Working on him. He felt warmth in his head.
“I want to take him home with me. We brought the van this time. I think we can get him down the stairs and transport him safely now. It’s been a few days. I’ve got a much more sterile environment, and I have to work on healing him, although, already, I’m seeing an improvement.” There was satisfaction in Steele’s voice.
Reckless Road Page 13
