by Eden Butler
“Oh God. God, Vaughn.” This time, when the burn behind her eyelids returns, Mollie is helpless to keep herself from crying.
Vaughn catches her tears, wiping them away before they reach her chin, then rubs his arm against his own wet face. “I didn’t know how my dad was. I just knew he’d been shot. So I called Viv. She got a hold of me an hour later, told me he was gone too.
I didn’t re-up. I couldn’t. Hiding from my problems had only gotten people killed. So I came home, stayed with Viv, and every night, over and over again, I fail Caroline, I fail my dad in my dreams.” He pulls Mollie down to him, allows himself the warmth of her arms, the quick rhythm of her heart, of her comfort before he grabs her shoulders to make sure she can see his eyes. “I didn’t want to love you, Mollie, because I couldn’t live with failing you, too.”
“You love me?”
“Did you hear anything I said?” Mollie smiles, hoping the expression will chase away some of the darkness in Vaughn’s heart. “I told you, I’m broken.”
“Semper Fi, you’re not broken.” Mollie lets the soft touch of her fingers on his stubble transform Vaughn’s frown, shift it into stillness. “You’ve been bent, you’ve been pushed to your limits, but no one who sacrifices like you do, who wants to save, to love like you do, is broken.”
“And if I fail you?”
Mollie shakes her head. “You couldn’t fail me, Vaughn because I don’t need saving. I can save myself.” Mollie moves up on her knees so she can look down at him. “Maybe it’s time you let someone save you.”
And Vaughn’s pleased growl is intoxicating. She can barely maintain composure or hold back from flipping him onto the sofa to show him just how she’ll start saving him.
“I love you,” he says, when breath is required again. But Mollie is too high on him, on the way he feels against her, the way his lips, his hands, his skin makes every worry vanish. “I didn’t think it was possible anymore for me, but I do. I love you.”
“I lov…” The phrase is stolen from her with the wail of a car alarm. It is high pitched and squealing and they forget for a moment about confessions, about past sins when the plan that had been put into play days before finally begins to play out. Vaughn is off the sofa and at the door, gun fisted tight in his hand before Mollie registers that he has moved. “Vaughn, wait. Remember the plan. Wait for the guards.”
“If that motherfucker is out there, I’m gonna be the one to stop him. Lock the door and don’t leave this apartment.”
Vaughn knew what would happen. Jimmy was a stupid amateur. He had fallen into traps that he didn’t know had been set for him. Outside, at the far end of the parking lot, Vaughn’s Jeep blinks like a caution light—headlights screaming out danger, worry, but he is practiced in confrontation. He is trained for the element of surprise, for the attack that looms.
When he reaches his Jeep and quickly clicks off the alarm, Vaughn releases the safety from his gun, prepared for the shadows to emerge. But he did not think those footsteps would be so slight. He had not expected the quick wisp of small feet or the whipping jerk of a Taser to stick him so sharply, so surely in his ribs.
The attacker lays into him with the Taser and Vaughn is leveled, limbs shaking, vibrating like a live wire, pain shooting through him so sharply that he finds breath nearly impossible.
Then, those small footsteps leave him and black boots tap against the concrete, run into the darkness. He forces his fingers to work, to dip into his pocket and grip his cell phone, to push the icon with his sister’s face. She answers before the first ring has completed and Vaughn fights the vibration in his throat, the one that promises speech won’t be possible. He can’t speak but he can make grunting noises; sounds that his sister will recognize, telling her the plan is in motion and has taken an unexpected turn. And then he pulls himself up by the bumper of a beat up Chevy, pushing off from the rust and chipping paint toward the apartment, but the pain is too much, the shock of injury not easily eradicated with adrenaline. Vaughn falls, resting on all fours hoping he can regain his strength, hoping when he does, he isn’t too late.
Mollie is ready. At least, that’s what she tells herself. She lets her fingers relax around the 40 cal’s handle, holding it like it’s an extended limb and not a weapon. She tries to tell herself that she is the weapon. She is the key. They’d planned for this. Prepared for it, but practical versus theory has always been a weakness for Mollie. She’s been great in the classroom, debating Professor Clemens over Jung’s theory of neurosis, but failed miserably at clinicals, unable to keep her expression impassive when patients sought answers. She was convinced she’d make a wretched psychologist.
Sitting here, listening to Vaughn’s car alarm ring in the night only made her hammering heartbeat sound louder, drum harder and she feels the pinpricks of fear starting to climb up her chest.
“Stop it,” she tells herself. She is Mojo Malone’s daughter. She doesn’t have time for fear. Someone is coming. That same someone who made her home a vacant, empty hostel that she could never be comfortable in again. “Remember the anger. He took your shit, dummy.” And it works, that self-directed pep talk.
Mollie leaves the sofa and stands near the door, slipping her gaze out of the slight bend of her blinds, watching for Jimmy, for Vaughn, for the shadow to form. And then, the alarm is silenced.
There is a splintering pound against her door, the crack of the wood at the bottom that makes Mollie curse the fire that kept her Super from finishing his job. The anti-kick rod falls to the floor when another kick is attempted and she slinks back, to the alcove next to the window, gun held steady in her hand and the confident “I’m Mollie Fucking Malone” an angry whisper in her mind.
On the third kick, the door gives way and Mollie is concealed between the alcove and the busted door.
“Where is she?” she hears, instantly recognizing Emily’s voice. Mollie doesn’t need a mirror to know her own smile is looming, vicious. This stupid blonde really is thick.
“She’s here, darlin’.” Jimmy, you’re an idiot too. Says the spider to the fly. “You took out that jackass boyfriend of hers but he won’t be too far behind. Look in the back.” Mollie makes out the long, tight braid down Emily’s back between the hinges of the door and Jimmy, repeating past behavior by disturbing her furniture snoops around her living room. That alone has Mollie thinking she should shoot him. But when Jimmy overturns the brand new bookshelf Declan and Autumn bought her, spilling her comics onto the floor and walking over them with his muddy boots, her faint calm breaks and she pulls back the hammer on her 40 cal. Jimmy stops cold, straightening as though in slow motion.
He turns and that snarky smile pulls across his face when Mollie steps from behind the door. “Well, darling, got yourself a new toy?”
“Nope. This one is mine.” Jimmy’s grin is obnoxious and Mollie’s fingers itch to scratch it off his face. “Had it since I was thirteen.”
“Really, now? You couldn’t handle it before, I doubt you can now.” Mollie shoots over his head, causing him to duck and the grin momentarily disappears. The stupid smirk is back the next second. “You missed.”
“I meant to.”
“And I won’t,” Emily says, feet light, hand gripped around her gun pointed straight at Mollie’s head. The woman’s movements are graceful, cool as she sidesteps toward Mollie and jerks the 40 cal out of Mollie’s hand before she steps back. Emily’s body is rigid, confident, and Mollie cannot recognize anything of the girl she met briefly. She is a wonderful actress. Gary Oldman good.
Mollie hears no sound from outside. No alarm, no Vaughn running in the hallway, but she will not let fear consume her. She needs to stall, at least until she can slip out of this situation. Or knock this bitch over her head. “The thing is, I know why you’re here. I know you won’t kill me.”
“I don’t need to kill you.” Emily lowers the gun and doesn’t blink, doesn’t hesitate for a second before she shoots Mollie in the leg. Shock dulls her, for all of two se
conds after the bullet pierces in her muscle and she collapses to the floor. A hot, burning pain throbs in her leg. Above her, Emily smiles. “I just need you taken down.” She nods to the hallway and looks at Jimmy. “Find her phone and hurry up.”
The pain of being shot is worse than anything she’s ever felt. This is worse than the busted tooth Kristi gave her at fifteen. Worse than when her mother slapped her across the face when she asked to move in with Layla; the ice cube diamond of her ring cutting into her cheek. This is a surreal pain that sears, pounds and bites. This is what Spider felt when he came to the Compound at two a.m. and her father was too drunk to dig the bullet out of his shoulder. This is what her father had warned her about, what he hoped she would never feel when he first taught her about respecting the weapon at eleven years old.
When Emily leans over her, eyes barely glancing down at the wet, dark blood dripping from her leg, Mollie pushes down the throb, tries to reason with this girl. “I don’t know where Mojo is.”
“Like hell you don’t.” Emily is stronger than she looks. Her arms are bigger, more defined and the large veins lining her forearms tells Mollie that the girl spends time around weights. And psycho drug cartels. She grabs Mollie by the arm and drags her up, throwing her against the sofa. Mollie is too weakened by the thundering pain in her leg to put up much of a fight. “Viv is smooth, hiding all the details of the case from me, keeping her notes, her contacts with her. I had quite the time throwing Alex off my trail. That little puppy followed me everywhere.”
That’s it, dumbass. Do your evil villain monologue. Take your time. I’m sure Mrs. Varela was dialing 911 the second Jimmy kicked in the door. “So you framed him.”
“Wasn’t hard to do, but there were complications. Jimmy got antsy, attacked Viv before I could get information from her. Idiot.” A quick tug on the zip ties, presumably to make sure they are tight enough, and Emily smiles. She actually smiles as though she and Mollie are great friends. Psycho bitch. “But Alex spent every Saturday morning at that church, going to confession, talking to some old priest.” The blonde wipes the blood she’d smeared on her hand from Mollie’s wound onto the rug at their feet. “So it wasn’t hard to plant the receipts and the map. He caught on though, found out I’d called you, told you to head to the precinct.” There is a noise, but it is faint, quiet and Emily’s attention moves to the open door, to the empty hallway. She walks toward it and looks to her left before she steps back into the apartment and shuts what’s left of the front door. “That stupid Marine of yours had left a message on Viv’s voice mail confirming that she wanted you ID’ing the suspect. Alex got to the message before I could delete it. I guess he was trying to play the hero, stop you from getting out into the parking garage. It’s a good thing I check his phone and checked Viv’s. No way was I going to let some little grunt mess up a half a year of work.”
Dark spots float in front of Mollie’s vision and she knows the blood is pouring too quickly, that soon she won’t be able to fight. She closes her eyes, saying a silent prayer that she will be found soon. When Emily lingers too long around the disarray of comics on the floor, Mollie catches her attention, clearing her throat. “You were hired by the cartel.”
“Wrong again, darlin’,” she says, copying Jimmy’s inflection. “I was hired by my uncle, Vasquez. Jimmy just tagged along because I told him to.” Seeming to realize her accomplice was taking too long, Emily looks toward the hall, then sits on the recliner, moving her boots on top of the coffee table. “Hurry up, Jimmy,” she shouts. Mollie knows if she doesn’t try moving, she’s going to pass out and if she does, they’ll be able to take her anywhere, so she wiggles back, hits the sofa to readjust the circulation in her limbs. She doesn’t care that Emily watches her, that she’s likely thinking Mollie is incapable of putting up a fight now. “Your Daddy has a big mouth and the cartel isn’t going to take kindly to him spilling their secrets. Viv’s on borrowed time, but you, little Ms. Mojo, you’re a daddy’s girl. There is no way you won’t know where they stuck him.”
Mollie starts laughing and the loud, racking cackle has Emily sitting up, has the blonde’s gaze bouncing from Mollie, to the hallway and back again. “Something funny?”
Between her laughter and the labored breaths, Mollie smiles at Emily. “You’re pretty stupid if you think Viv didn’t know you were the mole.”
“She didn’t.”
“Of course she did.” Mollie rubs her knuckle into her eyes to keep the floating spots at bay. “But you’re right about one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“I am my daddy’s girl.” Pulling from that constant whisper of encouragement, the one that told her to remember herself before these idiots kicked in her door, and the last stores of strength her weakening body will allow her, Mollie leaps off the floor and right on top of Emily, both girls falling back when the recliner topples over, knocking the gun out of Emily’s hand and it slides across the floor. She manages to muscle up¸ counting on Emily’s shock to keep the woman from striking out at her, and lands a hard punch straight into the blonde’s throat. When Emily sways, trying to pull up on her elbows, Mollie lays back, angles her body to put weight on her uninjured leg.
“You bitch,” she hears behind her as Jimmy dashes toward Mollie and the flaying Emily who slips on the blood pouring from Mollie’s gunshot wound onto the floor. He manages to pull her up by her hair, yanking out several strands in the process, but before his fist can land on her face, Vaughn stumbles through the door.
The flurry of movement makes Mollie’s head swim—Jimmy and Vaughn trading blows, knuckles and jaws cracking against each other; Emily’s high rebuke as she jumps to her feet and lands a quick kick right into Mollie’s wounded leg. Stars break behind her vision as the pain barrels all over her body, twisting up her spine until Mollie’s rage bubbles, becomes a blaze of resentment, of pure enough-ness at being attacked, at being threatened by this nothing girl. When her roars sounds, Emily is shocked, held still just a second and how vicious Mollie’s voice sounds, how her adrenaline blocks out that overwhelming smart of pain and Mollie attacks, pushing Emily out into the lobby.
The women roll and gouge, arms working at odd angles, nails clawing, drawing blood and though she is barely able to control her movements, Mollie lands another strike at Emily’s face, then one at shoulder, before the blonde deflects her, slams her back and they crash into the front entrance, just feet from Mrs. Varela’ door.
Horrified, Mollie sees the old woman’s face peeking out of the crack she opened her door. “Mollie? What’s…?”
“Inside!” she screams, falling to the ground as Emily attacks her again. Mrs. Varela’ gray eyes are round, fear pulling her lids back and Mollie can only think to keep her away, out of this ridiculous situation. “Get inside!” she tells her and releases the breath she holds when she hears the hard slam of the door.
She is fading now, barely able to lift her arms, to register the damage being done inside her apartment as Vaughn and Jimmy continue their scrap. So it is easy for Emily to hit her again, for Mollie’s head to slam against the entrance, for Emily to slam her through until she is tumbling down the stone steps. Mollie isn’t sure if that sickening rack of skull on stone is from her landing on the concrete railing or from Emily jumping on top of her, missing Mollie’s face by inches when the brunette jerks her head to the side.
The blonde tries again, pulling her arm back to strike one final time, but then sirens and flashing lights disturb the dark night and Emily’s gaze shoots up, forgetting her intended attack. She must see the cruisers, the paramedics and groups of uniformed men and women running toward them, because just as suddenly as the fight began, Emily jumps up, making for the sidewalk.
“Going somewhere?” Viv says when Emily has taken three steps.
“I…” Emily looks around the building, eyes jumping toward all the activity. On the ground, Mollie can make out the paramedics gathering their equipment, she sees the troopers circling to the back of the
building and Viv, standing tall and stern in jeans and a simple cotton shirt, hands on her hips as she glares at Emily. And just like the good little actress the blonde is, she turns off her killer instincts, forgets, perhaps, that she was trying to kill Mollie in favor of digging her way out of the hole she so easily jumped into. “I saw Jimmy, followed him here.”
She’s reverted to the faux shy introvert who follows after Viv like a groupie, she is still handcuffed; even manages a small gasp as the click of the metal slides into place.
“You know,” Viv says, staring down at Emily’s innocent expression, “you had me fooled for a while. Until I realized you planted that stuff in Alex’s apartment.”
“I didn’t…”
“You did.” Another step, but Emily doesn’t retreat from her boss. “I knew why Alex was at the church. Knew he’d gone there every Saturday since he was a kid. Why the hell would he need a map of Cavanagh?”
