Say You Will (Trust & Tequila Book 3)

38. Henry

thirty-eight

Franki leans against the SUV, her right hand hidden under black fleece, but on her gun. A goose egg has risen on her temple, and her cheekbone is swollen. The lurid pink will eventually blossom into a purple bruise and a spectacular black eye.

She turns her head toward me when I speak and nearly collapses against the SUV, relief flaring in her eyes.

I have my Glock trained on Guinevere. Dante came around the other side at an angle and has his weapon trained on the bodyguard. I trust Spencer to handle the unarmed man he’s got a taser directed at.

I’d nearly squeezed the trigger and dropped all three of them before they’d realized Dante and I were here.

I hesitated because of the trauma it would cause Franki. Then the guard had spoken, and, reluctantly, I decided to give them the opportunity to redeem themselves.

A month ago, the question of whether I simply killed Guinevere, the guard, and the driver wouldn’t have been an issue. I’d have evaluated the situation dispassionately and made a choice.

Now, my emotions are front and center. And they’re exactly the problem I knew they’d be. If I open fire so close to Franki, let alone on people she knows, she’ll never recover completely from the trauma.

I’ll do whatever it takes to keep her alive, no matter what that is, but if there’s a possibility of getting this situation under control without further violence, I have to try. I promised her I’d be that man.

Franki’s heart is in her eyes as she looks at me. She won’t blame me. She’ll believe anything I do is because it’s necessary, not because rage pumps through my veins demanding I destroy anyone who has ever hurt her. She believes I’m a hero.

Other men make choices based on whether they can stand to look in the mirror afterward. I’ve never cared what I see in the mirror. I’ve spent most of my life making choices based on whether I could look Franki in the eyes and deserve her trust.

Emotions right now are the worst kind of liability. I reach for the numbness. I need to do nothing but think in this moment, not feel. Emotional novocaine serves a purpose. Where there used to be ice, molten lava flows in my veins.

The war inside me rages on, but I give no hint of it on the outside. My hand is steady as a rock, my voice frigid. “Guinevere, gun on the ground. All of you put your hands behind your heads. Now. You’re surrounded.”

Guinevere drops the gun, and she and the two men lift their hands.

“Franki, come over here.” I’m not certain she can walk, given that she hasn’t stopped leaning against the car, but she’ll tell me if she can’t.

As Franki straightens and steps forward, Guinevere dives at her and grabs Franki by the right arm, attempting to drag her into the car. Franki cries out, but she doesn’t hesitate. Just as we practiced, she twists until Guinevere’s arm is behind her back, and the actress is bent forward at the waist.

Immediately, she grasps her mother by the back of her head with her left hand and slams the woman’s face downward as she brings her knee up, nailing her in the nose.

Guinevere screams and falls to her ass on the gravel, both of her hands covering the damage as blood gushes through her fingers. “My face.”

Franki runs in an awkward limping jog toward me. Oliver fights his way out of Spencer’s arms in an attempt to get to Franki as Dante descends on Guinevere, flex-cuffs at the ready.

“I’ll deal with her. You take the men,” I say.

As I pull Guinevere’s arms behind her back and apply a set of restraints, one of the men yells something.

At first, his words don’t make sense. I keep hearing the word “bank” until finally he strings his thoughts together in coherent sentences.

“Listen to me . . .” The man Spencer is securing with his own set of cuffs speaks desperately. Attempting to explain. “ . . . It wasn’t supposed to go like this. It’s loaded with blanks. We wouldn’t have shot anyone. It was a threat. To scare her. That’s all. No bullets. Only blanks.”

When the meaning of his words penetrates, I glance back at the man talking. “You have no idea how close you came to getting all of you killed.”

He blanches.

Franki rests on the grass and clutches Oliver against her chest with her left arm while Guinevere shrieks at her.

“My face will never look the same. How could you be so horrible?”

Franki ignores her, and the lack of response enrages Guinevere further. “Look at me when I’m talking to you!”

I secure the flex-cuffs on the woman’s wrists. “You’re right that a cosmetic surgeon will never manage a perfect match for your old nose, but you can stop worrying about your career. You’re going to a federal penitentiary. Your nose wouldn’t have lasted past your first fight over a bar of soap, anyway.” I use an obnoxiously reassuring tone.

“No one will convict me of anything. They’ll put me on the stand, and I’ll tell them it was all David.” Her expression softens. “We were trying to save her from her toxic boyfriend. I was protecting her. I didn’t have a clue how far he’d go.”

“I’m the reason we didn’t bring bullets, and this isn’t going to be an attempted murder charge,” David says bitterly. “You’re the one who made me keep going on the interstate when a couple of shots fired would have gotten the point across. I’m not taking the fall for this myself.”

I secure her from her upper arms to her ankles, and connect the cuffs behind her back, speaking too quietly for the mics on the cameras to pick up and presenting my back. “Part of me likes the idea of murdering you, but an even bigger part is going to enjoy every moment of what’s about to happen to you next. When you’re taken to trial, and the world watches and listens to the video feed from the cameras recording every second of this scene, and when the evidence of every crime you’ve committed against your daughter is presented in court, you’re going to rot in prison for a very long time. Franki and I are going to have a beautiful life. On the rare occasions we do think of you, it’ll be with pity and disgust. You’re about to become the one thing worse than dead for someone like you.”

I move my mouth into a close-lipped smile. “You’ll be irrelevant.”

I lean closer. “But you should know. If you and your accomplices aren’t suffering adequately, I’ll make certain to rectify that. There’s nowhere I can’t get to you. You’ll beg me to kill you.”

I leave Guinevere behind and walk to crouch beside Franki as she cradles Oliver to her.

Oliver whines, leaning toward me, and I lift him against me, where he lays his head on my shoulder. I rub his back, one arm tight around Franki’s waist as she hides her face in my chest, the other holding him against me.

“Good dog, Oliver,” I say. “Good fucking dog.”

With Guinevere’s accomplices secure, Dante stomps over to Spencer.

“What the hell were you thinking? You knew we were almost here,” he says, voice hoarse.

“I couldn’t let them take Franki or the dog.”

“You didn’t know there weren’t bullets in that gun. She could have shot you. He hit you.”

Spencer lifts a hand to his swollen jaw. “You would have done the same.”

Dante leans into Spencer, his forehead resting against the other man’s. “You scared the shit out of me.”

Spencer closes his eyes and admits, “I was quite terrified myself.”

Dante mutters, “What am I going to do with you?”

“You’re going to kiss me,” Spencer says.

Dante huffs. “Finally.”

With my arm around Franki, I lift her to stand and lead her toward the cabin. I’m a nosy bastard, but even I can appreciate that the two of them deserve some privacy. “Let’s get some ice on that cheek of yours and let me get a look at you.”

Franki pulls away from me, and I tighten my grip briefly, before releasing her and setting Oliver on the ground. If she needs space, I’ll give her sp—

She staggers two wobbly steps and loses the contents of her stomach. I rush to catch her, my gaze raking over her. I haven’t assessed her injuries, yet. I knew she was limping and had the bruise on her face, but she hasn’t said anything.

I resist the temptation to sweep her into my arms as she lists against me. Instead, I assist her to lie on a clear section of grass. Franki’s skin is pale and waxy, her normally tan complexion ashy. Perspiration beads on her forehead, and she appears to be having trouble focusing her eyes.

All the dire things that could be happening inside her flood through me in near panic. What happened before I arrived? Is she bleeding internally? Fractured skull? Shock? Has she been dying as she stood beside me and didn’t say a word?

“How’s the air situation? Any trouble breathing?” Her pulse is rapid and thready beneath my fingertips.

“No.”

“Excellent. Follow my finger with your eyes. There you go,” I say gently.

Her tracking isn’t good, and her pupils are uneven. “Not trying to be a buzzkill, gentlemen. But I could use a hand,” I snap, some of my panic breaking past the calm demeanor I’m presenting for Franki’s sake.

Franki whimpers as I prod her head, seeking injuries beyond what I find on her face.

“Can you tell me where it hurts?”

She seems to shore up her energy before she speaks. “Everywhere. But I’m pretty sure I broke my arm.”

Spencer arrives and stands at my left. “Dante is bringing the first aid kit.”

“Take Oliver inside and put him in our bedroom. Stay with him a few minutes. Give him his treats. Confirm an ETA on our backup. We’re not waiting on them to get Franki to medical care.”

Spencer goes, taking one anxious wiener dog with him.

Dante drops a first aid kit on the grass beside me, opens it, and gets to work cleaning the scrapes on her face.

I reach for the scissors to cut back the sleeve on her right arm. The one I’d have noticed she’s been favoring if I’d been thinking clearly.

As I cut, Franki fights back a scream through gritted teeth, though I do my best not to jostle her. When I reveal her forearm and wrist, I look up to meet Dante’s eyes, then back down at the swollen, discolored, misshapen mess of her arm. Her hand hangs at an odd angle. A buzzing turmoil inside me threatens to crack my self-control, but I speak dispassionately. “Concussion. Likely fractured cheekbone, fractured distal radius and ulna.”

This was the same arm her mother had yanked on. The pain would have put most men on their knees, but she’d fought through it and kept going.

“Who knew you were such a badass, Franki?” Dante cleans the cut on her cheek and presses an ice pack to her face.

“Henry did,” she says.

She’s right that I’m not surprised by her strength. “Any other broken bones we need to look at? Or are you keeping all the good stuff to yourself?” I ask, deliberately casual.

She speaks through her teeth, her face contorted in pain. “Might have a dislocated shoulder. Sacroiliac joint is out of place.”

Only the fact that Franki needs me prevents me from returning to the people currently in restraints and enacting torture. They should suffer as she suffers.

I’m no stranger to delivering pain, but the knowledge that I’m going to have to hurt Franki to help her has nausea rising. I could hustle her straight to the helipad, but if I don’t stabilize her first, everything will be worse in the long run.

“I need to splint these fractures now. Then we’ll get you in the air.”

She gives a tight nod.

“I’m resetting the bones. It’s going to hurt. Feel free to call me terrible names.”

“Gaah!” An incoherent cry rips out of her as I realign the bones in her arm, then secure a splint.

When it’s done, she pants, and I press my cheek to her uninjured one. “I’m sorry.”

Her breathing slows. “I’m okay.”

I tug her sacroiliac joint back into alignment, then straighten and watch her face carefully. “The longer we wait to realign your shoulder, the worse the swelling becomes, but if you’d prefer to wait for a more controlled environment, it’s your call.”

“Do it now.”

I knew she’d say that. She’s not avoiding my eyes or looking around her in fear. I haven’t broken her trust. She screams when I complete the process, then closes her eyes, tears squeezing beneath her lids. I ease her against me. “Shhh. Breathe, love. It’s over. I promise. It’s over.”

“Thank you.”

I press my mouth against her temple, holding her to me. “I really want to kill them.”

“But you won’t. And that’s what matters.”

“Acting like the ‘good guy’ is unspeakably tedious. I don’t like it.”

The sound she makes is weak and quiet, but, somehow, she manages to laugh. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”