“Damn right. You got your boys captured,” Max growled.
“That’s what they think.” Ryan knew without a doubt that unless they’d knocked Trace and Clay out or bound them from head to toe, they weren’t going to contain them. And for whatever reason, Thurston hadn’t yet restrained Ryan or Max completely—probably figuring that taking their weapons was sufficient—so he presumed the guy thought he had the situation handled.
He should’ve never underestimated Ryan’s team.
The messenger disappeared, and Ryan continued to watch Thurston pacing the floor and apparently waiting for an update. He doubted one would come quickly, but Ryan had been surprised more than once today, so he wasn’t going to get cocky yet.
Minutes ticked by, and his earpiece was silent, which he hoped meant his team was devising a plan or, better yet, already out the door with Amit in tow. The end goal was to get Amit, round up the team, and then get out of the house without any casualties. With Max Adorite there, Ryan was a little concerned about the latter, but he didn’t figure saying anything would matter. Max would do what Max wanted to do, regardless.
“Four men disengaged,” Z’s voice sounded in his ear.
“Three out here,” Courtney added.
“I counted twelve,” Clay noted.
“We’ve got two standing guard outside the room up here,” Trace volunteered.
“Two more keeping an eye on RT,” Z said.
If Z could see the two guards standing outside the room, that meant he was close.
Ryan peered over at his gun, which Thurston had relieved him of but hadn’t bothered to take out of the room. The guy truly was an amateur at this, but Ryan figured he felt secure with the team he’d acquired to come in and take over the situation. The guy should really be more careful.
“Where’s the woman with the painting?” Thurston yelled out into the hallway, his eyes still pinned on Ryan and Max.
“I’ll check,” one of the remaining guards said.
A scuffle ensued, a shout, and then nothing. Ryan couldn’t see a damn thing outside the room. Rather than sit around, he decided to put an end to this bullshit once and for all.
Getting to his feet and dragging the chair with him—though it was much heavier than he’d anticipated—he advanced on Thurston, but the man turned quickly, a look of panic on his face as he realized Ryan was coming toward him.
Unfortunately, Ryan hadn’t thought things all the way through, didn’t consider the fact that Thurston was merely a businessman with more money than sense, and the Walther P99 he was wielding did not have a safety.
“Sit down!” Thurston yelled, the gun trembling in his hand.
“Don’t move,” Z commanded, his tone harder than Ryan had ever heard it.
“I’ll shoot him,” Thurston argued, glancing over at Z.
“That’d be stupid,” Z told him. “We didn’t come here to hurt you. We came to get the kid.”
“Where’s my painting?”
“Face it,” Max injected. “You aren’t gettin’ the painting. And if you wanna walk away from this without bein’ dead, I suggest you put the gun down.”
Two more people walked into the room, both of whom Ryan had seen at Max’s house. Backup.
Z took a step toward Thurston.
“Don’t come any closer. I want my goddamn painting. That little asshole stole my money.”
“You’ll get your money back,” Ryan ensured him.
“I want the painting.”
Of course he did. No way would this snotty bastard make this easy on them. It should’ve been a simple plan, come in, get Amit, leave without Thurston being any wiser. Instead, they were engaged in a standoff in the middle of the atrociously decorated living room.
“Put the gun down,” Z instructed. “The cops are on the way.”
Ryan wasn’t sure that was the truth, but he decided to keep his mouth shut. With Max there, he doubted they’d engaged the police, but again, Ryan wouldn’t be surprised at anything at this point.
Okay, maybe he spoke a little too soon.
With his eyes locked on Thurston, Ryan realized the instant things went to shit. The world seemed to explode around him. One minute they were all standing there, trying to defuse the situation calmly, the next…
A gunshot rang out, and fire burned through Ryan’s left arm. Instinct had him grabbing for the wound instantly, but he was pulled up short thanks to the zip tie holding him to the chair. All hell broke loose when Z scrambled deeper into the room, diving on top of Thurston and taking him to the ground at the same time Max retrieved his gun, spinning around and pointing it directly at the two jumbled bodies on the ground.
“No!” Ryan yelled. “Don’t fucking shoot him!” He was referring to Z, but he didn’t bother to clarify. Let Max think what he wanted.
For half a second, his heart had lodged in his throat thinking that Z could take a bullet. When Z’s eyes slid over to Ryan, he noted concern. “Flesh wound, Z,” he said, hoping that little white lie would suffice for the moment.
He’d forgotten that he had his mic still on, and the sound of gunshots rang out from somewhere else in the house, followed by more yelling. Minutes ticked by slowly while chaos ensued, Ryan’s heart pounding dangerously hard against his ribs as he waited for each of his team to check in. It wasn’t until everyone had been visually inspected that he gave himself over to the pain.
What he’d thought was a mere flesh wound…well, it wasn’t quite that simple.
And that was the last thing Ryan remembered before everything went black.
THIRTY-FIVE
Z PACED THE LONG, WHITE hallway, waiting for the doctor to come out. The rest of the team, along with RT’s family, Courtney, Max, and Max’s brother, Victor, as well as Jensyn and Reese, were in the waiting room, anticipating the same thing. They’d been there for three hours, and with each passing second, Z’s anxiety level was rising to the point he wondered if his heart could actually pound out through his ribs.
RT had been shot.
He could still see the image in his head, feel his heart constricting with fear as he watched the gruesome sight.
“Hey, man,” Trace said, coming to stand in front of Z, forcing him to stop pacing.
Z didn’t say anything, simply met Trace’s gaze.
“He’s gonna be fine. It was little more than a flesh wound.” Trace grinned.
Right. Flesh wound. If that were the case, RT wouldn’t be in surgery to have pins put in his elbow to repair the damaged bone. Granted, all in all, it really wasn’t that serious—normally an outpatient procedure, the doctor had assured them—but Z was still freaked. He couldn’t help it.
Z appreciated Trace’s need to reassure him, but until he could see RT for himself, hear his voice, touch him, he wasn’t going to believe it. After all, Z’s father had been conscious for a brief time after his accident, and look where he was now.
No, Z didn’t need anyone to placate him. He wouldn’t be able to relax until RT was awake and looking at him.
“Let’s get somethin’ to drink,” Trace said firmly, touching Z’s arm.
“I can’t—” He was going to say leave, but Trace lifted an eyebrow, stopping him.
“There’s a soda machine right there.” Trace pointed behind Z.
Rather than argue, he allowed Trace to lead him the few feet to the alcove that held a Coke machine and a vending machine full of junk food. While Trace put in some cash and got two bottles of water, Z continued to peer out into the hall, not wanting to miss the doctor when he came back.
Trace nodded toward a bench in the hall.
With a bottle of water pressed into his hand, Z took a seat, but his eyes continued to stray toward the waiting room.
“He really is gonna be fine, Z. And when he wakes up, you’ll be the first person he wants to see.”
Z turned to face his friend. “Why me?”
Trace smiled. “Because he loves you.”
“What the hell would make you think that?” Z could not believe they were having this conversation.