he'd agreed to stay away. Little by little, that decision drove him insane.
He wanted to see her. No, he needed to see her.
He'd read her file, scoured the Seattle Times archives for more information on her past. What he'd learned sickened him. Marc Rivera had ruined her life for no fucking reason, and the press had shredded her for it. He'd gotten high and almost killed her, but they'd blamed her. And Tristan had accused her of deserving that.
The need to apologize continued to plague him, but even if he could have done so, he didn't even know where to find her. She hadn't returned to her house in eight days.
His lungs hurt.
His heart raced.
Physical exhaustion didn't ease the restless burn inside his skin.
With a sigh, he tossed the weapon aside, grabbed the remote, and then shut off the music. The noise wasn't helping him focus. He felt as caged as a lion behind iron bars and thick chains. Duty and responsibility were heavy weights resting on his sweaty shoulders.
He'd had about enough of both.
"About time," Jason panted from across the room.
Tristan grunted and grabbed his towel from the sofa he'd pushed out of his way and wiped sweat from his face.
"I'm too old for this shit." A chair creaked as Jason lowered himself into it, his own nunchaku falling to the floor beside him. Paper rustled as he shoved it around on the dining room table.
Tristan tossed the towel aside and headed toward the fridge, forcing himself to push thoughts of Lillian from his mind and focus. "The blueprints are wrong."
"You're sure there's a basement?" Jason asked, sweat dripping down his face.
"Yes," Tristan said, tossing him a bottle of water. "The GPR came back cold, barely even registered a crack in the subsurface, but that's a lot of concrete to penetrate. The building is old, so it may be lined or reinforced with lead. Hell, Anton may have had it reinforced himself. He wouldn't want to risk the bass from the club vibrating something off a table."
With the chemicals the bastard needed to run his little drug lab, a spill would be a disaster. The entire club could blow if the wrong shit mixed. Anton and Paulo were a lot of things, but as Tristan had learned over the last few weeks, they were far from stupid.
Jason took a swig of water then set it aside to massage the back of his neck. "You've got to get in there. Right now, we can't even prove the fucking basement exists."
"Yeah, I know." Tristan shook his head and grabbed a bottle of water for himself. "Is Kincaid checking out the Planning Office?"
Jason nodded. "Not sure how much good it'll do though. Anton Vetrov's owned the building for fifteen years. If he did swap out plans, there's no telling who he paid to do it or when."
Yeah, Tristan knew that, too.
"Show me where the storage rooms are laid out again," Jason demanded, leaning over the table to unroll the set of plans. He set his water bottle on one end and kept his hand on the other to hold it in place.
"Here." Tristan tapped the west wall on the document. He took a swig of his water, waiting for Jason to mark the location before he tapped the blueprints further down on the same wall. "This is the actual storage room in the corner here. Nothing in there but brooms, mops, and extra stock."
"No additional entrances or exits?" Jason asked, scrawling a note over the vertical X he made on the plans.
"Nope. Shelves are built right into the walls," Tristan said. "And it's not wide enough here for stairs." He pointed at the space where the bar was located. "Unless they're using a manhole, there's no way the entrance is hidden in there." Both he and Jason knew the Vetrov operation required more than a manhole to bring in chemicals and equipment and carry out the finished product.
"Bathrooms and lounge?" Jason asked.
Tristan pointed them out while Jason labeled them in his heavy scrawl.
"Aside from an emergency exit here," Tristan said as he pointed it out at the end of the hallway near the bathrooms, "there's not a damn
He wanted to see her. No, he needed to see her.
He'd read her file, scoured the Seattle Times archives for more information on her past. What he'd learned sickened him. Marc Rivera had ruined her life for no fucking reason, and the press had shredded her for it. He'd gotten high and almost killed her, but they'd blamed her. And Tristan had accused her of deserving that.
The need to apologize continued to plague him, but even if he could have done so, he didn't even know where to find her. She hadn't returned to her house in eight days.
His lungs hurt.
His heart raced.
Physical exhaustion didn't ease the restless burn inside his skin.
With a sigh, he tossed the weapon aside, grabbed the remote, and then shut off the music. The noise wasn't helping him focus. He felt as caged as a lion behind iron bars and thick chains. Duty and responsibility were heavy weights resting on his sweaty shoulders.
He'd had about enough of both.
"About time," Jason panted from across the room.
Tristan grunted and grabbed his towel from the sofa he'd pushed out of his way and wiped sweat from his face.
"I'm too old for this shit." A chair creaked as Jason lowered himself into it, his own nunchaku falling to the floor beside him. Paper rustled as he shoved it around on the dining room table.
Tristan tossed the towel aside and headed toward the fridge, forcing himself to push thoughts of Lillian from his mind and focus. "The blueprints are wrong."
"You're sure there's a basement?" Jason asked, sweat dripping down his face.
"Yes," Tristan said, tossing him a bottle of water. "The GPR came back cold, barely even registered a crack in the subsurface, but that's a lot of concrete to penetrate. The building is old, so it may be lined or reinforced with lead. Hell, Anton may have had it reinforced himself. He wouldn't want to risk the bass from the club vibrating something off a table."
With the chemicals the bastard needed to run his little drug lab, a spill would be a disaster. The entire club could blow if the wrong shit mixed. Anton and Paulo were a lot of things, but as Tristan had learned over the last few weeks, they were far from stupid.
Jason took a swig of water then set it aside to massage the back of his neck. "You've got to get in there. Right now, we can't even prove the fucking basement exists."
"Yeah, I know." Tristan shook his head and grabbed a bottle of water for himself. "Is Kincaid checking out the Planning Office?"
Jason nodded. "Not sure how much good it'll do though. Anton Vetrov's owned the building for fifteen years. If he did swap out plans, there's no telling who he paid to do it or when."
Yeah, Tristan knew that, too.
"Show me where the storage rooms are laid out again," Jason demanded, leaning over the table to unroll the set of plans. He set his water bottle on one end and kept his hand on the other to hold it in place.
"Here." Tristan tapped the west wall on the document. He took a swig of his water, waiting for Jason to mark the location before he tapped the blueprints further down on the same wall. "This is the actual storage room in the corner here. Nothing in there but brooms, mops, and extra stock."
"No additional entrances or exits?" Jason asked, scrawling a note over the vertical X he made on the plans.
"Nope. Shelves are built right into the walls," Tristan said. "And it's not wide enough here for stairs." He pointed at the space where the bar was located. "Unless they're using a manhole, there's no way the entrance is hidden in there." Both he and Jason knew the Vetrov operation required more than a manhole to bring in chemicals and equipment and carry out the finished product.
"Bathrooms and lounge?" Jason asked.
Tristan pointed them out while Jason labeled them in his heavy scrawl.
"Aside from an emergency exit here," Tristan said as he pointed it out at the end of the hallway near the bathrooms, "there's not a damn
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