Crazed: A Blood Money Novel (13 page)

He didn’t see the smoke rising a mile back down the winding road.

He didn’t see the orange glow of a fatal fire, hell on earth.

He didn’t see a goddamn thing.

Chapter Ten

Being kidnapped sucked.

First of all, he was sleeping on a dirt floor, hard-packed and exceedingly uncomfortable. Second, the lone blanket they’d given him itched like a mofo and had probably given him fleas. Third—and worst by far—the toilet was, for reals, a bucket. Like, a
bucket
bucket over there in the corner of this ratchet prison cell they’d shoved him in.

Adam could’ve dealt with all the rest of it, probably, but The Bucket crossed a line. Cruel and unusual punishment—and they wouldn’t let him have any hand sanitizer, either.

He shifted in his corner—the farthest from The Bucket, of course—shoving his shoulders deeper into the vee made where the timeworn wooden walls met. They had left him a battery-operated plastic lantern to light the forlorn space, and if he’d been Gillian, Adam would have already disassembled it and MacGyver’d some crazy-ass explosive, set it off in his captors’ faces, stolen the keys to his cuffs and escaped.

Escaped into what was the question. It smelled...hot. Humid. Slightly floral and earthy, but all that was overlaid by the scent of barn animals. His jailers spoke Spanish, but Adam wasn’t all that great with specific dialects; he guessed he was in South America, but it could just as easily have been lower Central. So even if he somehow managed to get free, it was entirely possible he’d be shot for his efforts or bitten by some stupid-ass venomous reptile in whatever country this was.

And to think, he’d been jonesing for a vacation somewhere balmy.
When it rained...

He sighed, tipping his head back to stare at the exposed rafters, dusty, cobwebbed and slowly rotting. His legs were bent, feet flat on the floor and forearms draped tiredly over his knees. They’d shot him up with something in the van, something that left his skin feeling too tight and too warm where it clung to muscle and sinew. He had lost consciousness shortly thereafter, with little clue how much time had passed while he was zonked. A day, maybe longer. He’d woken up here, already chained, his mouth dry as fucking sawdust, and since then two full days had passed.

No one had bothered to ask him any questions, or take his picture, or tell him anything at all. And Adam, scrabbling to remember everything he’d been taught about hostage situations, had only spoken to inquire after the basics.

Can I have some water?

Water had been provided.

I’m wicked hungry. What’s for dinner?

Beef jerky and a mango, apparently. Every damn time.

Where do I piss?

A finger pointing at The Bucket.

He hadn’t asked why he was taken. He hadn’t tried to negotiate or bribe. For nearly three days, he’d simply monitored the comings and goings of the various guards outside his cell, waiting for someone to do something, anything. But nothing ever happened.

Until now.

The sound of approaching footsteps, several pairs, echoed in the corridor outside his cell, vague murmurs too low for Adam’s ears breaking the anxious quiet that had descended. A shadow passed over the barred door, the scratch of a key in a padlock, and Adam decided he could at least show a modicum of interest at whatever was about to happen.

He lifted his head.

It took a moment for him to place the man who entered. In his mid-forties, his suit neatly pressed and his coiffed black hair gone gray at the temples, Pipe Marin was attractive in a silver fox sort of way. He kept his hands loosely in his trouser pockets, and was followed into the cell by the greasy jackass who’d abducted Adam in the first place. “Mr. Faraday,” Pipe said mildly, his English only lightly accented. Adam remembered reading somewhere that Pipe had attended the London School of Economics, back when his investments still carried the sweet scent of legitimacy. “You look a tad ragged around the edges.”

And now Adam knew where he was. Colombia. Freaking Colombia. “I smell like shit.” He kept his voice bland. “Literally. Like shit.”

“Yes, I’m certain this isn’t at all what you’re used to, in terms of travel accommodations. No high-thread-count bed linens, no savory continental breakfasts...”

“No modern plumbing.”

Pipe chuckled, tilting his head in curious consideration. “You haven’t asked who I am.”

“I know who you are.”

“Nor have you asked why you’re here.”

“Does it really matter?” When Pipe said nothing, Adam raised a wry brow. “I’m here because you decided I should be here. Simple as that.”

“You’ve got a mouth on you.” Shifting closer, hands still in his pockets, Pipe smiled at him, small and cold. “Perhaps I ought to tell you what I do to mouths that talk too much.”

“If you’re asking for a blow job, sorry, but you’re not my type.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” Adam smirked, wondering when his good sense was going to kick in and shut him up. “Too old.”

That seemed to startle Pipe into something resembling real laughter, and he shook his head. “I should’ve come to visit you earlier, Mr. Faraday. I had no idea you were so entertaining.”

Adam slid his hands down his thighs, not wanting to reveal the slight, shaking tension that had taken hold. “So. Would it make you feel better if I asked what the hell is going on?”

“That
is
why I’m here—to explain the situation to you.”

“Ah. So it’s a ‘situation,’ then.” His hands fisted in his lap, gaze flicking briefly to the other man hovering at Pipe’s shoulder. “What’s his deal?”

“Manuel?” Pipe rolled his shoulders and waved a negligent hand. “Never you mind. I hope he wasn’t too rough with you on the way here.”

Adam decided that no answer here was the best answer. Though, really, it was a shame to let such a perfect opportunity for sarcasm slide.

“The situation is...complicated.” Pipe shrugged in a quintessentially European manner, moving toward the lantern on the floor. Manuel stuck with him like a shadow. “Believe it or not, I don’t make a habit of kidnapping young men off the streets. You were, shall we say, a favor.”

A favor. Kidnapped as a
favor
.

What. The. Hell. “Y’know, the favors I typically do for friends involve providing a jump for a dead car battery or dropping someone off at the airport. Maybe covering the bar tab.”

“How generous of you.”

“I try.”

“Hmm. Well, I am sad to say that my favor-doing days are over.” Kneeling, Pipe toyed with the lantern, adjusting the brightness until the cell was practically bursting with too-white light. Adam squinted against the glare. “It appears that the...friend... I collected you for has neglected to uphold his side of the bargain, which means that I am now in possession of the heir to a fortune, an heir whom, frankly, I have no wish to keep.”

“Aww, c’mon, Pipe. You don’t want me? I’m hurt.”

“What can I say—you’re not my type, either.”

A shaft of light speared Adam directly in his eyes as Pipe shifted, and Adam ducked his head. He’d been sitting in the dark too long, apparently, because
fuck
, that shit sizzled on his retinas. “Don’t suppose you’d be willing to let me just walk out of here. Bygones, et cetera.”

But Pipe didn’t answer. In fact, Pipe wasn’t moving at all, his hand clasped around the lantern as his dark gaze fixed unblinkingly on Adam. “Lift your head, Mr. Faraday.”

A chill crawled over Adam’s nape. Slowly, he raised his face to the light, blinking as he tried desperately to keep his eyes from burning. His jaw clamped shut as Pipe abruptly rose and came toe-to-toe with Adam, looming over him. He wasn’t an especially big man, but what he lacked in stature, Pipe made up for in presence. And right now, that presence was trying to beat Adam into submission. “Like what you see, old man?” he managed hoarsely, trying to keep the trembling from spreading up his arms and into his torso.

Crouching next to him, Pipe grabbed Adam’s chin in a steely grip, and for the first time, Adam felt real fear. Real, nauseating, sweat-inducing fear. What
did
Pipe do to those mouths he didn’t like? What did he do to young men he snatched from American alleyways as a
favor
?

What did he plan to do to Adam?

Swallowing convulsively, Adam managed to hold Pipe’s stare, studying the minute changes in the drug lord’s expression as the silent seconds ticked by. “Well?” he prompted, then immediately wanted to kick himself.
Shut the fuck up, man!
Jesus.

“No, Mr. Faraday,” Pipe finally said, tone flat. “I can’t say as I like what I see.” Releasing his hold on Adam, he rose smoothly to his feet. He handed the lantern to Manuel without looking, his eyes never leaving Adam’s, and for some reason, Adam found that more chilling than anything else the man had yet done. “Do you have any siblings, Mr. Faraday?” He didn’t wait for Adam to answer. “Of course you do. You’re the youngest of five, I believe. Two older sisters, two older brothers.”

Adam tensed. Threats to him were one thing; threats to his family another matter entirely.

“Did you know that I once sent Gillian a car?” Pipe’s voice had become conversational, but there remained something eerily dead buried deep in the smooth consonants and rolling vowels. “I’d heard she collected them, and thought it was worth a shot. She didn’t give me a thing, of course...but she did keep the car.” Again, Pipe rolled his shoulders, but this time it was the action of a boxer before a fight, a loosening of tense muscles.

Adam braced himself. A split second later, the blow crashed into his cheekbone, the bruising immediate and aching around his eye. His head smacked hard against the wall, but he managed to remain upright, his palms flattening on the wood. The itchy, stretched feeling returned to hover just beneath his skin as he shook through the ringing in his ears.

Slowly, painfully, he looked up at Pipe, who was no longer quite so self-contained. The man’s chest heaved as though he’d run a marathon, angry color darkening his face. “I understand that you likely won’t believe me, Mr. Faraday, but I never hit people. I have men to do that for me.”

“Huh. Maybe I
am
your type, then.” Pipe’s fist caught Adam along the jaw this time, and his teeth clacked shut, blood welling from where he bit his tongue. He spat red onto the dirt floor before glaring up at Pipe once more. “A polite ‘no’ would’ve sufficed, pal.”

“I am not your pal, Adam Faraday.” Shaking out his fist, Pipe moved to the door. Manuel followed after setting the lantern on the floor. On the threshold, Pipe paused. “But have no doubt—I’ll be visiting you again before your stay here is over.”

Chapter Eleven

The chapel was unrecognizable.

He’d been stupid to expect he might come here and find a single piece of paper from four years ago somehow, miraculously, intact. As though his marriage certificate could have survived the blaze that had shelled out their wedding chapel.

The story of the chapel’s destruction and subsequent reconstruction was lovingly preserved on the unmarred white walls of the chapel’s foyer. Image after image of fire and rubble, hardworking crews, the funeral of the priest. More images still of Pipe meeting with an architect, digging the first hole for the new foundation, laying the cornerstone, being blessed by the new priest and thanked for the great generosity he’d shown this little church adjacent to his hacienda.

Before, it had been a crumbling, ancient-looking structure, overrun by greenery and attended by only a few locals for mass. That was the main reason Casey had chosen it as the site for his secret union with Ilda. Now, however, it was a picturesque monument to triumph over cartel violence, an indictment of what the Orras organization had done on this plot of land four years ago, by the proud bearing of Pipe’s colors—red and orange—on the plaque beside the front door:

Born Again on the Backs of Friends
.

From his spot in a gleaming pew, Casey studied the pristine vaulted ceiling of the sanctuary, painted perfect white as with every other flat surface in the structure, clean wood beams shaping the interior like bones, a rib cage viewed from the inside. Behind the simple altar was an image of the Virgin Mary in her typical blue robes, a pink-and-gold crown of sun and stars glowing behind her head and a chubby infant swaddled in ivory cloth cradled gently in her arms. Lit candles flickered in front of the painting and on either side of a gilded box that no doubt served some purpose. Not that Casey knew what that purpose was, but Ilda could tell him, if he asked.

Sighing, he closed his eyes against the memories. Didn’t matter that nothing looked the same; the last time he’d been inside these walls, he had made desperate love to his new wife and believed wholeheartedly that their entire future was laid out before them, ripe for the picking. The universe must have laughed as it punished him for his foolish, naive hope.

She had been right to call him selfish yesterday. Her damning words had echoed in his mind for the rest of the day and well into the night, invading his dreams and greeting him upon waking. He’d been continuously smacked upside the head by the unexpected since stepping foot on Colombian soil, but instead of thinking like the trained tactician he was—looking at the bigger picture, examining the variables to understand how they’d affect the mission—he’d focused solely on what the new knowledge meant to him and him alone.

Before Ilda, he’d never experienced possessive need over a woman, and he certainly hadn’t felt it since. She remained unique to him, and years later, the animalistic urges growled louder than ever. He wanted to stamp MINE over every inch of her body, put his name—his real name—on display for all to see. His mark, so that they’d know not to fuck with what was his.

Now that he knew about Arlo, it was a thousand times worse. He’d missed
so much
. First breath, first cry, first smile, first step. Instead, she had grown from baby to toddler to little girl in the midst of a bloody cartel war. For God’s sake, there was a man with his lips sewn shut short yards from the house in which she slept every night. Everything in Casey screamed at the wrongness of this, all of this.

To the depths of his bones, he knew that Ilda and Arlo belonged with him, home in the United States. Watching Arlo learn and play, listening to Ilda sing...holding them both within his arms. His promise to Ilda on the day of their wedding, that he’d take her anywhere she wished to go, still stood. He could delegate some of his responsibilities in the company to his trusted seconds, Henry and Finn, and spend more time with his family. They didn’t need to live in Boston; in fact, he’d wondered more than once in recent weeks if a change of pace in Chicago might do him good, somewhere near Beth and close enough to offer Vick an assist with the new Faraday office. But he intended to let Ilda decide, just so long as they got the hell out of Colombia.

That is, if she agreed to leave with him. He couldn’t blame her for resisting. He’d failed her utterly and continued to do so at every turn. A truth that had hit him hard the night before when he had finally gotten around to viewing the satellite footage Della sent.

In the initial aftermath four years ago, Casey had pored over the rolling image feeds, watching rescue crews rush to the scene of the burning chapel, putting out the fire and sifting through the smoking rubble. Members of the Orras cartel had bombed the small church firmly within Pipe’s territory to send a message: nothing and no one was safe from Orras rage. Any and everything under the protection of the Marin cartel was at risk from its enemies. As though assassinating Théa wasn’t message enough. The structure had collapsed shortly thereafter, but most of the rescue workers had needed to wait for the building to cool before they could dig for bodies.

After twenty-ish hours of searching, they’d pulled the body of the priest who had married Casey and Ilda from the wreckage. Casey had watched another few hours beyond that, waiting with wet eyes and damp cheeks to see if they’d find her. But when the crews broke for water, with stooped shoulders and shaking heads, Casey realized there was nothing left to wait for. No one had known they were at the chapel to begin with. No one would know to look for a second body. So he’d shut off the feed and told Adam to bury it in a file on the private family-only server—and to keep his mouth shut.

Last night, though. Last night, Casey had fast-forwarded to where he’d left off four years ago and forced himself to watch for the miracle of Ilda’s rescue, a rescue he knew was coming, no matter that his fists remained clenched and bloodless for every minute.

He should never have stopped at twenty-four hours. Ilda had been trapped, fucking
entombed
, for so much longer.

A noise behind him, the sound of a door opening and closing softly. Light footsteps approached. From the corner of his eye, he watched as Ilda knelt in the aisle next to his pew to genuflect before the rustic cross hanging above the altar. A moment later, she sat beside him, slender hands clasped tightly in her lap and the faint scent of exertion clinging to her petite frame.

Silently, he handed her the water bottle he’d brought for himself, gratified in an undeniably primal way when she took it and drank deep, allowing him to see to her needs without argument.

When she finished, he broke the quiet, keeping his voice low in deference to the sanctity of this place with so many shared memories between them, good and bad. “How did you know I’d be here now?”

“I didn’t.” Her gaze was fixed on the simple red, orange and blue stained-glass window placed high on the front wall, near the rafters to shaft multicolored daylight down on the altar below. “My uncle retired last year, to a cottage a few miles away. I told Franco that Arlo and I were going to spend the afternoon with him, then put her down for a nap and left out the back. My uncle is watching her until I return.”

“You walked
miles
in this heat?” He didn’t like that.

“No, I ran.” Crossing her legs, she bounced her dangling foot, showing off a dusty running shoe. “Did you find what you wanted?”

What he wanted
. He barely controlled a wince at her words, the exhaustion in her husky voice, remembering too well her accusation. “How did your meeting at the school for the deaf go this morning?”

For the first time since arriving, Ilda looked at him, and he met her dark gaze, wondering what she saw in his face. “How do you know about that?”

He shrugged, not especially keen to admit that he’d followed her—and Pipe and Arlo—like a sad creeper from the gates of the hacienda to the school’s front door. Instead, he waited for her to answer, hoping she would give him this much. Just this tiny peek into his daughter’s life, please.
Please
.

A heavy sigh preceded her capitulation. “She’s so smart, Casí. My baby is
so
smart, but she can’t communicate.” Ilda slumped back against the pew. “Right around the time Arlo turned two, we realized she was watching our mouths, trying to see the shapes our lips made, and she would mimic the shapes, but with no sound. We worked with her to develop a system of hand gestures so she could tell us what she needed, but we’ve hit a wall. So has she.” Shoulders hiking up around her ears, Ilda shot him a sideways glance, as though worried he judged her for doing the best she could in a difficult situation.
Silly woman
. “I’m worried about her cognitive development if we can’t learn to effectively communicate. I can tell that Arlo is frustrated when I don’t understand her, because
she
knows what she wants, but sometimes all we can do is look at one another and frown.”

Weariness weighted each word, and Casey linked his fingers together to keep from reaching for her. “Three seems so young to start school.”

“The administrator told us this morning that we were
late
.” Ilda pinched the bridge of her nose. “Apparently, Arlo ought to have been learning to sign at eighteen months. Of course, this school didn’t even exist in Medellín until a year ago, but that didn’t stop this woman from basically calling me a bad mother.”

Anger choked him. “Bitch.”

“Agreed.” A smile ghosted across her lips before she sobered. “Anyway, we’ve got Arlo enrolled starting in two weeks. I’ll take classes with her in the mornings, so that we’re learning the signs together, and then she will socialize with other hearing-impaired children in the afternoons. And eventually, maybe I’ll stop feeling like I’ve completely failed my child.”

Unable to keep his distance at the obvious evidence of her hurt, Casey settled an arm around her slim shoulders and tugged her tight to his side. Ilda snuggled in with a shaky exhalation, head resting on his shoulder, and together, they sat in comfortable quiet, breathing in the cool chapel air. A temporary détente, and a welcome one. He permitted himself a moment of simply enjoying the feel of her curvy body pressed to his harder lines. He stroked the warm bare skin of her upper arm, revealed in the athletic mesh tank top she wore, momentarily shell-shocked at the privilege she was granting him, a privilege he hadn’t imagined would again be his.

He dipped his head, pressing his lips to her crown and the wild curls she’d once again constrained in a vicious braid. She tensed but said nothing, and he took that as a victory, however small. “I finally know what happened here, to you.”

“Funny, so do I.”

He swallowed his smile at her tart tone. “Four years ago, when I made it home, I had satellite footage pulled of the time the chapel was bombed.”

“You can just...do that? Pull satellite footage?”

“Perk of the job.” Really, there was no need to freak her out with exactly how deep his family could dig. “What I’m trying to say is that I only watched the first twenty-four hours after the bombing, the first time around. I thought—I assumed—you’d died.” Casey cleared his throat. “I didn’t know I’d need to watch for thirty-seven hours to witness your rescue.”

“I was in the basement.” Her voice was muffled against his chest. “There was shouting, and the priest knew I wasn’t supposed to be found here, so he had me go downstairs while he investigated. I’d barely made it to the bottom of the steps when the explosion happened. The door slammed shut, and bricks...buried me. I was unconscious for a long time. I woke up when the fire reached the basement. My shoulders were shredded.”

His arm tightened around her as he angled his head to glance at her shoulder blades. There beneath the hot-pink mesh were jagged white scars, pale against her sun-dark skin. “Oh, baby. I’m so sorry.”

It was as though she didn’t hear him. Or maybe she simply didn’t care what he said. “I prayed for life, for death. For you to come for me.”

He swallowed past the knot in his throat. “But I didn’t come,” he muttered, already hating her next words before she spoke.

“No. Pipe did. He literally dug me out of the rubble.”

Casey knew. Casey had seen. The footage showed Pipe rolling up in his SUV, a dozen brigadiers trailing behind, for what had obviously been a photo-op moment. Side-by-side with the fire chief, Pipe had walked across the wreckage, making a show of lifting and looking. Then he’d lifted and looked and found Ilda’s lone piece of luggage. Recognition had struck, and real panic spurred him. Suddenly, everyone was digging. Afternoon was fading to evening when Pipe disappeared from sight and reappeared minutes later with a limp, sooty, bleeding Ilda in his arms.

Hand to God, it was one of the most heroic feats Casey had ever witnessed, and Casey had seen some seriously heroic shit in his thirty-four years. “I will always be grateful he found you.”

“He more than found me—he didn’t leave my bedside in hospital, after. Then he brought me to the hacienda to recuperate. I had a broken collarbone and fractured femur and needed help with the most basic tasks.” Slowly, her hand crept over his middle, plucking at the heathered gray jersey of his T-shirt.

He waited, sensing her hesitation, but damn, waiting sucked. He generally bulldozed through most of his conversations these days, not tapping much into his well of patience since leaving the CIA and taking the directorial position within Faraday Industries. Ilda deserved patience, though, and understanding, care and respect, so he could keep his goddamn mouth shut long enough for her to say what she so obviously itched to say.

“I wasn’t fully healed when I realized I was pregnant, and I hurt too much to think twice about telling him. He guessed, correctly, that you were the father but never said a word in judgment. He escorted me to every appointment, took care of me when I was sick and then Arlo was born and he was
still
there. He made sure I ate, showered, slept.”

Pipe had stolen Casey’s life, his rights to the moments Ilda was describing. Ilda was
his
wife, Arlo
his
daughter. But there was that selfish narrative again, and Jesus fucking Christ it was hard to quell. “Was it...was it bad?”