Crazed: A Blood Money Novel (21 page)

The only dead man tonight was going to be Pipe.

Casey honestly couldn’t say he was happy about that, either, except it was necessary, to keep Ilda and Arlo safe. Who was to say Pipe wouldn’t chase them down, as soon as he knew where to look? Or as soon as someone
told him
where to look. There was still a mole in the Faraday organization. Until that mole was dealt with, none other than this core team could know about Casey’s new, precious family.

He’d be doing the world a favor by taking out Pipe—one less drug lord for the DEA and Interpol to spend millions of dollars fighting each year. But the Faradays weren’t judge and jury, and assassinating such a prominent figure in such a public setting didn’t sit well on Casey’s conscience.

Tobias’s quiet killing of Kedrov, already a dead man in the eyes of the world at large, was one thing. There was a line in the sand that his family still had yet to cross. If Pipe died tonight at Faraday hands, that line would cease to exist, and it would be up to Casey and his siblings to find it—redraw it—when they regrouped. If such a line could even
be
redrawn.

“Let’s talk the La Jaula floor plan.” Grabbing the sketch of the club he’d done yesterday afternoon, before the supper from hell, Casey placed it in front of Vick and Chandler. “They’ll most likely be keeping Adam backstage—”

His phone rang.

Everyone around the table paused what they were doing. Those in Chicago had agreed no calls until the op was over, and those here had turned their cells off upon arrival at Our Lady, knowing there was a chance—however slight—that the snitch inside Faraday Industries could have cloned their devices and be listening in. Casey’s sat phone was the only phone in play, and the only person who could possibly be calling was Ilda.

Stomach sinking, he unplugged the mobile and answered. “Hello?”

“Casí?” Ilda’s low murmur was brittle, harsh. “Are you...are you alone?”

Casey moved to the edge of the room. “Yes. What’s wrong,
amor
?”

“Nothing. Nothing’s wrong.” A beat passed on the other end of the call. “Where are you?”

Something in her husky voice set his every nerve ending on fire. Holding up a finger to keep his people at bay, knowing those who understood Spanish were listening intently to his side of the conversation, he blew out a tense breath. “Nowhere important.” He fought to keep his sudden wariness from seeping into his tone. “Are you on your way to the charity auction?”

“No. I... I’m going to the club tonight. With Pipe. He’s asked me to sing.” She exhaled slowly. “Please tell me you’ll be there.”

“Ilda—”

“I need you to be there, Casí.” Her swallow was audible. “I need you to promise to be at the club. Manuel will let you in the front door, but you have to be there in an hour.”

Shit. Shit shit shit. Casey scrubbed a hand over his buzzed scalp before finally gripping the chain around his neck, lying beneath the collar of his T-shirt. His fist closed around the set of dog tags bearing only his blood type and an untraceable phone number...and the delicate moonstone ring he wanted to slide back on his wife’s finger at the earliest opportunity. “You know I wouldn’t miss your singing.”

Nothing but dead air. She’d hung up without another word.

Slowly, Casey lowered the phone, turning to face the table of grim faces once more. The first pair of eyes he met were Chandler’s, a bright, clear brown several shades lighter than Ilda’s, but in them he found a steady reassurance that both surprised and gratified him. “Change of plans.” Straightening his shoulders, he stalked to the table and flattened both hands atop the scattered maps. “Looks like I’m going to the auction with you.”

* * *

Ilda settled her mobile into Pipe’s outstretched hand, unable to look away from the muzzle of his gun.

“You’re displeased with me.”

Her stomach clenched. “Displeased doesn’t begin to touch my feelings, Felipe.” Swallowing around the knot lodged in her throat, she forced her gaze to his, searching the mirrored lenses of his sunglasses for some sign of reaction, some hint of emotion. “How many people did you kill last night?”

Pipe shrugged. “As many as were necessary to deliver my message.”

“What message?”

“That Medellín belongs to me.” His tone remained unaffected, smooth and calm with his arrogant pronouncement. “That
Colombia
belongs to me.”

“And what are you going to do with Colombia, now that it’s yours?” She heard the bitterness in her voice but was unable to hide it, though she sensed Pipe looking at her as never before. “Never mind. I don’t want to know.” Shoving her shaking hands into her pockets, she made an effort to forget that he held a gun on her. This man whom she had slept with. This man who had helped her raise her daughter. “Why do you want Casí at the club tonight?”

“Casey.” When she said nothing—apparently what he expected of her—his mouth twisted in a cruel imitation of a smile. “
Cay-zee
. Casey Faraday.” He considered her as panic stole her breath. “You know who he is.”

Ilda bit her tongue to keep from saying a word.

“If it’s any consolation, I don’t believe you knew who your lover was four years ago.” Pipe’s voice had lost some of its calm. “Just as I don’t believe you knew his true identity when he came back from the dead. I certainly didn’t.” He exhaled on a heavy sigh. “I would never have put it together myself, the connection between Arlo and the Faradays, without their youngest in my custody.”

All pretense was gone, apparently, and rash anger filled her as she acknowledged that she had likely just drawn Casey straight into a trap of Pipe’s making. “You took his brother.”

“Does it help my cause if I tell you it wasn’t my choice to take him? Merely the price of doing business.”

“What
cause
are you referring to?”

“You and Arlo. My family for the last four years is my cause. But you think I’m a monster now, regardless, don’t you?” He shook his head. “Did you know, it was Manuel who told me about your liaison with Casímiro Cortez years ago—not Théa? And, at the time, I told him... I told him to take care of it.”

Dread trickled with cold intent into her bloodstream. “What does that mean?”

“It means precisely what you think it means. You’re not slow, Ilda. One of my boys had no business messing around with a woman under my protection, and Cortez—Faraday—knew better. If he hadn’t presumably died during the incident with Orras four years ago, he’d have been gone soon after. So what was he—DEA? CIA?”

Ilda simply stared at him.

Finally losing patience, he gestured toward the house with his gun, smiling grimly when she flinched. “Inside, now. We’re going to be late unless we get you dressed.”

“I can dress myself.” The inside of her lip split between her teeth, nails biting into her palms as she turned slowly on her heel to cross the courtyard. Fading sunlight blinded her momentarily as dusk stole over the hills.

“Oh,
querida
.” Something cold nudged her between the shoulder blades.
Gun
. “Like I’m going to let you out of my sight
ever
again.”

Chapter Eighteen

Polite applause spread throughout the audience as Ilda lowered the microphone. Her fingers hurt, she gripped it so tightly, and her cheeks ached with the strain of holding a performance smile. The last thing she wanted was to smile out at a room full of people desperate to
buy
another human being for nefarious purposes.

The only thing keeping her sane was the knowledge that Casey was here, somewhere. And not only Casey, but his team. It wasn’t all villains listening to her sing a pared-down cover of a Billy Joel tune—she’d felt sassy and subversive tonight, wanting to give a nod to the Americans who were half her daughter’s heritage.

In her mind, it was a
fuck you
to the man who climbed the stage next to her, taking the mic from her. His fingers curled around her forearm, and she fought not to stiffen, up there under the lights with all eyes trained her direction. Pipe’s grip remained gentle, for all that it was unyielding. Lifting the microphone, he spoke to their audience. “The songbird of Medellín, Ilda Almeida. Another round of applause for her brilliant talent, please.”

The crowd obliged, slightly more enthusiastic now that the main event had apparently begun.

Overhead, the lights focused on the stage changed in brilliance, brightening from the amber glow of a single spotlight to a track of multiple spots encompassing the entire stage. As Ilda blinked, individual faces took shape, and she desperately scanned the attendees for the one familiar visage she needed to see.

Dear God, there were so many people here, perhaps more than her inherent faith in the goodness of humanity could endure. The smaller tables on the floor had been filled, each seat taken. The booths along the back wall held the larger groups, several of whom were visibly armed with sinister-looking guns half Ilda’s size.

She shivered as a wave of air-conditioning blasted the skin bared by her royal-blue satin dress, the gown she always wore when she needed to be her most brave while performing. Ilda had never suffered from stage fright, not until Théa died. Not having her sister on stage with her, leading her with the intricate magic Théa’s agile fingers worked on the guitar, had left Ilda feeling vulnerable. So when she’d first told Pipe she was ready to sing again two years ago, and he had purchased and outfitted this club especially for her, she had told herself the gowns were armor, that wearing a pretty dress that was so not her natural inclination but instead an echo of Théa’s exquisite tastes was almost the same as having Théa on the stage with her. And especially when she wore this gown in Théa’s favorite shade of blue, it was as though Ilda weren’t alone.

Tonight, she needed to not be alone, but it had nothing to do with the music.

There
. Her pulse thudded in her throat as she finally laid eyes on Casey, tucked away in the shadows near the entrance. He hadn’t bothered to dress up, sticking to his typical T-shirt, utility trousers and boots. His body was his weapon, but she had no doubt he was carrying, and seeing him standing there, staring straight back at her with all the dark confidence in the world, loosened a few of the knots inside her.

He was here, and everything would be all right. Just as she knew that, no matter what happened to her, he would get Arlo out of Medellín. Funny how in a mere matter of days she’d done the impossible—placed her complete and utter trust in a man she hardly knew. But of one thing she was certain: Casey would never stop fighting for them. All three of them.

“Welcome, my friends.” Pipe’s smile was cold, his amplified voice laced with the slick charm of a successful businessman. This time, his words were in English. “This is quite the turn-out for our little event, is it not?”

The attendees murmured in cautious agreement.

“Which means we must all be on our best behavior tonight.” Her ex-fiancé’s smile widened. “In the spirit of transparency, I’d like to alert you to just whom you’re bidding against.” Without releasing her arm, he shifted to stage right, nodding at the first table. “Several countries are represented this evening, including Russia—” another nod to the next table “—Syria—” and the next “—Iran, Saudi Arabia, Pakistan, Turkey, Greece, Somalia, Sudan, Nigeria, the Congo...” Pipe lifted his chin toward the rear of the floor tables. “Mexico and Nicaragua and Venezuela, Israel and Italy, Ireland, England, Canada, and, interestingly, the United States of America.” He shot Ilda a sideways glance, as though she were his co-conspirator in this madness. “What a diverse showing, wouldn’t you say,
querida
?”

Ilda could do nothing but nod mutely, keeping her expression blank. Even a fake smile no longer felt feasible.

His hand, too warm now against her skin, slid from her forearm to her elbow, but his words were for his guests. “I won’t keep you in suspense any longer. We all know what—who—you are here for. A prize that is truly beyond price for the power and access it—
he
—will grant you.” With the hand holding the microphone, he pointed to the sound booth located next to the long bar.

A faint whirring came from behind Ilda, and she turned to see a projection screen being lowered over the black curtains at the rear of the stage. A second later, live streaming images appeared...of Adam Faraday.

Adam, shrouded in darkness, with no obvious markers to indicate his surroundings. But there was a shadow falling over his bruised face, a straight slash of glowing light, and Ilda suddenly knew where he was.

In the prison cell of a stall, in the stable on the hacienda. Which meant...which meant he wasn’t
here
.

Oh. Oh, no.

Unable to help herself, Ilda whipped around to meet Casey’s troubled gaze, barely hearing Pipe’s smug tone as he spoke into the mic. “...can’t believe I’d be foolish enough to bring such a valuable product here, can you? While we are attempting to behave, of course, we must admit that, as a whole, men and women of in our line of work are hardly known for our...honesty.” Pipe paused. “Though honor is another matter entirely.”

Whatever it was Casey and his team had planned for Adam’s rescue, Ilda knew it had been dependent upon the young man being here, in La Jaula. In fact, she’d bet a number of the attendees had intended a similar grab-and-go, thwarted now by Pipe’s clever strategy. The only reason Ilda recognized Adam’s location—inside that decrepit box stall—was because she had stood in its doorway a few short days ago. No matter the pains Pipe had taken to obscure any identifiers, Ilda knew—and Casey did, too.

That
was why Pipe had forced her at gunpoint to get him to the club, no doubt knowing that Casey and his people would have planned some brilliant rescue, snatching Adam from the auction.

But Ilda understood Pipe as few others did, and this was all arrogance, all showmanship. He was rubbing it in Casey’s face, puppet strings in one hand and a pair of sharp shears in the other. The subtext was all too clear.

Your brother or your woman. Choose, motherfucker.

Go
, she mouthed to Casey, first in Spanish, then English.
Go now
.

The darkness of the club couldn’t conceal the heat in his eyes, but Casey did what she said, nodded and pushed through the front door, disappearing into the night.

A moment later, another shadow moved, following him out the door. Manuel.

Ilda’s worried gasp caught the attention of the man at her side, Pipe shifting to stare down at her, his gaze narrowed threateningly. Fingertips digging into her elbow to the point of pain, he lifted the microphone. “Tonight’s item is Adam Ibrahim Faraday, youngest son of Frank Faraday, CEO of Faraday Industries. As you can see from the live feed, he is in perfect health, minus a few bumps and bruises.” Pipe glanced behind them at the feed, where Adam blinked in a silent scowl at whomever held the camera, his handsome face no less striking for being smudged with dirt. “The bidding will begin at two hundred and fifty million American dollars.”

Ireland raised his hand.

“Two hundred and seventy-five,” shouted Nigeria.

Saudi Arabia came in with two-eighty, the bidding continuing in English colored with a world’s worth of accents as the amount left the threes and fours in the dust to enter half a billion dollars.

That particular bid came from a compact blonde lounging at a table nestled in shadow to the right of the stage. “Five hundred,” she offered calmly, one leg crossed over the other, a hand toying with the glass tumbler filled with amber liquid on the tabletop. A bearded man in a black-leather bomber jacket sat across from her, but it was the tall, lean man in an immaculate three-piece suit who stood behind her that held Ilda’s attention, his dark hair neatly combed and, oddly, aviator sunglasses shielding his eyes. Mouth a hard line, the suited man’s head didn’t turn from side to side as with many of the other bodyguards in the room; instead, he stared straight at the screen bearing Adam’s feed. But Ilda didn’t make the mistake of believing he wasn’t fully aware of every other individual in the room, including her.

As the bidding continued, voices raising as the number approached the seven hundreds, Ilda watched the man in the suit, unable to tear her gaze from him. He seemed...like someone she should know. Maybe it was the way he stood, or the focus he paid to the live stream, but when Ilda allowed herself to worry—just for a split second—about Casey being followed from the club by Manuel, it clicked into place.

Faraday
. The man in the suit was a Faraday, and Ilda would bet that those sunglasses were in place to hide a too-familiar set of eyes. Suspicion fully aroused, she took in the line of his sharp jaw, the shape of his ears, his darker coloring, and she knew that, should he step into the light, she’d see Arlo reflected back. Judging by his stance at the blonde bidder’s shoulder, she was with them, too.

Ilda fought to contain her shuddering sigh of relief. She didn’t need to know the details of their plan to understand that she hadn’t been left to stumble through this nightmare alone.

And, God, it was a nightmare that kept escalating in horror.

“Eight-eighty,” shouted someone from one of the booths. The speaker rose to stand in front of his table, an older man who was small in stature, for all his voice carried easily to the stage. “You would be wise, Pipe, not to permit this farce to continue any longer.”

Murmurs flew across the room as bidders turned to stare at the man. A few chairs scraped, various bodyguards tensing with their hands on their firearms. One of Pipe’s brigadiers, Juan David Guzman, shifted toward the stage, a gun in his hand.

Pipe frowned at the speaker, squinting past the bright lights before his teeth clenched—apparently, in recognition. “Eight hundred and eighty million dollars is hardly a farce.”

The man began to move toward the stage, sidling between the scattered tables. “But this auction is. You are selling that which does not belong to you.”

The closer he came, the stiffer Pipe grew beside Ilda, until his grip on her arm made her wince. “Your boss reneged. Therefore, Faraday is mine to do with as I please.”

“Don’t be stupid, Pipe.” The man stopped in the middle of the floor, some ten feet from the stage’s edge. “You should have held to our bargain. You should have been
patient
.” Then he said something in a language Ilda didn’t recognize, and a third of the room stopped breathing.

Dread, nauseating and heavy, coiled low in her stomach. Yanking at her arm, she attempted to pull it from Pipe’s grasp. “Please,” she whispered, gaze flitting between the older man and Pipe’s unforgiving profile. “Please, let go.” Suddenly wild with choking panic, she tugged harder, twisting until she felt a wrenching pain streak up to her shoulder. Her eyes flicked to the Faraday and the blonde, both of whom now stood at the ready, arms loose at their sides.

In her peripheral vision, Guzman moved again, gun hand lifting. But he wasn’t looking at the older man. No, he was looking at Pipe, and Ilda.

“Bargains, contracts—we do not leave paper trails. We only have our honor. The understanding between your organization and mine, it was based on honor and a mutual understanding.” Finally, Pipe released her, but only to step closer to the lip of the stage, staring down the impertinent bidder. “We are not men of patience, amigo, but of action. Show me action, and I will quit the auction this minute.”

The man sighed, shaking his graying head in disappointment. “You should know better than to make such a demand, boy.” Moving so fast Ilda barely had time to process what she was seeing, the man magicked a gun into his hand from somewhere and aimed it.

He aimed it at
her
.

A shot rang out, and she screamed, frozen in place and waiting for the pain to come.

It never did.

With a shout, Pipe threw his body in front of hers, jerking unnaturally as hell broke loose in the club. One second, one minuscule second and a bullet meant for Ilda, was all it took to stop the heart of the man who had been family, friend and lover to her. One bullet, and the monster who had terrified her was dead.

The life was already gone from his eyes when he hit the stage, blood seeping across the pristine white of his shirt. Lodged fatally in his chest was the intended end of her existence, a sacrifice Ilda would never have thought he would make. Except he did. He had.

Pipe had died to save her.

Awareness of her surroundings came back to her in a rush. Her ears rang, just as they had in the dining room the night before, and she gasped as she realized the club had erupted in chaos. Tables were overturned, bidders brawling, gunshots peppering the yelling in so many languages she couldn’t begin to follow. Guzman was nowhere to be seen. She stumbled backward, toward the black curtains and the projection screen and the dressing room entrance she knew lay just beyond, but her gaze caught on the Faraday, whose shades had been tossed aside.

He looked directly at her. “Get out of here!” Pointing toward the rear exit onto the alley, he shouted, “Go, Ilda, now!”

Her name. He knew her name. But of course he knew her name. Just as he no doubt knew who she was to Casey, and who Casey was to—
”Arlo.”
Fisting the heavy skirt of her gown in both hands, she kicked off her stilettos and dashed down the steps of the stage, ducking and shrieking when a shot ricocheted overhead. Her sore shoulder slammed into the back door, her balance faltering as she tumbled over the concrete step into the darkened alley.