Crazed: A Blood Money Novel (22 page)

The overhead lamp, usually motion sensitive, remained unlit, and Ilda halted, gasping, her senses on fire. Bad. This was bad, bad bad bad. Throwing herself against the brick wall behind an overflowing dumpster, she clung to the shadows and blinked, forcing her eyes to adjust to the blackness of the abandoned alley. The dress slithered around her legs as she fumbled beneath one side of the skirt, too long now that she was barefoot, but she couldn’t afford to hold it off the ground. No, she needed her shaking hands free...for the gun Casey had given her.

Footsteps sounded inside the club, a pounding gait rapidly approaching the back entrance, and Ilda held her breath as the door flung open. A man she didn’t recognize, his skin pale even in the unrelenting darkness, surveyed the alley, obviously looking for something. Someone.

Those searching eyes landed on the dumpster, and her vision must have adjusted because she saw him grin. Oh, fuck. He was looking for
her
.

“I see you,” he said in rasping English, advancing on her hiding spot with slow steps. “I see you dressed in blue.”

Ilda shrank back against the wall, her thumb falling to the gun’s safety mechanism.

Clucking his tongue, he stalked closer, leering smile never fading. “Bet I can make you sing just as pretty as you did in there.” One of his hands went to the buttons of his jacket, and he stopped then, only the corner of the filthy dumpster separating them now. “What’s that you’ve got there?”

Squeezing her eyes shut, she straightened her arms and fired.

And missed.

He laughed, an ugly sound full of menacing amusement. “Oh, this is
perfect
—”

Without warning, two shots rang out, echoing in the high-walled alley. The villain twitched and grunted, then fell gracelessly into an unmoving heap in a dirty puddle.

Gun held in her white-knuckled grasp, Ilda peeked around the edge of the dumpster to peer toward the mouth of the alley. There, jogging toward her, was the blonde, pistol gripped in one hand as though it were an extension of the woman’s limb. “Ilda Almeida? I’m a friend of Casey’s.” The woman’s Spanish was more than passable, though tinged with her native accent. “Are you all right?”

“I am.” Stepping out from her hiding place, Ilda hurriedly skirted her dead assailant before holding out the gun—safety re-engaged—to her petite rescuer. “Please take this before I accidentally shoot you. Or myself.” She felt numb to the violence she’d witnessed, her mind shuttered against the truth of her surroundings. Of Pipe’s sacrifice. “Your name is...”

“Chandler McCallister. MI6—British intelligence.” The blonde slipped Ilda’s gun into the back waistband of her black pants. “If you’re ready to move, there’s a car down the block that will take us out of the city to our plane.”

“My daughter—”

“Oh, I know. Arlo, yeah?” Chandler’s mouth curved in a deadly smile then, and held out her hand to Ilda, her own gun still ready in the other. “Don’t fret. We’ve got it sorted. So let’s get you to your girl.”

Chapter Nineteen

“You should know better than to threaten a bad man’s wife.”

Casey...he
was
a bad man. But he was a bad man for good reason. He swung the machete.

Manuel’s lifeless body collapsed to the street in a cloud of dust as Casey drew his phone from his pocket, the machete dripping at his side. He couldn’t go back inside the club for Ilda, not with both Adam and Arlo in danger at the hacienda.

Threat to Ilda’s life. Assailant/s unknown.

With that text sent to Tobias inside La Jaula, trusting his brother to take care of his wife, Casey sprinted to where Finn waited in an unmarked Jeep a few blocks away. Yanking open the passenger door, he tossed the bloody machete in the backseat. “Drive.”

Finn drove, breaking speed laws left and right as he hurried them to the city limits and toward the hacienda up in the hills. “I didn’t get everything through the comm, but I take it Adam wasn’t inside?”

“No. They kept him offsite.”

“Smart.”

Casey’s jaw clenched. “Very. The good thing is, I know exactly where he is.”

The remainder of the drive—too slow by far—passed mostly in silence, with only the occasional murmur to interrupt. He felt torn in two—no, in
three
—leaving Ilda behind when he knew someone was out to kill her. Not Manuel, because Manuel was no longer breathing, but there was every chance he’d sent another to do his bidding. While Pipe might hurt her, punish her, Casey had to hope that the drug lord would never kill her, despite being aware of her liaison with Casey.

Casey had studied his rival’s face. He knew love when he saw it, no matter how warped it might be.

But Arlo was at the hacienda, and Adam in the stables, and thank God he had Finn with him because Casey wasn’t a superhero. He couldn’t be in multiple places at once. With Pipe changing the stakes and keeping Adam away from the auction, Casey and his team were now forced to improvise. “Hold up,” he said as they approached the front gates, leaning forward in his seat. “Shit.”

Finn echoed the curse as he slowed the Jeep, both of them eyeing the wide-open metal chain link. A trio of bodies were slumped by the guard post, lit only by the Jeep’s headlights, as the overhead bulb had been obviously tampered with.

Someone had beaten them to the hacienda.

“Drive.” Casey’s gut knotted as Finn hit the gas up the long drive, killing the headlights as they approached the house. Guns already in hand, they exited the Jeep prior to reaching the southern courtyard. Casey touched his comm, which would feed to not only Finn on the other side of the vehicle, but to the rest of the team back in the city, Okumura at the airfield and Della home in Chicago. “Guys, we have a problem,” he murmured.

“Go for Vick.”

“Busted front gate, dead brigadiers. The hacienda’s been breached.” He paused, glancing around the dark, empty courtyard. “Status report from the club?”

“Shooting broke out, and Pipe’s dead.” Vick’s voice was grim, British vowels clipped as it became apparent he was on the move. “Chandler has Ilda secured.”

There wasn’t time for Casey to experience any relief. “Finn and I need backup. You, Henry, and Moreno get your asses to the hacienda as fast as you can.”

“On it. Let you know when we’re there.”

Then Casey was moving, quickly and silently, Finn at his six as they clung to the shade trees bordering the edges of the courtyard. A dark lump lay still on the cobblestones, Pipe’s colors evident around the arm of the dead brigadier, and Casey looked up to the nearest security camera.

No blinking red light. The system had been tampered with.

“Clear the house,” he whispered to Finn. “Start downstairs and work up. Nursery is the second level, second door.”

With a nod, Finn entered the hacienda, and Casey headed through the open-air portico dividing the two courtyards. No moon shone tonight, cloud cover thick in the night sky, but his eyes had adjusted without trouble. He didn’t risk pulling the penlight from his pocket and alerting whoever had taken out the brigadiers to his presence.

In the back of his mind, he knew there was a possibility that Adam wouldn’t be there, but that would mean Casey had failed. Casey
couldn’t
fail, not in this. This was his family being targeted, continuously and from every quarter, or so it appeared. He had no business holding the position he did, doing the work he traveled the world to do, if he could barely protect his own family at home.

Adam should never have been taken in the first place. This week down in Colombia, the days bleeding and blurring together in a rollercoaster rush, had prevented Casey from hunting down who was responsible for leaving his siblings vulnerable. But as soon as he was out of here—as soon as Adam was safe, and Arlo and Ilda settled—nothing would stop him from turning the tables on their enemies and running them to ground. Nothing.

The windows of the barracks were dark, the door wide open, another body fallen haphazardly across the threshold. Casey guessed that Pipe had left a dozen or so brigadiers behind, but already there were five down, probably more inside the house itself. Whoever had taken down the guards had done so efficiently, probably with silenced pistols, sneaking up on the brigadiers unawares. A tac team of at least three, if Casey had been the one in charge, which meant he and Finn were likely outnumbered, and by professionals.

He spoke into the comm. “Vick?”

“Yeah.”

“You said there was shooting at the club. Who started it?”

“Older man, affiliation unknown. It sounded like perhaps he was the one who’d initially made the deal with Pipe for Adam, or at least worked for the dealmaker.”

“Nationality?”

“Couldn’t tell you, but his accent indicated he’s spent a great deal of time in England. When we’re home, I’ll have Della pull the audio from our comms and—”

“Already on it, handsome,” Della’s voice crackled in their ears as she finished Vick’s thought. “Running a voice analysis now.”

“Thanks, cuz.” Making a judgment call, Casey left the barracks uninvestigated and crossed the courtyard, keeping low to the ground as he headed toward the stables. “Finn, I think—” The toe of his boot brushed something. Something with mass. Something that whimpered.

Kneeling, Casey ran his hand across the heaving side of Pipe’s faithful old terrier mutt, fingers coming away sticky with blood. “Shh, boy. It’s okay,” he whispered, stroking soothing fingers over one soft, floppy ear. Cerdito struggled to rise, and again Casey shushed him, taking in the agitation of the horses in their stalls, the Dutch doors open on the top to let the beasts look into the courtyard. Something was happening inside the stables.

Casey left him where he was and crept toward the main door to the stables, hanging open on its hinges. Faint light emanated from within, and, gun in hand, Casey edged inside, avoiding the wide aisle as he crouched down, leaning against the wooden side of one of the box stalls.

Voices sounded, indistinguishable and hushed, from the end of the aisle that led toward the leg of the barn housing Adam’s cell. On quiet feet, Casey rounded the edge of the stall—

And saw Isobel sprawled in the middle of the aisle, a hole in her forehead and one hand clutched around the strap of a child’s bright-orange backpack.

No
. Fear unlike any Casey had ever before experienced swept through him, a hurricane of terror and panic and blinding, sickening rage. Arlo. If Isobel didn’t have Arlo... “Finn,” he hissed, words choked by his pounding pulse, and he crept past Isobel’s body toward the end of the barn. “Go to the nursery. Look in places a scared three-year-old might hide.”

“Your girl’s missing?”

“The nanny’s been killed. And remember that Arlo won’t hear you coming, or calling, so be thorough in your search.”

“Copy that, boss.”

Please
, Casey thought. Begged. Prayed.
Please let my daughter be okay
. For the first time in memory, his palms were slick around the grip of his 9mm, his fingers trembling. His jaw ached, his chest shuddered and the nausea in his stomach refused to fade. There was a clamoring in his temples that echoed in his ears.

Arlo. Arlo, Arlo, Arlo.
Arlo
.

Breathing deep, trying to reclaim some semblance of calm because he would be no good to anyone, least of all her, if he didn’t have his head on straight in the next three seconds. With one last exhalation, he hustled down the aisle to the tack room, peering around the corner.

One man stood outside Adam’s cell, assault rifle with a silencer pointed into the stall, lock broken and door open. A scuffle sounded within, a fist connecting with flesh followed by a pained grunt, and then the man with the rifle spoke in fluid, fluent Arabic.

“No. The boss wants him unharmed. Not a scratch, he said.”

From inside the stall, someone spoke, too low for Casey to hear, but it was obvious the man with the rifle was in charge. “Take her from him, then.”

Her
. Oh, hell no. Bile rising, Casey stepped into the hall, gun raised in both hands. He strode forward on silent feet, clinging to the wall, until he stood directly beside the man with the rifle. Without a word, he lifted the muzzle of his gun and pressed it to the man’s temple.

The man with the rifle froze before shifting slightly, pale green eyes locking with Casey’s. “You don’t want to do that, friend,” he said in Spanish.

Which meant Casey held the upper hand, for now. “Doubtful. Get your men out of the stall, or I put a bullet in your brain.”

The green-eyed leader seemed to consider this, then bit out a command. Just as Casey suspected, two soldiers dressed head to toe in black exited the stall, though he noted they didn’t lower their weapons, silenced assault rifles like their commander’s. One aimed directly at Casey, while the other...

Casey swallowed, hard.

The other had his rifle trained not on an unchained Adam, who moved to stand in the open stall doorway, but on Arlo, whose tear-streaked face was pressed cheek-to-cheek with his kid brother’s. Adam held her tightly in both arms, protectively, upper body turned to put himself between Arlo and the gunmen as much as possible. “Nice timing,” Adam murmured in Spanish, quick enough to have picked up on Casey’s deliberate mislead, using the commander’s ignorance against him.

“I try.” Casey’s panicked gaze swept over Arlo, searching for injury. “Is she hurt?”

“Nah, just shaken up.” One of Adam’s hands was threaded through Arlo’s ponytail, his palm cupped over the back of her head, fingertips moving in a soothing massage against the girl’s scalp. “She slipped through the slats a few seconds before these goons showed up.”

Probably after witnessing Isobel getting gunned down. Casey clamped down on the rage boiling in his chest and directed his next comment to the commander. “Let them go.”

The man’s lip curled derisively. “That’s not how this works. Even if you shoot me, my men will shoot you
and
the little one. This man—” he indicated Adam “—is already weakened from his imprisonment and is no match for two highly trained soldiers. He is coming with us.”

“No.” The knot in Casey’s gut twisted, mind racing through the possibilities and coming back to the same conclusion, again and again.

“Yes.” Now the commander smiled outright, cold and calculating. “And you know it. I die, you die,
she
dies...and she’s who you’re truly scared for in this scenario, isn’t she?” As if he wasn’t the least nervous about the pistol Casey held on him, the commander turned to face him completely, the muzzle of the gun coming to rest between his brows. “A deal, then. Her for him.”

“Done.”

Casey growled at Adam’s immediate assent. “Wait a second.”

“No.” Adam was already moving forward into the aisle, and the gunmen adjusted their stance accordingly. Stopping when he reached Casey, Adam shifted Arlo in his arms. “Do the math, Case. And then do the fucking math again, because even if the cavalry shows up in the next ten seconds, there’s still a little girl in the middle of a firefight, and these bastards don’t care if she lives or dies.” He glared at the commander before fixing his beseeching stare on Casey once more. “I do. I care. And I won’t have her any more traumatized than she’s already been tonight just because you want to play the hero and save my sorry ass.” Pressing a gentle kiss to the top of her head, Adam unwound her clinging monkey arms from around his neck and handed her over to Casey.

Casey, who took her with one hand and kept his gun pointed at the commander’s forehead with the other. “Damn it, Adam.”

“You gotta take care of that pretty baby, bro,” Adam said, a sad smile tugging at his mouth. “Don’t worry. I got this.”

“How touching,” the commander interjected, sarcasm in every syllable, and lifted his chin. Immediately, one of the gunmen grabbed Adam, yanking his arms behind him and securing his wrists with a plastic tie. The other soldier never wavered in his aim, rifle locked onto Casey while the commander spoke. “While I could simply have you shot, you and the girl, I won’t. Because I want you to remember this moment, and that I’m a man of my word. So put your gun down, friend.”

Reluctantly, Casey lowered his weapon, unwilling to holster it completely. “You don’t want to do this,” he warned the commander, echoing the man’s earlier words. A rhythmic thumping noise from outside the stables grew increasingly louder with each passing second.

The commander gave Casey’s response back to him. “Doubtful.” A mocking salute accompanied the retort, and then his brother was being dragged down the hall toward the main aisle, the two soldiers and the commander moving swiftly as Casey trailed slowly behind, completely torn. Adam was right; there was no safety for Arlo, not so long as these men remained armed and present.

Tucking away his gun, Casey activated the comm in his ear, wrapping both arms around Arlo, who appeared to have gone into some sort of shock—no longer crying, no longer moving at all, just shaky little breaths panting out against the side of his neck, and for some reason, that terrified Casey anew. “Finn.
Finn
.”

Gunfire sounded from the courtyard, Finn’s voice crackling in Casey’s ear. “I know. I heard it all, but I’m trapped against the house. They’ve got a chopper and three more guys, one of whom—” More gunfire, and Casey found he couldn’t move. He couldn’t—could
not
—carry Arlo closer to danger. God fucking damn it. “One of whom has a freaking machine gun spraying shells my way, man.”