by Edie Harris
With a good-natured chuckle, Chandler gestured to Della’s setup. “For now, I vote we backburner the helicopter issue and concentrate on identifying who took Adam and why we haven’t received a ransom demand. Once we have names and potential locations, we gather a trusted tactical team—Casey, Vick, myself, maybe a handful of Faraday employees you believe without a doubt aren’t your leak—and do a single day of recon and sweep, followed by a nighttime extraction, chopper to jet, a couple of road vehicles to dilute the trail.” Her hands fell to her hips. “Finer details can be worked out once we have a specific target. And gold star to us if we can grab one of Adam’s kidnappers for interrogation purposes at the same time. Any questions?”
“Yeah.” Della finally looked up. “You wanna hear the names of the bastards who took our pet hacker or no?”
Chandler heaved a put-upon sigh. “Please.”
“We got hits off Interpol and US DEA for three known members of the Marin cartel. Manuel Dias, Eddy Jimenez and Juan David Guzman. No identity on the driver, but Dias, Jimenez and Guzman all have registered addresses central to Medellín.”
“I know Manuel.”
Everyone stared at Casey.
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Manuel Dias and I ran patrols together when I was undercover with the cartel. He’s a mean sonofabitch, and Pipe’s top brigadier. Manuel’s breed of loyalty can’t be bought.” Casey’s voice was completely without inflection. “Which means Adam was taken under the express orders of Pipe Marin.”
What they didn’t know was why, but Tobias was determined to find out. “I have contacts at both the DEA and Interpol. There’s bound to be either an operative or informant with boots on the ground in or near the cartel. We keep it quiet, of course, but we get visual confirmation that Adam’s actually there. Gillian?”
“Sup?”
“I need you to borrow some satellites.”
Gillian clapped her hands together in glee. “You know how much I love appropriating other people’s property.”
“Borrowing, Gillian. Borrowing.” Tobias pushed out of his chair. “I want every place owned by Pipe Marin under surveillance. It’ll be difficult to pinpoint Adam, but look for movement that indicates something or someone being guarded 24/7.”
“The only reason we were able to successfully rescue Vick and the two CIA agents,” Casey said softly, in a tone of voice Tobias had never before heard from his older brother, “is because I was embedded in the cartel. I knew patrol patterns, Pipe’s daily schedule, who was in charge of what, and where to be to avoid detection. All of that will have changed since then, but I can guarantee you this—simple extraction won’t work. Pipe runs his cartel like it’s Fort fucking Knox.” He paused, sighed. “I need to go back in.”
This time, the whole room seemed to curse as one, but it was Gavin’s voice that carried best. “Can’t revive a dead cover, man.”
Casey shook his head. “Dead, not burned. We left behind a deceased brigadier in my clothes with my ID and a face so busted it wasn’t recognizable. My cover, Casímiro Cortez, supposedly died that day. Turn Casímiro into a runaway coward instead, and I can come back to the fold now that I feel I’m out of danger. Or something.”
“But what about Pipe?” Beth asked. “He was there that morning, at the outbuilding. I had him in my sights. How can you be sure he didn’t see you during the firefight?”
“Because he was pulling me out the back of that building.” This from Vick. “And my understanding is that you and Gavin were keeping Pipe pinned down in the front.”
“Regardless,” Casey interrupted, “I can revive my cover. Especially if I come bearing gifts.” He looked to Vick. “The crate that was delivered to your new office here last week?”
“Jesus,” Vick muttered, scrubbing a hand over his bearded jaw.
“Yeah, that. I bring that with me, I have an in.”
“Do I want to know what’s in the crate?” Tobias asked calmly, though he made a mental note to run an inventory check on the Faraday Chicago office as soon as he had a moment.
“No,” came the unanimous response from both Casey and Vick, though Casey kept speaking. “Tobias, get in touch with Interpol, find out who’s available to grease my cartel reintroduction. I’ll fly down, make contact and pray Pipe doesn’t shoot me on sight.” He jerked a thumb at Chandler. “Her plan is solid, once I’ve got Adam’s location and get a refresher on patrol schedules and Pipe’s whereabouts. One week, maybe two. Then you bring in a tac team and we run it like we did Vick’s rescue.”
“Will Adam last two weeks?”
Beth gave Della a hard stare. “Yes. And not just because he’s a tough little shit. If Pipe’s not asking for money, then he probably wants information, and it takes time to interrogate someone. There’s also the chance that they want him for what he can do with a computer, not just Faraday intel. Again, that warrants time.”
“But just to be safe, I’m leaving tonight,” Casey interjected. “The sooner I’m in Colombia, the sooner we can get Adam home. And then,” his voice darkened, “we hunt those who hunt us.”
Tobias didn’t have a response, but one wasn’t necessary this time. Casey’s mind was made up, and given Tobias’s recent vigilantism, he was in no position to throw stones and tell his brother not to get his head blown off in South America. What he could do, however, was make sure Casey had options once he was with the cartel—and that meant making a few calls.
Conversation diverted then into planning, with Gillian signing off to do her satellite research, Gavin and Beth rehashing what they remembered from the mission four years ago, Casey and Vick doing much the same and Della turning her attention back to Adam’s smashed hardware. Tobias locked eyes with Chandler and held out his hand, and immediately she came to him, linking her slender fingers with his. Just that small contact with her leached some of the tension from his muscles. Only she could do that for him, be that for him. Only Chandler.
Promising they’d reconvene again before Casey flew out, Tobias and Chandler bid their quick goodbyes and were out the front door, across the porch and down the steps to the waiting town car. After directing the driver to the Peninsula hotel, where he had a suite booked, Tobias leaned back with a sigh, his eyes closing as he took a deep breath for the first time in what felt like weeks.
“So. That went well.”
He smiled at Chandler’s dry tone before tugging her into his lap and wrapping his arms around her in a hold so fierce and so tight she could never escape. Not that she tried. No, she returned his hug with her strong arms looped around his neck, face buried at the base of his throat. He kissed her temple, then her cheek, the curve of her jaw and, when she tilted her chin, took her mouth like the necessity it was. Nothing soothed him quite so much as kissing Chandler, holding her...keeping her. That she planned to let him keep her forever still astounded him.
With one last, soft brush against her lips, he cuddled her closer, tucking her petite yet powerful body into his and letting his chin rest atop her head. “I’m proud of you, sweetheart. I know it wasn’t easy, being in that room with Beth and the others.”
Her hand came to rest on his chest, the heat from her fingertips seeping through his vest and dress shirt to brand the skin beneath. “It shouldn’t be easy for me. I transgressed against them, Toby. I can take my punishment.”
But he didn’t want her to be punished, the woman he loved by the people he loved. “You gave us good direction in there.” Of course she had; Chandler’s was a clever mind, filled to the brim with tactical knowledge from her years in the military and as a spy. Now she stood poised to take command of an elite unit within Britain’s MI6 tasked with preventing acts of global terrorism. His pride in her knew no bounds.
She patted his chest. “I won’t let anyone hurt your family, baby.”
“They’re your family now, too.”
“Not yet, but they will be.” She finally melted against him, and Tobias gave in, wrapping both arms tightly around her. “And
you know I always protect what’s mine.”
Chapter Three
Medellín, Colombia
He knew he was dreaming. Dreams that were memories, and memories that were nightmares.
The sheets twisted around him...
He took a swig from the water bottle, trying to forget just how much he hated the heat. This below-the-equator bullshit was starting to get to him. He sweated all the damn time, even when he slept, even in the fucking shower. Even the cold spray couldn’t cool him off.
Laughter from the front of the private box, drawing his attention to where Pipe sat with his arm around his fiancée, surrounded by his inner circle. All wore green somewhere on their persons in support of the Nacional on the pitch far in front of them. Atanasio Girardot Stadium was packed to the gills, the entire city turned out for the epic match-up between Pipe’s club—because of course he owned shares in Atlético Nacional—and Independiente Medellín. Neighbor versus neighbor in today’s game, the fucking event of the fútbol season.
Which meant Casey ought to be on the alert, instead of sweating and bitching in his head, missing the blizzards of home. He was Pipe’s guard, for the time being, and that meant keeping a watchful eye.
The fiancée, Théa, lifted her head from Pipe’s shoulder and pointed down at the field excitedly. While Pipe leaned forward and smiled, Casey studied the box. One exit, windows on three sides, and the glass was bullet-proof. After the Escobar era, cartel kingpins took no chances. It made Casey’s job easier, and anything that simplified this particular mission fell into the plus column.
Abruptly, everyone in the box stood, hands over their hearts, and Casey followed cue. The first strains of the Colombian national anthem drifted over the stadium’s speaker system. He couldn’t see the field or the singer or the flag, but that didn’t matter.
Or at least, it didn’t matter until the truth of the voice hit his brain. Low and full-bodied, female, with just enough rasp in the rich tones to be undeniably sensual. She—whoever she was—had no instrumental accompaniment, but soon enough, the crowd had joined their forty thousand voices with hers, lifted in patriotic song, and she led them, beautifully, proudly.
From his position in the back corner next to the wet bar, he strained to see the pitch, find the source that had the tiny hairs on the back of his neck lifting and his pulse tripping. He didn’t really care about music, never had; he’d just as soon work out in silence and leave the radio off in the car. But there was life in this woman’s voice as the verses blended together, and finally he caught a glimpse of her on the scoreboard screen, the camera zooming in on her smiling face.
Because she was smiling, so big and wide and white and dimpled, staring at her was akin to staring directly into the sun. Pretty, he thought, then immediately corrected himself because, actually, she was gorgeous. Her hair was somewhere between blond and brunette, a long mane of tight curls lifting slightly in the breeze, and he couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to sink his hands into all that hair. And pet it. And fist it.
He was still sweating when the anthem ended, when the camera feed shifted from the singer to the crowds, roaring and chanting as the teams took their positions on the field. Pipe and the others took their seats again, informal bets and good-natured jousting flying across the box. The bartender in the corner poured more drinks, and a knock on the door preceded the caterer’s overladen cart of sweet and savory morsels.
Except that the caterer wasn’t the only person Pipe’s guards had permitted through the door. In bounced her. The woman. The singer, all beaming grins and cheerful greetings as she rushed Théa, slinging slender arms around the woman.
Casey tried not to stare. Really, he tried. He managed to keep his eyes off her for at least five seconds, and then he drained the water bottle, his throat so parched he could barely swallow. And when he did look at her—just a glance, just one glance—he barely noticed the pale blue wrap dress clinging to curves he could sink his teeth into, or the tall shoes that would barely bring the top of her head to his shoulder.
That did barely bring her to his shoulder, because suddenly there she was in front of him, requesting a mojito of the bartender before she glanced sideways at him. “Hola.”
He nodded. “Hola. You sing...well.” Smooth, Casey. Real smooth.
Laughing as though he’d said something amusing, when he knew full well he hadn’t, she shifted to stare up at him. Dark eyes twinkled, the edges crinkling, as she extended one slim, manicured hand. On her index finger was an intricate silver ring bearing some sort of opaque white stone. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”
For a split second, Casey’s mind raced to uncover any cracks in his cover. Was she someone he ought to have recognized? Part of Pipe’s inner circle? When he came up blank, he shrugged and took her hand. Warm, soft, small but with a firm grip. He liked her handshake. “I know you’re the most beautiful woman in this room. Is that enough?” His thumb stroked over the bumps of her knuckles as he gave her a sly grin.
She grinned back. “Not from Medellín, then.”
Again, he wondered if his cover identity had holes visible only to this particular woman. “Not from Colombia at all. My people are from Maracaibo.”
“Venezuela?” Her gaze raked him from head to toe. “Yes, I suppose I can see that. Not to mention your accent.”
He fought not to stiffen. “What accent?” He’d studied for months prior to taking this assignment to master the regional shaping of his Spanish vowels and consonants.
“Don’t take it personally, big guy.” The corner of her mouth quirked. “I’ve got a good ear.” Finally, she appeared to take pity on him, squeezing his hand before releasing him. “Ilda Almeida.”
Théa’s sister. And that meant she was one half of the pop-guitar duo Almángel that had won last year’s Best New Artist at the Latin Grammys. He’d known who Théa was before taking this assignment, of course, but he’d barely bothered glancing at her professional photographs—the ones she took with her sister, Ilda—before focusing more acutely on Théa’s relationship with her infamous fiancé. “Casímiro Cortez,” he offered, lying easily.
“Oh, that is far too much of a mouthful for me.” And damn, he had to bite his tongue to keep from steamrolling straight into that deliberate bit of flirtation. “I think I’ll call you Casí.”
The dream shifted...
The club was drenched in darkness, red and gold lights flashing intermittently onto the writhing mass of drunken dancers. Casey felt like a lurker from his post at the edge of the dance floor, his eyes always coming back from their perimeter scan to latch onto the group of sequined women doing their best Spice Girls impression. Théa’s bachelorette party was in full swing, and central to all the festivities was Ilda, dancing like a goddess and drinking like a fish.
He’d been watching her all night. God, the body on that woman. Her hair was piled high on her head, baring the slender column of her neck and leaving her shoulders temptingly naked in that tiny strapless black dress. Though it hardly qualified as a dress—more a swatch of fabric covering the pertinent curvy bits. Neon-pink stilettos made her legs look ten miles long, and she moved in them effortlessly.
He hadn’t touched her since their handshake in the stadium box two weeks ago, but he still felt the imprint of her palm against his. After that brief exchange, she had settled in next to her sister and Pipe and never glanced his way again. Which was good. Smart. She shouldn’t be looking at him, and he definitely shouldn’t want her to, because he was CIA, damn it, and his cover necessitated him blending into the background as another of Pipe’s grunts. He shouldn’t want her eyes on him, or her hands on him, her mouth, her tongue—
Feminine arms banded around his waist from behind. “Casí.”
He tensed but didn’t turn. “Miss Almeida. You shouldn’t be here.”
“Here? In the club? But I like the club.”
Saucy. “With me, señorita.” Pipe’s future sister-in-law had no business fraterni
zing with a low-level brigadier, and the moment Pipe noticed her attention—or Casey’s, for that matter—there would be hell to pay. “Go dance with your sister.”
“I’d rather dance with you.” Her full breasts pressed against his back, her hips shifting and swishing against his ass.
Small hands flattened over his stomach before dipping lower, toward his belt, and he risked a glance downward to see her moonstone ring winking up at him, glowing ruby in the light of the club. “Señorita,” he warned.
“Ilda.” Her body rolled, a subtle, sensual writhing that immediately made him harder than stone. “Dance with me, Casí.”
Halting the movement of her hands by linking his fingers with hers, he allowed the thumping bass from the club’s speakers to infiltrate his bloodstream. No one had seen them together, not yet, so he stole a few brief seconds as the music washed over him and into her. Or maybe it was coming from her and infecting him, because Casey wasn’t a man who danced, just like he wasn’t a man who sang, or played, or took unnecessary risks while undercover in the world’s most dangerous drug cartel. He let his body move in time with hers, doing little more than swaying in place while she performed the equivalent of a blind lap dance. Him being the blind party.
Her fingertips curled into his abs, testing the resistance of his muscled flesh. “You feel good, Casí. Like a man.”
The hard points of her nipples brushed against his back. She was turned on. Dancing with him, touching him, had aroused her, and that was worth another spot of daring on his part. Because, evidently, he had a death wish.
Spinning, he broke her hold and dropped a heavy hand to her chest, the heel of his palm resting along the tops of her breasts. He pushed, gentle but purposeful, and she trustingly stepped backward, her gaze never leaving his. She was smiling when he maneuvered her around a corner toward a utility closet, and she kept smiling even when her shoulders hit the wall.
His fingers splayed over her collarbone, he bent until their noses brushed. “You like teasing me? Torturing me?”
