by Edie Harris
Turning to face him, Ilda sighed, as she always did when he teased her about her devotion to her faith, but he hoped she knew he didn’t belittle it. He simply enjoyed the intimacy of being able to tease her about something he knew she cared about, and witnessing her affectionate frustration in reaction. While she tugged the top of her dress back into place and smoothed her skirt over her naked bottom, he stooped to snag her discarded panties, dangling them in front of her face before snatching them out of reach and stuffing them into his pocket.
Panic flitted across her gorgeous face. “I can’t sit in the chapel without any undergarments!” She made a valiant attempt to reach for his pocket, but he gently pushed her fretful hands away. “Casí, I can’t.”
“Sure you can. It’ll give you something to pray about while I’m gone.” His smile faded at the thought of leaving her, but there was nothing to be done about it. A fact made readily apparent when the phone in his pocket buzzed twice, indicating an incoming text, and his euphoric high disappeared as reality came crashing down. He didn’t bother checking the phone, choosing instead to cup her cheek in one hand. “I have to go, baby, but only for a couple of hours.” Then he’d be back for her, as promised, and their lives together could finally begin.
Shifting, she dropped a kiss into his palm, her hand lifting to link around his wrist, but she didn’t try to pull him away. No, she kept him in place, leaning into his touch like a purring kitten, and it made him want to pet her, for hours. Another kiss, and then she murmured, so soft he barely heard her, “Remember that you promised me all of your secrets, Casí.”
“Every last one will be yours,” he vowed, shoving away the guilt. She’d married him with only half-truths and fervent promises that he would tell her all, in time, and the risk she had taken floored him. “After I finish my business here, we’ll take our honeymoon. The world is your oyster, fénix. Where do you want to go?”
“Anywhere. Everywhere. But only with you, marido.”
He fucking loved it when she called him her husband, her tone all proprietary and full of promise. He was going to enjoy this new collar and leash of his. He was going to enjoy the hell out of it.
Leading her out of the sacristy and into the chapel, her hand tucked securely in his, he stopped near the last row of pews, where they had stowed her luggage—a single bag, far smaller than he’d expected her to pack, and his heart clenched to think of how much she was sacrificing, all to be with him. Unable to help himself, he sank both hands into her mass of curls and yanked her roughly against him, dragging his lips over hers and dipping his tongue inside for one last taste. Sweet, so sweet, and his.
She kissed him with earnest longing already evident in the curve of her mouth. She missed him, and he wasn’t even gone yet. Lost my fucking soul to her, don’t ever want it back. Brows drawn, he stole another greedy kiss, breathing ragged when he straightened. “Only a couple of hours,” he promised hoarsely. “The sun will barely be up before I’m here again.”
Her throat moved in a visible swallow and she nodded, but said nothing.
Taking his hands off her body was a torture worse than any he’d previously been subjected to, but he did it. Somehow, he stopped touching her, backing silently away until he stood at the heavy wooden door separating the chapel from the outside world, his gaze never leaving her face.
She lifted her hand in a shy wave, and it did something awful and amazing to his heart. He cleared his throat, trying to speak and failing. So he simply kissed his fingertips for her, gathering her quick smile into his aching chest before he pushed out into the dark, warm night.
Drawing his phone and key ring from his pocket, he unlocked the Land Rover that had carried him into the forest not even an hour earlier, climbing into the driver’s seat as he dashed off a quick text to alert his tactical team that they were T-minus thirty minutes from their first aggressive move against the target. The engine rumbled to life, and Casey threw the vehicle into Reverse before speeding away from the secluded chapel.
Tamping down thoughts of her was a Herculean task, but he’d been in this line of work long enough—too long, damn it—to know he couldn’t complete his mission if he remained distracted by his plans for the future, for them. God, he had so many plans for their life together, and every last one of those plans filled him with hope.
Perhaps it was because of his determination to focus only on the coming hours of dangerous work ahead of him and his team—the hours that separated him from his new future, with her—that he ignored the tremor beneath his tires, putting it down to one of the small quakes the region was known for. He simply pressed harder on the gas, not bothering to glance in the rearview mirror.
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.
