by Edie Harris
“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.”
“Stay down, and don’t shoot.” The words felt torn from him, but the two of them could not take on a six-man ops team, not when it would put both Adam and Arlo at grave risk. “Let them...let them take him.”
Finn cursed a blue streak.
Tucking Arlo’s face into his shoulder, Casey strode into the main aisle of the stables, shielding his daughter from the sight of her dead caregiver. With grim determination, he listened to the thumping blades of the helicopter, the gunfire having ceased, and eased through the door leading into the courtyard. Just in time to watch the sliding hatch to the enemy chopper slam shut on Adam’s bleak expression.
Pain pierced his heart as the helicopter lifted into the air and disappeared all too swiftly into the night sky. Footsteps sounded as Finn dashed across the courtyard to where Casey stood beneath the overhanging stable roof. “Eastern bearing,” he said, his voice unrecognizable to his own ears.
“I’ve already got Della working the satellite feeds.” Finn’s hand landed on his shoulder, squeezing in reassurance. “We’ll find Adam again, don’t worry.”
But worry was all Casey could do. Without quite realizing what he was doing, he sank to the ground, his back propped against one of the smooth posts rei
nforcing the hanging roof. “Finn, there’s a dog just over there...it was alive when I went into the stable.”
“I’ll check it out, boss.” Finn jogged away to look after Cerdito.
Which left Casey alone with Arlo. Rubbing a hand in what he hoped was a soothing manner over her small back, he stared up at the empty sky. So much darkness, so much death. Not only here, but across the city. Pipe was gone, Medellín’s most prominent cartels suffering devastating blows they might not recover from fully.
And Adam. Brave, stupid Adam, who’d protected Arlo better than any of them.
Suddenly, Arlo wriggled in his hold, pushing against Casey’s chest and whimpering loudly. He grabbed for her middle, but she wasn’t trying to get away. No, she was signing at him, words he didn’t understand, and he laid one hand over both of hers, shaking his head. “I don’t know,” he told her, enunciating carefully in case she was reading his lips. “I don’t know what you’re saying.”
Frowning fiercely at him, she tugged her hands free and pointed to the sky where the helicopter had been. Then she signed again, and this time Casey recognized one of the motions from the night before. The one for friend, as Ilda had explained. “Si,” he told her, nodding before he mimicked her sign. “That’s where he went.”
Fresh tears welled, and she sort of...crumpled in his lap, sobbing raggedly as she leaned into his chest. At that moment, Casey felt every bruise, every blow from the past week, his body one giant ache. With a shuddering sigh, he gathered Arlo close and began to sway ever so subtly against the post, humming tunelessly low in his throat. He rubbed her back and buried his face in her hair, breathing in the scents of barn and dust and kiddie shampoo that clung to her, and he’d never been so bone-shakingly relieved in all his life as he was in this moment.
His daughter. In his arms. Safe from all physical harm. Jesus fucking Christ.
Exhaustion swamped him, and he squeezed his eyes shut, listening to Finn speak to someone from a few yards away, either in his comm or on his phone. After a while, Arlo’s sobs faded to hiccups, her little body growing heavier against him as her overwhelmed senses got the better of her and she drifted toward unconsciousness. Casey simply held her, content to sit here in the dirt as the night drew in around them.
Eventually, the sound of approaching vehicles in the south courtyard roused him, but he didn’t move, able to tell from Finn’s relaxed posture that it was their people who’d finally arrived. Car doors slammed, voices raised in worried exclamation, and—
“Casí?”
He looked up to see Ilda racing toward him in her blue gown, bare feet flying across the cobblestones, and stood, a sleeping Arlo draped over his chest. “Ilda.” Her petite body hit his, frantic hands seeking, clinging to them both.
“You’re all right. She’s all right?”
“Yes.” Wrapping his unencumbered arm around her, he held the two most important people in his universe to him, ignoring the sting of emotion behind his eyes. “Everything’s all right now.”
A throat cleared to his right. Casey looked up to meet Tobias’s somber gaze. “Casey.” His brother’s voice was so calm, so cool that it hurt. “Where’s Adam?”
Chapter Twenty
One Month Later
Chicago
So this was what it felt like to live without fear.
Tilting her head back to stare up at the bright blue patch of early summer sky overhead, Ilda adjusted her sunglasses and shifted on the bench. The sound of her daughter’s happy laughter hit her ears, a carefree giggling followed by excited canine yipping. Cerdito may still be limping from his brush with danger, but the mutt had relaxed into contentedness alongside Arlo and Ilda in this new city they were exploring together every day.
Chicago was as urban as any other major metropolis, but something in the cool, dry air had infected Ilda with an innate sense of safety. That sense was completely at odds with the logic telling her Chicago carried the same troubles—crime, poverty, overcrowding—as Medellín, but she no longer felt caught in the crosshairs every waking minute, as she had living in Pipe’s fortress on the hill.
In the end, it hadn’t been much of a fortress, just as the safety she’d craved over the years had been a mirage. But here in America, surrounded by Casey’s people and existing amongst friendly Midwesterners, Ilda breathed easy.
There were no Orras threats. No enemies pointing guns at her or her daughter. No guards at the gate or cameras in her home or lies being told so she could keep her conscience clear. The only concern plaguing her was helping Arlo play catch-up after having enrolled her in the Holy Trinity Deaf Program at the Children of Peace Catholic School. The administration had permitted Arlo to join one of the toddler playgroups, despite her being a full year older than the other children, while at the same time offering one-on-one education to get Arlo up to speed with basic signs, with Ilda learning at the same time. They had been lucky that so many of the LSM signs Ilda had co-opted into her and Arlo’s private language were synonymous with American Sign Language; Arlo wasn’t nearly as behind as Ilda had feared.
Today, Ilda had hooked a leash to Cerdito’s collar and popped Arlo into her sleek stroller, and the three of them had left the luxurious townhouse she’d signed a lease for in Benton Place a week after their arrival. The three-level attached home overlooked a small green oasis in the middle of the city, complete with playground and dog-friendly areas, and a sense of seclusion that reinforced Ilda’s feeling of security. In the mornings, she would take her two charges downstairs to the park and watch as they played together, no fear weighing her down.
It was glorious. Unexpected and rare. And she knew exactly whom to thank for this immense privilege.
Which was, of course, why she and Arlo and their furry protector had agreed to meet some of the Faraday clan in the Art Institute’s North Garden, another verdant paradise tucked away in this concrete jungle. Beth Faraday, Casey’s younger sister, worked as an assistant curator at the museum, and in the short weeks that Ilda and Arlo had been in Chicago, they’d shared several midday meals with the stunning young woman, as the Art Institute was only a few blocks from their townhouse. Arlo already adored her sophisticated aunt.
As far as Ilda could tell, the feeling was entirely mutual, though it appeared Beth also had a severe soft spot for the gimpy Cerdito, who Beth insisted on calling “Piglet.”
But it wasn’t just Beth they’d met for lunch today in the North Garden. Beth’s fiancé, the bearded man named Vick who had been party to their rescue in Colombia, held the end of Cerdito’s leash as Beth and Arlo focused on integrating a set of plastic lions and tigers—courtesy of a recent trip to Brookfield Zoo—with Arlo’s existing stable of dinosaurs. Casey sat cross-legged in the grass, Arlo comfortably in his lap, another of his employees—friends?—lounging on a bench beneath a shade tree, blue gaze watchful whenever he glanced up from the paperback he held between scarred, tattooed fingers.
However, it was the Faraday seated next to Ilda on another bench, some distance from their grassy picnic, who held Ilda’s attention. Sofia Abtan Faraday, the family matriarch, had flown in from Boston a mere day after they’d escaped Colombia. Because, as the older woman had explained, “Granddaughters don’t grow on trees.”
Adam had been right—Arlo had indeed inherited her unusual light-gray eyes from her grandmother. Sofia’s features had softened in her sixth decade, but Beth might as well be a carbon copy, and Ilda could clearly see what Arlo would look like as she grew older—an elegant beauty.
For now, though, Arlo remained Ilda’s innocent little girl, her brush with violence having no obvious lasting effect. There had been no nightmares, and while she had initially signed several questions asking where Pipe was, Arlo appeared to have accepted that he wasn’t here, wouldn’t ever be here, and while she might not know why, her fast-growing bond with Casey had begun to reverse the paternal deficit.
Casey, who was trying so hard. Casey, who hadn’t let a single day pass without spending
time with his daughter, who had attended all of the classes at Children of Peace with Ilda, who had found Cerdito a top-notch veterinarian and installed new locks on all the doors and windows in the townhouse...and, most importantly, had respected Ilda’s quietly voiced wish that he keep his distance from her, Ilda.
The past few weeks had been a lesson in humility, and the cost that fear extracted on one’s life. She’d needed as much emotional and physical distance from Casey as possible—without infringing on his parental rights—in order to come to terms with just how, exactly, she had spent the last four years of her life.
For instance, Ilda had money. Money money, more than she’d need in a lifetime, but until Pipe had died and his solicitor had contacted her, Ilda hadn’t realized precisely how much money she had, nor what Pipe had done with it when she’d first been hospitalized after the chapel fire.
He’d invested it—wisely. A significant percentage of the royalties from Almángel’s post-mortem album had been funneled into high-performing funds, all free of the taint of Pipe’s illegal drug trade. He’d also set aside a portion in a trust for Arlo, which included the proceeds from Théa’s estate, and which he also had added to on a quarterly basis with money he earned in legitimate business from the commercial real estate he’d owned in Medellín, Bogotá and Barranquilla.
That money—Ilda’s and Arlo’s—was completely protected from seizure by those who would make claims on his empire, now that he was gone. No international or government agency, nor any rival cartel leader, could touch those investments. For that, Ilda would be forever grateful.
But Pipe had stolen from her, too. He’d hidden her away at the hacienda, limiting her forays into Medellín more than she had realized, having buried her head in the sand with her grief over Théa and Casey and funneling the entirety of her emotional energy into caring for her daughter. He’d kept her dependent on him for every tangible cent. It wasn’t until she’d arrived in Chicago, taken a good hard look at her assets and, for the first time, dug deep into the legacy Almángel had left on the music world that Ilda recognized her personal potential hadn’t died along with Théa.
