Read Online Crazed: A Blood Money Novel by Edie Harris - Free Book Online
Authors: Edie Harris
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his chest rising and falling like he’d sprinted a mile instead of just standing frozen in place. A sudden chill cooled the sweat beading his skin, and the hand gripping the gun trembled lightly.
Making quick work of the safety chain, he threw back the dead bolt and yanked open the door. Oxygen left him in a rush, his stomach abruptly knotted with rusty iron chains. “You can’t be real.” His voice shook as he stared, wild-eyed, at the DEA contact. “You died.”
“No,” said his wife, her face draining of all color as she stumbled back from the doorway. “ You died.”
Chapter Four
When Ilda Almeida had woken up that morning, it had been with a smile on her face. Even the text message waiting from her handler hadn’t worried her overmuch, not enough to dim her good mood. She’d eaten a hearty breakfast, gone to mass and returned home to run a few kilometers on the treadmill. Hours later, her escort had dropped her at the club and gone about his business, while she’d slipped out the back and jogged the few blocks to the hotel where she was supposed to meet an American named Faraday.
She forgot how to smile as she collapsed against the wall, her shaking knees barely holding her upright as she stared at a dead man. A face that was older, harsher, his bone structure almost violent in its blunt masculinity. Dark hair buzzed nearly to the scalp, brows black as a raven’s wings and shrewd gray-hazel eyes. An uncompromising mouth she’d once felt on every inch of her body—begged for, in fact, on countless occasions.
Casímiro Cortez had been a singular force in her life. Not a day passed where she didn’t think of him, not once in four years, and to see him standing within touching distance after believing him to be deceased did not compute. Her brain was on a permanent record skip the longer she stared at him. “What do you mean, I died?”
He appeared shell-shocked. “The chapel...the chapel was leveled. With you inside.”
The memory of searing pain, thankfully dulled with time, slashed across her upper back. “Yes.”
Evidently her simple response wasn’t enough, because he gripped the doorframe in one white-knuckled hand, as if he needed the support to remain upright. “I was there. I saw the satellite footage. No one left that rubble—not the priest, not you. Not you , Ilda.”
“You...were there.” She couldn’t process this. What did he mean, he was there? If he were there, wouldn’t he have gotten her out? It almost sounded as though he’d sat on the sidelines and observed her entrapment within the chapel, doing nothing to help, letting her hurt for what seemed like decades before help came along.
A throbbing started in her temple, and she suddenly remembered where she was, where they were. Barging past him into the hotel room, noting that he practically leaped out of the way to avoid touching her, she whirled, shoving her fists into the pockets of her flowing white linen trousers to keep from reaching for him. He didn’t want to touch her? Fine. She didn’t need her hands anywhere near him, either.
Ilda watched in silence as he bolted the door and drew the chain before moving to the windows to twist the blinds closed and adjust the curtains. The light in the tiny hotel room dimmed, but not enough to lessen the impact of him in all his bare-chested glory. Casí, with his brute strength and the unvarnished power that had always radiated from him. Casí, her Casí.
“Who is Faraday?” An American named Faraday, that was who her handler’s text had said was in this particular hotel room—an American for whom she needed to facilitate an introduction with Pipe. Except Pipe would know this man’s face. “We found a body, in your clothes, with your ID. You...you died in a firefight with the Orras cartel.”
Shaking his head, he tossed his pistol on the bed, and she did her best not to glare at it. “We had to make it look like I died.”
“We?” The throbbing increased,
Making quick work of the safety chain, he threw back the dead bolt and yanked open the door. Oxygen left him in a rush, his stomach abruptly knotted with rusty iron chains. “You can’t be real.” His voice shook as he stared, wild-eyed, at the DEA contact. “You died.”
“No,” said his wife, her face draining of all color as she stumbled back from the doorway. “ You died.”
Chapter Four
When Ilda Almeida had woken up that morning, it had been with a smile on her face. Even the text message waiting from her handler hadn’t worried her overmuch, not enough to dim her good mood. She’d eaten a hearty breakfast, gone to mass and returned home to run a few kilometers on the treadmill. Hours later, her escort had dropped her at the club and gone about his business, while she’d slipped out the back and jogged the few blocks to the hotel where she was supposed to meet an American named Faraday.
She forgot how to smile as she collapsed against the wall, her shaking knees barely holding her upright as she stared at a dead man. A face that was older, harsher, his bone structure almost violent in its blunt masculinity. Dark hair buzzed nearly to the scalp, brows black as a raven’s wings and shrewd gray-hazel eyes. An uncompromising mouth she’d once felt on every inch of her body—begged for, in fact, on countless occasions.
Casímiro Cortez had been a singular force in her life. Not a day passed where she didn’t think of him, not once in four years, and to see him standing within touching distance after believing him to be deceased did not compute. Her brain was on a permanent record skip the longer she stared at him. “What do you mean, I died?”
He appeared shell-shocked. “The chapel...the chapel was leveled. With you inside.”
The memory of searing pain, thankfully dulled with time, slashed across her upper back. “Yes.”
Evidently her simple response wasn’t enough, because he gripped the doorframe in one white-knuckled hand, as if he needed the support to remain upright. “I was there. I saw the satellite footage. No one left that rubble—not the priest, not you. Not you , Ilda.”
“You...were there.” She couldn’t process this. What did he mean, he was there? If he were there, wouldn’t he have gotten her out? It almost sounded as though he’d sat on the sidelines and observed her entrapment within the chapel, doing nothing to help, letting her hurt for what seemed like decades before help came along.
A throbbing started in her temple, and she suddenly remembered where she was, where they were. Barging past him into the hotel room, noting that he practically leaped out of the way to avoid touching her, she whirled, shoving her fists into the pockets of her flowing white linen trousers to keep from reaching for him. He didn’t want to touch her? Fine. She didn’t need her hands anywhere near him, either.
Ilda watched in silence as he bolted the door and drew the chain before moving to the windows to twist the blinds closed and adjust the curtains. The light in the tiny hotel room dimmed, but not enough to lessen the impact of him in all his bare-chested glory. Casí, with his brute strength and the unvarnished power that had always radiated from him. Casí, her Casí.
“Who is Faraday?” An American named Faraday, that was who her handler’s text had said was in this particular hotel room—an American for whom she needed to facilitate an introduction with Pipe. Except Pipe would know this man’s face. “We found a body, in your clothes, with your ID. You...you died in a firefight with the Orras cartel.”
Shaking his head, he tossed his pistol on the bed, and she did her best not to glare at it. “We had to make it look like I died.”
“We?” The throbbing increased,
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