Crazed: A Blood Money Novel by Edie Harris Page B

she’d died. He needed to appear lovesick, and desperate, and lounging angrily in the corner of the club was pretty desperately lovesick behavior, if you asked him.
    No matter what Ilda had said, they weren’t over. Not even close. She was his fucking Helen of Troy, and he’d raze this godforsaken country to the ground in order to get her back in his arms for good.
    But first, he had to find Adam’s scrawny ass and save it, no thanks to the man sitting alone at a small table to the right of the stage. Felipe Marin Donado wore a tailored suit, the jacket unbuttoned and white dress shirt opened casually at the throat. Pipe had always been a well-dressed man, his lean frame ideal for the current trend of slim-cut business wear, and despite the fact that he was in his mid-forties, he was incredibly fit. And strong. And, objectively speaking, handsome, his thick black hair just gone gray at the temples.
    And staring up at Ilda, his smile was not the least bit brotherly.
    Casey knew that look. Casey owned that look, damn it.
    The most powerful man in Colombia—in South America, truth be told—watched Casey’s wife as though she belonged to him. To Pipe. But...that wasn’t possible.
    It couldn’t be possible.
    Dread curled low in his stomach as he glowered at Pipe, for the moment uncaring how he appeared to the club-goers at large. Pipe’s hand lay flat on the pristine tablecloth, fingers tapping along with the beat of the percussion, a single tea light working in conjunction with glow of the stage lights to cast his face with enough warmth to clearly display his expression. His mouth was curved, the lines at the corners of his eyes crinkling in genuine pleasure.
    Fucking hell. Pipe was in love with Ilda.
    Swallowing the black, possessive rage that threatened, Casey tossed back the rest of his beer and signaled the waiter. He couldn’t afford to waste another moment, not when he was feeling so unstable—and hell, he probably ought to look into meditation classes when he got back home, too, just to be on the safe side.
    Had he mentioned how much he hated Colombia? Because Jesus Christ.
    The waiter approached. “Another Costeña, sir?” He moved to take the empty bottle from in front of Casey.
    Showtime. Swiping his arm over the tabletop, Casey sent the beer bottle flying, enjoy the satisfyingly loud crash of breaking glass. “Not interested in your cheap beer, amigo,” he growled, faking tipsiness. “How much for a bottle of top-shelf tequila?” Tossing down a handful of pesos, he crossed his arms over his chest and fixed the poor waiter with a belligerent stare.
    The waiter scurried away without touching the bills, murmuring that he would return shortly, and Casey began the mental countdown. Heaving an irritated sigh, he pulled the burner phone from his pocket and focused every ounce of his attention on the screen, checking fútbol scores and shooting off a text in Spanish, which would ping off a program on Della’s computer and send an automated response back to his cell, inane and untraceable.
    A throat cleared to his left, and he looked up into the forbidding face of Manuel, Pipe’s second-in-command...and one of the bastards who’d attacked Adam. “Cortez. You look pretty good for a ghost.” He propped his hands on his hips, staring impassively. “Boss wants to talk to you.”
    Casey made a show of hesitating before pushing out of the booth, but Manuel didn’t move out of his way. “What?” he snapped, as though he didn’t know what was next.
    Without a word, Manuel patted him down, starting with Casey’s torso, then moving to his arms and his legs. Under normal circumstances, Casey was armed to the teeth with sidearms, knives and other tools, but as Cortez, he’d only ever carried a 9mm, tucked into the waistband of his cargos. Manuel relieved him of the pistol, tucking it into his own belt. “Follow me.” He turned on his heel and walked toward the stage.
    Casey trailed behind, praying he