Cease and Desist (The IMA Book 4)

by Campbell, Nenia

“Something is wrong here,” I said. “You knew China Town was a bad idea from the beginning, but you didn't say anything — vague warnings don't count,” I added, when he opened his mouth. “You didn't say anything, and now we're in this hot mess. We're in this together. So tell me, what the hell is going on? And don't lie!”

  His lips twitched. The look he gave me was purely sardonic. I could see him weighing what he knew against what he was willing to tell me, because I had seen that look a thousand times before; I could never be sure whether it meant he was honestly trying to keep me from danger, or just trying to save his own skin. How deeply his green blood flowed.

  “Tell me,” I snarled. “All of it.”

  “All of it,” he repeated, lifting a golden eyebrow. “Well, you ever hear of the yakuza, darlin?”

  I stared at him blankly. “The Japanese mafia?”

  “Not exactly.” I started to correct him and he cut me off. “These guys aren't the real deal.”

  “What do you mean? Like, they're fakes?”

  “They're a splinter group, cut off. Adrift.” He straightened his jacket, adjusting the sleeve I had tugged. “Being isolated from their home country has caused them to lose their sense of honor.”

  I doubted that was the only thing that had caused them to lose their 'honor.'

  My expression must have betrayed my incredulity. Michael gave a sort of unwilling smile. “It's also resulted in a loss of valuable contacts and business acumen. They're desperate. Desperate enough to do anything.”

  “Oh,” I said, quietly. That made sense.

  The intermixed smells of raw fish, cooking food, and smoky incense filled the air. People looked at us curiously from the open doors of the shops.

  I wished I'd had the foresight to wear a scarf, sunglasses, anything that could conceal my face from the CCTV cameras lining the streets. I turned my head towards the street, away from the sidewalk and the shops, knowing that it wouldn't do much good.

  “Why are they chasing you?”

  Michael glanced at me. “They're chasing me because I'm the reason that they were forced to leave Japan — and I'm not discussing this now.”

  I might have argued with him if it weren't for that hasty qualifier, now. Would he discuss it later, then? I suspected he wouldn't, not willingly, but I intended to make sure he followed through. I nodded grimly — yes, I would — and Michael took my bobbing head for the agreement it only partly signified.

  We wove our way back to the Financial District, where law firms were stacked on top of one another like Legos, and frosted display windows showcasing ensembles from exotic locales like Italy and Japan. Everyone was dressed very nicely, except for the tourists, and the hipsters (and the homeless), and I saw a number of men in three-piece suits. I realized suddenly that we had managed to ditch our pursuers.

  Michael closed his hand around my arm as I turned instinctively towards the street that would bring us back to our office suite.

  I jolted in surprise. “What are you doing?”

  “We're not going there.”

  “What? We're not? But they have no idea — ”

  “Maybe,” he said, darkly. “Or maybe they do.”

  He thinks they might be responsible?

  It wasn't an outlandish suspicion given who they were and what they'd done but the dismissive way Michael had acted when I'd accused Suraya of acting suspicious made me think he'd trusted them.

  “So we're going somewhere else, possibly leaving them unaware that anything is wrong?”

  “The best place to search for allies is among your enemies,” he said. “But those who grow dissatisfied with one leader can just as easily grow dissatisfied with another, which is why it's important to have a back-up plan. And if they have any lick of sense between them, they'll have done the same.”

  That seemed unnecessarily callous. But he had money to burn, and if he wanted to spend it fueling his paranoid fantasies, then who was I to judge? It wasn't my money. Half the time he was right, anyway — although I'd never tell him that.

  We continued walking. I followed him; I had no idea where we were going. The fact that he hadn't entrusted this back-up plan even to me hurt.

  “They'll notice we didn't come back with the food.”

  “Fuck the food.”

  We came across another cluster of skyscrapers. Tall buildings in San Francisco are spaced out, to keep the sidewalks from growing dark and cold, the way they are in older cities like New York and Chicago. The silvery gray light filtering down from the clouds did little to relieve the chill, but it was something.

  Michael headed for one of the buildings, which contained another set of suites. A set he hadn't told the others about. His eyes were fixed on a point that I wasn't sure existed in the building. He was examining all the possibilities in his head, like a miser counting his coins, and, like a miser, I knew he didn't intend on sharing his thoughts. Not without prompting.

  As we got into the elevator, a dull ache spiked up my jaw. Without consciously being aware of it, I'd been clenching my teeth. He seemed to fill the entire space of the elevator with his presence, dominating it without actually needing to exert conscious control.

  I would never be able to inspire that same sort of awe. Not physically. My skills were impressive, and I could make people fear for their safety, for the safety of their personal data, for their financial assets — but a look at my face, at my body, at me would never inspire the same fearful reverence as Michael.

  We rode the elevators all the way to the top floor. It was very quiet. Most of the lights were dimmed, and the carpeted halls — still smelling of the lemon cleaner the janitor had used — muffled our footfalls.

  Michael took a key out of his pocket and unlocked one of the doors. There was a key pad on the wall, just past the threshold, and he punched in a string of digits. Must be some silent alarm.

  The moment the door closed, I pounced.

  “How did you get involved with the yakuza?”

  Lights flickered to life, like blinking eyes in the darkness. Candles, I thought, until I realized they had no flames. They were the LED variety, heatless, powered by small batteries. More precautions.

  “I invited them over for fucking tea and scones,” he said, “what do you think?”

  “Are you sure you want an answer to that?”

  Michael raked a hand through his wind-touseled hair, causing his shadow to convulse sinisterly on the wall behind him. “Don't sass me,” he said wearily.

  “Why can't you just tell me? We're in this together, in case you've forgotten, and you keeping things from me has never worked out in your favor.”

  “You're too nosy for your own fucking good.”

  “You know what they say. Knowledge is power.”

  “Knowledge is a rope, and you're weaving a noose out of it. Leave some slack for the enemy.”

  “You wouldn't be getting so defensive if you hadn't killed some of them.”

  Silence. His expression revealed nothing, but I knew I was right.

  I shook my head, frustrated. “Why were you contracted to kill someone in the yakuza? Couldn't they hire someone Japanese?”

  “Fine, you win,” he said. “You want to know the cold, hard facts? The ugly details? One of their superiors found out that these two dick-dribblers were skimming profits. They were part of a corrupt branch, the rotten part of the tree. The end was near for them anyway, but this was the termite that broke the motherfucking branch.”

  “And so their boss — he hired you to kill them?”

  “No. They hired me to kill him so that they could carry on, as per usual.”

  “And did you succeed?”

  Michael closed his eyes briefly. “Of course. That was why they hired me. I never fail — at least, I didn't used to. You were the first mission I'd ever botched. My luck's been spotty ever since.”

  I flinched, as much as from what he'd said as how he'd said it. He was glad to be free of his assassin's mantle — or so he claimed �
�� but sometimes I wondered if he missed that power. If he missed being feared. Michael hadn't exactly left his previous profession by choice. Did he resent being taken away from all that? Did he resent me?

  He started pacing again, more furiously this time. All the pent-up energy inside his body fueled his erratic movements. He reminded me of a caged lion, stalking with lithe, agitated grace. Beautiful to watch — until he came after you.

  “I killed their boss before he could do the same thing to them. His men were cowards. They should have been killed. Men who betray their master cannot be trusted; their boss would have been smart to eliminate them as soon as their weakness presented itself. But he hadn't, because they had cut their pinkie fingers and sworn allegiance, and that was supposed to signify bravery.

  “I had a feeling they were going to pin his death on me. As I said, they were cowards and their branch was not populated by foolish men. They would know immediately that their boss had been murdered and the suspicion would fall on the shoulders of those with the most to gain from getting him out of the way — these men. And they were not efficacious enough to stage a coup, not without setting someone up for a fall.”

  “Someone like you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Just like Adrian and the IMA.”

  Michael paused. “Yes. I'd anticipated that, however, and this time I made sure to plant plenty of evidence. DNA evidence, circumstantial evidence. There was plenty, and I hid it in such a way that the traces of their guilt would only come to light if there was an investigation.”

  “Which I'm guessing there was.”

  “Of course,” Michael said again. “Criminals are perfectly fine with breaking the law, until they happen to be on the receiving end of it. Nobody likes getting fucked over. Criminals least of all, because they know how easy it is to get off scot-free.”

  No wonder they hated him. I'd hated him too, for the way he made me feel as if there were no way out. He was not a man you wanted as an enemy. He could render you powerless in an instant, and hating him was the only option, because if you feared him, you were done for, because you were as good as acknowledging the hopelessness of your situation.

  “Why the hell would you get involved with the mafia?”

  “Because they paid me upfront.”

  “That's a stupid reason,” I blurted.

  “People have gotten involved with them for less.”

  He moved towards me.

  “It doesn't take much to get involved with the mob.”

  When he kissed me I could taste the city on him, electric and vibrant. Kissing him always made me think of neon lights and pitch-black alleyways, because the live-wire burst of passion I felt when I was around him was tempered by the grim knowledge that we couldn't, couldn't keep on like this. He would be killed. I would be killed. This couldn't last. One way, or another. This couldn't last.

  “I'm not good at this,” I said. “Any of this.”

  Michael lifted his head, pressing his forehead against mine. “You're still alive,” he pointed out. “That's more than most men and women in this profession can say for themselves.”

  “I'm not like you.” I felt him stiffen. “I wasn't trained for this. I don't want to be in this profession.”

  “Oh, sweetheart.” Michael gave a rusty sounding laugh and shook his head. “You haven't got a goddamned choice.”

  “There's always a choice. And I'm afraid that if I choose to stay in this profession, I'm going to die.”

  “You won't,” he said. “Not as long as I'm alive to keep you safe.”

  I touched his scarred cheek. Scar tissue is different from regular skin — it's rougher, stronger … and yet, in so many ways, also more vulnerable. “But Michael,” I whispered, “what if they get you, too?”

  “They won't.”

  “You're the strongest man I've ever met,” I said, “but even you're not Superman.”

  “I'm not a hero,” he said sharply, “and I'm not afraid to die. I'd rather die tomorrow than spend an entire lifetime without you.” He pulled back to look at me. “When Callaghan took you from me, I realized that for the first time in my waste of a life I had something worth living for, and the only thing more terrifying than that was the thought of losing you.”

  “Do you ever regret it?” I asked him. “Falling in love with me?”

  “No.” His voice was full of certainty, so much that it made my heart feel as though it were about to burst. But — he'd hesitated for a moment, and I wondered if he didn't regret it after all. “…do you?”

  I asked myself this nearly every day. Once, the answer would have been yes. My life certainly would have been simpler without him in it. Sometimes when I was with him I felt more alone than when I was by myself. But I'd tried to outrun my feelings before and it was like trying to outrun my shadow; you cannot outrun the darkest part of you.

  On the other hand, he had made my days explosive, lighting up hidden fuses I hadn't even known I'd possessed; it was as though I had been living my life in black and white, and in being with him I was able to see color for the first time in all its vivid glory.

  Nothing is as deadly as the love of a powerful man.

  “No,” I said, and I hesitated, too, so maybe that made us even. Just two more hurts in a long line of hurts, maps of scar tissue on hearts that could stand to take far more beatings than they should.

  “I love you,” I said. “God help me.”

  “He can't help you. But I can.”

  This time, when he kissed me, we ended up on the floor in a tangle of emotions that blinked and misfired like broken Christmas lights.

  All my life, I had been taught to regard sex as evil, unless it was within the context of marriage — in which it became a necessary evil. Now I was in a relationship that hinged on it.

  Could he help me? Could anyone help me? Or were we doomed to fail before we even began?

  “Te necesito,” he said, in near-perfect Spanish, so intensely that his words nearly scalded. “Se mío.”

  “Me estoy cayendo,” I said, reaching to touch him, to assure myself that he was really there.

  That he was real.

  “I'll catch you.” He spoke in English, intent now on my body, the look in his eyes making me flush.

  My brain flicked back to the nightmare I had, and I recoiled, managing to curb it only at the last minute. But I still had those memories. A frightened girl, alone in a basement. A dark boat in a sea of danger.

  I thought, but did not say, what if you miss?

  Michael

  I still remembered the day I had gotten involved with the yakuza. I was working for Callaghan while Christina was at the BN's special training center. I'd been finding things that hadn't added up, before I'd realized about his big takeover. I'd known that whatever I found wouldn't be good, and the urge to squirrel away some emergency cash kicked in.

  Most Americans live paycheck-to-paycheck, and in a time of financial crisis they really feel the rub. I grew up dirt poor and it's not an experience I really care to repeat. I always keep some extra padding in my accounts — at least a couple thou more than I think I need. You never know when you might have to go off the grid and disappear.

  When they came to me with their proposition, my first thought was skepticism. I was hardly the best man for the job. Mob hits are high profile — they often make the news. I was also high profile, wanted in multiple states with a listing on Interpol of my very own. An unknown would be preferable, if they wanted to keep this on the down-low. I told them as much, offered to put them in contact with someone who better matched their agenda.

  No, they had insisted. They wanted me.

  That sent up some red flags. I had considered that they were associated with Callaghan in some way, but my nosing around had turned up nothing. They were exactly what they claimed to be: ex-yakuza, greedier than their means, and too incompetent to utilize the resources they had at hand to get rid of the man who posed them the greatest threat.

 
Well, apart from my own damn sense of pride.

  I killed their boss, and they paid me. And then, later, as the DNA evidence I'd planted surfaced, I realized that they had tried to frame me for it. If my discharge from the IMA had taught me anything, it was that crime scenes should never be left too clean: it makes it far too easy for others to leave behind incriminating evidence to implicate you.

  That they had turned up now was an unwelcome coincidence, and I had never put much faith in coincidences, anyway. I suspected that their presence in San Francisco meant one of two things: (a) someone else — probably Callaghan — was looking for me, and they had followed the same clues, or (b) they'd had some outside help in finding me.

  There were a lot of men out there who would pay big money to see me stop breathing. Half would probably double the payment if it meant they got front-row seats. Some, like Adrian, would probably null some of the fee if they were allowed to participate.

  Christina's expression as I had listed off some of her more obvious weaknesses had impressed itself in my conscious. I saw it again and again each time she looked at me with a new shyness that hadn't been there in a while, and the nervous way she skirted around me when I stood too close. It was true what I had told her, that I observed because I had been paid to, and because she had been my intended target once upon a time.

  Things were different now. And the same people who would pay to have me killed would see nothing wrong with using Christina as a means to an end — my end. If she got hurt in the interim, if she was raped, or tortured, or killed…they wouldn't care.

  Because she was my weakness, and I would do anything to keep her safe.

  Even if it meant pushing her away.

  Chapter Nine

  Survival

  Suraya

  The drug in that filthy needle had been potent. When I opened my eyes, it was to find that my surroundings had changed completely. I doubted I'd been out for long, though. When I reached up to touch it, my hair was not greasy enough (interesting that they hadn't bothered to cuff me) and — I took a quick sniff — I didn't smell. The room did, though. Filth, sweat, and sex. It was rank.