“Because you're a sick fuck who tortures people!”
He wagged his finger at me. “You make it sound so simple. It isn't. Not at all. Torture covers a broad spectrum. The two main subgroups are physiological and psychological, but these can be divided into the subcategories of spiritual, emotional, physical, and sexual. Everyone has at least one weakness in at least one of these areas that can be exploited. Finding it only requires patience, and a suspension of societal norms.
“Tell me,” he continued. “Why is it that this gets me no results” — he dug the heel of his hand into one of my stitched-up sides — “but this does?” I waited, trying not to breathe, as I braced myself for the pain to follow. His breath tickled my face unpleasantly. Too late, I realized what he meant to do.
It wasn't a kiss, because that implied at least some form of emotion was involved — hatred, love, lust. This had none of these things. It was a passionless attempt to hurt me. He was assaulting my mouth — and it was working. I was revolted by everything. The smell of him, like the dry, crumbly sweetness of baby powder. The girlish softness of his lips. The way his breath tasted of mint. It was worse than I could have imagined, and I did the worst thing possible.
I screamed.
He gave me a cold, knowing smile. I was shaking so hard, it took a moment for my larynx to work. “Your boss — ”
“Will do absolutely nothing. Michael pushed him over the edge. Derailed his conscience. Richardson wants information — by any means necessary. I take care of the rest.”
“This is hypocrisy.”
“Wrong again,” he said cheerfully. “I'm only following orders. I can't be faulted for enjoying my orders — not by him, anyway,” he added, as I began to launch another protest. “And yes, while you are, admittedly, quite fun to play with and I do so enjoy the time we spend together, if Richardson changed his mind and told me to slit your pretty throat…I'd do it.”
I believed him.
“You were worth quite a bit of money alive. Rewards were posted galore. Michael could have turned you in and kept that money for himself if he wanted to sabotage us. The authorities mightn't have killed him — not if he told them what they wanted to know. He could've pleaded for a lesser sentence by putting away some of his old mates. But he didn't. You were with him for over a month, Christina Parker. Do you honestly expect me, or anyone else for that matter, to believe that he let you live without” — he lowered his eyes meaningfully — “a bit of bargaining on your part?”
“It's the truth.”
“We'll see if your tune stays the same once I get you singing.” He loosened my collar. “Just like a wee bird.” I raised my leg and kneed him in the groin. I heard him retch. It was the most satisfying sound I'd ever heard in my life.
I turned to run. A metallic click stopped me dead.
Adrian was still half bent over, clutching his abdomen and looking like he might be sick, but he was smiling. Smiling.
“No,” I whispered. “Shit — ”
“Oh, yes.” He caressed my face with the muzzle of the gun. “Now, what say you and I go someplace a little…quieter?”
“You'll do no such thing. Drop your weapon.”
Michael had one of his guns drawn. He looked hot, sweaty, and fatigued. The dampness on his clothes suggested blood, though it was impossible to tell whether it was his. When I encountered him in the locker room, he'd already been injured.
Michael gave me a look that suggested there would be hell to pay later — if there was a later. “Drop the gun, Callaghan. Now.”
“Whatever you say, Michael.” The gun fell to the floor with a clatter.
I heard him step forward to pick it up. “Hands against the wall.” He directed with the big rifle. “I have a clear shot at your head.”
Adrian moved as if to obey. The crinkle of his heavily-starched shirt was the only warning I got as he grabbed me, whirling around so I was pressed against him, back to front, with his knife at my throat. I remembered what he had told me, only moments before.
“Don't come any closer, or she dies.”
“I'll shoot you both.”
“What?”
“You won't. I know you're empty. If you weren't, you would've killed me when my back was turned.” He paused, adjusting the knife with the neatest flick of his wrist, and I felt something warm trickle down my throat. “And we both know you don't really want to kill her.”
Less than half an inch deeper, and he'd slice into my jugular vein.
Michael held his stance — and the bluff — for a moment longer, then tossed the assault rifles aside, producing another handgun that had been tucked out of sight at the hip. Sweat trickled down my face, down my neck, making the cut sting. “Let her go. You want me.”
“Not quite, Michael, my boy. Not quite.”
Without warning, he pushed me. Michael caught me by the collar, tearing the back of my blouse. He stopped my fall, though my knees still hit the tile hard enough that I felt the shock of it in my bones. “Get behind me,” he said under his breath.
His next words were cut off by the alarm. It had started up again. He didn't jump, as I had, but it was enough of a distraction that he almost missed the flash of silver headed towards his chest. “Look out!” I gave him a hard shove, and he twisted around to fight me off so the knife plunged into his left shoulder, instead of his heart. The gun went off as his fingers contracted spasmodically. By now it was no longer aimed anywhere near Adrian, and the bullet took out one of the ceiling lamps with a loud bang, sending down a shower of sparks and broken glass.
I covered my face and head as Michael began to curse at the top of his lungs. The knife was small, but at least two inches of it were embedded in his skin. The sight of it, standing straight up like that, was unnatural. Michael moaned, his fingers digging into the flesh of his shoulder.
“Are you…all right?”
“No,” he hissed, switching the gun to his right hand. Another litany of curses escaped him. One of the doors nearby opened and a man in black uniform burst out. Michael fired, but the bullets didn't pass through the heavy-looking material. Not at such far range. But there was a gap between helmet and visor, so the guard could speak and breathe unimpeded even without removing his protective gear. Michael dropped to his knees, angled upward, and fired. A spray of blood hit both visor and floor. The man collapsed.
Michael glanced over at me. I saw a lot in that gaze; it scared me.
He bent over the man, examining the uniform. He examined the guard's gun, turning it over in his hands, testing the weight, looking at the ammunition. “It's a stun gun.” That didn't sound as bad as a real gun, but his tone made me wonder. In the guard's other hand was a small, black device. Michael's face darkened. “He called for backup.”
Several other doors opened with identical whooshes of air as all the access panels were activated at once. Men in black body armor poured into the small hallway. Gunfire erupted, pounding at my brain like a jackhammer. I wondered if I would go deaf. I wondered if I'd live long enough to find out.
Michael grabbed the fallen guard's riot shield. “Stay behind me!”
I ducked behind him — and the shield — and felt a tiny prick in my arm. I met the smooth, tinted visor of the man who had shot me and fell to my knees.
Michael tore open a pack of bullets with his teeth, loaded the magazine of his handgun, and fired off another round into the writhing sea of guards. He was holding the shield in his bad arm. Drops of his own blood spattered the tiles at his feet as his old wounds oozed and bled through their wrappings. The only sign of his pain was the sweat on his face and the tremors that wracked his body with every hit of the recoil. A dart whizzed by. He pulled his torso back and fired at the shooter. The man dropped, and another stepped forward to fill his place.
Then — Michael was hit. He cursed as the dart embedded itself in his shoulder and he dropped the shield. With a grim expression, he continued shooting until one of the darts spiraled into his exposed chest,
sending him stumbling backwards through a slippery trail of blood. He collapsed, was handcuffed, and then taken away. One of the guards approached me, next —
And the scene faded to black.
Chapter Seventeen
Bound
Christina:
29 hours left.
The floor, the ceilings, my clothes — even the air — were all different.
I sat up, taking in my surroundings. Gone were the padded floors and walls of the containment cell. Gone was the stale underground air, riddled with the intolerable chill of the AC. I was in an open room with no furniture and smooth, curved walls that made me feel as if I were on the inside of a large metal egg. The air tasted salty, reminiscent of the sea. There were no windows to check, but I suspected we wear near the ocean. Or on it. A mechanical hum hinted at an engine.
Somebody — I hoped it was a woman — had changed me into black sweatpants and a white t-shirt. I couldn't understand why I kept getting white clothes. They hadn't maintained their color long. Maybe it had to do with transparency, and being able to hide foreign objects in the folds of your clothes. Or maybe the IMA just bought all of the supplies for their prisoners in bulk and the cheapest t-shirts happened to be white.
My right wrist was handcuffed to Michael, who was either asleep or unconscious. His breathing sounded labored, so I opted for the latter. The guards had really nailed him with those darts. Assuming they all contained the same amounts of tranquilizer, he'd easily received five times the does that I had.
Michael was also wearing sweatpants. No shoes. White strips of bandages were wrapped around his bare left shoulder, where somebody had removed Adrian's knife. There was another set of bandages, also on the left side of his body, scant inches away from his heart and stained blood. I knew he'd been injured, but had no idea how badly. He didn't have many scars, though — not like the Michael from my dream. There were a couple, mostly on his arms, but the nastiest was just above the waistband of his pants.
It was easy to see why the IMA wanted him dead. I'd watched him take out something like twenty armored guards with a bullet wound and a bad arm. He had a body like Action Man with muscles so defined, they looked like they could cut glass.
I realized I was staring and turned away. My left arm was puffy from the sedative. Not an opiate, or I'd be ill — or dead. Somebody wanted me alive. Wanted both of us alive.
Why?
The door opened. A guard walked in. He threw a wary glance at Michael before setting down a food tray and two water bottles without caps. I tried to stop him. He threw off my arm. “Wait — where are you taking us?”
The door slammed shut behind him.
I couldn't move with Michael holding me down like a deadweight, so I remained where I was, picking at the fruit the guard had brought. Why did they handcuff me to Michael? If they think we're accomplices, wouldn't they lock us in separate rooms?
Michael was still out cold.
I'd never been so afraid or uncertain.
I must have blacked out. I woke to the chain tugging my wrist. Michael was stretching. Pain tore over his face as he clenched his healing shoulder. His eyes opened, meeting mine. I saw them widen in shock. “What — ” He looked around. “What is this?”
“A handcuff,” I said. “Good morning, sunshine.”
I saw his fingers whiten as he gripped the bandages and glared at me. Maybe I was being a bitch — he deserved it. He was the one chained up like an animal. His life had been thrown into uncertainty. The hunter had become the hunted. “Does it hurt?” I asked, nodding at the bandages.
“More than you can fucking imagine that.”
“I doubt that.” Even operating at half-capacity, he was far stronger than I.
“Are you afraid, Christina?”
“Are you?”
“Fear is a useful emotion,” he pointed out. “It makes the body alert.”
“You didn't answer my question.”
He sighed. “Yes. I'm afraid.”
If he was afraid, where did that leave me? “Why? What are they going to do to us?”
“I'm fairly sure we're on a stealth boat. They have cloaking devices invisible to most forms of radar.” He leaned back on his elbows, the strain in his face obvious even to me. “They're either taking us to their base in the Ukraine, or the one in Mexico.”
“What's the difference?”
“Temperature.”
A whirring noise drew my attention skyward. Two of the panels in the wall parted to reveal a flat screen — rather like the one Adrian had used to make me watch the snuff film. The screen flickered, revealing an office replete with a desk and a potted banana plant. A man walked onscreen and sat behind the desk.
Richardson smiled pleasantly. “Good afternoon, Miss Parker. And Mr. Boutilier — back from the dead.”
“No thanks to you.”
I looked at Michael. He shrugged.
“Is the food to your liking?”
I'd barely tasted it.
“Don't waste our time with your pleasantries. We know this isn't a fucking cruise.”
“Still sore, Mr. Boutilier? Remind me, how many men did it take to bring you down?”
“Ten.”
“You took out some of my best men.”
“They couldn't have been that good if I could take them out with a bad arm.”
The smile disappeared from Richardson's face. “You could have gone far, Mr. Boutilier. I have yet to see your equal in the training field. You will be difficult to replace.”
Michael shifted uncomfortably. I remembered how badly Adrian had hurt me. I had tried to hide my suffering and failed. There is a point at which you can no longer keep everything inside and all the agony bleeds outwards like an open wound. It had to be costing him a lot not to let a single ounce of that excruciating pain show in front of his boss.
“Where are you taking us?” I asked.
“Base ten.”
“Where is that?”
Richardson smiled. “Mexico.”
The interment base Michael was telling me about?
“We call it Target Island,” said Michael.
“Do you plan on giving us the backup disk, Mr. Boutilier?”
“No.”
“What about telling us how you escaped from the lake?”
“No.”
“I know you had help, Mr. Boutilier. Even you aren't strong enough to break solid steel.”
Michael said nothing.
Richardson sighed. “One way or another, we will get the information we want.” He glanced at me. “It is a pity, Miss Parker, that you allowed yourself to become enmeshed in the situation.”
“I didn't allow myself to get enmeshed in anything!”
“Mr. Callaghan has provided me with information that points to the contrary. I did not know the nature of your business dealings was quite so…intimate.”
“Go fuck off,” Michael snapped.
“I am not speaking to you, Mr. Boutilier. You may be interested to know that we have finally made contact with your parents.”
“You…have?”
“They have agreed to meet us. But now, I am afraid the deal is off. You simply know too much. We cannot allow you to live. My dearest sympathies. You will arrive at your destination in approximately twelve hours. Enjoy the remainder of your journey — and your life.”
Michael:
A month ago, if somebody had told me I was going to end up branded as a traitor handcuffed to my hostage on a boat headed towards Target Island, I would have shot them in the face for such insolent slander. That was before I woke up, shackled like a common prisoner. All my weapons were gone. All my old clothes were gone, too. Operatives were skilled at weapons concealment. I wasn't surprised that they had taken my shirt or my shoes. I was lucky they hadn't left me fucking naked.
The room were were in was too large and too oddly-shaped to be anything but the lower level of a boat. I could feel the engine's vibrations. Probably a stealth boat. The curved,
smooth chamber was about the size of an ordinary room. There was no furniture, which was only to be expected. Furniture could be made into weapons. A couple pillows were strewn about. Somebody had come in while I was asleep and set down a plastic tray of food and water. Fresh fruit, raw vegetables, sandwiches, even pastries. I didn't understand why they took the bottle caps and left the food — if swallowed whole, a carrot could be just as much of a hazard.
I looked around again, frowning. Considering the conditions most prisoners traveled in, this bordered on ludicrous. Left to wallow in their own filth, the trip itself was a prelude for the unimaginable horrors to come. Richardson's pitiful attempt at bribery was laughable. He thought he could buy my compliance with a bit of food and some pillows? He really was a fool.
I leaned back again, not in the mood for eating. Richardson's long-winded speech had left me with a sour taste in the back of my throat. I was exhausted. It was like I hadn't slept in years. My chest was aching again and my pain-killers had been confiscated with my pants. The last reserve of my energy had gone into that final stand-off against the guards in B-1.
How much information did that bastard have in his possession? Too much, clearly, if he had known somebody helped me in Michigan, though that could just be fancy guesswork. A keen sense of insight had always kept him from being a total pushover. I wished there was a way for me to contact Kent, to warn him.
Christina sat as far from me as humanly possible, putting tension on the chain and my shoulder by proxy. The chain hadn't slackened once during my thoughts. I thought she might be asleep, but when I turned to check she was staring at me. Even now, en route to Target Island, she was still afraid of me.
I found it ironic that I hadn't been able to instill the proper terror when it had actually mattered, and now that it didn't, and she actually needed my help — and I, hers — she was skittish, mistrustful, and afraid. I took a long drink of water. Irony was a bitch.
She was in sweatpants nearly identical to mine and a white t-shirt. I wondered absently why they hadn't just dispensed with it altogether, and given this dying man a sight for sore eyes. I felt my lips curl into a bitter smile. “What is running through your head Christina?”
Cloak and Dagger (The IMA) Page 19