Cloak and Dagger (The IMA)

by Nenia Campbell

  There was a click. She was unfastening her seat belt. My heartbeat began to race when she climbed onto my lap, and began to kiss my neck. Oh God. I turned my head to give her better access. Her mouth felt so good against my skin. I dug my hands into my thighs to keep from touching her and jerked in surprise when she yanked my shirt off my shoulders. “What do you think you're doing?” I panted.

  “Isn't this what you want?”

  She sounded curious, but there was a mocking edge to her voice that I'd never heard before. Her nails grazed down my bared chest. “No.”

  “But you said — ”

  “In your seat.”

  “I want to know — ”

  “Now.”

  I waited until I heard her fasten her seat belt.

  “There are two things about me you should know. Don't fight me, unless you're prepared to kill me. And don't kiss me, unless you're prepared to fuck me.” My neck throbbed. I didn't touch it. “I'm not a goddamn science project that you can experiment on.”

  “I wasn't — ”

  “Don't talk to me.”

  Neither of us said anything more after that, but I could feel her eyes on me as I drove. I didn't speak again until I stopped the car in front of my apartment. “Stay in the car until I remove the camera.” I opened the glove compartment and took out a pair of leather gloves. Her face became drawn at the sight of them, which prompted me to remove the keys from the ignition. Was Callaghan watching me walking alone to my apartment? Wondering if I had failed?

  I dragged a chair out of the kitchen. With a screwdriver in my mouth, I stood on top of the chair, examining the ledge for signs of tampering. It took me a while but I finally found the camera buried deep inside a knot of wood. I pried out the dime-sized device and crushed it beneath my boot heel. Then I returned to the car, picked up Christina, carried her up all three flights of stairs, and dropped her on my bed. Her white shirt was stained and she'd somehow managed to get herself covered in grime. The soles of her feet were especially filthy.

  “What about the Sniper?”

  “When I'm finished with you, I'll deal with him.” I grabbed a washcloth and the first aid kit from the bathroom, cursing her for making me feel this way — so torn up inside and confused. After running away, and coming on to me in the car, that was all she had to say for herself? She winced as I washed off the mud. Good. I couldn't be bothered to search for any hidden wellsprings of pity and didn't expend any extra effort trying to be gentle. Once her feet were clean, I got a better look at the damage. She'd gotten a shard of glass embedded into her heel. All that walking had lodged it in pretty deep. “This is going to hurt,” I told her. “Keep still anyway.”

  She nodded, biting her lip.

  I dug in with the tweezers, trying to get a grip on the edge of the damn thing. “Almost got it.” Her knuckles whitened as she gripped the sheets. I pulled the bloody shard free and dropped it into the trashcan. The wound was bleeding, which was a good sign; it meant no more foreign objects were obstructing blood flow. I swabbed the area with alcohol, working the antibiotic solution in with a Q-tip. Then I wrapped her foot in gauze. I hoped it wouldn't get infected but lately, my luck hadn't exactly been stellar.

  “Thank you,” she said in a small voice.

  I replaced the first-aid kit beneath the bathroom sink, tossed the dirty washcloth in the hamper, and washed my hands. I walked back into the bedroom and retrieved my handgun from the bottom right-hand drawer, where it had been tucked beneath my winter clothes. I loaded the bullets with a sharp snap. “If you want to thank me, stay put right here.” I let my expression harden. “If you try to run from me again, I'm going to tie you up. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  I'd be lying if I said I wasn't secretly hoping she'd disobey me. I walked back out to the car. Opened the trunk with my free hand so that the gun would be the first thing the Sniper saw. “I'm going to untie you briefly,” I told him. “But if you try to escape, I'm going to hurt you. Badly. Got that?”

  He brought his head down in the affirmative.

  “Good.”

  It was a nice change, having people listen to me. I missed that feeling. I left his gag on, though, just in case. There was no need to tempt fate. I grabbed the chair I had used to fix the roof, still keeping one hand on the Sniper, and positioned it in front of the TV. “Sit down.”

  He sat, looking defiant as I retied his arms around the back of the chair. I spread the raincoat over my lap and started going through the pockets. “What's this?” I asked, holding up a zip-lock bag of black plastic canisters. “More candid camera?”

  His eyes narrowed over the gag. I returned his stare, wondering what to do with him. He could be a potential wealth of information if he decided to talk. He could also be a threat if he managed to escape. And that was a distinct possibility. Callaghan wasn't foolish enough to send one man alone — the Sniper would have backup. I could kill him, but that would be messy. I'd have to dispose of the body, the murder weapon, and all other traces of evidence, including the car. It would be a waste of precious time and resources. So would feeding him and keeping him under supervision. Decisions, decisions.

  I tore the gag out of his mouth, causing him to fleck spit on the rug. “Well,” I said, as he gasped for breath, “What do you have to say for yourself?”

  “You have made a grave mistake, for which you will pay with her life.”

  “The only life here you should be worried about is your own.”

  “An empty threat. If you were going to kill me, you'd have done so by now.”

  “Perhaps.” I strolled around in front of him with my hands behind my back, fingering the gun at my hip. “Or perhaps I'm trying to decide whether you hold any potential value to me — in which case, you aren't doing so well.”

  He laughed, the congenial front completely gone. “You have grown far weaker than we thought.”

  That earned him a cuff with the butt of my gun. “How many people did Callaghan send? I know you didn't come alone. He's crazy, but not stupid.”

  “If you want me to talk, you have to make me, pretty boy.”

  I hit him again, harder. Drawing blood. “Don't tempt me.”

  “He's going to kill her you know. He'll play with her until she breaks, and then kill her when he's bored. And then, when you cease to be useful to him, he'll kill you.”

  “Anything else you want to share?”

  Silence.

  “Nothing?” I stuffed the gag back in his mouth. “Well, I suggest you start talking soon,” I said, heading back towards my bedroom. “Before I feel compelled to make you. And trust me, Sniper — or whatever the hell your real name is — that won't be fun for either of us.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Casualty

  Christina:

  I woke up in his bed — again. Unlike the last couple times, he wasn't in it with me. For a moment, I panicked, looking around the room to make sure I really was alone. I was. How long had I been unconscious? Not long. My clothes were still damp.

  Oh, God. Michael. I squeezed my eyes shut as the memories of what I'd done flooded back. After that speech he'd given me this morning, about how I was basically a vile temptress intent on seducing him to get my way, what I had done would only serve to condemn me further in his eyes. But he hadn't taken advantage; he hadn't even kissed me back. He had just…frozen. If anything, he'd seemed insulted and — nervous. Michael nervous. It was almost an oxymoron.

  Did that mean he had been telling the truth? Was he in love with me?

  Then I had power over him. If I wanted to, I could hurt him. Badly. I could get him back for all the horrible things he had done to me over the past few months — if I wanted to. Did I want to? I thought of his intensity, his dark past, and how tired and sad his face looked on those rare instances when he let his guard down. My stomach fluttered uncomfortably, my conscience torn. Even though I still carried all that pain and anger inside of me, he had tried to
redeem himself. By all accounts, he was no longer the man that he once was.

  The fifty million dollar question is: Who is he now?

  The door opened. It was Michael, bringing food. His face, as he approached, was careful. He was wearing the same shirt from this morning. I could see the black strap of his holstered gun running across his bare chest. His voice was as cool as his eyes as he set down a sandwich and a soda and said, “Have a nice nap, darlin?”

  “I didn't realize I'd fallen asleep.”

  “I didn't drug you, if that's what you're implying.” His eyes flicked to the door. “Don't come out of this room — the Sniper is being difficult.”

  “You brought him here?”

  “I can't just leave him in the trunk, and I can't let him go. He knows too much.”

  Like me, I realized, with a sudden sense of coldness. “What are you going to do with him? Are you going to kill him?”

  His jaw tightened. “I'm not sure.”

  I reached for the soda, unscrewed the cap — it was sealed, this time — and took a long drink. My favorite brand. I wondered if that was an accident; it wasn't one of the popular sodas, not the kind usually grabbed in a pinch. I was conscious of him watching me as I drank.

  “Why did you kiss me?” he asked.

  I nearly choked. “In the car?”

  “No,” Michael said, “At the fucking prom. Yes, in the car. You said you wanted to see something, that emotions made people stupid.” He walked over to my side of the bed and sat down. “Were you jerking me around, Christina? Are you trying to play me?”

  “N-no…”

  “No?” I saw his eyes drop briefly to my mouth before returning to my eyes at twice the intensity. “What were you trying to prove? Or did you want something?”

  I shook my head. Part of me wanted to move away but my body refused.

  “Nothing? I have nothing that you want?” His face was so close to mine, the emotion in his voice like a taut cord about to snap.

  I blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “How did you get your scar?”

  “My scar,” he repeated.

  I didn't let my gaze stray from his face. “Yes. The one on your stomach.”

  Michael leaned back, letting out his breath as if he'd just taken a heavy drag on a cigarette. “Is this because of what the Sniper said?”

  “He said you got it while you were running away.”

  “Jesus.” Michael closed his eyes, rubbing at the sides of his face with his hands.

  “Please tell me. I want to know. I'm curious. I want to” — my voice broke — “understand you.”

  “Good luck with that. I don't understand myself.”

  I took a bite of sandwich, figuring that meant the subject was closed. He didn't follow up with an insult, though, the way he usually did when he tried to push others away, and his mouth was a rigid line as if he was holding something back that he desperately wanted to say.

  He growled impatiently. “If you really want to know,” he said at last, “I'll tell you. But this stays between us — understand?”

  I gulped down my mouthful of food too quickly and had to take a swig of soda to keep from choking. He's going to tell me? I resented the extra seconds; each one gave Michael another chance to change his mind. “I won't tell anyone.”

  His eyes regarded me for a long moment. “Well. I was young when I first started working for the IMA. It started when someone saw me in a gang fight — a scout. This was back in Louisiana. I was alone and cornered, and took out several men twice my size. That man was impressed enough to offer me a job. The shift from petty crime to high-pay mercenary work seemed glamorous to a kid like me.”

  He smiled crookedly, deprecatingly, and it rendered his face disarmingly handsome and boyish. His eyes, however, remained hard, fixed at some distant point beyond me.

  “I was assigned a trainer to teach me various fighting styles designed to impair or subdue. I learned how to fire a gun, how to use knives. I learned methods of torture, and how to cause pain without leaving a bruise or breaking the skin. And I learned how to intimidate.” Here, his eyes locked with mine. “I was already intimidating, because of my size. He improved on that.”

  “Adrian,” I whispered.

  Adrian had told me himself that he'd trained Michael — taught him everything he knew — but it was still strange having it affirmed. I wasn't used to Michael being forthcoming, nor to Adrian telling the truth.

  Michael looked surprised for a moment, then nodded. “Callaghan is one sick son of a bitch, don't get me wrong, but he knows what he's doing. And he was the only one who wasn't turned off by the idea of coaching some street-rat gang-banger. Most of us have at least some degree of formal education. Some are ex-military. Most have been trained for this all their lives. It's unusual for someone as” — he hesitated, as if trying to find an appropriate word — “unpolished as I am to be accepted into the program.”

  “Adrian told me you transferred out of yours.”

  Michael looked surprised again. Then he laughed humorlessly. “Did he tell you why?”

  I shook my head.

  “He tried to kill me.”

  I set the sandwich down, abandoning my pretense of eating. I hadn't even touched it within the last couple of minutes, anyway. “He did?”

  “Mm-hmm. I was doing agility training. Callaghan was teaching me to dodge and block. Size has its limitations; in a fight against someone slighter, I was at a disadvantage.” He took a sip of my soda, grimacing at the sweetness. “I was getting pretty fucking cocky by that point. Callaghan noticed, and took it as a challenge. One day he come up to me and instead of beginning the lesson, he simply told me to run. 'Run where?' I said. He looked at me, just like this” — his eyes frosted over with dead impassivity — “and said, 'Away.'”

  I shivered.

  “I began to think he was serious. So I did run. Faster than I've ever run in my goddamn life. Callaghan chased me down six hallways and two flights of stairs before he finally caught me. But he caught me; he doesn't seem to get tired. He slammed me back against the wall and said, 'Pathetic, Michael. Ah thought Ah'd trained ye betta than that. If ye can't outrun me, ye can't outrun a boolet.' He pulled out his knife, and then said, 'Dodge this, boy.'”

  Michael ran his finger along my stomach slowly, tracing the mirror image of his scar against the front of my dampened t-shirt. “Oh my God.”

  “The bastard nearly eviscerated me — and he laughed. Like he thought it was some kind of a big fucking joke.” He dropped his hand from my shirt and took another swig of soda. “I managed to crawl to the hospital. They patched me up. Callaghan felt like his point had been made, so he didn't come after me again — but he never let me forget, either.”

  I felt sick now, nauseous. “And that's how you got it?”

  “Yes.” He sighed.

  “I'm sorry.”

  “I don't want your pity.” He roughly set my soda back on the nightstand. “I told you because I want you to understand what you're up against. Callaghan is a psychopath. He doesn't feel pain or emotion. He lives for causing fear through sexual and physical violence. That's why he always runs down his victims before he kills them. It's why he uses a knife and not a gun. And if he catches you…I don't know what I'd — ”

  A heavy pounding sound came from the living room. Michael's eyes shifted unwillingly to the door. The pupils were dilated, making his eyes darker than usual, and he looked wild.

  “You should get that,” I mumbled.

  As if agreeing, the sound repeated.

  Michael:

  As I walked through the living room, I ignored the Sniper's glare. It was nearly ten o' clock. Who would be at the door now? It was too late for solicitors. Had Callaghan decided to make good on his threats? I automatically reached for gun, making sure it was still there. It was.

  I opened the door without speaking, and almost went for the Firestar when a shadowy figure lunged from the darkness. Shannon. “What — ” was as f
ar as I got before she flung herself at me like a child. I pushed her away from me. She was wearing camouflage pants and a black bandeau top beneath a frayed army surplus jacket. I was about to ask her what she didn't understand about the word “no” when I realized that she also had tears in her eyes. “What the hell are you doing here?” I demanded. “What's wrong?”

  “A man came to my apartment. He said he was looking for you.”

  I folded my arms. “What did he want?”

  “He didn't say, but he was a big man and,” her voice dropped, “I think he might have been carrying a gun.”

  Big? Shit. “How tall?”

  “Um…” She had to think. “About your height, but thicker around the middle.”

  Not Callaghan then. Good to know. But it didn't sound like anyone else I knew, either, which meant that he'd been busy hiring new recruits. That was bad. “I'll look into it,” I said. “Don't go home tonight. Stay with a friend or at a hotel. One with a decent security system.”

  Shannon knew enough about me that I couldn't risk having her captured and interrogated. I entertained the possibility of hightailing it to her apartment for a reconnaissance mission. The soil around the complex would still be soft from the rain. I might find a footprint — and if the hired thugs were as incompetent as the Sniper, they might have left other clues, as well.

  Oh shit, the Sniper. I hadn't been expecting company or I would have moved him into the kitchen. Subtly, I adjusted my posture, blocking as much of the living room from her view as possible. “Is that all?” I asked casually.

  Shannon bit her lip. “I thought I could stay here.”

  “Not possible.”

  “But I feel safe with you!”

  “You shouldn't!” I informed her. “Not if these men are asking after me.”

  “Why are you forcing me away?” she demanded, defiance flashing over her made-up features. Odd. She'd had time to put on her makeup before dashing over here? “Don't you care about what happens to me? I thought we were partners.”