Cloak and Dagger (The IMA)

by Nenia Campbell

  “I'm a busy man.” I began to close the door. “You'll only be in the way.”

  “Busy doing what? Or should I say who?” Before I could stop her, she stood on tiptoe to look over my outstretched arm and caught a glimpse of the Sniper. Her eyes widened. “Is that a man tied up in your — ”

  I clapped a hand over her mouth — to my disgust, her lips were sticky with fresh gloss — pulling her over the threshold before she could alert all the neighbors. “Quiet!” She said something incomprehensible. I didn't care what it was. “Quiet,” I repeated.

  She went still.

  I leaned back against the closed door, keeping her pinned, and tried to decide what to do. Now that she had seen the Sniper, I couldn't allow her to leave without some kind of cover story. Or keeping her here, as another hostage. I wasn't wild about either option, but I was far less wild about the latter. I released her, lowering my hands back to my sides.

  “That man is the Sniper,” I said, before she could demand an explanation. “I've been interrogating him, trying to find out who he reports to.”

  The best lies always contain an element of truth.

  “One of the mobsters?” Shannon stared at the man in fascination. He stared back. Probably because of the gravity-defying top she was wearing. “God, for a moment I thought — ”

  “What? That I've started my own BDSM club and your invite got lost in the mail?”

  Her face flushed, but she wasn't deterred. “Why didn't you just tell me?”

  “Because it's none of your fucking business. I don't know how to make it more clear.”

  “Ed…” She ran her hand down my jaw. She'd always liked doing that. I'd never enjoyed it, permitting the action only because we slept together and I'd felt obligated to. I wasn't about to tolerate that from her now. I turned my head away.

  “That's enough. You should leave now, before it gets later.”

  Shannon yanked her hand away so quickly that her nail scratched against the skin. I winced, prompting her to start prodding at my throat. I batted her away. Her face reddened further, with anger instead of chagrin. “That teenaged slut. Really, Ed? With her own bodyguard?”

  “I would appreciate it if you did not discuss this in front of my hostage.” The Sniper was leaning forward in his restraints, watching the scene with obvious amusement. All he needed was a bowl of fucking popcorn and it'd be a regular night at the movies. “Issue some restraint.”

  She ignored me. “Don't play coy. You and I both know that you're doing a lot more to her body than guarding it.” She glanced at my mouth. A small smile twisted her lips. “Is that how she's paying you, Michael? I had no idea your going rate was so low — or do you just get off on the power trip?”

  A warning buzzed inside me. I was too angry to head it. “Shut your mouth right now.”

  “Don't talk to me like that. I'm your supplier. You need me.”

  “I need your skills, not you. And if you persist in acting this way, I'll get those skills from somebody else.” I caught her hand before she could touch me again. “Which would be a pity, because when you're not burdened by foolish distractions” — I gave her a harsh look — “you're really useful. But if you ever slide your hands down my pants again, or touch me in any way beyond a casual, business-like handshake, I'm going to break your fucking wrist.”

  Shannon blanched. “You would.”

  “Damn right.”

  “So that's how it's going to be?”

  “That's how it's going to be,” I agreed, watching her.

  Shannon tugged her hand out of mine. “Fine.”

  “I'm glad we have an understanding.” I turned back towards the living room. “Give me a moment. I'll escort you to a hotel. You can walk yourself in — you understand.”

  She called me a name I pretended not to hear. I went back into my bedroom, leaving Shannon to wait in the living room alone. Christina was still sitting on my bed, pretending to drink the now-undoubtedly-flat soda. Her posture was defensive.

  “Listening at doors is a bad habit,” I said.

  “Would you have really broken her wrist?”

  Yes. I glanced at the door. “I'd rather find out. I need you to watch the Sniper while I'm gone. Can you do that?”

  “You told me not to talk to him.”

  “You won't have to; he's gagged.”

  She nodded briskly. “Fine.”

  “I won't be gone long. I don't think I need to tell you not to untie him — or run away.”

  “Ed! Ed? Where did you go?” Shannon cried from the living room.

  Christina looked at the door, frowning. “Is she — ?”

  “I'm taking her to a hotel. She doesn't like that. But she'd like staying here a lot less.” I grabbed a coat from the closet and buttoned up my shirtfront. “Don't do anything foolish while I'm gone. Just do as I say, and you'll be fine.”

  “I thought you died in there,” Shannon said when I came back.

  “Couldn't find my jacket. I have to lock up. Go wait at the car.”

  The sound of the lock turning was loud in the darkness. I frowned up at where the camera had been. Shannon was being dealt with. Christina was watching the Sniper. The door was locked. But I still had that nagging feeling telling me something was wrong. I shrugged, and made myself turn away. Nerves. All of them. Synapsing at once.

  Christina:

  I waited until Michael and Shannon were gone before leaving the room. Even then, I took my time, showering and changing into some clean clothes. I doubted the Sniper would take me seriously in the stained pajamas from that morning. I pulled on some jeans and a snug black t-shirt, knotting my wet hair back with a rubber band that had held one of the clothing bags in a twist.

  The Sniper leered at me over the gag as I poured myself a glass of water. It was disconcerting that he could look so dangerous while bound. I glanced at him, trying to keep my own face impassive as I channel surfed, wondering what he knew to make Michael keep him alive. I could see him watching me in the corner of my eye the entire time. Trying to intimidate me. Knowing the purpose behind his actions made them no less creepy.

  The news wasn't much friendlier, and there weren't any cheery cartoons on this late. Michael had shitty cable. I turned off the TV and dropped the remote on the floor with a sigh. I checked on the Sniper: he was still looking at me, pausing only to blink.

  “Creep.” It doesn't count as talking to him if I'm saying it to myself.

  To take my mind off my sketchy charge, I took an impromptu tour of Michael's apartment. He didn't have much stuff; it was a brief tour. Soon I found myself back in the living room with the Sniper, sitting on the couch and staring at a blank TV while he watched me as if I were a mildly entertaining television program. Ten minutes went by, then fifteen. Michael had told me not to speak to him but after thirty minutes of this one-sided stare-down, I broke that rule.

  “What?”

  His eyes went to the gag.

  “I don't think so,” I said.

  He shrugged and continued staring at me. If I moved, his eyes followed. He tracked my progress to the sink to refill my water glass, then back to the sofa as I sat down again, then to the corridor that led back to the bedroom as I began to pace nervously. “Cut it out!” I snapped.

  If he hadn't been gagged, I swear he would have laughed.

  “Fine. I give.” I untied the cloth around his head, yanking it out of his mouth, and he drew in a loud, rather desperate breath. “It's off — what do you want?”

  “Only the pleasure of your charming company.”

  “No wonder Michael gagged you. Did you taunt him like this, too?”

  “Michael isn't nearly as entertaining as you are, my dear.”

  “Bite me.”

  “Careful,” he said mildly. “I might take you up on that later.”

  He is a creep. “You have a pretty good understanding of our idioms, considering that this isn't even your native language. You have to be fluent to engage in that kind of wordplay
.”

  “Ooh. Clever girl.”

  “It's not a matter of cleverness. It's experience.”

  “Oh? Did he tell you that? Is that how he got you into his bed?”

  My mouth dropped open. For a moment, I couldn't speak. The sound of his laughter made my anger rise sharply in response. “That's enough!”

  “Don't pick fights you cannot win.” He shrugged again, that Gallic shrug that adds a calculated degree of carelessness to everything spoken. “Besides, I am afraid that when it comes to women, Michael's reputation precedes him. He has a rather short attention-span, as I am sure you are already aware.”

  “Your syntax is what betrays you,” I said, in spite of the strange emotions coursing through me at his words. “You spoke one of the Romantic languages originally, right?”

  “I'm rather surprised he turned his shapely friend down.”

  I gritted my teeth. “But it wasn't Spanish.”

  “On the other hand, he always did like them young — and she must have been pushing twenty-five, at least. Perhaps older. Asian women age so well, it is difficult to tell.”

  I jabbed my finger at him. “You're Italian.”

  “Si, sono corrette, mia cara.” He paused. “Si, es correcto, mi querida.” His accent was flawless in both. I was visibly startled and he laughed. “Mm. You looked so pleased with yourself, too. Would you like to hear my French? I can assure you it is far more eloquent than any of the sweet nothings Michael has undoubtedly whispered to you, in the pidgin abomination of the Cajuns”

  I swallowed — hard. “Do you want to be gagged again?”

  “By all means, enjoy your new found power while it lasts. But I can assure you, mon chéri ” — his eyes met mine in a deliberate challenge — “the next time you feel a gag, it will be on you. Comprenez-vous?”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  But it looked like the Sniper had finally decided to be quiet. So when somebody knocked on the door, it echoed through the silent apartment like the prelude to a storm. Michael has a key. He wouldn't need to knock. I checked through the peephole on a hunch, and my suspicions were confirmed: the man on the porch wasn't Michael.

  “Oh shit,” I whispered, backing away from the door. “Oh shit.”

  I looked around for something I could use as a weapon. Michael didn't have a fireplace, so there was no trusty iron fire-poker. I opened the kitchen drawers to find that he didn't have any cutlery, either. Damn you, Michael. Couldn't you have left me one measly weapon?

  The Sniper twisted his head around to watch my frantic search. “Something wrong?”

  My eyes flicked to him, then past him at the dining table. The chair. I grabbed it by the back, scattering the huge pile of papers to the floor in a white cascade. “What do you know about this?” I demanded shrilly, as a rather alarming sound began to emanate from the door.

  He's trying to break it down.

  The door burst open. I raised my arm as the wood fragmented into dozens of tiny splinters. The intruder was tall, muscular, and dressed completely in black. He had long dark hair tied back in a ponytail, dark brown eyes, and brown skin. Exotic, without being distinctive. He could have been anything from Filipino to Native American, and there was no doubt in my mind he could tear me apart. I took a step backwards, taking the chair with me.

  He looked at me, and frowned. “This is our renegade? She's just a kid.”

  “Be careful,” the Sniper said from his chair. “She's fast.”

  “Go away,” I cried, as I raised the chair. It was a half-hearted effort on my part; I already knew I'd lost.

  “Sorry, kid. I have my orders. Make it easy on yourself. I don't want to have to hurt you.”

  He might not, but whomever he was bringing me to would. I threw the chair at him and ran into the bedroom, stumbling in my haste. How much time had I bought? Where was Michael? Don't think about that — and whatever you do, don't look behind you.

  Michael's bedroom had a big window that overlooked a tree. If I could tear off the screen, I might be able to jump out and climb back down to the ground. I'd almost gotten the bedroom door shut when the tall man flung it open, knocking me to the floor. I sat up, rubbing at my head, and promptly felt something sock me in the chest with enough force to launch me backwards. There was a hot wave of pain — an echoed murmur — and everything around me melted away.

  Michael:

  Something is wrong. The words looped through my head like a malicious virus in the mainframe of my brain, taunting me, flooding my blood with epinephrine. Something is wrong. I forced myself to contemplate the long stretch of road that lay ahead beneath the cloudy sky. I could not afford to do anything rash — not in such a precarious situation — but my body didn't seem to be receiving the message. My blood pressure was too high, my central nervous system was far too aroused. Sitting in a car provided little opportunity to let off the stress that came with fight-or-flight impulses.

  Shannon played with her necklace, zipping the charm back and forth across the chain with a buzzing sound that grated my ears like sandpaper. Sensing my scrutiny, she turned and smiled briefly, though the smile quickly faded when she glimpsed the expression on my face. “Ed?”

  The name echoed ominously in my head. Ed. That was important, for some reason.

  “Don't talk to me. I need to think.”

  It was pretty warm for a winter night in Seattle, hovering in the mid-sixties. The humidity in the air was as smothering as a wet blanket and made me sweat, though I wasn't hot. I switched on the air-conditioner, wondering how many people in those expensive buildings were also wilting.

  Ed.

  Jesus. I was jumpier than a girl on a first date. My sense of unease grew stronger as I drove downtown. A light drizzle spattered the windshield, blurring the city lights. On the other side of the glass, the world was in motion. Chaotic. Inside, it was frozen. I could tell my silence was eating at Shannon. She was growing more rigid with each passing moment.

  “Ed?”

  I just looked at her.

  “Do you mind?” She blurted suddenly. She was fiddling with the car radio before I had time to respond. I stared at the knobs, a feeling of deja vu swarming over me as I remembered twisting one of the knobs clean off my old car, back on one of the passes in the Cascade Mountains. When Richardson called ordering me to execute Christina.

  Before I had been branded as a traitor.

  Bursts of sound came from the speakers as Shannon continued to switch stations, finally settling on an easy-listening song from the 90s. It didn't take long for the whiny guitars to wear my nerves as thin as the Euro-dance had. “I love this song,” she babbled. “Don't you, Ed?”

  A flash of…something…arced through me. “No.”

  “But it's so happy,” she protested. “Romantic.”

  “No, it's not. It's about fucking crystal meth.”

  Shannon looked at me strangely. “So? It's a good song. Loosen up, Ed. You're so tense.”

  I didn't want to loosen up. I wanted to know what was gnawing at me. It had something to do with Shannon — she was hiding information from me. But what?

  I took a deep, calming breath, tuning out the radio, and revisited this evening. When I had spilled my guts to Christina. The memory made me wince. I'd let her see me as less than strong. Weak, even. And by telling her, I'd shown her that I didn't care if she knew I wasn't without weakness — that I even wanted her to know it. And that, more than anything, was dangerous. I could no longer pretend that she was a hostage or a useful tool.

  I really did love her.

  Is that how she's paying you? Is that how she's paying you, Ed?

  Wait. She hadn't said 'Ed,' now, had she?

  Is that how she's paying you, Michael?

  Bingo.

  My mouth tightened. I pulled the car off the main road. Shannon started, looking out the dark window as I changed lanes to turn down one of the shadowy side-streets. The traffic had thinned out, leaving the road mostly empty. �
�Is something wrong?” she asked in a too-high voice.

  “Yes,” I said, cutting the ignition. “There is.”

  Christina:

  My head felt as though somebody had packed it with several bushels of cotton. My temples pounded steadily in time to my racing heart. My chest was on fire. I tried to sit up and felt the pain lick through my ribs — the pain of old injuries awakened. A soft whimper escaped before I was conscious enough to reclaim it as I opened my eyes, which promptly widened in horror.

  I was in a moving car.

  It all came hurdling back, then — Michael's confession — getting attacked by the Sniper — Michael rescuing me — Michael leaving the apartment with Shannon — the Sniper's cryptic threats — getting knocked out. I tried to touch my chest, to inspect the damage, but my arms wouldn't move. They were bound behind my back with rope; they had trussed me up like a chicken for the chopping block.

  The time on the dash said 3:00 in glowing green letters. AM, I guessed. Not PM. That meant we'd been on the road for several hours. The sky was a deep indigo that bordered on midnight, sprayed with stars that looked like cheap glitter. The horizon had a disturbing orange cast from massive light pollution, suggesting we were near a decently-sized city. Seattle? Someplace else?

  I squinted, lifting my body up as carefully as I could in order to glance out the window. Judging from the speed at which the lights were whizzing by, we were moving along at a pretty fast pace — jumping was out of the question. And the doors are probably locked, anyway.

  The Sniper chose that moment to look over, and I saw the light flash off his teeth as he grinned. “Well, well, well,” he said. “Look who is awake at last. Sleeping Beauty. Did you enjoy your nap, my dear?”

  I cursed at him, but the gag rendered my insults incomprehensible. I think he got the gist, though, because he started to laugh — hard. Which pissed me off. Who was he to make fun of me? Just who the hell did he think he was? Knowing I was cutting off my nose to spite my face, I lunged at the Snpier, trying to headbonk him.

  “Feisty, aren't you? Cliff—look at this face.” His gloved hands squeezed my face. “Isn't she absolutely terrifying? If looks could kill, hmm?”