Cloak and Dagger (The IMA)

by Nenia Campbell

  “I'm driving,” Cliff said coldly.

  The Sniper's tone turned serious. “How long until we arrive at our destination?”

  “About two hours.” Cliff's voice was flat, deep. His lack of affect scared me far more than anger. Anger was predictable, and could be manipulated. This was different; he was completely dissociated from the situation. Compartmentalized. Removed.

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

  What would make a man like that stoop to pity?

  The Sniper pushed me back in my seat, releasing my face. “Did I not say that you would be wearing the gag next time, my dear? Was I wrong?” I wanted to hit him. Grinning viciously now, he leaned in closer and whispered, “You know, Michael didn't find all my cameras.”

  My eyes widened.

  “No,” he said, pleased by my expression. “As I said, I do not specialize in guns alone. And my, my — that kiss was quite the spectacle. So much emotion. It was very…titillating.”

  “Sniper,” Cliff grated. “You talk too fucking much. You've seen those movies with the men who compromise everything because they can't shut the hell up? Shut the hell up.”

  The Sniper rolled his eyes. “I hope you enjoyed your time together, because bad things are going to happen to you and Michael. No more fairytale kisses or happy endings for you.”

  “Don't torment her.”

  “Her boyfriend was rough with me,” he said sulkily. “I have been looking forward to repaying the favor, in full. By proxy.” He wasn't so brave when Michael was dealing with him. I remembered the terror in his eyes. That hadn't been fake. Perhaps the Sniper could read the scorn in my face because he said, “No, he won't be saving you this time. Unfortunately for you, lover-boy isn't the only one who likes them with a little fight.” He pinched my cheek and slapped me.

  “She has enough problems,” Cliff said. “Leave her the hell alone. I mean it.”

  What was that supposed to mean? The gag prevented me from asking, but the Sniper backed off, only saying, “I can wait.” And the panic that I had been swallowing down suddenly threatened to bubble over, like a tea kettle left to boil.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Vendetta

  Christina:

  “Everybody out.” The Sniper punctuated the command with a sharp tug that had me spilling out of the car on legs that felt liquid.

  The other man, Cliff, united my gag. I inhaled a lungful of the cold, sweet night air. My chest ached sharply and my breath subsided into a cough, as if I had been breathing in smoke instead of mist. “You bastard,” I said, in a cracking voice, “You're going to be dead when he finds you. Both of you — but especially you.”

  “I'm so worried,” the Sniper said.

  I was led down a series of long hallways. Not steel, like the halls I'd grown so used to in the Oregon base and on Target Island, but paneled walls and regular tiled floors. It looked like an office building, not a prison. Though if the base extended below ground, as the others had, there could very well be containment cells. Which they might be taking me to.

  “Where are we going?”

  “The boss insisted that we bring you back to HQ when we caught you,” said the Sniper.

  “The boss?” My brain hit a wall. “You mean — ”

  The boss.

  Adrian.

  “Mr. Callaghan.”

  I stumbled.

  “Oh, don't worry. I'm sure he'll want to deal with you personally.”

  I refused to give him the response he was looking for. I refused.

  “Can't have you knowing the way there, though, can we?”

  There was a small prick. The world went gray. Then black. Then numb.

  Michael:

  Shannon tried to make a break for the door. I pressed the lock button, trapping her. “W-what are you doing? You're scaring me, Ed. Let me out. I want out of the car.”

  “I don't really give a fuck what you want. Why were you sent to my house?”

  “I — I don't understand. I told you, there was a man — and he threatened —”

  “That's the story you were told to parrot, yes. I'm asking for the truth.”

  “Ed — ”

  “You called me Michael, earlier.”

  “I did?” The horror on her face was more incriminating than any slip of the tongue. “My ex-boyfriend was named — ”

  “Bullshit.”

  “I — ”

  “Bullshit.” I grabbed her by the front of her top, nearly yanking it off as I pulled her close to me. “Where did you hear that name? Was it the man you told me about earlier, if the man really does exist, or was it somebody else?”

  “I-it was him. The man. The one who came to my house,” she clarified, before I could force her to elaborate. “The one who was looking for you.”

  I shook my head slowly. “I don't know how I'm supposed to trust you.”

  “It's true! He was looking for you! He told me you were wanted by the police or…or something. I don't remember. Ed, please — ”

  I slammed my fist against the car door, inches from her face. “Stop fucking calling me that. The jig is up — my name is Michael. Never mind what he told you. What did you tell him?”

  Her words were hitched and uneven. “Please…don't be mad…”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “He said if I told him where the girl was, you wouldn't be hurt.”

  “Fuck.”

  “I thought I was doing the right thing. I…you're an investigative agent. She's just some girl.”

  I slammed my fist against the door again. “Bull-fucking-shit. You couldn't stand not being the center of attention for one goddamn second, could you? Parading yourself around in a — whatever the hell it is you're wearing — claiming you're in danger. Yet you still took the time to put on your face before you fled for your life. I suppose you thought you were doing yourself a favor, eliminating the competition. That you could console me for my failure. Is that right?”

  “Michael — ” Her face was white.

  “You think you fucking know me? I'm an assassin. I kill people for a living. Good people, bad people, it makes no difference to me as long as I get paid.” I spoke slowly, giving each word time to sink in. “And that girl you just sold out? She's the only thing in this world that makes me even remotely human.”

  I tightened my grip on her shirt.

  “You better pray nothing happens to her.”

  Christina:

  I nodded awake and found myself in a stiff-backed upholstered chair. There was a jade plant to my right, the nubby leaves glistening under the florescent lights like smooth wax. Beneath my feet, covering the expensive beige tile, was an Oriental rug the color of blood. The exotic scent of tea filled the air, thick and heady, making me painfully aware of my parched throat and dry lips.

  “Good morning,” a familiar voice lilted.

  Adrian was sitting behind the desk across from me, still as a statue, with his hand at his mouth. He looked exactly the same as I'd seen him last time, except his hair was shorter and looked professionally styled. Instead of the tailored, preppy wear, he was wearing a three-piece suit. Or part of one. The jacket was hanging over his chair, leaving him in a starched white shirt and charcoal suit vest. The scarlet tie matched the carpet.

  “What do you want from me?”

  His faint smile was the only indication that he was aware of my terror. “That,” he said musingly, “Is a complicated question with many answers. For now, consider yourself my guest. Tea?” He nodded at the silver tea service beside him.

  “No.” The thought of being his “guest” was almost as terrifying as being his victim. I eyed him warily as he shrugged and poured himself a cup.

  “I must admit, I didn't think it would be quite so easy to capture you. I expected a greater challenge.” I watched him take another sip before pushing the cup aside. The subtle movement made me notice a manila envelope on his desk.

  “Sorry to disap
point.” I tried to sound blasé.

  “Oh, but you haven't.” Adrian opened the envelope with a care that bordered on fastidious; it would have been laughable if I hadn't already known how much pain those hands were capable of inflicting. “Nor Michael, either, I imagine,” he added, glancing at the photographs.

  I tore my eyes from the photos. “I don't know what you mean.”

  “I think you do.” Adrian was watching me now, gauging my reaction. “I'm sure you realize sexualization is a method of objectification. It creates distance. Debasement. Power. A common defense mechanism for those who have trouble dealing with affection or attachment.”

  “Thanks for the psychology lesson. Where do I enroll?”

  He slapped the folder down on the desk and stood up. Part of his technique was making people fill ill-at-ease, leaving small sinister promises of worse things to come. I understood what he was doing, but I still jumped when his hand landed on the back of my chair, inches from my neck.

  “You breached his defenses,” he said. “That makes you valuable to me. That's why you're still alive and…unharmed.” I jumped out of the chair and hit the desk, nearly upsetting the tea service. Having the chair between us made me feel a little better, but not much. Adrian glanced at his watch. “But that could change. So tell me, Christina, while I still feel like listening. Have you anything else to say to me?”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “A month ago you would have done anything to hurt that boy. You would have sold him out in a heartbeat. Remember the safe house? 'I'm being held hostage! Please! Help me out! You can take whatever you want from the house — just please, please help me!'” He laughed.

  Hearing my own desperate words being tossed back at me in such a manner made me furious. “You did believe me then,” I hissed, “All this time.”

  “Of course. But having Richardson suspect you was a necessary part of my plan.” Adrian walked around the chair, prompting me to back away towards the sofa on the other side of the room. “Your connection to Michael made you an easy target. I saw an opportunity, and I took it.” I received an appraising look. “In that sense, I suppose we're not so different.”

  “That's not true!” I cried out, even as part of me wondered. “You're sick. Michael told me what you di — ” Too late, I realized my mistake.

  “Oh, he did, did he? Well, then you know how difficult it is to get him into a compromising position, don't you? To make him squirm? That's an achievement few can claim.”

  “I didn't do it on purpose.”

  “Didn't you, though?” Adrian said silkily. He folded his arms, glancing at a tank in the corner. A lone shark brooded at the bottom, swimming in and out of the shoals of fish. “Sometimes instinct can be enough. The locals on Target Island called me el tiburón because of my work, and what I do,” he said absently, watching the large creature undulate through the water. The charcoal suit seemed to make his legs go on forever…rather like the streamlined tail of the shark. “Before you and Michael blew it up, that is. He's become quite the problem. I would pay quite a bit to have him brought to me. I wouldn't care how, or in what condition, as long as he was alive.”

  I was appalled. “You're going to kill him?”

  “No, no. Not right away, at least.” He smiled, but his eyes remained cold, focused on the aquarium. “He is still useful to me at the moment. But you…well, that depends…”

  “I don't want to hurt anybody.” Something hard hit the back of my legs. I let out a breath when I realized it was just the couch.

  “How unexpectedly noble. But can you really afford such petty chivalry? I do not bargain. I will have your cooperation — with or without your consent.”

  My heart jumped into my throat at the suggestive way he pronounced consent. I tried to calm down, to keep my breathing steady. “No,” I said, “I can't — ”

  He continued as if I hadn't spoken. “I have, in my possession, a tranquilizer in powder form. All you have to do is make sure he consumes it — all of it — and then, when he's fast asleep, you call me. I have him picked up, and let you go home…for good.”

  It was as if he'd picked up on my thoughts from earlier. I felt sick; despite thinking of myself as a moral person, I couldn't honestly say I thought his offer was unappealing. “What's the catch?”

  Adrian lifted his eyebrows. “There isn't one.”

  “I don't believe you. If it was so easy, you would do it yourself.”

  “But he doesn't trust me — he trusts you.”

  And that was the catch: Adrian was asking me to break that trust in the worst possible way: by delivering him to the only man I suspected he truly feared. I held Michael's heart in my hands, and he was asking me to pierce it with a poisoned blade. Laid out so brazenly before me, the offer was no longer appealing; it was wretched. I was wretched.

  “Screw you,” I said unsteadily.

  “Then let me show you something that may just change your mind.” Adrian walked to his desk, pulling a key from his pocket. I watched him unlock a drawer, from which he produced a wooden display box with a glass frame. It contained such an erratic array of objects as to seem purely random, though all of them appeared to be personal items. I looked from the case of knickknacks to Adrian's pleased expression as he replaced the box in the drawer and relocked it. “I don't understand.”

  “The other option.”

  I waited, bracing myself for whatever horrible alternative he had in mind. He didn't disappoint.

  Leaning so close that I ended up falling on the couch, he said, “Recognize this?” and produced a strip of rawhide from his collar. A ring dangled from it, white gold, set with a single opal. My eyes widened involuntarily and I felt the fingers of my right hand automatically brush the left.

  “That's — ”

  “I like to keep around little somethings to remind me how much I enjoy my work. Souvenirs, if you will, from every assignment.” He regarded my ring a moment longer. “You're the one that got away, Christina Parker. I thought I might keep this handy, for when we inevitably met again.” It disappeared back beneath his collar. “So here we are. You and me. Do you think Michael might be persuaded to come if your life were suddenly…endangered?”

  The thought of my ring being added to his collection of trophies, like a hunter displaying the severed heads of his game, made me sick to my stomach. I pulled away, and whispered, “No.”

  “You don't think so?” His gray eyes had an odd glint. Sick. He was so sick. I wondered if he had a trophy from Michael in there, which one might have been his.

  “You're wrong. Michael doesn't love me — he never loved me and if you can't see that, you must be…” I stared at the wall of his office for inspiration but that didn't help. All I could think about were severed heads and trophies. “I was just a convenience. He wanted an accomplice and a” — say it — “a quick fuck.” I didn't have to feign the humiliated blush that colored my cheeks.

  Adrian paused, glancing at me. It was a cold look, quick and appraising. I couldn't glean anything from it, though I hoped it meant that he hadn't believed I'd own up to what had transpired between us and that it would lend credence to my falsehoods.

  “And I suppose,” he said, running his fingers down his tie, “That he wouldn't be coming after you, at this very moment, because you would simply be another loose end? That he hopes I'll do the trimming for him? Is that the gist of it, Christina?”

  “Yes,” I said, relieved that he'd understood. “That's right.”

  Adrian shoved me back, hard. Hard enough to make my teeth rattle around inside my skull. “You persist in telling the most blatant lies. If you didn't amuse me so much, I'd make you pay dearly for such insolence.”

  I froze, a deer in the headlights. He stared back with the expression of a snake eying a cornered mouse, then pressed a button on his watch. The door opened and a guard entered the room, weapon drawn. “At ease,” he said, without so much as a blink.

  “What do you need, sir?”


  “Have you gotten the trace on Boutilier?”

  “He's on his way. One of the guard spotted him on Highway 99.”

  “How soon until he arrives?”

  “At the speed he's going? About twenty minutes. Sir.”

  “Twenty minutes,” Adrian repeated, glancing down at me. “That is impressive.”

  “What are your orders, sir?”

  “Guard the main entrance and prepare a welcome for the boy. We wouldn't want it to seem to easy, after all. But don't make it too difficult. I want him in here alive,” he glanced at me, “and…relatively unharmed. Do what you must to make it convincing. Dismissed.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “It is foolish to lie to those who have the trade down to an art, Christina.” He flicked open his knife. “Particularly since I have known Michael a long time.” Cold steel pressed against my throat. “A very long time. I've never seen him act this way before. It's almost as if he genuinely loves you. And he does, doesn't he?”

  I choked.

  “I don't know.”

  “Do you love him?”

  “I don't know!”

  “And yet you slept with him, anyway. You're quite the cold-hearted little harpy.” He bent to whisper in my ear, “It would be a pity to let Michael find you safe after all that effort, wouldn't it? Let's not disappoint him.” With that, he let the knife slice through my shirt.

  Michael:

  Highway 99 was dark and empty. There were few lights, their brightness obscured further by the mist that hung in the air like a heavy curtain, which thickened as we got closer to the coast. I kept my eyes trained on the path my headlights burned into the darkness.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  Shannon had been silent for the last twenty minutes, and her voice nearly made me start. I debated on whether or not to answer. She had tried to escape at the gas station, when I stopped to refill the car, by honking the horn in an attempt to draw attention. The only attention she'd drawn was mine, and I was still pissed about that.

  After a pause, I said, “To save the girl you got in this mess.”