Cloak and Dagger (The IMA)

by Nenia Campbell

  She looked relieved. “You don't need me for that.”

  “Nice try, Shannon,” I said. “You're coming with me.”

  “I told you, I didn't mean to! I'm sorry! But it wasn't my fault. You have to understand that.” Did I? From what I understood, she'd brought this on the both of them single-handedly. “Please, please, please let me go,” she begged. “You can just let me off at the next stop. I promise I won't talk — to anyone!”

  “You got involved in something that didn't involve you.” I didn't take my eyes off the road. “Now you've got to suffer the consequences. Tough luck.”

  The base was on the Olympic Peninsula, a far distance from Seattle. It was the rainiest place in the country, and an ideal spot for lying low. The perpetually gray skies and an average rainfall of fifty inches per year did not make it an ideal traveling location. As I drove, a light drizzle began fall, becoming a steady pulsing rain.

  I pulled up in front of the building around 5am. There were a few other cars in the lot. I unlocked the glove compartment and took out a handgun, eliciting an exclamation from the other seat. This was not the IMA as I had known it. Callaghan had likely implemented changes. Bad ones. I drew back the safety. I'd have to be ready — for anything.

  “If you want to return to your apartment alive, I suggest you not do anything stupid. If you do, it won't be me you'll deal with — it'll be them.” Her eyes flickered to the dimly-lit windows and I saw her bite her lip. “That's right.”

  “More spies?” she asked, trying and failing to sound defiant. “Like you?”

  “Not like me.” I pressed the button for the trunk. “Worse.” I got out the jumper cables I always kept around in case of emergency, and used them to tie Shannon to her seat. “It's a mob run by a man without a conscience. You've heard of psychopaths? He's the genuine article.”

  I picked the lock. Walked through the door. No alarm went off, which surprised me. Perhaps the alarm had been silent. I assumed it had. I walked briskly, the rubber soles of my shoes muted the echo of my footsteps as I passed through the halls.

  I wasn't ambushed until I got to the staircase. Five guards: all of them wearing bulletproof vests, all expecting me. The first fired quickly. It was the move of an amateur. I went for him with my fists. I only had a couple bullets in my gun and I intended to save at least one for Callaghan.

  I dodged a shot from one of the other guards and struck a hard blow on the back of the first guard's head. He went down without much fight after that, mouth hanging open, a strand of drool trickling out of his slack mouth to puddle on the title.

  One of the other guards fired at me from behind. It was closer shot, far more accurate than the first guard had been. They obviously weren't trying to kill me, or I would have already been dead. Callaghan was probably still operating under the delusion that he could persuade me to work for him. This gave me a clear advantage — I intended to use it.

  I landed a blow on the third guard, right under the jaw, snapping his head back and stunning him temporarily. The second guard, who had fired the gun at me when my back was turned, made another lunge for me. I made the mistake of turning to confront the attack directly, and was grabbed from behind by the fourth guard. A swift kick to my abdomen winded me.

  Grinning, the guard moved closer, readying for another attack. I aimed a kick at his knee, swiping his legs out from beneath him. The guard dropped to the floor, cursing, and the guard holding me said, “Hey — ” and cuffed my temple, hard enough to make my ears ring.

  Meanwhile, the third guard had recovered from my punching him in the throat and was moving towards me, his cocked-back fist and steely glare suggesting he wanted seconds. I waited, ducking my head at the last minute, so the blow landed in the face of the forth guard. He grunted in pain, releasing me from his hold, and I was free to whip out my gun and aim it at the third guard. “Where is your boss? Don't make me waste a bullet on you.”

  The second guard answered, “Second floor. Room three-two-seven C.”

  “If I find out you lied to me…”

  “He's telling the truth,” the fourth guard said. Both his hands were clasped to his face and his eyes were watering. The third guard had broken his nose when he'd tried to punch me.

  I headed up the next flight of stairs. I had no other leads. If the guards were wrong, I could force the correct answers out of them on my way back down. The rooms passed by in a blur, only the numbers catching my attention. There it is.

  I yanked open the specified door, which was unlocked, and entered the room. I wasn't sure what I had expected, but nothing could have prepared me for what I saw. It was an office — a nice one — but looked as though a cyclone had passed through. A tea service was scattered about on the floor with spilled tea soaking into the scarlet rug. Chairs were upturned. In the midst of this mess, Christina was trapped beneath the bastard. He'd trapped both her arms above her head with one hand. The other was out of view, hurting her. Her clothes were slashed — and her skin, where Callaghan had been too careless with the knife. She looked up, her face naked with misery. Something in her gaze made my stomach clench, filling me with fierce, wordless rage. “Michael,” she whispered.

  No.

  Callaghan looked up, too. “I expected you thirty seconds ago, Michael. You're getting slow.” Shaking his head, he got up without further pretense, leaving her lying on the floor like a discarded rag. I took off my jacket, draping it around her shoulders. There were marks on her throat where he had drawn blood and several others he'd clearly meant for me to find. I'd put a bullet in him for all of them.

  “You bastard.”

  He slid his arms back into his shirtsleeves, ignoring me. A ring glinted at his chest, tied around his neck with a leather thong. It looked vaguely familiar, though I couldn't say why.

  “What the fuck have you done?”

  “I'm afraid your pretty friend will be out of commission for a while. Perhaps you should have gotten here faster, Michael.”

  I got to my feet. “Give me one reason why I shouldn't blow your head off right now.”

  “Letting passion rule you like a little boy,” he scoffed. “Why am I unsurprised?”

  I cocked the gun. Behind me, the door opened. I heard several clicks echo my own. With a sinking feeling, I realized my arrogance had led me straight into a trap. The guards on the staircase had, in retrospect, gone down far too easily. What if they had been instructed to miss, and threatened so that my attacks seemed like a bit of schoolboy fisticuffs in comparison?

  I turned my head, and what I saw immediately confirmed my suspicions. Ten guards were standing in the doorway now. I even recognized a couple of them from Target Island. They did not look pleased to see me. The feeling was mutual.

  Callaghan began to do up the buttons of his shirt. “The guards on the staircase were instructed to miss,” he said, voicing my own suspicions. “These guards are under no such order. I don't think you'll be able to dodge their bullets quite so easily — unless you care to try?”

  The taunt gave me pause. I knew full well who I was dealing with, and that his attempt at killing me was something he took great pleasure in lording over me, but at the same time, it lacked the usual ring of diplomacy I was accustomed to. The IMA was about the appearance of choice. Or had been. I said as much, privately thinking that Kent had been right all along. The IMA would have been better off with another leader. Any leader.

  Adrian barked out a laugh. “Choice? I don't need to bargain with you to know you're desperate. You have no choice.” He snorted. “To think you used to be the best. Pitiful.”

  “Not really,” I bit back, “Not considering who the competition was.”

  The good-humored malice left his face, leaving him with the flat, dull eyes of a snake. “Drop the bloody gun, Michael Boutilier, before I let them fill your empty skull with bullets.”

  I let it fall to the floor with a clatter — I'd made my point. One of the guards quickly broke rank to seize the weapon and secret it aw
ay.

  “You've had ample time to consider my generous offer.” Callaghan shook out his suit vest, frowning as he buttoned it over the shirt. “It's time for you to decide.”

  “I don't think working alongside a turncoat would be good for company morale.”

  “He's right, sir,” one of the guards spoke up before the bastard could respond. “He already betrayed this organization once. His skills make him an even greater threat. The risk clearly outweighs the gain, in this case — with all due respect, sir.”

  “He also destroyed Target Island. Him and the girl.”

  “And killed off Agent Richardson to seize power.”

  What kinds of propaganda had Callaghan been spreading about me in my absence? And why did they believe it? No. That was a stupid question. A better one was, What had he done to make it so they couldn't afford not to?

  I glanced at Christina and kept my mouth shut.

  “Oh, but I intend to keep him on a tight leash.” Callaghan sauntered over, reknotting his tie. I imagined strangling him with it, until his eyes popped. “If I even suspect he's planning on betraying us, his spirited little friend will take up permanent residence in my office and I will see to it personally that her stay is not a pleasant one.” A cold smile. “For her, that is.”

  A few guards had the balls to laugh and jeer at that.

  I wanted to kill him. All of them. Shatter the teeth in those smiles, tear out their eyes, and then rip them up and scatter the pieces to the wind. My hands formed fists at my sides. Not now.

  “Besides,” Callaghan continued, “The boy has many enemies. It would be all to easy to make them see my side of things. You may be strong, Michael, but you're human through and through. And humans are subject to certain weaknesses” — I did not look up, staring straight ahead and locking my jaw as he approached — “like death, and pain. I'm sure you remember what happened the last time you decided to get uppity with me.”

  “I'm not afraid of you.”

  “Oh no?” He leaned into my face, so close that I could taste his breath. I heard the guards shuffle uncomfortably, looking away. He placed his knife against my throat, over my jugular. There was blood on the blade. Hers. “Then maybe I should kill you.”

  “You won't. Not now.”

  “Overconfidence is a deadly trait.”

  “This isn't messy enough for you.”

  That made the bastard laugh; he was sick enough to find that funny. “You've a good poker face, Michael Boutilier.” He folded the knife. “But a poor hand.”

  “Your men are right, though. I'll be watching and waiting.”

  “Spoken like a true mercenary. How very self-preserving.”

  “Not at all,” I growled. “I'd sacrifice my life to end yours.”

  “Well. That makes it all the more interesting.” He glanced at Christina. “I must admit, I rather had my heart set on you saying no. This compliance of yours comes as a disappointment.”

  I lunged towards him and was promptly restrained. The barrel of a gun dug into the back of my neck. One blast would obliterate my brain stem, causing instantaneous death. I didn't care. “If you touch her again, I'll rip your face off.”

  “No. What you're going to do now is get out of my sight, before my guards get careless with their aim and I decide to keep the lass.” His eyes flicked towards the guards. “One of you escort them out,” he said, as he strolled out of the room. “I don't care who. Everyone else is dismissed.”

  The guards loosened their grip. I pulled free with a shove and scooped Christina into my arms. She was conscious, but dazed. “Oh, God,” she whispered. “Oh, God.” I opened my mouth to say something comforting in response, but nothing came to mind. I sucked at this making-people-feel-better shit and the whole situation had been caused by my lapse in judgment.

  Shannon had better fucking behave.

  “Come on,” one of the guards said.

  We walked to the parking lot in silence. I could see Shannon's shadow shifting around in the car, lit up by the guard's flashlight. If he noticed the extra passenger, he chose not to comment. “This your car?” I nodded. He looked at the plate, memorizing the number. “Get in the vehicle. Nice and slow. No funny business. I'll watch you drive away.”

  I nodded again. It's time to buy a new car.

  Shannon jumped as I pulled open the back door. “Michael? Is that you? Who's…who's that?”

  “The girl you almost killed,” I said, taking a savage pleasure in seeing her flinch. “Take a good long look.”

  “Is she all right?”

  “No.” I grunted. I couldn't tell the extent of the damage without removing what remained of her clothes. I wasn't about to do that with Shannon watching.

  “What's wrong with her?” she persisted, as I got behind the wheel.

  “Assault and battery, physical and sexual. Hope you're proud of yourself.”

  “You mean those men…” she trailed off. “Oh my God. What have I done?”

  She said nothing more after that. It was preferable to her brand of conversation, anyway. I sped back towards the city, pulling up in front of Shannon's apartment with a screech less than forty minutes later. All of the windows were dark — I intended to keep them that way.

  “I'm going to let you out,” I informed her. “But only on the condition that you never breathe a word about what happened tonight. To anyone. You've never seen me, you've never heard of me. I don't care if it's your mother, or your best friend, or even your fucking dog — if you tell anyone, I'll find out. And I'll come after you, and show you exactly how I earned my reputation. Are we clear?”

  She nodded mutely, frantically, with such fervor that it was a wonder her head didn't snap off like a broken bobble-toy. I untied the cables. She made to get away. I caught her arm before she could quite succeed. “I mean it,” I said softly. “Remember that.”

  Shannon swallowed hard, and nodded. I watched her go back to her apartment. She nearly ran up the steps in her haste. When the lights flicked off again, I pulled away from the curb.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Wreckage

  Michael:

  Change of plans. Far more pressed for time than I thought. How fast can you work? -M

  I read over the e-mail. When I was satisfied, I began to translate it into a numerical encryption Kent and I had developed together several years ago. Kent had been a programmer in his time, back when computers still used punch cards, proving that old adage wrong: sometimes old dogs can teach new tricks.

  I was finding it difficult to concentrate, though, and couldn't keep my mind on the code. Abstract reasoning had never been my strong suit and adrenaline was still surging through my body, rendering my thoughts frenetic and disconnected. After several more fruitless attempts, I came to the conclusion that I was being masochistic and shut my laptop.

  A phone call might be safer, anyway. Now that I had been reinstated, the IMA would be monitoring me closely. Callaghan had made it quite clear that his regime was not going to be challenged. My cell phone and laptop were probably already bugged, as well as other devices I hadn't stopped to consider yet. I'd have to get a new phone, a new laptop, a new car. Keep tabs on them at all times. Warn my contacts about the step-up in security so their positions wouldn't be compromised — if they hadn't been already.

  It had been a while since I had last spoken to Kent. Anything might have happened between then and now. I made a note to touch base with him as soon as possible. It was 10am now. Was the girl still asleep? I could run out and purchase a new phone. There was a Radio Shack within walking distance and a Fry's just a bit further down the block. If I took the car, I could be there and back within minutes.

  I opened the bedroom door slowly. Christina lay motionless on the bed. In addition to my coat, she was swaddled in several sheets. As I entered the room, she stirred but did not wake. I wasn't sure if Callaghan was making empty promises; he knew I had the girl with me. If his men saw me leaving alone, he might take it upon himself
to seize her to ensure my compliance. To hurt her more than he already has.

  I turned to leave and ran into the desk chair, which toppled with a clatter. Damn klutz. Christina made a small sound. “Michael?”

  I heard the wariness in her voice. I cleared my throat. “How do you feel?”

  “Cold.”

  I reached up to switch off my ceiling fan and turned on the light for better visibility. The rope had left her with a bracelet rash. “How are your other injuries?” When she didn't respond right away, I added, “I can probably treat them — if you'll let me. Or I could call a doctor.”

  “No. You can, um, do it.” She looked away.

  I opened the nightstand drawer and tried not to speculate on what her initial hesitation and taciturnity meant. I gathered a handful of salves — antibiotics, topical analgesics, lotion — and a handful of gauze. I tasted blood when I sat on the bed and realized I'd bitten through the skin of my lip upon seeing the cuts and bruises that mottled her olive skin. I'll kill him. I squeezed the tube I was holding too tightly, getting antibiotic cream on my hand. I barely noticed. I'll fucking kill him. Christina winced when I touched her, prompting me to ask, haltingly, “Did Adrian Callaghan rape you?”

  She stared at me in horror. I gritted my teeth at her intake of breath, trying to hold onto my slipping composure — but it was tumbling like a rock slide. He better not have touched you. Answer me.

  I wanted to shake her from her silence. I wanted to pull her to me and have her in my arms. I wanted to stab that son of a bitch over and over in non-lethal places. The squeeze bottle fell to the floor with a clatter. Jesus. I was losing it. The only thing left to do was get out before the fallout.

  As I stood, I caught a glimpse of how her face had changed. Her eyes were squeezed shut, tears coursing down her face. As if she thought I was going to hit her. The sight of that — her fearing me, even now — slammed into my chest like a bullet. Knowing such fears weren't entirely unwarranted made the pain unendurable. I started for the door, not trusting myself to speak.