Cloak and Dagger (The IMA Book 1) Page 11

  As usual, he was waiting outside with the clothes. New ones I hadn't seen before. When I reached out to take them, he pulled me up against him. Not as violently he had in the past, but it still wasn't gentle even if it didn't quite hurt. I didn't think he was capable of gentleness. His face was so twisted, so distorted by ill-concealed emotion, that he seemed to be in pain.

  “Don't give me that innocent look.”

  “I'm not — ”

  There was a sharp pain as his nose hit mine. “You're not what? You're not giving me a look? Let me tell you something, darlin. You can't look at a man like that and expect him not to notice. You've succeeded in making me look like a fool, and gotten me into a real shit storm. You've fucked me, darlin.” He moved closer. “It's only fair that I return the favor.”

  “Don't do it,” I pleaded.

  When he spoke, his lips brushed mine. “You wouldn't be able to stop me.”

  “That's an excuse, not a reason,” I said, trembling.

  “This is the least you can do for me,” he added, with such venom that I jumped. “How's that for a reason?”

  “I don't owe you anything!” I lifted my knee in a sharp upwards jab. He knocked my leg aside with a growl, pressing me against the wall. Not like this. I squeezed my eyes shut when his mouth touched my throat. No, no, no. Not like this. “No,” I gasped. “I won't let you, you bastard. I won't. I said no.”

  Michael ignored me, moving lower. The room spun. I could feel the towel slipping. I began to cry — loud, hitching sobs. If he was going to do this to me, he was going to get to experience the whole of it; I wasn't going to hide any of my misery, fear, or disgust.

  It took me a moment to realize he was no longer touching me. “Jesus Christ. What are you — ” His face was a torrent of conflict as he looked at me, as if really seeing me for the first time. I stumbled away from him and my knees buckled; if he hadn't caught me, I would have collapsed to the floor. He drew in an uneven breath and cursed, pushing me away from him.

  What is he doing?

  He shoved the bundle of clothes at me. “Get the fuck out of here. Out. Now.”

  I grabbed the clothes, trying not to touch him, and ran for the first empty room I saw. I glanced back, a lump in my throat, half-expecting him to chase me. No. He was still leaning against the wall. Doubled over. One hand was digging into his forehead, driving the bone-white knuckles of his clenched fist into his skull. I'd seen enough.

  I closed the door behind me, breathing hard. Oh my God, I thought. What was that?

  After a while, the lock clicked. The house was submersed in silence.

  Sniffling, I drew my knees to my chest, burying my face in the fabric of my skirt. This time, I hadn't provoked him. I hadn't done anything wrong. There was no reason for his actions other than sheer spite and his own sadistic enjoyment. But then why did he stop? Is he trying to scare me? Well, it worked. I was scared.

  The house remained silent, empty, as the shadows chased each other on the floor. I doubted Michael was going to hold himself accountable for the situation — he never did — which left only one other person to take the blame. He would blame me, as he always did, and use my behavior as an excuse to further justify his own actions.

  I would never be safe around him.

  The door downstairs creaked open. Footsteps started up the staircase. I stood up. They sounded…aimless. Michael knew the building well. This person, on the other hand, seemed unsure about where they were going. Lost. My feelings of unease intensified when my door rattled, but did not open. Michael had locked it himself. That meant somebody else was in the house. Maybe it's a hiker — or a policeman!

  The footsteps were receding, moving farther down the hall. No! I began pounding on the door. “Help me! If you can hear me — help me, please!”

  I thought they moved closer again, but there was no response. I stopped my pounding, realizing for the first time that the trespasser might be a burglar or some other criminal. If it was a burglar, he (or she) could very well have a gun. I hoped he might not hurt me if he found out I was trapped here against my will, and had no qualms about him taking what he wanted from the house. I'd have just as much to lose by ratting him out. If I explained that, he might even be willing to take me into town. Burglars weren't necessarily bad people, right? They were just desperate.

  Well, so was I.

  I began hitting the door again. “I'm being held hostage! Please! Help me! You can take whatever you want from the house — just please, please help me!”

  More silence met my plea but the footsteps were definitely coming from right outside the door. A series of clicking sounds and mechanical whirs emanated from the other side. My heart was pounding quite furiously, nearly blocking out the sounds. Please, God. Let me come out of this safely.

  The noises stopped. The door swung open with a shriek five seconds later, confirming my suspicions: the man in the doorway was not Michael.

  This man was tall — taller than my captor, even, though not as broad in the shoulders — and a little older. Late twenties or mid-thirties. He was wearing a white shirt tucked into black slacks, carefully creased. I didn't notice any of this until much later, though, because in his hands was a far more prominent accessory: a gun. And it was aimed at me.

  I should have felt hysterical but mostly I just felt numb. My horror was dull and distant. It wasn't that I wanted to die, because I didn't, just that being held at gunpoint wasn't much worse than anything else that had happened to me so far. How sad.

  “I'm unarmed,” I squeaked, raising my hands to show they were empty. “Don't shoot!”

  His eyes, the color of slate, studied me a moment before he set to examining the room. “Are you alone?” He had a soft accent I couldn't place. It sounded British, but I knew it wasn't — the cadences were different from the way that other man, Kent, had spoken.

  What is he doing here? He had a strange, foreign accent, he had found — and then broken into — the safe house, and he had a gun. He wasn't a hiker or a cop. I was pretty sure he wasn't a burglar, either. The equipment he had used to break down the door seemed pretty sophisticated. Like, government-issue sophisticated. Those thoughts propelled me into motion.

  “Who are you?” I demanded. “And what — ”

  There was a muted click and I froze.

  “That was the safety.” As if I don't know that. “Make another move, and I'll shoot.”

  Swallowing, I lowered my arms back down to my sides and stayed where I was. He walked farther into the room, appearing to wander aimlessly, but his steps brought him closer until he was standing only a foot away. His eyes were even fiercer up close, like a hawk's. And at some point in the past, I noticed, somebody had broken his nose.

  “I believe I asked you a direct question.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I am alone.” Is he one of them?

  He smiled. It wasn't reassuring. “Is your name Christina Parker?”

  I was instantly on my guard. “Maybe.”

  “You certainly look like her.” He fished into his pockets, producing a picture I had trouble recognizing at first. My senior photo. My face was fuller, my color less pallid, but it was me. I almost reached for it but stopped myself just in time. “Strong resemblance,” he said, glancing first at me and then at the photograph. “Wouldn't you say?”

  “Who are you?” I repeated.

  “I'm detective Timothy O' Rourke.”

  Detective? Like a private investigator? Did my parents send him?

  “You are Christina Parker, yes?”

  I hesitated. “Yes…”

  “Good.” He winked at me. “Won't be needing this, then.” He lowered the gun, turned the safety back on, and tucked it back into his holster. “Your parents hired me to find you and rescue you,” he added, making my deadening heart flutter with renewed hope.

  “You mean…they're still free?”

  “Aye. Somewhere safe. But I'd rather not say where. Just in case — ” His fingers grazed my cheek, t
ouching the bruise Michael had left when he'd hit me. It sent waves of pain rippling down my face and I shied away. “That's a nice shiner you've got there. Who gave it to you?”

  “My captor,” I said flatly.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Captor?”

  “I've been kidnapped and he's holding me hostage here.”

  “Does your captor have a name?”

  It stuck me that if he had asked me this yesterday, I wouldn't have known the answer. “Michael.”

  “Michael Boutilier?”

  The French surname made me blink in surprise — Michael certainly hadn't looked French. “I don't know,” I said honestly. “He was careful around me.”

  “Not careful enough, I daresay.” The detective's voice held a hint of a smirk, though when I looked at him his face was impassive.

  He took me by the arm, leading me down the stairs. I felt a surge of relief so strong it was dizzying. Michael won't be able to hurt me or threaten me anymore. It's almost over.

  “Michael Boutilier is a very powerful man.”

  “I'll bet,” I murmured. I would have agreed with him if he'd said the sky was yellow.

  “Aye,” Timothy said. “Murder, arson, kidnapping, robbery. He was a criminal long before he joined the IMA. Prominent member of a Cajun gang in Lafayette during his teen years. Louisiana still hasn't lifted the bounty on him.” He stopped, and said in a tone I couldn't quite read, “You're lucky to be alive, lass.”

  “What's the IMA?”

  “Integrated Military Affairs. It's not affiliated with the U.S. military or any other department of the U.S. Government, although they know it exists. You didn't hear that from me, though.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Mercenaries, Christina Parker. Powerful mercenaries, trained like soldiers.”

  Timothy stopped walking. There were splinters of wood scattering the floor of the hallway. He must have broken the door down. “Right. You don't have any shoes on. I'll carry you.”

  “That won't be necessary.”

  “Don't be ridiculous. You'll get splinters.”

  The detective swung me up, in spite of my protests, forcing me to cling to him like a monkey as he stepped over the sharp pieces of wood. My breath caught as I surveyed the landscape. I could see hazy mountains in the background, closer than they had been before, and the vibrant green of the hills below us; they were dotted with yellow wildflowers.

  It was beautiful, but wild and unaccommodating.

  “Lovely, isn't it?” the detective murmured. “So isolated. Takes your breath clean away.”

  It was as if he'd read my mind. Timothy was far more perceptive than I'd initially thought. Stronger, too. His lanky, awkward frame belied a formidable strength. “How did you find me? I'm still not clear on that.”

  “They have multiple bases around this area. It was a matter of hit-or-miss.”

  “Hit-or-miss?”

  “We had no way of knowing which base he'd take you to. Ah, here we are.” He stopped at a black, unmarked sedan.

  Just like the one Michael drives. “Is that your car?” I tried to clear my head.

  “No, it's the agency's.” He set me down to open the door.

  The interior was spotless. I saw a bottle of iced tea in the cup holder. Lemon flavor. I couldn't see this man anything so sweet; it seemed like a prop. Stop it. You're being paranoid.

  “Nice, hmm? Gets the job done.”

  Granted, if he did belong to a detective agency they'd be able to afford nice cars. Of course, they'd want them to be conspicuous, and it stood to reason that investigative agencies might buy their cars in bulk from the same dealership. But still…

  Timothy held open the door for me. I swallowed. “Um, I'm sorry, but I'd like to see a badge before I get into the car with you.”

  “Smart girl,” he remarked. “I was afraid you wouldn't ask. Here.”

  He handed me his billfold. I opened it carefully, tracing the gold ridges of the crest with my finger. His ID was in there. I looked at the photo and then at his face to make sure they matched up. He looked a little younger in the photo but couldn't be faulted for that; it was him.

  “Sorry,” I said again, handing the wallet back.

  “Don't be, Christina. It's not every girl who would get into a strange car with a strange man.”

  I smiled, feeling foolish and uncomfortable. Timothy slammed the door behind me and got in on the driver's side. I was initially glad he hadn't put me in the passenger's seat since it meant I wouldn't be obligated to converse with him, but the backseat conjured up unpleasant memories of being a prisoner, bound and gagged, treated like baggage.

  The car lapsed into silence. Though the heater was on, the air seemed to grow colder. After a few minutes, he turned on the radio. A slow, moody rock song came through the speakers. It was pretty old, from the late eighties — before I was born.

  “Are you Irish?”I tried to take my mind off the dark synthesizers and unsettling lyrics.

  His eyes regarded me in the rear view mirror. “How could you tell?”

  “Partly the name. O' Rourke. Mostly, though, it's your accent.”

  Against the song's dark melody, my voice sounded falsely bright.

  Timothy scanned a deserted mountain pass and made a right turn. “You've a good ear.”

  “Where are you from originally?”

  “Kildare.”

  “What brought you all the way to the United States?”

  “You shouldn't ask so many questions, Christina Parker. Don't you know that old saying? Curiosity killed the cat.”

  I smiled nervously. “Well, I guess it's good I'm not a cat, huh?”

  His laughter made me want to leap out of the car. I stopped trying to talk to him and looked out the window instead. Tall evergreens towered over the car, throwing it into shadow. A river ran parallel to the road, slipping in and out of sight through the trees like a winding blue ribbon. We really are in the middle of nowhere.

  I wanted to cry when we finally came upon a weathered sign informing us that we were just twenty miles from the nearest town. “Hale,” I said reverently. Just the name sounded comforting. “Do you think they'll have a police station?”

  “Probably,” he said thoughtfully.

  We passed more trees. The river ended. I watched one minute tick by on the dashboard clock. Then ten. Fifteen. Half an hour. We should have arrived at Hale by now. The trees were growing thicker. It looked like we were getting farther from civilization, not closer.

  The car jolted; the road was no longer paved, but dirt. I leaned forward, gripping the armrest of the seat in front. “I think you missed the turnoff.”

  I know.”

  He did? “Weren't we going to Hale?”

  “No. We're going to my agency. I need you to fill out a statement.”

  “Where is your agency?” I no longer cared if I sounded suspicious. This detective with the sharp eyes and broken nose had me on edge. He'd purposely led me to believe we were going into town and I wanted to know why. “Is it in the middle of the woods?”

  “You'll know when we get there,” was his cryptic response.

  It was in the middle of the woods. The building's facade was a dark gray stone, granite maybe, surrounded by a steel gate ringed with barbed wire. Two men in green uniforms were standing guard. Both wore sunglasses, though the building threw them both in shadow. Timothy reached into his shirt pocket and flashed a pass. They waved him through.

  I couldn't help but notice that Timothy had kept his pass facing away from me.

  It's nothing.

  It didn't feel like nothing.

  “What is this place?” I whispered, feeling goosebumps erupt up and down my arms. It seemed wrong to have all this in a mountain forest. “It doesn't look like a detective agency.”

  Timothy turned around, smiling brightly. “It isn't.”

  “What?” I thought I'd misheard him.

  He reached for my hand. I thought it was a smarmy attempt to com
fort me — until the handcuff snapped around my wrist. Shit. I lunged for the door, already knowing it was going to be locked. Timothy reached around the seat and fixed the other cuff to the door handle.

  A malicious smile twisted his lips. “This isn't a detective agency, and my name isn't Timothy O' Rourke.”

  “I figured that out when you wouldn't show me the other badge,” I lied.

  “Smart lass.” He grabbed for me. I jerked my leg away, crawling as close to the door as I could. “Too smart. I thought you might not come with me, but I'm so glad you did. What is that charming saying you Yanks have? Like a lamb to the slaughter?”

  “Don't condescend to me, you lying bastard. What's your real name?”

  “Adrian Callaghan,” he said, slipping out of the car.

  What have I gotten myself into? I'd been better off with Michael.

  The other passenger door opened. I lashed out with my foot. “Stay away!”

  He raised an eyebrow at my reaction. “Did Michael mention me to you?”

  “In passing,” I snarled. “It didn't sound like he thought very highly of you.”

  “But I'm very good at what I do,” he said, in the same tone you would use to console a child. “I suppose you could say that I get a…certain pleasure out of my work.”

  I screamed.

  “Nobody will come.” He gave me a devastating smile and got out of the car again. A few seconds later the door I was leaning against opened. I tumbled out of the car, still attached to the door by my wrist. My head banged against the metal ridge at the bottom and I bit my tongue. I could taste blood in my mouth when I sat up.

  “You can imagine my disappointment when your parents escaped.”

  “It must have been crushing.”

  “Oh, believe me; it was. But I feel so much better knowing that I'll have you in their stead, my bonnie lass.” He pulled out a dishrag. Fumes rose from the terrycloth, sickeningly sweet. He forced the rag against my mouth and nose. I clawed at his hand, scratching, hitting, punching.