Locked and Loaded Page 14

  Or, worse, that somebody had discovered the note, and the first one was a trap to test my loyalty.

  I sat in the chair across from his intimidating desk, bracing myself for the inevitable chastisement.

  He looked me over slowly.

  “Things are going a little slowly for you, Ms. Parker. Perhaps more slowly than you expected?”

  Everything about this place had a way of going against what I expected. Had Hawk seen me wasting time in the library? This was tricky ground.

  “I don't have a lot of experience in these areas.” Then, thinking that sounded too whiny, I added hastily, “But I understand that we all have to begin with the fundamentals.”

  “But are you bored?”

  What was he trying to get me to say? “That's why it's called work and not play.”

  “Mr. Chou has noticed a marked decline in your productivity as of late.”

  That's because all he has me doing is reconfiguring old laptops. “I guess some of his lessons are a little…repetitive. But practice makes perfect.”

  “Kindly can the platitudes, Ms. Parker. I have been talking to Mr. Chou and he believes we could work you into a modified program. Because of your history it seemed more beneficial to design a tailored lesson plan designed to cater specifically towards your strengths and weaknesses.”

  “Is Mr. Chou okay with that?”

  “It was his idea.”

  Were we talking about the same man? The crabby, crotchety, surly man who had delivered a long and trying speech about how he believed that women shouldn't be anywhere around computers because of the chaos they spun in their wake?

  “I don't want to be a bother.”

  “It is no bother. Though I would have to ask you to refrain from mentioning this to the other recruits. Courtesy, secrecy, and all that.”

  “I understand.”

  “I knew you would, Ms. Parker.”

  When I arrived back in my room, I checked the memo pad. It was gone, a fresh one in its place. I checked under the pillow. Nothing. I felt a surge of panic, until it hit me that perhaps the note had rolled underneath the bed.

  I got on my stomach, and looked, and yes, there at the very back was the wadded up piece of paper. It must have rolled off the mattress, and down the gap between the headboard. I closed my fingers around the paper and opened it up, all the hairs on my arms prickling in anticipation and terror.

  OUTSIDE. 18:00.

  It was easier to sneak outside during dinner hours. The mess didn't require scanning my ID. That happened at the register. I had no trouble slipping away.

  Once again, I found the door unlocked.

  I went outside, and I waited. It was a cold night, chilly and damp. My breath rose up towards the cloudy sky in a frozen plume.

  I didn't have to wait long.

  The man showed up, and his face matched the one the guy at Admissions had shown me. Biracial. Piercing eyes. Hobo beard.

  “You're Emil Anders,” I said, by way of greeting. “You sent me the note.”

  I wanted him to know that I knew who he was. I wanted him to think that I wasn't afraid, and, if this was a trap, that I had plausible deniability if I looked him up. One wrong move, and I'd submit my own dossier to Hawk about the questionable activities of his spies.

  Instead of answering, he said, “Walk with me. I have twenty minutes. You probably have less; they're watching you.” He started along the path that curved around the dirt field.

  I plodded after him, stumbling a little in my haste. Leaves crunched delicately underfoot. “Who is? Who's watching me?”

  “Who isn't?”

  So it was going to be one of those types of conversations. Talking to these operatives was like trying to carry on a straightforward conversation with the Cheshire cat. I closed my eyes.

  “I suppose you've heard about the bullet.”

  “Yes.”

  “Hawk wasn't helpful.”

  “He wouldn't be.”

  “Why not?”

  “Not standard procedure. Doing so would be unusual. It's all about convention.”

  “He asked me a lot of questions. He seemed to think the bullet was meant for me.”

  “That's the risk you take when you jump into bed with an operative from the IMA.”

  We were almost at the trees now, the scent was smothering. That wasn't the reason I coughed. “People talk about me?”

  “Yes, but not where you would hear them.”

  “What sorts of things do they say?”

  “Nothing you would like hearing repeated to you. Locker room talk, most of it mere speculation. People wishing you dead or ill. Apparently one of them has decided to take a more proactive approach.”

  “What happened to the instructor before Chou?”

  “Ah, so you have been doing some investigation of your own. What did you find out?”

  “He's new — almost as new as me. The other instructor disappeared mysteriously.”

  “Then you know what everyone else does.”

  “Nobody knows where he is?”

  “I have colleagues in Admissions. They said that several of Mr. Brigg's checks — the last instructor — returned, unopened. They were shredded.”

  I shuddered. “Do you think he's dead?”

  “Or he was persuaded to give that impression.”

  “Is Mr. Chou really Chinese?”

  Emil turned to look at me. “What else would he be?”

  “Not Chinese.”

  “He is.”

  Damn.

  “What are the trucks doing here late at night?”

  “You have been busy digging, I see. Take care that you don't end up buried.”

  I shook my head. “Why are you helping me?”

  “Curiosity. I wanted to meet the girl who brought the mighty assassin to his knees.”

  “I don't believe you.”

  “Good. You shouldn't.”

  “Well. You've met me. What do you think?”

  “You're not quite as beautiful as I expected. But you're smarter, which is better. Beauty fades quickly, and it makes people stupid.”

  “That's incredibly sexist and demeaning.”

  “Is it? Or is it because you've found yourself thinking the same thing, only it sounds uglier than you'd like when put into words?”

  “Who are you?”

  “A janitor,” he said. “I believe our session's up.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Conspiracy

  Michael

  It was during times like these when I felt Kent's absence like a bullet in my chest. For as long as I could remember I had relied on him as my prime source of information. My job had never been easy but he simplified things dramatically.

  I had taken it for granted that he would continue to do so for as long as necessary. But now he was gone, and it occurred to me that I'd never told him just how much he had meant to me, not just for what he did, but who he was. For the company. If that fucking makes sense.

  I guessed it didn't really matter anymore.

  I pinched the bridge of my nose and drew in several breaths. Get ahold of yourself, Boutilier. Pull your dick out of your ass.

  Callaghan had summoned me. I couldn't go into his office looking a wreck.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  Well, for the time being I was stuck with Angelica. I was just going to have to make do with that until something better came along.

  If something ever does.

  Callaghan's office looked like a fucking Victorian tea parlor's interpretation of the Spanish Inquisition. The large marble desk was probably modeled off the desk of some third world dictator living in spelndor while the rest of his people wallowed in squalor.

  He had a tea service on his desk. I shook my head when he offered me a cup. “Smells like shit.”

  “It's oolong.”

  “I said no thanks.”

  “I hear you have been asking questions.”

  “Lots of people ask questions,” I said. “
That doesn't make it a crime.”

  “Why have you taken an interest in our corporate branch?”

  “Maybe I'm thinking about going back to school, getting an MBA, and going to business school with all the other pinstripe-tie-wearing-shit-fucks. When did you start playing tea party on your afternoons off?”

  “Or you just enjoy getting into situations that don't involve you.”

  “Yeah, and last I checked, that whole branch was public. Unless you've been shitting in the pool and don't want anyone finding out, I don't see a problem with 'taking an interest' as you so blithely put it.”

  “There's a problem if it goes against your orders.”

  “I wasn't aware that it did.”

  “You will focus on the job at hand, Michael, or I will see to it that you are taken to task.”

  “Now it's forbidden, is it?” I laughed. “Have you been shitting in the pool? You have, haven't you, you sick, demented fuck.”

  “Enough. From now on you do what I pay you to do. No more. No less.”

  “What's it been, Callaghan? Fraud? Blackmail? Embezzlement? Or was it something more twisted?”

  He slammed the teacup he'd been holding against the marble top of his desk. “Is that clear?”

  I brushed shattered porcelain and tea off my shirt. “You can't intimidate me that way. Dammit, I liked these pants.”

  “Don't push me, Michael. You're not the only one I can go after. There's still your girl.”

  He snapped his fingers. I tensed, waiting, but the person who came into the room wasn't the goon I was bracing myself for, only a man with a broom.

  To sweep up the porcelain.

  “You sure I can't persuade you?” Callaghan said softly, filling up his new cup.

  Fuck. I was in trouble.

  We both were.

  Christina

  I still couldn't believe this was happening.

  I was going to be working with Mr. Chou in one of the BN's affiliated computer laboratories. The prospect of leaving left me feeling giddy.

  But not so giddy that I didn't have my questions.

  They say if things seem too good to be true they probably are. That had proved to be a major tenet to go by in my experience.

  My conversation with Emil Anders had done nothing to dissuade me from that belief.

  “One more thing. Why isn't the facility here on site? Everything else is.”

  “As a general rule we try to keep our main bases of operation separate from our training and recruitment centers. Not just for the safety of the new recruits, but also for the BN's own personal security. A leak could be devastating.”

  His explanation didn't reek of the bullshit that the IMA had tried to force-feed me when they had held me hostage. But then, they had believed me to be an idiot, a stupid, shallow little rich girl who spent all her time hanging out around the mall. The BN were under no such illusion; they had employed me. They knew what I was capable of.

  Was I being too suspicious? Had spending so much time around Michael caused me to absorb some of his conspiracy theories in addition to his own paranoid style of thinking?

  Remembering those trucks making their stealthy late-night deliveries, and Mr. Hawk's caginess about the whole situation, I figured that, no, I was being just the right amount of suspicious. This was a group of mercenaries. They had their secrets to keep.

  What was that saying? Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean that they’re to out to get you?

  If someone was trying to kill me, it stood to reason that the BN would try to get me out of the way.

  Plus, they knew who my father was. They knew of my intentions to follow in his footsteps. It was in their own best interests to keep me happy while working for them. Was giving me my own specially tailored program such a giant leap in logic?

  Careful, Christina. Pride goeth before a fall.

  How high that fall could be. How fast.

  It could make your head spin.

  Michael

  I checked my watch. Then I tore out of there to buy another phone.

  Angelica—it's Michael. Find anything?”

  “Yes, Mr. Boutilier. In fact, I was just about to call you. The girl whose name you told me, Elizabeth Corbet—she is dead.”

  “Dead?”

  “But not recently. According to these records I found she died almost fifteen years ago.”

  My God. They'd stolen her identity. Repackaged it and fucking resold it like a cheap store-bought knockoff. “What about the address?” I pulled my thoughts away from that unpleasant revelation. “Was that real?”

  “I checked that too. It is valid, but nobody owns the place. It has been vacant since the original owners foreclosed around two-thousand-nine.”

  This was Lake fucking Angelus all over again.

  “And the companies?”

  “I am getting to that. I looked up the most recent mergers first. Your organization, what is its most public face?”

  “Steel Core Enterprises, Inc.”

  “As I thought. Well, according to my findings, Steel Core recently purchased a new American company. Do you care to take a guess?”

  “No, I don't want to fucking guess. Tell me.”

  “It is a company called Union Corp.”

  I may not have had much of a head for business but that was one front I had occasion to be very familiar with. “Are you absolutely sure?”

  “You insult me, Mr. Boutilier.”

  “So you're positive.”

  “Yes.”

  “Goddammit.”

  I threw my phone against the wall of a nearby building with a curse. It shattered rather like the porcelain teacup had, startling several nearby pedestrians. For once, I didn't give a flying fuck.

  Union Corp was a subsidiary division of the BN.

  Adrian had organized a fucking merger between the IMA and the BN.

  And Christina—

  Is in terrible danger.

  No fucking shit.

  I ran back to the base, hoping I still had time.

  Christina

  Hawk and Mr. Chou talked outside the limo while the driver finished up his cigarette. It was one of those menthol-infused kinds that's supposed to take the edge off, but only makes the smoke smell like medicated chapstick.

  Then I did a double-take.

  The driver was Emil Anders.

  Oh, shit.

  I started to duck out of sight. Then I remembered that the limo's windows were tinted and that wasn't necessary. What was he doing here, though?

  I fiddled with the buttons on the inside of the car. One of them made a hidden radio come on, and loud music assaulted my ears. I fumbled at the controls and in my haste to find the off button I snapped off one of the knobs.

  Crap.

  The door opened before I had time to think of a place to stash the knob and Mr. Chou looked rather taken aback by the thrash metal and my white face.

  “Um.” I held up the knob. “I'm really, really sorry, but I think I just broke your car.”

  If Emil recognized my voice, he didn't show it. He didn't even turn around.

  “One of the technicians will repair it.” Hawk was looking over Mr. Chou's shoulder. “They have been getting rather lazy of late. I may have them give the car a complete overhaul while they are at it.” To me, he said, “Limousines are not as expensive as one might suppose.”

  To him, no, I supposed they wouldn't be. Not with all that wealth and influence to contend with.

  The driver's door closed.

  I set the knob in the ash tray for lack of a better place and leaned back against the black leather seats. Carefully, so they wouldn't emit one of those embarrassing sounds that sounded like a fart.

  The music was still playing. Which agent had the horrible taste in music? It was like a swarm of angry bees, all of them carrying chainsaws, and what I'd understood of the violent lyrics made me sick to my stomach.

  It also reminded me of something, vaguely, but since I didn't listen t
o music like that I couldn't imagine what that something might be.

  I expected Mr. Chou would debrief me, or at least prep me with one of his usual lectures. He didn't. He said nothing, and seemed edgy, distracted, nervous.

  Isn't it usually supposed to be the other way around?

  Could it be that in spite of all his big and blustery talk about women having no place in the field, he was actually one of those men who feared them?

  “I really appreciate your doing this, sir,” I said. “It will be exciting, seeing the real professionals in their work environment.”

  He nodded without taking his eyes from his phone. The implicit message in that was clear.

  I sighed. This was going to be a long ride.

  I had been incredulous when Mr. Hawk told me that this whole expedition had been Mr. Chou's idea, and I was even more suspicious now. If it was his idea he certainly didn't seem enthusiastic about it.

  It seemed more likely that Hawk had bullied him into compliance in order to get me out of the way. Maybe S.A. had filed another Reprobation against me.

  We rode in silence for several minutes while I mulled over the various possibilities that could have brought me to this point. Then Mr. Chou tucked his phone away and managed an attempt at a smile. The mangled result almost made me sorry he'd tried at all.

  He opened the door to a mini-fridge I'd somehow missed while I was busy prying off knobs. I watched him take out a soda. He had opened and downed what looked like half before he remembered my presence. “Would you like one?”

  The idea of him drinking something so sweet amused me, and also made me feel kind of sad. And yet, it also harbored traces of a warning that I couldn't quite recall, much like the music had.

  “Sure,” I said, twisting off the cap. I was rather thirsty. But remembering the first driver, I made sure that the cap actually snapped as it came loose. It did, so I happily took a long swig. The bubbles made my throat ache with their fierce sweetness.

  “It's really kind of you to do this.”

  Mr. Chou shrugged, looking uncomfortable again. “Your father was a great man.”

  I frowned as my palm began to itch, rubbing my fingers against the irritated skin.

  “You knew my father?”

  His networks were so small and secret.