Cloak and Dagger (The IMA Book 1) Read online

  Well, let's see. My mother had positively medieval views about women. She was terrified of getting old, and so she tried to relive her modeling days vicariously through me. My father was never around and when he was, he was more like a distant relative, rather than the close confidante I thought a father should be.

  “It was great, until I got kidnapped.”

  “Your parents still haven't gotten back to us. Don't you find that odd?”

  “Maybe they're scared,” I suggested.

  “That doesn't seem very responsible.”

  “My parents aren't very responsible.”

  Freud jotted something down in a little black notebook. “But you just said you had, and I quote, a 'great' relationship with them.”

  “You can have a great relationship with someone even if they aren't responsible.”

  “Even if those someones are your parents?”

  I shrugged and closed my eyes. “You tell me.”

  “Your father is a computer programmer. What does he do at work?”

  “He bakes bread,” I said in a flat voice. “What do you think he does?”

  The guard approached again, and Freud held him back. “Can you be a bit more specific?”

  “No.”

  “Did Michael Boutilier ever talk to you about the IMA?”

  “No.” Not intentionally.

  “Did he ever attempt to bargain with you?”

  I told myself this was just the “story they were kicking around the office” that Michael had warned me about. The hallway had been completely empty when we'd talked, and he was too proud to incriminate himself. There was no way we could have been overheard.

  …Right?

  “No.”

  “Did you ever have sexual relations with Michael Boutilier, at his behest or yours?”

  “No!”

  “Take her back,” Freud said, after a long pause. “We have enough for one day.”

  Michael:

  Breathed in and heard a bubbling sound. Felt liquid in my chest. Tried to move. Couldn't. Restrained by something. Too dark to see what. Ground was vibrating. Tried to sit up. Last memory was Miles — with a gun. Miles — betraying me. Couldn't believe I'd overlooked him. Had seemed so incompetent. Didn't matter now. Needed to move. Arms were bound behind back. Felt like handcuffs. Shoulders ached, so had probably been unconscious for a while. If was going to die, would have done so already. Relief. Been through worse. Much worse. Would heal if got proper treatment in time.

  If.

  Needed to figure out where I was. Why I had been left behind. Probably thought was dying or dead, if just left like this. Arrogant to leave operative to die if death not certain. Or just very, very stupid. Miles, I thought again. Shifted weight to abdomen to bend waist. To sit up.

  Agony.

  Gasped. Sounded like cheap carnival whistle. Moving definitely bad idea. Ribs felt like they were being sawed apart by rusted metal implement. With dull edges. Shirt was damp with sweat and blood. Could smell blood everywhere. Knew it was mine from way shirt was plastered to skin. “Fuck,” I whispered raggedly, and heard bubbling sound again. Blood — in lungs. Jerked and knee hit something hard. “Fuck,” I said again, louder.

  “Did you hear something?”

  Froze. Voices faint, but close.

  “Don't be so paranoid, Trevelyan. We got him.”

  Trevelyan — Miles. And somebody else. Sounded familiar but not very.

  “I heard something move around back there.”

  “It's just your imagination.”

  Long pause.

  Was I…in the trunk of a car? Felt like coffin. No wonder couldn't move. Thought of most trunks, how small they were. Wondered what contortions they had performed on body to get to fit in such small dimensions. Muscles cramping. Suspected was folded up like origami crane.

  Heard trunk pop open. Suddenly light. Kept eyes shut. Pretended to be unconscious. Was not hard. Wanted to be unconscious. Wouldn't be so painful that way.

  “What the — the fucker's still breathing?”

  Wanted to laugh. Lungs scalded like fire. Felt like heavy weight was pressing down on chest. Coughed instead. Tasted blood in mouth, salty and metallic. Spat out blood. Bubbling in chest diminished. Maybe lungs weren't pierced after all.

  “I told you I heard a thump!”

  “Well, if you had shot him point-blank like I'd told you to, that wouldn't be a problem.”

  Recognized voice now. Was Sheffield—Callaghan's backup. Son of a bitch.

  “Never mind. Throw his body in the lake. He won't be breathing for long.”

  Was surrounded by water…and freezing. Couldn't move hands. Couldn't swim. Couldn't breathe.

  Fuck.

  Christina:

  49 hours left.

  “Rise and shine, Christina Parker.”

  My eyes snapped open to meet a familiar pair of mocking gray ones. I blinked rapildy, praying the nightmare in front of me would vanish.

  He didn't.

  No! It's a dream, he's not real, he's not —

  He reached out for me, just missing my chin. I felt the displaced air swoosh in front of my face. I shrieked, scrambling away by kicking my feet as hard as I could against the floor.

  Adrian raised an eyebrow, letting his arm fall to his side. “You don't look happy to see me.”

  I searched in vain for the guard. “Get out!”

  “You don't order me around.” He didn't say it in a threatening way, as Michael would. He said it in an amused way, in the same tone as if the command has come from, say, a child. He rose from his crouch. “I saw the results of your polygraph.”

  I pushed myself to my feet. His eyes tracked me. How had he seen the results already? I'd only taken the test hours ago. Then I remembered — Adrian was the backup on Michael's previous assignment. Me. Adrian was in charge of me. Freud hadn't been threatening me with Adrian for the fun of it; he was threatening to send me back to my new captor if I didn't cooperate, who would then use his own preferred means of extracting information.

  I'm in trouble.

  “Figured it out, have you?”

  Big trouble. “Stay away from me.”

  A slow smile wound its way across his face. He took a few brisk steps towards me. I matched him step for step, curling my hands into fists.

  “I said, stay away from me.”

  “You're a liar, Christina,” he purred.

  I veered to the right to avoid his idle grab for my arm. “I didn't lie.”

  “According to the test, you did.” He faked to the right and laughed when I nearly fell trying to avoid him, just barely managing to evade his lunge to the left. My God, he's fast. His feint attacks were exhausting to avoid, his footwork perfectly choreographed. I could feel myself getting tired at an alarming rate. Adrian stopped several feet away from me, giving me a heartbeat to catch my breath as he stopped to think. “Several times, actually. Why would you do that, I wonder?”

  My back hit the wall.

  “Maybe you wanted to be alone with me.”

  I leaped away from the wall, shooting a nervous look at him. I couldn't let myself get cornered. Adrian seemed to enjoy the sound of his own voice. Maybe I could hold out long enough, keep him talking, and A — or a guard, or Michael — would intervene.

  “I didn't lie!”

  “Oh, don't apologize to me.” He laughed quietly. “I don't mind.”

  I bet he doesn't. God, he was sick.

  “Or maybe,” he continued, looking at me thoughtfully, “you're protecting someone.”

  “I'm not protecting anyone,” I snapped, glaring at him.

  His smile widened. I saw he had been expecting this response. “Not even yourself?”

  In that instant, I knew three things: (1) he was playing with me, like a cat with an enfeebled mouse, and perfectly willing to draw this out as long as I was, which meant that (2) no guards were going to come — or he believed no guards were going to come, which pretty much amounted to the same thin
g, and (3) he had clearly done this before many, many times because the fluidity of his speech and the quickness of his responses were so synced up that it was as though he were reading aloud from a script.

  Adrian lunged. I screamed as I bounced off the wall. Not from pain — the soft padding absorbed most of the blow — but from sheer terror. His hands hit the wall on either side of me, boxing me in. His eyes drifted leisurely down my body but there was nothing sexual about that look. “Are you afraid?” he whispered, bending his head towards mine.

  “No.” Oh, yes.

  He sighed. “So stubborn.”

  I punched him. He caught my fist before it could reach his face, spinning me around like a dancer and then, when I had gathered enough momentum, let go. I hit the ground with a thud. The padding absorbed most of the impact again, but this time it actually hurt. For several seconds I was stunned and barely managed to dodge the blow he'd been aiming at my unprotected side. His shoe clipped me — had it connected, it would have bruised my kidneys, or worse.

  I got to my feet but was exhausted and shaking too badly from fear to be stable. He had military training: I could barely get through gym class. I leaned against the wall for support, willing my knees not to buckle out from under me as I frantically hobbled away.

  When he socked me in the stomach all the wind was pummeled out of me. He punched me again, lower — just above the groin — and there was a sharp ache that made me feel, for an instant, like I desperately had to go to the bathroom. The floor hit my knees. I barely noticed. I was too intent on hugging my aching midsection, as if I could hold the pain in with my arms alone.

  It was a painful reminder that if I wanted to trade punches against the men in the IMA, they would always win.

  “Look at that,” he taunted, “Already on your knees.”

  I told him he could go fornicate with himself in the crudest way possible, borrowing one of Michael's favorite words. For my efforts, I received another blow. I doubled over, in the fetal position. I didn't even bother trying to get up this time.

  Adrian leaned over me. His shirt was a stark white. I had a sudden vision of how my blood would look spattered across the fabric, like a grisly Jackson Pollock painting.

  He nudged me in the side with his foot. “If only you could see yourself…how pathetic you look. I could kill you with just a few more blows.” He ground his shoe into my side a little harder and my sob became a scream. “Maybe only two.”

  “You'll pay,” I gasped.

  “To whom? Michael? Did you really believe he could protect you?”

  He's using the past tense. I struggled to sit up. White-hot pain lanced through my stomach, arcing through my ribs, my bladder, and both my sides. Like some ghastly compass rose. Pain in all directions. “I don't…know…what you're talking about.”

  “Oh, I think you do — ”

  He saw me trying to get up and swiped my legs from beneath me.

  Wham.

  Back on the floor.

  “ — I know all about your deal with him.”

  If I tried to speak, I was going to throw up.

  “But he's sleeping with the fishes, Christina; I doubt he'll wake up any time soon.”

  “He's…dead?” A bubble of blood burst from my lips.

  “Out like a candle,” he agreed.

  I'd wanted Michael dead so many times. After he'd tried to rape me, I'd fantasized about killing him myself. Now I'd gotten my wish and he'd been replaced by an even greater evil. And with Michael died my only hope for escape. I turned on Adrian, my anger and disappointment providing me with the energy to shout, “You sick, twisted fu — ”

  He kicked me again, casually, and I broke off in a strangled yelp. Blood drizzled out of my mouth, spraying the floor with crimson. Adrian hadn't been exaggerating. A few more of those love-taps would probably kill me. The harder blows, definitely. Easily.

  This wasn't pain anymore. This went beyond pain. This was hell.

  “Get up.”

  “I can't…you bastard…”

  “No?” He dropped to his knees beside me, his features arranged in mock solemnity. “Well, that's what you get for trying to play with the big lads, my bonnie lass.” He traced my lower lip. I braced myself for the pain that was sure to follow because he was like a sadistic King Midas, turning everything he touched into pain.

  But he didn't hurt me. Just wiped the blood from my mouth almost…tenderly. No. That wasn't the right word. His face wasn't sympathetic or repenting; he looked rapt, almost fascinated. When he finally withdrew, his fingers were coated in my blood.

  “It's a pity he's dead.”

  Michael? Was he talking about Michael? “Why…pity?”

  “Because.” He raised his eyes to my face as he licked my blood from his fingers. “I rather hoped he'd be around to watch this.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Nightmare

  Michael:

  “That was cutting it close, even for you.”

  Kent was frowning down at me. If I tried, I could hear water slapping against a solid surface. We must have been aboard Kent's houseboat. I was lying on the dining room table, cleared to make room for me. “Sometimes…you need to take a few risks.” I examined the blood-stained bandages covering my torso. Nothing vital appeared missing.

  “This was more than a risk, Michael. This was reckless. You could have died.”

  Scoffing, I tried to sit up and gasped. “Oh, fuck me.”

  Kent gave me a look that plainly said, I told you so. “The bullet went through your kevlar. There was some internal damage.”

  I slid my legs over the side of the table and tilted my head. There wasn't as much blood as I'd initially thought, though Kent had cleaned me up a bit. My bullet-proof vest had absorbed most of the bullet's impact. “Was it deep?” I probed at the wound and winced. It hurt, but not too badly.

  “Nothing a first aid kit and some skulduggery couldn't fix. Did you know they'd be using propellants?”

  No, I hadn't. I'd been caught completely off-guard. It was the mistake of a rank amateur but — Miles? His hands had been shaking so hard, only luck and the fact that I had been standing stock-still must have allowed the bullet to meet its mark. If I had been in motion…

  But dwelling on the past did nothing for my present situation. It would not speed up my recovery, it would not undo my error. The fact that Richardson had enlisted Miles to be my assassin instead of somebody more qualified was downright insulting, as he undoubtedly intended it to be. My death would be made both a mockery, and a warning.

  Which reminded me. I was operating on a strict time frame. In just two days, Christina would die — and I'd be forced to await another chance to fuck them over. By then, news of my death would have already been released. I had to act now, while there was still secrecy. This botched assassination attempt had left me with an even greater thirst for retribution, and I was not to be denied.

  Kent watched me get up. “Where are you going?”

  “I need to get to the Cascade Mountains.”

  “You just took a bullet. If you go back like this, they will kill you. Wait a few weeks. Get your strength back. Then worry about getting revenge.”

  “I don't have a few weeks.” I pulled on a shirt he'd laid out for me. “Get me on the first flight heading back to Oregon.”

  Kent shook his head mournfully but picked up his phone. “Your funeral, Old Boy.”

  Christina:

  48 hours left.

  “I'll be back,” he breathed into my ear. “Don't go anywhere.” And then he laughed.

  My fingers clenched. Every move I made elicited pain so strong, it was like being stabbed all over by a red-hot iron. Everything ached. The effect was strangely neutralizing, as if the sheer abundance of agony had driven my brain into automatic shutdown. I closed my eyes and tried to focus on breathing. In. Out. In. Out. Each breath was a slash to my lungs.

  The worst part was, despite giving the fight — if I was being perfectly honest, it was
more of a slaughter — my all, I had barely hurt him. All of this damage, all the bruises and blood, had taken minutes to inflict. And he had walked away with nary a scratch.

  In. Out. Since when did breathing hurt so much?

  Adrian could have killed me. He didn't, but I was under no false illusions as to why. He wanted to save me for later, the same way animal predators will drag their half-eaten meal into a tree. His expression had been so alien, so bestial, that I hadn't been able to recognize it for what it was. I'd never seen that look on a human face before.

  It was a primal lust for drawing blood and inflicting pain. A gratification from the former that bordered on sexual. His face, as he had licked my blood from his fingers, had been that of a man caught in the throes of passion. What was he going to do to me now? What was left to do?

  Footsteps echoed in the hallway, coming closer. I turned my head towards the door, the muscles in my neck straining with the movement. Was it one of the guards? Or was it Adrian, back to finish the cruel game he'd started, coming back to his tree to devour what remained?

  I heard the beeping of the access panel from the other side. The door whooshed open. A horrible silence ensued. I counted three and a half ragged breaths. The voice, when it finally came, was measured but concerned. “Oh my sainted Jesus — Christina?”

  A.

  I saw her shimmering form through my tears. She was wearing an aubergine dress suit with matching heels. A white silk scarf draped around her throat. She dropped to her knees beside me, an angel wearing purple, her fingers gently rolling up the hem of my sweater. The sweater she had given me, hopelessly ruined now. Her hands were cool to the touch, painstakingly gentle.

  “Mr. Callaghan,” she spat, her soft voice discordant for the first time since I'd heard her speak. Her mouth was a thin, tight line as she pulled her hand back, which I didn't want her to do at all — I needed her touch to make sure I was still alive. A wish I regretted, when her finger pressed against a bruise too hard. A's face softened, becoming lovely again, as I recoiled, and she said, “I'm sorry! Are you in a lot of pain?”