Locked and Loaded Read online

  “What do I do with you now?”

  “Anything you want.”

  On some level, I realized that this must have been serious for him. That I might just be the first woman he had ever trusted enough with this fetish that, under the wrong circumstances, could get him killed. How easy it would be, at this very moment, to slash his throat while he was so prone and vulnerable.

  I kissed a path down his body. He was like a bowstring, every muscle tensed, corded and ready. I looked up at his face; his eyes were closed, and he was gritting his teeth. I could tell by the set of his jaw.

  “Anything?”

  “Don't make me beg.”

  In that instant, I think I really, truly realized just how lonely his life must be. No intimacy. No understanding. My heart ached for him.

  Other parts of me ached for him.

  I had never felt like this before, as though life itself and all its accompanying sensations had been squeezed into a more compact and intense form.

  I ran my tongue along the veins that ringed his penis like ribbons around a maypole, all the way up to the very tip, where the flesh was as soft and delicate as crushed velvet, and a bead of pearlescent fluid had beaded like dew. It tasted salty, like sweat, but thicker and a little sour.

  “What if I want you to beg?”

  “Fuck,” said Michael, reverently. He started to say something else, but his speech devolved into something more primal as I took him in my mouth, his voice breaking like a twelve-year-old boy's.

  And as he writhed beneath me as I brought him to climax, I felt, in that instant, truly, wondrously beautiful for perhaps the first time in my life.

  I had driven a man senseless with pleasure. And it had made me feel not objectified but empowered. A woman could take command of her sexuality and not be branded as a whore or a slut for being anything but passively receptive during the actual act.

  What a novel concept.

  I fell back against the mattress and stared at the ceiling, trying to ignore the pins and the needles making their gradual spread throughout my body.

  It didn't work; I couldn't sleep; I was wired.

  No, I had Michael in my blood.

  I slid out of bed and went to the little fridge beside my desk a little unsteadily as my blood-pressure plummeted from my getting to my feet too quickly. I held onto the edge of the fridge for a moment to keep from falling. Only when I was sure I was stable did I open the door. The ghostly edges of the water bottles reflected the blue light from the moon and stars that came in from the lone window.

  The window covered by reinforced steel girders.

  A beautiful starlit night crisscrossed by imposing metal prison bars. There was room for metaphor in there. I was too tired to think of a good one, too afraid of what it might mean. Nothing conducive to positive thinking, that was for sure. It made me think of that sad song from Sweeney Todd, Green Finch and Linnet Bird, full of sorrow and impossible yearning.

  Again, not particularly optimistic.

  So I drank, twisting the cap off the bottle and gulping down the cool, clear water until it was nearly half-gone. It did nothing to cool the fire that burned within me, though it did quench the desert my mouth had become overnight. My gums felt like cotton balls.

  I took the bottle back to bed and wondered how closely the BN were monitoring me. My door was locked — that bespoke of airtight security. I knew it was locked because I'd been hungry earlier and wanted to figure out if there was a way to get food for my room. The handle hadn't budged an inch.

  The window was stuck, too. I couldn't get it to open. As if the bars weren't enough, it was impossible to get a decent breeze going. I started to feel a little panicked by that revelation. No fresh air. Barely enough room to pace around in.

  The computer in my room had a firewall I had no hope of accessing, let alone overriding, and emails, I quickly discovered, could only be sent after being approved by the network admin. Which meant that they would be reading any emails I sent out.

  Everything in this 30 x 24 space was spare, neat, sterile. Self-sufficient. Self-contained. This was not a home, but a temporary place of residence. I could come or go and the room would not care. It would go on. And then, when the next resident came along, the process would begin anew. Nothing left of me behind.

  It was like bad science-fiction. A dystopian dormitory. That made me sound crazy. I felt crazy, a little. Thoughts were sliding by me like cars on a fast-moving train. Maybe it was the drugs.

  They had drugged me on the ride over.

  At least, I was pretty sure they had. There had been a soda. I had drunk the soda, but I couldn't remember if it was sealed or not.

  The driver — just as Hawk described — offered me a drink. He said I looked thirsty. I was, and I fell for it so quickly that he was probably still laughing.

  Next thing I knew, I was here. In the IKEA bedroom from hell. Locked in. So they probably had drugged me, after all, and that made me furious. Furious that those evil men and women felt it within their rights to do something like that to me.

  Was I a recruit, or was I a prisoner?

  I didn't suppose it really matter.

  Chapter Six

  Assignment

  Michael

  I was growing increasingly certain that each assignment Callaghan sent me on was another attempt to kill me. I had one of the highest rates of accidents among the operatives, and my assignments were always high risk.

  A lot of the expenditure on away missions was used to equip the operative with everything he needed to secure his cover and protect himself and his team, if the latter was applicable. Callaghan, on the other hand, seemed to spend a good deal of time and resources ensuring that I was as ill-equipped as possible.

  The work I did was hard enough without my constantly being on guard for a bit of friendly fire.

  It was a study in vigilance, that's what it was.

  The obvious solution was to transfer to a different division, one where Callaghan did not have his fingers in quite as many pies. But the IMA had grown to the point that it was highly insular. Why take the assignments? I wanted to know what he was up to.

  And if I refused to do the work he specifically assigned to me he might decide to have me sent back to Scotland for some more unpaid retraining.

  I didn't like the idea of Christina being left alone on the same continent as that bastard in my absence.

  The torture wasn't great, either. Callaghan could spin it all he wanted, but that's basically what it was. Reeducation? How fucking Orwellian.

  Less conventionally I enjoyed beating Callaghan at his own game. He considered himself an expert at the art of fucking with people, and I very much enjoyed being the one to prove him wrong.

  Oh, I couldn't always predict what he was going to do and that was when I ran into trouble but this time I had a pretty good idea what his aim was.

  When he had given me forty-eight hours to check into one of the bases I got a mean case of the deja vu because Richardson delivered a similar ultimatum back at his Oregon base. Shortly afterward, he had also tried to make me disappear by means of a botched mission in Michigan and an inept patsy named Miles Trevelyan.

  When that had failed, Christina and I had been sent to Target Island. It was an internment base of the coast of Mexico, where we sent people to disappear. I'd managed to escape, but it had taxed my abilities to the fullest; I was not sure I would be able to perform the feat a second time.

  Rotting away in a prison in the tropics was not how I imagined spending my twilight years.

  The fact that Callaghan had asked me to return to Washington en route was heartening. There were no Target Islands or Ground Zeroes anywhere near the Olympic Peninsula. No detention centers.

  Maybe this was even a legitimate mission.

  But I wouldn't hold my breath on that one.

  Adrian Callaghan was the Energizer Bunny of bullshit. He ran on it, thrived on it, and just kept going and going.

  Fuck him.
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  A throat cleared. “Can I get you a drink, sir?”

  The steward spoke with a look of condescending solicitousness that was not convincing by half. I could only assume that bit was for my benefit, showing up to first class in a rumpled suit that looked slept in.

  He would have been half-right. I hadn't exactly done much sleeping that night.

  A shot of whiskey did sound real good right now, though. Just to take the edge off. My head was pounding and I had an ache in my temples that was from more than mere hangover. Christina started work for the enemy today and I had a date with a psychopath. Talk about your goddamn stress-related headaches.

  There were about as many edges going on as I could handle, but sometimes it's a bad idea to dull them too much. That discomfort is there for a reason and that reason is survival. I'd been drinking a lot. If Callaghan detected any sign of alcohol in my pores I would rake in about ten kinds of hell.

  Bastard had enough dirt on me already. Any more and I'd be lying dead in a ditch buried six feet under.

  Better to pop two aspirins with a Listerine chaser later than dope myself up now.

  The steward was still waiting for a response. “Water,” I said. “Sparkling. And I'll have it in the bottle it came in, if you don't mind.”

  The steward nodded and disappeared down the aisle. I watched him depart, then studied the other passengers with an affected boredom I'd gotten quite good at over the years.

  Nobody was watching me but I had my eye on a younger couple sitting near the back. Unusual to see a pair so young flying first class. Could be one of those dual-income no-kids types, but I doubted it. Nah, they were just one more thing to pay attention to, like that steward, who was slinking back.

  “Your water, sir.”

  I took the bottle and glass with a tight smile resisting the urge to snap at him.

  Son of a bitch had opened it, in spite of my clear instructions to the contrary.

  Wariness flooded in, displacing the annoyance.

  He could have been a dumb shit who didn't take orders well. Or maybe he took orders very well, just from somebody else, and the water was drugged or poisoned. I'd been poisoned before. It wasn't an experience I cared to relieve any time soon.

  I poured a bit of water in the glass before setting them both down in the cup holders. I rubbed some of the bubbly foam beneath my fingers. Felt normal enough. Possibly a little oily. Hard to tell.

  Not worth the risk.

  I wiped my hand on my pants and leaned back in my seat. Light glanced off the wings of the plane. The sun was setting, turning the clouds into a sticky yellow mess, like something you might buy at a fairground concession stand.

  People were pulling down their window shades. Hitting the call button to request pillows from the stewards even though it was only a two hour flight. They were refused, and offered eye-masks instead.

  Two hours was nothing. A flash. A blip. Nothing.

  Twelve hours, on the other hand —

  Twelve hours ago, I had been on my knees, fucking Christina with my mouth until her voice had gone all hoarse from pleading with me to finish her.

  Twelve hours ago, she had practically melted off that desk and into my arms. I had to carry her to the bed and then run to the nearest twenty-four-hour convenience store to pick up some condoms, because seeing her like that, all flushed and aroused, nearly did me in.

  Twelve hours ago, I had her tie me up, and she sucked me off with that incredible mouth of hers. I only just restrained myself from coming in her face. My God, that full lower lip of hers could drive me crazy. I had her put the condom on, and then she rode me like a racehorse to the finish line. My dick had felt like rubber when we were through.

  Laissez les bons temps fucking rouler.

  So much could happen in twelve hours.

  A decent night's sleep.

  A cross-country flight.

  The border between life and death.

  Callaghan had booked my flight for tomorrow. I wouldn't be on that plane. I didn't trust him as far as I could throw him, and I wasn't about to get frisked at customs again like the last time I'd let him charter my flight. No. I'd purchased my own tickets for an earlier flight under an assumed name that he didn't have on record. Just to fuck with him, I'd called the airline, making a point to confirm the other scheduled flight.

  I still planned on meeting with his driver at the specified time. I'd spend the night in a cheap motel and then get to the airport before it opened. Let him figure out how I'd managed to give his tails the slip.

  Christina

  My room was small, cell-like. The assumption being, I guess, that since I wasn't going to be spending much time in it, they didn't have to spend a lot of time decorating. Whoever they were.

  I hadn't been out of my room yet, so I didn't know, but it freaked me out how quiet the complex was. The walls appeared to absorb all sound. At least in the Hotel Azul you could hear muted conversations, footsteps.

  Here, I heard nothing. Each room was an island.

  I'd hoped my imposing surroundings were due in part to the darkness, and that the room would look more welcoming in the morning when the sun came up. That did not appear to be the case. Even in daylight, the cell made for some pretty dreary accommodations.

  The walls were gray and the floors were a darker gray, the color of storm clouds. My bed was pushed up against the wall furthest from the door. I'd tried moving it, and the nightstand that stood to one side, but they were both bolted fast.

  They had bolted the furniture to the floor.

  I had a bookshelf, stingily narrow and also bolted down; the mini-fridge that held waters, juices, one or two caffeinated beverages but no food; and the one window covered with reinforced steel girders that I hadn't the faintest hope of breaking.

  Overkill seemed to be the buzzword in this place.

  I now suspected that they had drugged me so I wouldn't learn the location of this training facility. Hawk had been extremely secretive over the phone and now that I thought about it, I guess it made sense, not wanting the training grounds of assassins- and hackers-to-be getting out into the wrong hands.

  I understood, but I didn't like it.

  Overkill.

  I suspected I was somewhere in California. I could see lots and lots of evergreens through the bars, spearing the sky like feathery green lances.

  At this distance it was hard to tell, but they looked like redwoods. Some of them had even been split by lightning. They were dead, some cleaved in two, the ragged edges scorched sable-black.

  It reminded me of the Sierra-Nevadas, where I had been once or twice on trips with friends back when I was still in high school. That was the big thing, having a rented cabin where you could throw parties in the winter—though none of the people willing to hang out with me were the partying type.

  I could also be in Nevada. The mountain range marked the boundary between the two states and spilled over into Nevada state territory.

  Assuming they didn't bring me much, much farther. I stared out the window.

  I couldn't be in England. England didn't have forests quite like this—did it? I tried to remember the last movie I'd seen with a forest that took place in England. The only one that came to mind was Harry Potter. Those weren't redwoods, but that was fantasy.

  I tried my bedroom door again. Still locked.

  I opened up the computer. Still no internet.

  Might as well be on Mars.

  What if there was an emergency? A fire? How was I supposed to get out? Or would they leave me to die here with the rest of their secrets?

  The pharaohs had their servants buried alive with them, so that they could be made to serve them in both this life and the next. But maybe it was also because the servants were the people who had all the dirt on the old kings. In either case, it served the dual benefit of keeping them silent.

  This wasn't helping.

  Frustrated, I turned to the bookshelf for solace. I half-expected the pages to have gon
e into lock-down, too. They hadn't, but everything on the shelf was noncontroversial. Nothing capable of coaxing the fires of rebellion to a lethal blaze. I guess they didn't want dangerous ideas being put into new recruits' heads.

  I picked up Great Expectations, thumbing through it. I'd had to read it for Humanities Junior year. Poor Pip. He was everyone who had ever put all their eggs into one basket, only to have their hopes dashed.

  A mechanical noise made me look up. The door? I tossed the book down, not caring when the pages wrinkled from the book landing on its face.

  I tried the door handle again, breathing out in relief when it yielded to my grip this time.

  Yes. Oh, thank God.

  I closed the door again and got dressed as quickly as I could. Blouse. Slacks. I was afraid if I tarried too long the door might change its mind and lock again.

  Would my doors be locked every night and unlocked every morning, or was the whole thing part of some ridiculous hazing process for new recruits? What if I didn't get back to my room in time? Would my door lock with me on the outside?

  My stomach growled loudly. I rearranged my mental list of priorities. Food first. Regardless of what the reasons were for locking me in I couldn't do much of anything about anything on an empty stomach.

  There had to be some sort of cafeteria or vending machine on the premises. It was just a matter of finding it. My door closed behind me, and once my room disappeared from view it was just one of many. The halls were identical, too, gray on gray, same as in my room, and the only thing I could smell was a trace of cloyingly fake citrus cleanser.

  As I walked around aimlessly trying doors, I felt a heavy sense of unease that made it kind of hard to breathe. I felt trapped, watched, and in danger, all at the same time, and I imagined that this was the fear agoraphobics experienced when faced with all the horrors of being in the outside world.

  The problem with fear was how paralyzing it was, and how quickly it devoured everything in its path. Like some kind of giant, disgusting worm.