Locked and Loaded Read online

  My spirits sank further. It was growing painfully clear which category this group belonged to. Marcus had been right about one thing. There was only one other woman in this class that I could see. She was sitting off by herself with a pinched expression that clearly denoted her self-awareness.

  But she wasn't looking at me, either. In fact, she seemed to be making a point not to.

  Okay, then.

  I approached the cubicle. Up close, the man inside looked greasy, unwashed. There was a shiny tint to his olive skin that didn't look healthy and suggested a bad diet and too little sleep.

  His black hair was long and cut unevenly, as if he had done it himself. It hung down to his shirt collar in matted clumps. There were yellow stains under the armpits of his shirt, and though he was wearing slacks they looked as rumpled as if he'd slept in them and were several inches too short.

  None of this would have bothered me quite as much if he'd at least looked kind. My father could look pretty disgusting too when he got wrapped up in a project. It used to drive my mother crazy when he would forget to shower, or gain weight from eating junk food at his computer terminal when he was unable to tear himself away from a big project.

  As loathe as I was to admit it, because I'm a woman and people judge you more harshly for such things, I could be the same. When you get that wrapped up in a project, everything irrelevant pales into the background.

  But unlike my father, or even me, there were no smile lines around this man's mouth or eyes. He looked as if he had spent the last ten or twenty years sucking on a lemon even though he abhorred the taste. He looked like an angry nerd, hellbent on getting revenge for all of his many grievances and perceived slights, no matter what the cost.

  Would this man consider a disturbance to be a grievance? Maybe. Probably.

  Yes.

  I knocked on the door, painfully aware of the fact that I was the only one here who didn't appear to be doing anything important. The other programmers had stopped their work to gawk at me. My legs shook a little as I opened the door.

  I wasn't used to this much attention, especially not from boys and men. The limelight had been my mother's domain, not mine. She was a shiny new app, I was a background program.

  The man in the cubicle looked up sharply as I entered. Even though he had to be in his forties at least, there were clusters of acne around his chin, cheeks, and nose. His scowl did not help.

  “Is this the computer lab?”

  “Military intelligence is, indeed, unparalleled.”

  “So that's a yes,” I said. “Are you the instructor?”

  “Do you have something for me?”

  I stared at him in utter befuddlement. Whatever I had been expecting, nothing had prepared me for this. “I don't follow — ”

  “You're here about the warranty on the computer that broke down the week before. We have been over this. I have already filled out the requisite forms. We still have not received its replacement.”

  He thought I was some kind of delivery girl.

  “I don't think you understand.”

  “On the contrary, I understand very clearly.”

  “With all due respect — ” I tried to peer around at his monitor to see what he was working on, but the characters on the screen weren't in English. “ — I don't think you do.” I tried again, “I'm new.”

  “I couldn't tell.”

  I bit back my sarcastic response, and instead stared at his keyboard. It had three times as many keys as a Western ASCII keyboard. I wondered if it had come like that, with all the extra characters, or whether he'd had it customized.

  “I'm a programmer. Not a delivery girl.” I sounded harsher than I meant to, in spite of those extra ten seconds. Oh well. “I have study session in this lab.”

  “If that is what you say.” He made a vague gesture “Find an empty spot and sit down. Hmm. Yes, I suppose I should get you started. I would not want you moving things around or getting in the way. Women should not be allowed near technology,” he said, in a softer voice I could nonetheless hear. “It is a male domain, and is no place for the female mind.”

  He squeezed past me rather rudely. I sneaked another look at his computer screen. The characters had a simple elegance that looked far more aesthetic than Western programming. Sleek, streamlined, alien; the flowing scripts reminded me of water.

  “Is that kanji?” I asked. “May I look?”

  “No!” the man snapped, so loudly that I jumped and nearly upset the papers on the edge of his desk. “Come away from there!”

  “I'm sorry.” I found myself bowing my head and then stopped, embarrassed. What if he thought I was mocking him? “Was that Chinese?”

  “I told you to sit down. If you cannot follow even the simplest of instructions, then you have no place in this class.” He snorted. “Sticking your nose into everything with a smell. Typical woman.”

  Great, my first day and I'd offended an instructor. A misogynistic, arrogant, rude instructor.

  I hated that I actually felt bad.

  I followed him to the seat he had indicated. The only available space was in the very back, about as far from the board and lectern as possible.

  Maybe you offended him by asking stupid questions about his ethnicity.

  Had that been it? I knew that the Chinese and the Japanese did not like each other, but I had been so sure that the writing on his computer screen had been in kanji. So sure.

  Mierda.

  “Here is a laptop.” He set a heavy, old-fashioned looking computer before me that looked as if it weighed as much as three or four bricks. “It is encoded with a password. Your assignment is to decipher the log-in key and change the settings. Let me know when you are finished.”

  Finished? “What about the instructions?”

  “My name is Mr. Chou,” he said, “the bond between student and instructor must be one of respect, not familiarity. In order to learn one must close one's mouth and open one's ears.” He paused for a moment, then said, “Speak to me when you are finished with the task at hand, and not before then.”

  Doble mierda.

  Chapter Eight

  Intrigue

  Michael

  I checked out of the motel early next morning. Heard the roaches scuttle out from their hiding places as soon as I turned out the light.

  In the halls were several yellowed, peeling roach motels, some with the desiccated carcasses of their permanent residents still attached.

  I took a cab halfway to the airport. Walked the rest of the way, knowing I still had time and that it'd be more difficult to trace. I'd timed the ride yesterday, just to make sure; I arrived just as the airport opened.

  I planned to hang around the gate of the flight, as if I'd been there all along, right as scheduled. Callaghan would undoubtedly enlist some underling to figure out what pseudonym I'd been using.

  The idea of him pissing away time and resources on a foil was pretty fucking hilarious.

  Most of the restaurants in the food courts hadn't opened yet; their windows were still dark. The only vender was selling coffee from a small chain I'd never heard of to businessmen on early commutes, or people departing from their red-eye flights.

  Not top quality stuff, but decent enough for airport coffee. I imagined the fact that we were about a stone's throw away from Seattle might have something to do with it. Washington was as well known for its coffee as California was for its wine. Reputations were at stake here, including mine.

  If Callaghan thought I was just gonna lie down and take his shit, he was sorely mistaken.

  Not only had the bastard tried to gut me, he'd also had me framed for murder. I'd been dishonorably discharged, and Callaghan used the power vacuum to turn the IMA into a high-class mob. I'd sucked it up and signed on for a subordinate role that paid half of what I made at the highpoint of my career and what had that gotten me? Six months of unpaid retraining with torture if I didn't comply, and an undercover position in England that had been compromised b
y one of his own underlings who'd been seeking to curry additional favor by writing me out of the picture.

  If it weren't for Christina, I'd be long gone. Somewhere isolate, with no extradition and plenty of duty-free liquor. But Callaghan was using her to keep me in line. There had to be a way to put a stop to that.

  Somehow.

  I was nearly finished with the coffee when I saw the woman heading straight for me. I glanced at my watch. It was half an hour past the time when my flight was due to land. She was later than I'd expected and it looked like she had come alone.

  “Mr. Edwards?”

  As she came closer, I saw she was pretty. Indian. Or Mexican with an ethnic, indigenous background. Possibly Vietnamese. Hard to tell. She didn't have an accent. This was a woman who had probably grown up hearing generic compliments involving the word “exotic.”

  She saw me smile. Her face grew several degrees chillier and it hadn't exactly been warm to start. “Suraya.” She put out her hand, slim, manicured. There was no mention of a last name.

  I didn't take her hand. “Who the hell are you?”

  “I believe I just told you, Mr. Edwards.”

  Her coolness was close to authentic. It would have been more convincing still if she hadn't gone and let her fingers tremble in the brief instant before she lowered her hand back to her side.

  I suspected someone had briefed her on who I was, because Mr. Edwards was a nobody on paper. Nobody some ball-busting bitch would have any reason to fear.

  If she'd had to be briefed, she was probably new. “Have it your way, then.” No point in feeling sorry for her. She couldn't have been completely innocent if she'd gotten involved up in this shit-storm. “What the hell are you?”

  “Your ride.”

  My ride? I ignored the obvious rejoinder. “Really.” I looked her up and down. “No entourage?” No guards?

  “I've been looking for you.” She hitched her purse higher up on one bony shoulder. I watched it carefully. Lots of women stored weapons in their bags. “You were instructed to wait at the gate.”

  If she made a move for it, I was going to attack.

  “I was thirsty.”

  “I don't see the relevance, Mr. Boutilier.”

  Her story about instructions was a load of bull. I'd been instructed to do no such thing. I watched her, but she didn't appear to be going for a weapon, and it would be stupid to do so in a crowded terminal, so I allowed myself to relax a hair.

  Just enough to be convincing.

  “Thought I'd be able to make it back in time after catching a quick coffee break,” I finished.

  “Well, you didn't,” she said, in crisp, Midwestern English. The golden standard for American English-speakers. Her voice coach must have been thrilled.

  “No, I didn't. Because I'm not a goddamn dog. I don't wait around for master to call.”

  “Please don't be difficult.”

  “Oh, I'm not being difficult.” I crumpled up the cup, watching her carefully, waiting to see if she would flinch. Most women would at the implicit sense of violence. “You haven't seen difficult.”

  She didn't flinch. “Can we go now, please?”

  “Sure, why not. Let's go.” I tossed the cup towards a nearby trashcan. I missed. On purpose.

  She couldn't resist opening her mouth again as we passed the spot of floor where it had fallen and spilled. “Aren't you going to pick that up?”

  “No, I'm not going to pick that up. That's what janitors are paid for. I thought you were in a hurry. Now you want to stop to clean up?”

  Her shoulders bunched up. I saw her hands form fists at her sides. “Are you always this pleasant to be around, Mr. Edwards?” she said tightly.

  I smiled to myself.

  Her step was brisk, even in heels. Military precision. She had been trained by somebody. Maybe not the military. I eyed her skirt and cardigan. Bet she was packing heat beneath that wool getup. It was cold outside, but not that cold.

  “Right now, I'm on my best behavior.”

  “I find that difficult to believe,” she said quietly, but when I asked her to repeat it she just shook her head, declining to engage further. What a little tight-ass she was. I decided to try a different tack.

  “Hey, sweetheart, I gotta take a leak. You mind?”

  She made a noise. I wasn't real clear whether she was objecting to the leak or to being called sweetheart or both. “We are almost at the car. Please wait.”

  “No, I really can't. When nature calls, I don't let it go to voicemail. You saw the size of that cuppa Joe.”

  “Fine.” Mais, she had the kind of voice that could freeze a man's balls clean off. “Do be quick, Mr. Edwards. We are in a hurry, contrary to what you might think. I'll wait outside.”

  I eyed the restroom. It was one of those single-room types. One lock. The latch was green, with the word VACANT printed in day-glo yellow. Perfect.

  “You mean you don't want to come in and hold my hand while I piss?”

  Suraya looked away from me to release a little puff of scornful disdain. The moment she did, her tight little ass was mine.

  I surveyed the area. Nobody was around. Had to be quick, though. I grabbed her from behind, pushing her through the door, and whirling her around so that when I pinned her up against the metal surface it clicked shut.

  She tried to bite me.

  “Cut that out.” I slapped her before reaching around her body to do up the latch. Then I frisked her. She did have a gun beneath that schoolmarm sweater. Also a knife and an unmarked bottle of pills. Nice rack, too.

  There was resignation on her face now, in addition to fear, and that, more than anything, sealed her fate.

  “What have you got to say for yourself?” I turned the bottle over in my fingers without breaking eye-contact. They were small, white oblongs. Could have been anything from opiates to cyanide.

  She didn't respond, so I hit the wall beside her with my fist, gratified to see her jump a little, to see that cool facade finally begin to crack.

  “Well?”

  Silence.

  I rattled the jar of pills. “What about these? What are they? Not aspirin I'd fucking bet.”

  “They aren't lethal.”

  “I didn't ask what they're not. I asked what they are.”

  More silence.

  Staring at her, I realized what it was about her that had captured my attention. She reminded me of Christina. Not in looks, but their personalities were similar.

  Not similar enough.

  I let my face harden further as I unscrewed the lid.

  “Maybe we ought to experiment then. I'm a firm believer in the scientific method, you know. I've got a hypothesis that these contain some pretty nasty shit. Let's put that to the test, shall we?” I dug my fingers into her jaw. “Open your mouth.”

  The terror that lit up her face spoke volumes.

  “So that's a yes, then. Won't kill you, but might make you wish they had. Is that the gist?”

  “Please, don't. My sister — ”

  “I don't give a shit about your sister. I should make you eat the whole fucking bottle, you cunt. Plastic and all. But that wouldn't be much fun for either of us, and it wouldn't solve my problem regarding what I should do with you.”

  I threw the bottle into the toilet.

  “So let's move on from science class and proceed to show-and-fucking-tell. My favorite.” I pointed a finger at her. “Who are you really, who the fuck do you work for, and why should I let you live? You have a minute, starting now.”

  “I told you, I was talking to your — ”

  “Bullshit. I received no call. No instructions. None except to be on the plane at a certain time, and to wait here in the terminal for a certain driver who I'm starting to think is dead somewhere, when you decided you might just take his place. Oh, and by the way, this all counts. You now have thirty seconds.”

  The fear on her face was beginning to take on additional shades of desperation. My guard went up. People d
id stupid things when they were desperate. This woman was no exception. She reached into her purse — and then froze when I pulled out my gun.

  “What are you reaching for?” Keeping my voice pleasant. That seemed to scare her more than yelling.

  “Please. I just want to get my phone.”

  I had to laugh at her sheer fucking audacity. “Are you kidding me, sweetheart? You had better be. There is no fucking way. Give me the bag. Now.”

  She shoved it at me. That didn't usually happen. Not right away. Not until I switched to blatant threats.

  “You get it then,” she said. “Pick it up. Press speed-dial six, and then talk. Then you'll understand.”

  “Yeah? And then what happens? Does your phone explode?”

  “No.”

  “And why should I believe you? Hmm? You've lied to me once, and we haven't even been formally introduced yet. That's pretty goddamn ballsy.”

  “I haven't,” she said, “I swear to God, just dial the number I told you and you'll see. I'm telling the truth!”

  “You keep saying that. It isn't reassuring.”

  She pressed her lips together. “Trust me.”

  “Fat chance, sweetheart.”

  I had her phone out in my hand now. I knew what a rigged phone looked like. They tended to be heavier, and sometimes if it was an amateur job you could still pick up a faint whiff of explosives.

  I eyed her as I raised the phone towards my nose. Nothing. Which I'd expected. This didn't fit the profile of a bomb case, and she'd mentioned a sister. Generally, bombers were willing to blow themselves up along with whatever it was they were trying to take out. I still didn't trust her, though, and I made sure both her hands remained in sight while I gave the phone a final cursory once-over.

  Finding nothing of concern, I flipped it open and hit six. The keypad remained cool. Nothing began to tick or sizzle. I lifted the phone to my ear.

  “It's ringing now,” I told her, “once, twice — just who the hell are you having me calling?”

  The line opened with a click. I said, “Hello?”

  “So you aren't completely out of touch,” the voice on the other end said. “Good to know that I'm getting my money's worth out of you. I'd heard you were starting to go soft.”