Armed and Dangerous (The IMA) (26 page)

“
Do what?”

Michael muttered something incomprehensible and leaned back against the seat, stretching his legs out as far as the seat would allow.

Seconds later, he was asleep again.

Chapter Twenty-One

Fatality

Michael:

The bus dropped us off in San Jose. About goddamn time, too. I've never been a big fan of public transport. Too much hassle. Too much time spent in enclosed spaces. Too easy to find yourself trapped.

After a quick and inexpensive lunch at a Korean deli we made our way to the crowded BART terminal. It wasn't peak rush hour, but in a city this big there was bound to be some foot traffic at all hours. Luckily, the tickets weren't as expensive as I'd feared, though between the BART tickets, the bus tickets, the
kimbap
, and the shit I'd bought at the rest-stop, we had depleted most of our cash.

One-way SJ—SF ticket in hand, I slid the blue card into the machine and stepped through the turnstile. The card appeared through a slot on the other side of the partition. I yanked it out, only to see Christina having some trouble.

I sighed. Dammit. “Don't pull it out,” I instructed. “It's not a scanner. Feed the card into the thing,
then
walk through. It's not fucking rocket science.”

“
Oh,” she said, flushing unhappily.

I took her by the wrist. “It's fine. Come on. Help me find where we board. We're looking for the westbound train.”

The trains came far more quickly, and in greater numbers, than the bus had. We only had to wait about five minutes before one of the bullet-shaped trains glided up on the rails. Then we stepped over the yellow safety line and into the car. I tried not to read any symbolism in that.

There were two empty seats towards the rear. That pleased me. Nobody would look back there. Most people were too focused on the automatic doors, and getting off at the right stops. I caught Christina's eye and nodded at the seats, making sure she got in first. Old habits die hard.

When I got stressed, I relied on instinct. It was as automatic as breathing, or taking a shit. All this sitting around in one place was putting me on edge. When Christina had popped the lid on that can of soda, it was as if she had pulled a gun at my head.

The BART ride took about forty minutes and the terminal was right in the heart of the city. A gush of cold air breezed down the steps and Christina tugged her sweatshirt on, staring dubiously at the darkened sky. “Is it going to rain?”

“Nah. It's just fog coming inland from the bay.”

Navigating through the crush of people gave me something to focus on. I let my thoughts narrow to one goal. Find Kent. Find a phone to call Kent.

“Are you hungry?”

“
Yes
.”

Our best bet was a takeout place that made deliveries. Somewhere with a company phone with an answering machine, that got a lot of customers.

I spotted a frozen yogurt place. A sign in the window said they did catering. Bingo. “How do you feel about ice cream?”

Her face fell. “Um, okay, I guess.”

“Good. Buy yourself something. I'll only be a minute.”

While Christina disappeared into the restroom, I located the manager. I dredged up the important business call excuse, but this time I embellished it a little with a stolen cellphone. She was quite sympathetic. Must have had to deal with that crap from all the idiot tourists.

I punched the extension number to dial out and then Kent's number. “I'm in the foggy city,” I said.

“
You're only arriving just now?”

He might as well have told me outright that I was losing my edge. My smile faded. “We took the BART. I figured it'd be safer.”

Harder to trace, in any case. Certainly better than taking a cab or renting a car. I resented having to explain myself. Kent knew my methods.

“
I won't bother asking if you paid in cash.”

“
What do you take me for?”

“
Where are you now?”

I told him.

“I'm familiar with them. Quaint little place. Good ice cream.”

“
Frozen yogurt.”

“
They have both.” I could hear the shrug. “I'll send over a friend of mine who owes me a favor. Do you have a location in mind for the pick-up?”

We ended up agreeing on a Starbucks near the shopping mall. Close enough that we could get there quickly. Far enough away that the frozen yogurt store owners wouldn't be able to give a description of the giveaway car, assuming we were even traced that far.

I collected Christina from the table she was sitting at. She had a small bottle of juice. She offered me a sip. I declined; I didn't want the taste of her in my mouth. Not now. I couldn't.

It was a cold, cloudy day. Quite a contrast from the hundred-and-ten-degree heat of the Arizona desert. The bay-chilled weather felt a lot like a freezer in comparison.

I used the last of our money to buy a drink of my own while we waited for Kent's contact. The coffee didn't do much. I've had so much shit in my system at one time or another that nothing does, not anymore.

Not unless it's the hard stuff.

While I drank the triple-shot espresso, it occurred to me that this was one of the riskiest gambles I'd ever taken, going into fucking No-Man's-Land without money or backup. It went against all my training. Most of what I found myself doing these days did.

I glanced at Christina. Did a double-take. “What the fuck are you drinking?”

“Aloe juice.”

Like the skin lotion?

“
It's healthy.”

“
I'll bet…” Where the hell was Kent's contact? We'd been sitting here for at least fifteen minutes. Had something gone wrong? Kent was nothing if not timely. “You see anyone looks like they're waiting?”

“
That woman is staring at us.”

“
What? Where?”

“
Over there, in the gray.”

I glanced over in the direction she indicated. There was a black woman sitting alone in one of the corner tables. Her skin was that dark black that looks blue in some lights, as it did now in the silver reflection of the window. The formal pantsuit was at odds with her shaved head and hoop earrings. Christina was right; she was staring. And now, thanks to her lack of subtlety, she was coming over.

I'd never seen her before. Shit. She could have been Kent's, but she could just as well have been an agent. I reached for the backpack that held my gun.

“
Michael?”

She had a soft accent. African. Probably central. I wasn't sure. I relaxed my grip on the backpack's handle a little. “Who the hell are you?”

“Kent sent me.”

“
Who?”

She extended a slim hand to me. Her nails were unpainted, manicured. “Angelica Connors. He said you would say that. He also said to ask if you remember this: You once chased after an assignment after getting shot and sustaining a potentially fatal bullet wound.
After
nearly drowning.
After
being tied up and locked in the trunk of — ”

“
Okay, okay.” I raised my hand to shut her up. She was Kent's, all right. Now that I knew that, I wasn't sure whether to laugh or pop an aspirin. “Still spreading that bullshit about me around like toast at teatime?”

When she smiled she revealed very white teeth. “He never stopped — unlike his smoking habit.”

“Quit again, has he?”

“
Yes.”

“
What's he on now? Nicotine patches?”

“
Junk food.” She looked at the both of us. “I suggest bringing an offering of Corn Nuts, so he does not toss you out on your asses.”

She laughed, though whether at the phrase or the idea I wasn't sure. It was a nice laugh. She probably wasn't on contract. Looked younger than I'd guessed, too.

I was also surprised that she claimed to own the car: a surprising luxury for the city, and further proof that she probably wasn't a criminal. You had to register vehicles and getting fake IDs were a bitch if you were strapped for cash and didn't know the right people. I said as much, probing for more information, and she answered evasively, “I commute.”

The parking meter for her space was just about to run out. That meant she had been waiting here for a while. At least fifteen minutes from the look of it. Well before I'd called Kent. I kicked myself for failing to scan the parked cars. What a shit impression I was leaving.

“I like your accent,” said Christina, while I was busy mulling that over. “Where are you from?”

Angelica laughed. “Michael, you have not told her such questions simply are not asked in your line of work?”

“Oh, I've tried. But Christina here has a hearing problem when it comes to following orders — 'specially when they come from me.”

To Christina she said, “I am Sudanese.”

“When did you come to the States?”

She just couldn't take a hint.

“I came here along with several others from my village in Sudan to receive a full scholarship to Stanford for my achievements. In school, I majored in Chemical Engineering. I am very lucky to be where I am now.”

It was a nice elevator speech. I bet it was a pretty close approximation of the one she'd given Kent when he'd asked her why she wanted to work for him.

“Chemical Engineering? Does that mean you design weapons?”

Oh, for fuck's sake. “
Christina.
”

“
Not precisely.” Angelica let the subject drop, swerving to avoid a Mercedes that immediately began laying on the horn.

Well played. She could have been in Information. They could be pleasant people. Had to be, to get anything out of the people whom they were being paid to exploit.

On the other hand, that would be a waste of a perfectly good Engineering degree. Those were hard to come by, and they generally reverted to the soft sciences for their psychobabble bullshit, though I supposed it was possible she was also doing all that on the side….

Better not to know.

Angelica parked in front of a cluster of tall office buildings. Their one-way mirrored surfaces reflected the sky, while revealing nothing of their interiors.

Because all the parking spaces were taken, Angelica stopped in the middle of the road. Angry honking blared at us from behind. The fucking Mercedes again, with friends. I'd have given them the finger, but Angelica just raised her voice a little to make herself heard over the noise.

“Take the elevator up to the eleventh floor. Number eleven-forty-five is the room. He will be expecting you.”

“
Hopefully he'll be the only one.”

“
Pardon?”

“
I've had my fill of surprises for the day.” I shot Christina a look. She glanced away. Angelica got back into her car and drove. The line of blocked cars followed, still honking.

“
Don't ask him any questions,” I said to Christina. “Leave all the talking to me. If you ask people what they do in my line of work, they're liable to take it as a threat — or an interrogation. Same result, either way. Fortunately for you, Angelina works for a friend. She knows you're a civ.”

“
I'm sorry.”

“
You should be.”

“
But I didn't
know
.”

“
That's not good enough.”

But it wasn't her nosiness I was thinking about. It was that night in bed when she had all but begged me to fuck her, and then turned around and started crying. These fucking mixed messages. Emotional blackmail. That's what this was.

Christina was silent all the way up to the elevator. Room 1145 was set up like a delivery office, replete with waiting room front and plenty of magazines. All of them were current and up to date.

The receptionist pulled back the sliding glass door. “Can I help you?” She was wearing an 80s-print dress. Wire-rim glasses. Curly, nondescript hair. Very convincing.

“Michael. I'm expected.”

“
Come right in — sorry, I'm afraid you'll have to wait.” This latter was directed to Christina. She looked at me. I appreciated that, but shook my head.

“
Do what she says. I won't be long.”

Christina:

I looked at the receptionist. She hadn't closed the window yet. I thought her face looked a little smug. Maybe that was my own bitterness manifesting itself in the face of somebody else.

“Will you keep an eye on this?” I nodded at my pack.

“
This office assumes no responsibility for lost or unsupervised items left on the premises. If you — ”

“
Never mind.” I packed my ID, the last of my change. Part of me hoped that the snotty receptionist would take offense at the implication that I thought she might steal something.