Armed and Dangerous (The IMA) (28 page)

“
Get off me.” He sounded genuinely angry. “I told you to fucking go away.”

“
I am not leaving you alone like this.”

“
I could make you.” His voice sent a chill through me, daggers of emotion lancing through every word. “Do you want me to do that? Do you want me to make you? We both know I could.”

I lowered my hands, regarding him for a moment. He was scaring me. I was shaking. I knew he could feel it; I couldn't even keep my hands steady.

“You wouldn't hurt me.”

“
Go,” he said, in those same even tones. “Now.”

No
. I sucked in a breath and wrapped my arms around him, pressing my face against his chest. As much to protect myself as to comfort him. He stiffened.

Had I made a terrible mistake?

His heart was pounding against my cheekbone. He squeezed me to him, startling me, his grip so tight that it hurt. I felt the weight of his chin on my head.

I ran my fingers beneath his chin and down his neck the way one might pet a cat. His unshaved beard scraped and pricked at my fingers, the skin beneath waxy and rough. Not at all like my own skin. Michael seemed to find my touch relaxing, and, like a cat, he tipped his head back.

When my hand was over his heart I stopped and looked up at him. His cheeks were wet. It took me a moment to process that. He was crying.
Michael
was
crying
.

“
It's okay,” I said hesitantly. I felt like I was walking along the edge of a cliff. I wasn't prepared for situations like these. “I-it's going to be okay.” I kissed him softly on the cheek. He closed his eyes and turned away, making a noise of impatience. But he didn't move and neither did I.

We lay there for a while. The only sound was our commingled breathing, and the incessant baseline of his heart against my ear. The tightness of his arm and the quickness of his pulse were the only signs he hadn't drifted off to sleep; he was very still. He smelled like salt and fire and that strange, musky scent that was inherently his.

“That's the first rule.” I jolted, not expecting him to say anything. Hearing it come so calmly from his broken face was like being pierced with a lancet. “Don't fucking get attached.”

It took me a moment to respond. “That's no way to live, Michael.”

“It's a worse way to die.”

“
No — ”

“
I've told you before. Emotions get people killed. Feelings make people stupid. Forming attachments means more fuel to add to the fire when somebody wants to see you burn. I knew that and still, I made exceptions.”

“
You can't help caring about those who care about you,” I said uncertainly.

Michael shook his head. “If I hadn't fucking asked him for help, if he hadn't met up with us, he might still — ”

He went quiet for several minutes.

“
It was wrong to blame you. For the building. And the GPS. I knew what to look for. You didn't. I keep forgetting that.” I felt his breath stir the hair on my neck. “I'm not used to caring. I'd seen it so often on the other end, but I'd never realized. I never knew…how much it hurt.”

I was awed. He had revealed fleeting glimpses of himself before, but never anything like this. I also knew instinctively that if I showed the slightest hint of satisfaction or smugness in his pain, I'd lose him. Forever.

“Feeling things is human nature,” I said carefully. “What's
stupid
is to bottle up all that stuff inside of you until you crack from the pressure.”

“
Did you just call me stupid?”

I ignored him. “You're like a savant, in a way. An emotional savant. You can do all these amazing things, but you're missing something. Something vital you had to give up in exchange for who you are now.”

“Does something like that even exist?” He snorted. “All right, I'll bite. What did I give up? What am I missing?”

I tapped his chest. “Your heart.”

“No.” He lapsed into another silence. He also didn't push me away, and his other hand covered mine, keeping me against his heartbeat. “That might have been true once,” he said, startling me. “For the longest time, I couldn't feel a thing. I was living numb. But not now.”

“
Really?”

“
I feel you.” He slid his hands beneath the hem of my shirt, locking them over my stomach. “Soft, warm, alive. Beautiful. Brave.” His head shifted, tilting so he could look at me. “When I think about it I'd do almost anything to keep you breathing. So I try not to.
You
are my beating heart, Christina Parker. I wasn't truly living until I met you, and if you were to slit my throat right now I wouldn't lift a finger to stop you, and I'd die a better man because of it.”

“
Oh, Michael.”

“
What?”

“
You're making me feel depressed.”

“
I won't talk then,” he said. “I'll just hold you.”

So we stayed like that, until his chest stopped its painful hitching and the exhaustion outweighed the pain.

There, in the warm darkness, I drifted half-conscious. Just before I fell asleep, I thought I heard a voice — his voice — saying,
Don't take her away from me. Don't make me watch her fucking die.

Please.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Revelation

Michael:

There's a reason people find “mob rule” so terrifying, and it isn't because they've watched
The Godfather
too many fucking times. It's because justice is absent. When nobody is looking out for you, you're the one who's gotta do all the looking. Most people aren't equipped for that.

Me, I get by.

I downed a shot of scotch and picked up the hotel phone.
It comes to this
. Liquid courage, my ass. The only thing that comes out in liquid form is cowardice — and fear. He picked up on the first ring. “You fucking prick.”

“
Hello, Michael.” He sounded distracted. “Back from the grave again, I see.”

“
You would know.” I kept my voice low, so I wouldn't wake Christina. “You tried to put me there.”

“
I'm as surprised as you are.”

“
Bullshit.”

“
Aye, well, perhaps not so surprised. They do say vermin are hard to kill. That's what I thought when I heard you were killed in action in London. I found it odd nobody stepped forward to claim the bounty on your head.”

“
You didn't know.”

“
I figured you could have lost your touch. You're getting old, boy. Slow. Stupid.”

“
Are you saying you didn't betray me to the BN?”

“
Right in the thick of things?”

“
Somebody did,” I snapped. “Why not you?”

“
You were doing good work for me — and for starters, you're still alive. If I were well and truly after you, you wouldn't be.” He spoke with quiet confidence.

I didn't want to believe him, but it made sense. A lot of what had happened so far
had
mostly been left to chance. The phencyclidine wouldn't kill me. There was no guarantee either that I'd kill Christina while I was on it.

Callaghan was a professional. He didn't have to leave things to chance. That was the move of a rank amateur.

The explosion in the office building hadn't been his style, either. He knew how to rig up a bomb and wouldn't blink about taking out a handful of civilian casualties, but now that the IMA was going global he had vested interests in keeping things quiet. Massive explosions in the middle of a major city didn't fit in with that.

Christ, I was starting to believe the bastard.

“If you didn't do it,” I said to myself, “who did?”

“
That's the million dollar question, isn't it?”

I remembered the notebook Kent had presented me with, all my enemies color-coded according to means and threat. A lump formed in my throat. “Do you know anyone who goes by the handle of Villanueva?”

My voice was louder than I intended. Christina stirred and sat up. She looked at me, then at the phone.

“
Someone who works at the IMA,” I clarified.

Callaghan laughed at that. Laughed long and hard.

“The fuck is so funny?”

“
I think I know who our ratty little friend is, Michael Boutilier. Yes. It all makes sense now.”

“
Tell me who it is.”

“
I think I'd rather you puzzle it out yourself.”

I felt something punch into my chest. Christina screamed. I looked to the hotel door—it was open. Silently, which meant they'd had a key, or picked the lock. A man with a portable tranq gun was standing there, loading for a second shot.

Christina:

It was like a nightmare. Huge, empty room. Cold, gray floors. The smell of cardboard and chemicals gave the air an acrid, stale tang.

Something was pressed up against my back, firm but yielding. It moved and I let out a yelp. The something hard groaned. “Christina?”

“Michael?”

“
Yeah.”

“
Where are we?”

“
I don't know.”

I stared at the dull concrete walls. It reminded me of the warehouse in the video that Adrian had shown me — the one of Michael torturing and killing that man. I swallowed. “They're going to kill us, aren't they?”

“Probably. Eventually.”

A door opened. Footsteps echoed on the floors — loud echoes, like the kind you get from fancy, hard-soled shoes. “We meet again, Mr. Boutilier.” The words were spoken in a British accent. I twisted around but couldn't see him.

“Hawk,” he said tightly.

“
I see you've brought a friend this time.” He moved, stepping into my periphery. Some old guy. He was studying me. “The hostage, I presume,” he said, folding his arms. “Not quite as pretty as I'd imagined. Certainly not worth throwing one's life away for.”

“
Don't talk about her like she's a fucking object.”

The door creaked open. A second set of footsteps entered the room. “I would like to speak to the prisoners alone, if you would be so kind.”

“Of course, Mr. Villanueva. You have been most forthcoming. It would be our pleasure.”

Michael twitched.

“I can assure you, the pleasure was all mine.”

I'd have known that voice anywhere.

The moment I met that dark gaze, I felt my heart stop in my chest.

The Sniper was the Villanueva Michael had been so concerned about?

All this time, it had been the Sniper following us and leaving threats. Not Adrian. Not the BN. “
Michael
. It's the Sniper.”

“
Yes, it is me.”

“
You're Spanish?”

“
For the moment, it would seem.”

I felt Michael strain against the rope. “Traitor. You're the one who's been following us all this time?”

“Took you long enough to figure out.”

“
And the helicopter?”

“
Yes, the BN are surprisingly generous with their limited funds. To a fault, it would seem. But in this case, their weakness was to be my strength.”

“
You turned me into the BN. You convinced them to fucking shoot me up.”

“
I had hoped you would kill the girl. Or that you would force her to kill you — all in self-defense, of course. That plan was not fail-safe in any sense of the word, but the damage sustained would have been adequate payback for the bullet — ” he walked over to me “ — and for the mace.”

“
You set off the bomb, too?”

“
Ah, yes, I heard about your friend, Michael. The esteemed ex-agent from M16. I suppose it is true what they say, that smoking kills.”

“
Why the
fuck
did you do that? He didn't do shit to you. None of the people in that building did.”

“
All in a day's work, Michael. You understood that once. But not anymore it would seem. You truly have gone soft. You never used to mind a little collateral damage — it was a necessary damage.”

“
You're not getting paid for this. I
know
. Callaghan told me about your attempt to get extra credit. So I'll ask you again —
why
?”

The Sniper snorted. “Because I do not like you.”

“I've got news for you. Adrian Callaghan doesn't like other people fucking calling the shots.”

“
I believe that in your case Mr. Callaghan would be willing to make an exception. It is my firm belief that the world would be a better place without you in it.”