Armed and Dangerous (The IMA) (4 page)

And fear.

Christina:

Stockholm Syndrome. It's when a hostage comes to feel sympathy or affection for their captor, defending them to the point of obstructing justice and sometimes even falling in love with them. I read up on it a bit after I found myself harboring confusing feelings about the man who had made me prisoner for three months. Over a quarter of kidnapped individuals develop symptoms of Stockholm Syndrome.

Everything is so simple when it has been laid out in black and white facts, and cold, numerical data. It's only when you throw emotions into the mix that everything gets all tied up in knots.

Trying not to think about my captor was a bit like being told to absolutely not think about polar bears and then being asked what was on your mind. In other words, not very well. I had periods of being fine and then I'd catch a glimpse of something — a man with a particular way of walking, a scent, a flash of blond hair in sunlight — that would make me realize I wasn't so fine after all.

Not even close.

I let the book I was attempting to read drop to the floor, unread. I'd been reading the same sentence for the last half hour, without comprehension.

If you listen to the press, they'll tell you that he's ruthless, dangerous: a green blooded mercenary, a cold-hearted killer. He was all of those things. He was everything your mother warned you about when she told you not to walk alone in the dark.

But —

There was another side to him, as well. As cliché and pathetic as it sounds, that was the side that had made me come to some sort of rudimentary understanding of his nature. When he wasn't wearing an assassin's mantle, he was passionate, volatile, intense. Being close to him could make you feel as if you were an island apart from the rest of humanity. He was the realest person I had ever met.

I couldn't tell anyone how I felt because I knew they wouldn't understand. Oh, poor little Christina, they would say. Falling for the bad man who treats her like dirt because she didn't know any better. And isn't it a pity that they don't still teach sex-ed in schools? Or, they would go, oh, Christina, that filthy slut, if she puts out for a man like that, I imagine she puts out for
anyone
. You stay away from
her
.

It wasn't like that at all. Maybe it would have been easier if it was, like ticking a box. Are you the Madonna, or the whore? The victim, or the vixen? The Sabine, or the skank? Nothing in life is ever that simple.

I didn't know where I fit into all of that. Sometimes I would wake up in the middle of the night, covered in sweat and scarcely able to breathe because, like a drug, I hadn't quite managed to flush him out of my system and was suffering the consequences of sudden withdrawal. I'd be all abuzz, with emotions too chaotic and frenzied to put a name to, all of them fueled by an intensity that went beyond mere desire or fear.

I lacked closure.

That, I had decided, was the problem. The root cause behind all of this. Something lay between Michael and me like a yawning abyss, daunting and unfinished, and I would never get over these anxious feelings until that something was resolved — but that would require seeing him again, which I absolutely did not want to do.

I was afraid of what I might do if I did.

It had to be the Catholic guilt rearing its ugly head. All those years of self-blame and absolution. I shook my head, leaning over to right the book that had fallen, and opened the drawer of my nightstand. Lying coiled on top of my bible like a snake, beside my reading glasses and the bottles that held my pills, was my old rosary. My grandmother's, actually. She'd given it to me as a gift after my first communion.

I ran the beads through my fingers, taking care to avoid the places where the paint had worn clean away to reveal the olive wood beneath. I didn't pray so much anymore but the familiar gesture was soothing. It helped me think.

He's probably found someone else by now
.

I hated him, for making me think that. Then I looked down at the beads, guiltily.

Fool. You think he should be pining away for you in an ivory tower somewhere?

That sounded stupid, even in my head. I wasn't that selfish. I just wanted…meaning. I wanted a sign that what had happened between us had
meant
something. Not romantically. I wanted to know that our battle with the IMA had caused him — and
me —
to change, that we had come out of the experience better off, and wiser about the world.

Most of all, I wanted to talk about my doubts and fears with somebody who understood me. If one more person told me how
lucky
I was to be alive and unharmed, how
lucky
I was to be safe, I thought I might punch them.

I was not safe.

I knew the IMA were having me monitored. It wasn't arrogance on my part, just statement of fact. To assume anything otherwise would be sheer stupidity. The IMA did not like loose ends. I was a loose end. They had chosen to let me live for now because I wasn't worth the resources it would take to kill me. That could easily change.

Michael understood that. Or had, once.

I just wanted to know that God had a plan that didn't involve me being dead, or permanently isolated, for the rest of my life. I didn't think that was too much to ask.

Now you're questioning God's plan?

I flipped over my pillow and pressed my face against the cool side. Still clutching the rosary, I breathed in the chemical, flowery smell of the fabric softener.

Maybe the rest was all up to me now.

Things would be different at Coswell. I could fade into the liberal-arts-college-woodwork, get my degree in Computer Science, and live a life of mediocrity and relative solitude at some software firm, like the one in
Office Space
.

A boring, ordinary life.

I filled five notebooks that night, front and back. Five notebooks filled with all my thoughts and feelings, all the sights, sounds, and smells of captivity. It took me all night. I knew better than anyone what the smell of old blood soaked in dust and drywall was like, or how it felt to have your innermost thoughts and fears laid bare before the person you hated above all else like so many pearls before swine. I went through ten ballpoint pens of various colors, switching mid-word sometimes when the ink ran out. And with the flagging ink of my final pen, one of the red ones my mother used for her fashion sketches, I wrote these final words. Just to see how it would feel:

I love Michael Boutilier.

Staring down at that sentence, etched in my handwriting, I felt — nothing. Absolutely nothing.

I sighed in relief. Had I really expected differently? Yes. No. Some explanation of why I couldn't get him out of my head might have been nice. The doctors were all so quick to diagnose PTSD and, yes, maybe that was a part of it, but it didn't explain why I kept seeing him in my dreams, or why my stomach always clenched when I thought of him with someone else. Or, worse still, with me. Or why the words
I don't love Michael Boutilier
sounded more false and unconvincing still.

The next morning, when my father and Aunt Em went to church, I committed my memoirs to their funerary pyre and told myself that the tightness in my chest was relief.

Not regret.

Chapter Four

Coercion

Michael:

When your boss sends you halfway across the globe on assignment it's fairly obvious that he wants you out of the way — especially if he has made no effort to keep his opinions a secret. International travel is expensive. So is getting rid of a body. Not that I was particularly shocked or surprised. I knew that. And Callaghan knew that I knew that. This was a man whose idea of subtlety involved thumbscrews and sodium pentathol.

The flight was a rough one, spent in coach. Bad enough those seats weren't made with a man of my size in mind but with recent injuries, each jostled limb and bout of turbulence was agony. I had a mean mother of a headache and couldn't find my suitcase on the baggage claim.

I kept one eye peeled for the team I was supposed to be meeting here while I rooted through the endless loop of near-identical bags. Customs had stopped me for a “random search,” groping me with an enthusiasm generally reserved for one-night stands while they searched through my shit.

Had they done something with my suitcase?

Had Callaghan given them a tip-off to fuck with me?

I clenched my teeth, letting my hands drop as I straightened. Well, fuck that. I'd just as soon buy new things to replace what I'd lost than deal with his gloating.

I turned to leave, only to run into a squat red-haired man in a monkey suit holding up my suitcase. “Mr. Collins?”

The words were spoken in a gruff brogue. It sounded native, but good accents can be faked and that alias sure as hell hadn't been on that suitcase. It couldn't be; I hadn't used Mr. Collins since Mr. Richardson's regime. “Yes?”

“
Please come this way.”

So this is how it's going to be
, I thought, when he gripped my arm tightly enough to cause discomfort. Despite his short stature he was strong, and clearly trained in something.
Shut up and take the blue pill
.

“
What agency did you say you were a part of?”

“
I didn't,” he replied.

Definitely trained
.

I got into the glossy black Mercedes, my suspicions confirmed when I saw one of Callaghan's men inside. I wished I had a gun. I would have liked to shoot him in the foot just for that. He patted me down and finding nothing to confiscate, settled back in his seat. I watched him as the driver started the car.

The Scottish man closed the door behind me and left. On the other side of the one-way glass, I saw him walk away. That made me sit up and take notice. “Just what the fuck is going on here?”

“
I have been assigned to retrain you.”

“
Yeah? Good luck with that.”

“
I don't need luck, Mr. Boutilier.”

Boutilier now, not Collins. That meant the Scotsman might be only peripherally involved. Which would explain his abrupt departure. When I glanced around for a drinks cabinet, I ascertained that all the rear doors were locked. No escape. No alcohol, either. I twisted the cap off a bottle of water. Frowned. It hadn't been sealed.

“So the BN shit was a farce?”

“
No.” He watched me set the water back down with the others with an odd smile. “Not thirsty, Mr. Boutilier?”

“
What do you want with me? Why am I here?”

“
It has come to Mr. Callaghan's attention that you have been growing soft. You
will
be leading our operations here, make no mistake, but prior to that we shall be reviewing your instruction. You will receive a refresher course in combat, weapons handling, stealth, agility, and tech.”

I hid my annoyance. “If he wants to pay me to fuck off in a course for new recruits, fine.”

“Your training will be unpaid.”

“
What?”

“
Furthermore, in the event that you decide to 'fuck off,' as you put it, you will receive an hour of torture for each percentage below average your score falls, should we deem it unsatisfactory.

“
If you resist your training, or the disciplinary actions resulting from failure to meet our expectations thereof, a close friend of yours will be abducted.
She
will be tortured, instead of you. I believe you know whom we are referring to, yes?” I nodded tightly. “It will be filmed, Mr. Boutilier, and you would watch it in place of your usual sessions.”

“
This is bullshit,” I said.

“
Wrong, Mr. Boutilier. This is an education. I suggest you pay attention.”

Christina:

My mother was reading the latest Nora Roberts book purchased last-minute at the Portland airport. The night before, she had called to inform me that she had changed her mind about helping me move as long as I was willing to admit I'd been wrong. I had been so angry, but Em had been dropping hints all week about an upcoming vacation and the loss of dignity was worth getting on with my life. So I sucked it up, the way I always did.

She was wearing Juicy Couture sweats in size four with a pair of sunglasses perched jauntily on her head. She dressed like a celebrity trying not to be noticed, so naturally she got noticed. At least four different men had hit on Mamá since we left the airport, some of them only a few years older than me. What would John would have to say about that? Whatever. Not my place to get involved.

I was spared from public notice. Nobody paid any attention to me at all. I might as well have been invisible.

The stewardess came by with a rustling plastic bag, wearing a blue polyester uniform that probably hadn't seen an update since the 1950's. “Trash?”

“
Yeah.” I scooped up my empty cans of orange juice and dropped them in. “Thanks.”