Armed and Dangerous (The IMA) (6 page)

The woman who had asked the question nodded and said nothing more. There was no need to elaborate. Not for her, anyway. One aspiring sociopath sitting up front leaned forward, wanting more juicy details. The eagerness on his face was repulsive. “What methods will we be using?”

“Effective ones. If you have any further doubts, I suggest you speak with Mr. Boutilier sitting in the back there. He is well-acquainted with the precise nature of my methods — isn't that so, Michael?”

I glared at the man who'd asked until he looked away. I knew the type. Eager for blood until he saw it on his hands. That changed a man, seeing it up close. It made him harden, crazy, or sadistic. We all made our choice.

I said nothing.

Callaghan cleared his throat. “I will be assembling teams to investigate the suspected locations of their various bases. These teams will be announced at eighteen hundred hours, on SecNet, where they will remain for an hour. Synchronize your watches, and don't be late.”

He paused a heartbeat.

“
The rest of you are dismissed.”

Thank God. The caffeine pills were losing their potency.

“Boutilier — a word.”

I lowered my arms mid-stretch.
Just one?
I schooled my expression and turned around. “What is it?”

“
I hadn't realized you'd returned to the States already.”

Bullshit. “I returned hours ago. You summoned me.”

“You didn't think to check in with me first?”

That was why he was pissed. I wouldn't let him track me like a hound. “Aww, did you miss me? So sorry. Next time I'll send you a postcard.”

“If you can't curb your tongue, I'll have one of my men cut it out. The same goes for your obscene hand gestures. You are a soldier. You will act with the discipline of one. Because if you do not, I can think of several men offhand who would only be too happy to take you to task.”

I reached for my gun. The throbbing in my ears grew to a deafening level. “I don't think so.”

“You know what happens to worthless curs who can't be trained, don't you? They get put
down
. So put the bloody gun away, Michael, and if you don't tell me why the fuck you put one of my best riflemen into the hospital for doing his duty, I'll be having you put away as well.”

“
My finger must have slipped,” I said coldly.

“
And the bullet just happened to miss all his vital organs?”

“
Maybe it's the luck of the Irish.”

“
Aye. That's lucky all right. That's very lucky indeed.” His eyes narrowed. “Don't bullshit me. You shot a bullet into his stomach, causing an excruciating but nonlethal amount of pain.”

“
I didn't fire any guns. You won't find fingerprints.”

“
So you hired someone else to do your dirty work. Back less than a day and already causing trouble.”

“
Pretentious little shit got what he deserved.”

“
Your Christina Parker has also been in a spot of trouble as of late, it seems. But perhaps you know already.”

“
I've been stationed in Scotland.”

“
That isn't an answer, Michael.”

“
And that wasn't a question,
sir
.”

He resumed pacing. “Post traumatic stress syndrome is very difficult to treat. Scientists understand the mechanism, to be true, but they still aren't quite clear on why some stimuli trigger the symptoms and others…don't. I hear the girl has been seeing a psychiatrist. It would be a pity if her condition were to suddenly take a turn for the worse.”

It would be a pity if I shot you in the dick
.

“
I can see you're wondering what it is I want. Let's cut to the chase. You have completed your training satisfactorily. Now I want you to lead the team I'm sending to England.”

“
More retraining?” I spat.

“
No, no, no. You've been stationed in Scotland, as you've said. That particular training is done. This is more for convenience's sake. You're already acquainted with the exchange rates and all those other mettlesome cultural details — unless you feel further tutelage is necessary.”

I set my teeth. “Perhaps you have forgotten that the Scots don't like the English. They are still embittered about the Battle of Culloden and the Jacobite uprisings.”

“It's a small island. You'll learn your way around it.”

Maybe the BN conflict was really a set-up to take out some of his old enemies. Rumors were circulating afresh about his mysterious origins. Supposedly both his parents had been involved with the IRA, and the IRA was notorious for harboring anti-British sentiments. Membership with that group would explain why Callaghan was unwilling to make the trip to England himself. If he had been expatriated from the United Kingdom for acts of treason, he couldn't.

Keeping this information in mind as something to look into when I got back, I said, “Your men don't listen to me. They still regard me as a traitor. Due to rumors that you have done nothing to discourage, I might add.”

“
If I tell them to listen to you, they will.”

“
I had no idea you were so popular.”

“
Their loyalty is to their paycheck. What about yours?” Upon seeing my expression, he added, “By the by, I've started having the girl watched. You wouldn't know yourself, not being a graduate, but university can be very taxing upon its students' readily available cognitive resources. Some students find that they just can't cope.”

“
Lay a finger on her and I blow you straight to hell.”

“
Are you threatening me?” he asked, amused. “Perhaps Watson didn't train you as well as I thought.”

“
I'm not threatening you,” I said. “I'm making you a promise. Touch her and die.”

“
You're a powerful man, Michael Boutilier, but even you couldn't take on fifty men without kevlar. Try, and I'd have you gunned down where you stood. Oh, but that would be a blessing for you, wouldn't it, dying a hero's death? I couldn't have that, no. I'd be sure you saw her killed first, knowing your death would be in vain.”

It took me a moment to speak. “I see,” I said.

“Blackmail for a blackguard. Rather fitting, wouldn't you say?” He paused. “I assume this is a hypothetical case. An exercise in power — a war game, if you will. Yes, that must be it. Because I'm sure even you, with your brute intelligence, wouldn't do something so utterly stupid.”

“
No.” I turned on my heel to leave before I could do or say anything that would leave me in a state of further disgrace. My pulse throbbed in my temples, sending white bursts flashing up like sparklers in my periphery.

“
One more thing.”

I didn't turn around this time. “What?”

“From now on, keep your safety on when you're dealing with my men. You aren't the only one who can cause accidents, Michael Boutilier.”

With that threat hanging in the air like a bullet suspended in time, I left to sleep the sleep of the dead. When I woke up, I would find myself covered in sweat.

Christina:

Dad wired me some money before he left for Napa with Em. “Just make sure you keep a budget,” he told me. “Record all your transactions in an excel spreadsheet, and break them down into food, utilities, school, and personal use. I want to be able to see where your money is going.” I agreed — it was a good deal — and when I checked my account online I had a shock. Dad must have felt guilty about not helping me move. That was the only explanation. That, or he'd added an extra zero somewhere.

With my funds in place I set up accounts with PG&E, AT&T, and all the other acronyms responsible for basic utilities. The apartment came with free wi-fi, or so it said on the board outside, but I didn't trust it. Not after eyeballing the ethernet jack and concluding that I'd be sharing the same channel with everyone in the complex. What a bandwith nightmare. I shelled out for my own modem instead, and a just-in-case ethernet cable.

When I finished setting up my internet, I went online and found a mattress company that didn't charge extra for delivery. The mattress came within an hour. I dragged it into my room, off in the far corner where it wouldn't be in the way. I unpacked my sheets and dressed the bed. Then I took a quick nap. My dreams were hazy and muddled, but unpleasant enough to keep me from feeling refreshed. I cracked open an energy drink that tasted like warm pee and went dumpster diving. I found some beat-up but serviceable furniture outside the sorority buildings. I didn't bother with the frat houses. I figured anything I found
there
would be too gross worth salvaging.

Getting the furniture home was a problem, but when I rang the doorbell of the alpha-kappa-sigma house, the girl I spoke to was really friendly. She owned the shiny red minivan parked in front, and agreed to drop the furniture off at my apartment for ten bucks. On the ride over, she chattered about rush week and I ended up back at my place with a nightstand, a battered dresser, a funky-looking floor lamp, and a pamphlet detailing all the reasons I should join a sorority.

Time for another nap
, I thought. But no, I still didn't have any food. Simple tasks. Basic tasks. Things I had taken for granted while living with my parents. They became Herculean labors in an apartment that didn't have air-conditioning. It was even worse outside. I had opened up all the windows in the hopes of catching a breeze. Nothing but dead air. It was one-hundred-and-five degrees outside and it seemed like the air might just catch on fire.

Eventually the power turned on but then the AC didn't work. I called management to complain. Turned out the water wasn't on yet. I called and complained some more, only to be informed that the water should be working. Obviously, it wasn't. Someone in blue overalls came down to fix it. The air-conditioning switched on, as if by magic. After that, I vowed to run the AC nonstop, regardless of whether I was in the house or not. The welcoming rush of cold air would make up for the guilt.

I took another nap in my cooling apartment, and then a cold shower. I no longer had the energy to go grocery shopping even though it was finally starting to cool down outside. My muscles were on fire and I was starving. Plus, I wanted to get the lay of the land before I went out wandering. I didn't want to get lost. Nothing would scream “new” like getting marooned in the desert. I decided to phone in for pizza and kicked back on my bed to wait.

Forty minutes later, my doorbell rang. I dragged myself up to answer it. “Medium pizza, Hawaiian, and a two liter soda?” The guy on my porch spoke quickly, as if reciting from a cue card, not looking at my face. He seemed a little too interested in the writing on my tank-top.

I looked down, and realized with horror that my sweat had all but rendered the white fabric transparent.
Oh my God
. I cleared my throat, crossing my arms as casually as I could, and said, “What do I owe you?”

“
Eleven seventy-five.”

I paid him the flat rate, pretending I had to scratch an itch on my elbow. “What about my tip?” he complained.

“Here's a tip,” I said, struggling to balance both soda and pizza box. “Don't talk down to women, even if it's just to their boobs.” I slammed the door on his startled face with my butt, set the pop down, and locked it. God, he had looked about seventeen, too. I'd just robbed some high school delivery kid of his tip. I felt bad about that, but not bad enough to chase him down and give him the five bucks.

The little pervert.

I bit into a slice, scattering chunks of pineapple into the box. With my right hand, I opened my laptop and visited the college website. Classes started in just two weeks and my registration day was dead-last. That concerned me. Everything worth taking would surely be gone. Why was I stuck with such a crappy priority number? I was a scholarship student. I turned down Stanford to go to this dump. I…was beginning to sound an awful lot like Mamá.

I uncapped the bottle of soda and took a long swig. Maybe I should have stuck with something non-caffeinated. When I'd eaten my fill, I stuck the leftovers in the fridge for tomorrow. Then I located my toothbrush and toothpaste, changed into pajamas, and slept like a stone.

Chapter Six

Regret

Christina:

I woke up around noon the next day, all my muscles screaming. Breakfast was cold leftover pizza washed down with flat soda. After cleaning the inside of the dresser, I began folding up my clothes in the drawers.

At three o' clock sharp I logged into my account, Cmparker. I opened up several tabs in the browser window to make registration as easy for myself as possible. Course catalog. Undergrad requirements. RateMyProfessor. But the moment I saw the available courses, I knew I was in trouble. Medieval Literature. Ancient Peruvian Art. The Philosophy of Biology.
Macrame
. Were these even real classes? I could feel my eyes crossing as I read the syllabi.