Armed and Dangerous (The IMA) (8 page)

A mission-style bell chimed, disconcertingly similar to the one at Holy Trinity, and when I looked up I saw a large, two-story building painted in the peaches-and-cream color of adobe looming before me. The Student Union, I presumed. What other building would be worthy of a clock tower? I went inside, marveling. It was like a mini-mall in here. There was a bakery, a coffee shop, a gift shop, even a post-office. Best of all, it was
air-conditioned
.

I walked upstairs, entertaining the thought of treating myself to some sushi from the cafe for making it this far in the heat. Signs pointed me to the place where they were taking photos. Outside the room there were a cluster of freshmen comparing their student ID pictures. Even I could
tell they were freshmen — it was such a high school thing to do. I remembered, we used to collect class photos like trading cards. Bonus points awarded for boys.

The girls ignored me, didn't even see me. A few of the guys reflexively glanced in my direction and then looked just as quickly away. One of them was even a little cute. Eurasian features, built like a soccer player, chipped-tooth smile. He was the type I might have gone for before —

“Your dress is unzipped.”

I stared at him in disbelief. He made the circling gesture with his finger.
Behind you
. “Shit,” I yelped, and fled into the bathroom. The sound of their laughter made my face and neck burn. There was a full-length mirror across from the sink. When I looked over my shoulder I could see that the zipper had, indeed, come loose.

“
Shit,” I said again. I made an underhanded reach for it, but couldn't quite reach —

“
Need some help?”

“
Thanks, but I think I — ”

I froze. The voice had been male, and very familiar.

I felt the zipper being pulled up. I jerked away and felt a hand close around the back of my neck. “No — ” I hit the mirror, my face squashed against the glass. “Don't you dare touch me, you — ”

“
Do not scream,” he said. “Do not say a single word.”

And he pressed a gun to my temple.

The Sniper was a man of indeterminate origin who spoke at least four languages. He was also one of the IMA's best riflemen, though in such close proximity that distinction hardly mattered. A whimper escaped my mouth as I leaned closer to the mirror, trying to escape the press of the rifle. The glass resisted my body, a few pounds of pressure from cracking.

He nodded his approval when I relaxed in his hold, the weight of my backpack dragging me slightly off-balance. “That is better. Much better.”

I said nothing, but watched his reflection like a hawk. In the mirror, his eyes met mine.

“
This is just a routine check-in. It can even be a painless one. That is entirely up to you.”

“
What if someone else comes in?”

The Sniper cracked a polite smile. “Still thinking about screaming, perhaps?” The smile disappeared. “I would not do that, if I were you. I think you will find that this
restroom has been closed for maintenance. It would be a pity if an innocent life were to be sacrificed for your foolishness — don't you think so?”

“
Yes,” I whispered.

He pulled my hair back from my face. Whispered, “Have you been a good girl?”

I brought my head down in a swift jerk, simultaneously pulling away from him.

He tightened his grip again. “Not talking to anyone you should not be?”

“No.”

“
Good answer.” He smiled, though this time there was nothing courteous in it. It was the same condescending smile a smarmy teacher gives a pupil he perceives as slow. I was okay with him thinking me slow-witted, though, if it meant him letting his guard down. The Sniper wasn't as familiar with me as Michael and Adrian were, and had only seen me at my most reckless.

I fingered the lump of the pepper-spray canister through the pocket of my dress.
Three seconds
.
That's all I need
.
Three seconds
.
Four at the most
.

“
What are you doing here?” My throat still hurt where he had grabbed me.

“
Exactly what I said before. Just checking in.” But he didn't put away the gun and the coldness hadn't left his eyes and I began to wonder if I was going to die.

The prospect wasn't as terrifying as it might have been only a year ago. I now knew that there was much worse.

“I don't believe you.” My voice shook a little, betraying my attempt at sangfroid. “It's been a year. You've only just now started watching me?”

“
No, no, I have been watching you since you arrived back in Oregon. Or at least, I did until Michael decided to use me for target practice for one of his men.” He ran his fingers along the barrel of the gun, stroking it the way one might pet a dog. “Then I was temporarily replaced.”

I wondered what the Sniper had done to provoke Michael — not that he needed much of an excuse. The Sniper was far too eager to get into Adrian's good graces. He deserved what he got. “Sucks to be you.”

“No, Christina. I am afraid it sucks, as you say, to be
you
. You see, while we may require the services of Michael Boutilier at the moment — infrequent and objectionable though they may be — we have no such necessity for you.”

The room dipped and spun like the prow of a ship at sea.
He's just trying to scare you
.
They have no reason to hurt you
.

Yes, they did. Because sometimes just knowing something could be reason enough to pose a threat. Reason enough to want someone dead. 'A' had died for that reason, and I had proved myself to be a greater nuisance than she had ever been. For starters, I was still alive.

But thinking about 'A' was painful. Not just because it triggered a whole set of memories that would do me no good at the moment, but also because I had caused her death. The only person in the complex who had shown me kindness without expecting anything in return.

She had died because of me.

Incorrectly interpreting the thoughts swirling through my brain, the Sniper said, “No need to worry. At the moment I am but a passive observer.”

“
Passive,” I repeated. I couldn't keep the sarcasm from my voice. He, like all operatives of the IMA, was anything but. I edged towards the opening beneath his arm and he slammed me back against the mirror, causing cracks to rift through the cheap glass, brittle pieces flaking to the tile at our feet like confetti. “Stop it,” I said. “Please. Just stop it. Go away. Leave me alone. You can't — ”

“
Begging already? My, how the mighty have fallen. I seem to recall you once saying that you were not afraid of me. But that has all changed now, has it not? Whatever is the matter Christina? Not quite so brave now that you are no longer Michael's whore?”

“
Shut up,” I snarled.

“
I see I have hit upon a raw nerve.”

“
It's called self-respect, you bastard.”

“
Hmm. Well. I can think of several men at the IMA who would only be too happy to take you up on your, mm,
self-respect
, as you call it.”

“
I would
never
— ”

“
Yes, that is what they all say at first. Until they hear the alternative.”

“
Don't tell me you're offering.”

I didn't have to see my reflection to know I looked completely repulsed. And terrified out of my mind.

“I am afraid you are not my type. I prefer my women with a little less…kick.”

At my sides, my hands clenched into fists. He glanced down, shook his head.

“Mr. Callaghan, on the other hand, has always been appreciative of a good fight. But I believe you are already aware of this, yes?”

I closed my fingers around the pepper-spray.
Give me a window
, I thought.
Just one
.

I said nothing.

The Sniper continued his diatribe. “Michael is a difficult man. Recalcitrant. Insubordinate. Retraining, threats—they all do nothing. At the moment he is working for us solely because he believes it has so far kept you from harm, despite dragging his heels and fighting us every step of the way.”

It's that bad?
Something in my chest wrenched. Hard.

“
Why are you telling me this?” I tried to sound defiant, to mask the pain in my voice with self-righteous anger. It was none of my affair how Michael was assimilating into the IMA. “Why should I care? I don't.”

“
Michael is growing arrogant, my dear, and Mr. Callaghan feels that it might be opportune to give him a sense of urgency.” His fingers closed lightly around the place where my throat met my collarbone. “It would be helpful to us, and far less painful for you, if you cooperate.”

A spike of anger riveted through me. Even after all this time, after all I had been through, I was still the easily-cowed little girl.
I don't think so
.

I brought up my empty hand. He had been expecting an attack, clearly. With the way he was provoking me, I might even say he had been looking for one outright. He was going to get one.

The Sniper moved to parry me, digging two fingers into my wrist, twisting it. The pain was excruciating; he intended to break it. But he had left his face open. Gasping, I reached into my pocket. I aimed the little can at him and thumbed the button. There was pause. Then the yellowish cloud sprayed out, attacking the mucus membranes of his eyes, nose, throat, and mouth.

He let go. It was all he could do to breathe.
Take that, you son of a bitch
, I thought but did not say. It was all I could do to keep from inhaling the caustic fumes.

I ran from the restroom with watering eyes and a drippy nose. I kept coughing. That crowd of students was still standing outside, though a few of them had peeled off. They gave me a collectively searching look with undertones of judgment. Probably thinking I sneaked in there to smoke pot. I didn't care. Being subject to their scrutiny was worth being safe. The Sniper was too professional to make a public scene. He hadn't even cried out when I sprayed him. He had too much to lose to bother chasing me, but that didn't mean there weren't others waiting in the wings.

Michael, what have you gotten us into?

What have you done?

And why was I being made to suffer for it?

Michael:

I tugged at the stiff, starched collar. It was like wearing a neck-brace made out of cotton. This was exactly why I didn't care to wear suits. They were un-fucking-comfortable, and difficult to fight in.

Maybe that was the point.

Thomas Agnew, the Princeton graduate from Fairbanks, Louisiana, did wear suits, however, and it wasn't like Michael Boutilier had a say in the matter. So here I was, wearing the monkey suit like a fucking patsy. I stretched out my legs. At least they had put me in first class this time. I wouldn't even need to clown around with a fake accent provided that I tempered the Cajun lilt and avoided any French curses. Praise the Lord for small favors.

How long would they go on for?

I leaned back in the seat, trying to enjoy the legroom, forgoing the struggle with my shirt-collar for now. View was nice, too. To get to England from America, most planes pass through the Arctic Circle. It's faster that way, though it means passing over Alaska, Greenland, Iceland. Outside was a blanket of white, snow indistinguishable from cloud.

The steward came by with the rolling cart, delivering the obligatory bundles of crap “courtesy of our airline.” “Can I get you anything, sir?”

“
Scotch. Make it a double.”

He gave me a disapproving look. Thinking I was nothing but a corn-pone hick, probably, about to get drunk off his ass and cause a major ruckus. I did him the favor of pretending I didn't see it, though he took his sweet-ass time coming back with the scotch. When he did, I ignored the tumbler he offered. “Won't be needing the glass.”

I wanted to laugh right in his face when I heard him mutter under his breath. He'd drink too, if he were in my place. Once you've been in my line of work for a while, it gets to the point where alcohol is the only thing that shuts up the body chatter. The doll-sized bottles put some fire in my belly but did nothing to melt the coldness in my chest.

Infiltrate the BN. Gather information. Reconnaissance. As if it were all as simple as ordering fucking take-out. I lifted the bottle to my lips, frowning when nothing but air poured into my mouth.
Time to move on to door number two
. I cracked the cap off with my teeth and took a swig.

Anything synonymous with the phrase “turncoat” had me concerned, even if it was the enemies of the IMA I was turning traitor to. It's a hard label to shake off, regardless of which side you actually work for, and I suspected that I was being set up for some kind of fall.