Cease and Desist (The IMA Book 4) (7 page)

“Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain,” I murmured.

“Yes.” It wasn't clear if she understood the reference. “He would have me look over important documents on the pretext of reviewing them in order to gauge their importance. Then, later, he would have me read the documents to him in private so he could make his own decisions.”

“As fascinating as this all is, I don't care about your idiot boss. Get back on topic. How did you get involved with Callaghan?”

“We had one meeting that was of particular importance, and rather than risk losing face in my absence, he brought me with him on the pretext of an apprenticeship. We were meeting the head of a Western organization that he wanted very badly to impress. An Irishman. Ruthless, but very, very powerful — and rich. That was how I met Mr. Callaghan for the first time. He was that man.”

“How did
you
learn to read?”

“My mother was educated.”

The answer was evasive, and she knew it. Her eyes dared me to press for more details; it was insulting that she thought I would fall prey to such easy bait.

I changed tactics. “Did you know the nature of their dealings?”

She bit her lip. I wondered if that was intended to distract me, too. “My boss at the time had requested to have some fairly powerful competitors killed. I never understood why he sought outside help — there were plenty of locals he could have hired. Perhaps he thought a foreigner would be more difficult to trace back to him.”

“Or easier to dupe,” I suggested mildly, suspecting I knew where this was going.
The fool.

“Yes,” Suraya said, “he wasn't scrupulous about paying back his debts. Few had the will — or the might — to challenge him. It made him confident.”

“Until he met Adrian,” I posited.

She nodded fiercely. “When Mr. Callaghan found out my boss had no intention of paying his debts, he tortured him in front of me. And he … ” her voice twisted “ … he
enjoyed
it. Immensely.
Sexually
. I've never seen anything like that before, Mr. Boutilier, and I hope to never again.”

I let out my breath. Finally, a part of the story I could believe. “Bastard always did like an audience.”

“It haunts my nightmares to this day,” she said. “And I'll be damned if I see my sister suffer the same way.” She shook her head. “He gave me a choice. I could join him freely, or I could become part of the collateral when he seized my boss's assets to repay his outstanding debts. There was only one option.”

“And you took it. You joined him.” I let my voice convey what I thought of that decision.

“What choice did I have? There was nothing for me in India. Adrian killed my boss, perhaps the only man there willing to hire me for something that wasn't sex or a death trap. I was an untouchable.” Defensive. “He let me bring my sister.”

“Why wouldn't he? You shackled yourself up right then and there, and gave him the key to your chains. That's the kind of shit he lives for.”

“From what I understand, you were in the exact same position when you agreed to work for him to spare Christina. So spare me the crude interrogation tactics. We both know you're being a hypocrite.”

“Did you fuck him?”

Suraya stared at me for a very long time. Then she looked pointedly away.

“Not willingly.”

“I don't blame you.”

“Blame?” She barked out a laugh. “Interesting choice of word — blame. If you did blame me, as you so callously put it, you would be a monster like him.”

“Some say I already am.”

Suraya looked away from the window she'd been contemplating. I saw her look over my face, searching for something that I knew wasn't there.

“Is that what Christina says? That you're a monster? Does she
blame
you?”

It sounded like she'd been talking to Angelica.

“You volunteered.”

“What if she had volunteered?” Suraya asked. “Would you have let her do it?”

I didn't respond.

“I didn't think so.”

“If you didn't want the mission, why would you volunteer?”

“Don't worry, Mr. Boutilier,” she said, a touch of irony in her voice now. “I'll play the naif foreign girl for you. It's much too late to renege.”

I steered the conversation back towards the mission at hand, trying not to reveal my annoyance. The head-fucking had to stop. “The less English you claim to know, the better. They'll view you as less of a threat.” Did her sister even speak as little as she pretended? Or was it an act? “If you can get the men to think of you as a simpleton, they might just let down their guard. If they're in this line of work, they won't think much of women, anyway.”

“I wouldn't count on that,” Suraya said. “These men will be paranoid, concerned about being caught. They will be eyeing each new transaction as a potential sting.”

“We don't have to worry about that, either. Cliff may have a contact who can initiate the trade.”

She studied me in silence. “Already?” she said at last, betraying her surprise.

“He's a drug runner,” I informed her, “but tired of the small pickings—” whether this was true or not, I'd already decided that this would be his official story “ — Unfortunately, he's also a coward, so at the slightest hint of trouble, he'll turn tail and run. So don't rely on him for anything, or any shit like that.”

“I can take care of myself.”

I wondered if that were true. I shrugged. “The price he gets for you will be his reward — except for the cut that he'll give Cliff for arranging the exchange. He'd expect that,” I added, “if a deal's too good, he'd be suspicious — but he is greedy, so I think we can assume that he'll skim a little more off the top. Whatever he thinks he can get away with.”

She looked back at me across the table.
What will you try to get away with?
her eyes seemed to say. Once, I might have said any number of things. Sex. Power. Money. Infamy. I'd already gotten away with murder.

At this point, I'd be willing to settle for my life.

Christina

I didn't stick around after the debriefing. There was no reason to — Michael had made that clear. More than clear. If Suraya wanted to gift wrap herself for the devil, she could do it without my blessing.

What would that even sound like, anyway? Good luck, I hope you don't have to have sex with too many of our enemies  — oh, and thanks a lot?

Even in my head, that sounded terrible.

Unforgivable.

What was she even
thinking
?

But that was the thing. I knew exactly what Suraya had been thinking, because it was the same thing all of us had been thinking in that cramped, stifling room. Please, God, let someone else do it, don't let it be me, please, for the love of God, not me.

And for one terrible moment, I thought it would be me. Somebody had to do it, and with only three women, the odds weren't exactly in my favor. I was the youngest, and privy to the fewest secrets.

More damning still, Adrian Callaghan had made a point of showing that he was interested in me. His 'interest' had probably put more than a few women in body bags, but what did that matter, if I was but one insignificant cog in a much larger machine? Michael was a mercenary. He would understand. Hell, I'd half-convinced myself that this was the reason for the covert meetings with Angelica. Betrayal.

I shuddered, rubbing at the insides of my wrists. Even if I wouldn't have to sleep with Adrian himself, just the mere thought of having sex with a stranger made me recoil with a deeply-ingrained disgust only twenty-one years of Catholic guilt can accomplish.

I wasn't sure I'd be able to do it, even if they asked me. But if they did ask, and I refused, what would they do? Simply go down the line until someone said yes? What if they all said no, too? What made my “no” worth more than theirs?

Nothing.

The relief I'd felt when Suraya volunteered wrapped around me like a warm, comforting blanket — until I'd caught Angelica looking at me as though she could read all the selfish thoughts going through my head as clearly as if they were written out in bright flashing marquee lights.

Then a terrible guilt crashed over me, breaking like a wave to soak me clear through with self-loathing — and more guilt. I was very, very good at feeling guilty. And just as lightning always chases the thunder, so does anger chase guilt: anger, and the excuses I needed to justify myself and repair my ego. Because if there is something Catholics do almost as well as guilt, it's self-rationalization.

Unlike them, I'd never wanted to be a part of this world. I'd been brought into it kicking and screaming. Only luck, and resilience I hadn't even known I'd possessed until I'd been forced to use it, had kept me alive. I was good at staying alive. That, and computers. My bag of tricks totaled two.

For me, this mission would be suicide, because I knew I wouldn't be able to survive against so many odds. I didn't have the experience, or the training, even though Michael had taught me basic self-defense. Even though I technically outranked Cliff and Angelica and Suraya.

And that brought me back full circle to why Suraya's noble sacrifice at the meeting had made me feel so feverishly ashamed.

As one of the leaders, I should be just as vested in our efforts as the other members, if not more so — and yet, I had ducked my head and turned tail at the crucial moment, forcing someone else to step up to the plate. Because in my heart of hearts, hadn't I thought to myself that there was no way Michael would ever let me go? Hadn't I thought that?

Oh yes, I had … I was so selfish.

The more I thought about the situation and my handling of it, the angrier I became at myself, which made me resent Suraya all the more. On and on it went, this cyclic carousel of guilt and resentment, until I felt crushed by its tremendous weight. The elephant in the room settled on my solar plexus, wringing chagrin from me like drops of blood.

With a heavy sigh, I opened the door to my room, breathing in the scent of the candles I'd purchased from a homeless man earlier that week. Michael hadn't been with me; if he had, he would have tried to dissuade me, convinced that it was a scam or a trap or both. But like the scent of the candles themselves, the man's smile had been so sweet.

I could almost hear Michael's voice in my head. “Damn your bleeding heart,” he would say, in a voice that wasn't outright condemnatory, but not quite affectionate, either. “It's going to get you killed.”

According to city zoning law this building was not slated for residential use, so none of us technically lived here. However, each of us had a private office, which we could use to sleep in when necessary.

It often was.

My work was demanding, and it was rare that I could finish everything in a single day. I was starting to look sickly from spending so much of my time in unnatural light. I considered it my penance. It was the least I could do.

I kicked off my jeans and unbuttoned my blouse. Briefly, I considered folding them, but I tossed the rumpled clothes onto my desk chair with a shrug. My endless days in front of a computer monitor, in addition to changing the color of my complexion for the worse, had also caused me to gain back some of the weight I'd lost. I avoided eye contact with the mirror as I pulled an XXL shirt out of one of the desk drawers to sleep in.

Sounds came from the hallway. I didn't look up as I entered my password. Probably Suraya, returning from her debriefing. What had they told her? Need-to-know information about the IMA? Sex tips?

Sex tips. I wanted to shake myself. This wasn't
Cosmo
. Human lives were on the line.

I ran my fingers through my tangled hair, staring at my meticulously ordered desktop.

How long until she's thrown to the wolves?

I didn't want to think about that, so, of course, it was all I could think about.

There weren't any new emails in my message center. That was a good thing: around here, pretty much all news was bad news. It also meant I had no minor catastrophes to distract myself with.

I dragged out my futon and made the bed with a few sheets from my supply closet. The mattress was not particularly comfortable, but my brain was so exhausted I was hoping that my body might be persuaded not to care.

I waited.

Thirty minutes passed.

Then an hour.

No luck.

My eyes landed on the candles on my desk, and the inoffensive scent of vanilla bean reached me. My guilty conscience was manifesting itself.

I padded over in bare feet and lit one of the votives as I said a quick prayer. For Suraya. For Michael. For me.

God had been very quiet lately, but just in case he was listening, just in case he was there, I wanted to remind him about us. All of us. Because if we were going to succeed, we needed a spark of the divine.

Merciful Father — protect us. Keep us from harm.

Please.

I wasn't sure what else to add, so I blew out the flame. Curls of smoke wrapped their grasping fingers around me, as though trying to draw out something vital. I sheared through them with a wave.