Cloak and Dagger (The IMA Book 1) (10 page)

A floorboard in the hall creaked. “…has the motive but…too cowardly…himself.”

That had been the unfamiliar voice. It was deeper than my captor's, punctuated by phlegmy hacks and coughs. He sounded British.

“
He's always been spineless.” My captor. His cold tenor was unmistakable. Even through the solid oak doors, his voice carried easily. He must have been angry if he was speaking so loudly.

“
What…your boss?”

“
The IMA is like a pack of wolves — nobody will challenge the leader unless he shows weakness. Richardson has taken special care to make it appear he has none. I have heard him describe me as ruthless. He thinks I want to ascend to power.”

“
No. There are too many people who are loyal to him, and would not appreciate the shift in power. It's not worth the trouble or the time. I'd rather watch Callaghan and Morelli fight for it.”

“
And
I
would rather see you leading them, Michael, than see Callaghan in power. That man is insane. There are stories about him that chill the blood — ”

Michael? Is that his name?
It didn't suit him at all.

“
All of them most likely true.”

“
Seizing control now, while you still have the chance, might help your situation.”

My captor — Michael — said something in response, but they must have gone to a room that was farther away because their conversation became indecipherable again. I wondered about the people they were discussing. Were they like him? Unfeeling and immoral? I guessed yes. He — Michael — had referred to them as a pack of wolves, and he was not exactly model citizen.

I sat there, mulling that over, and the voices got close again. “…escaped from state lines.”

“
How did that happen?” The British voice again. “Last I heard, they were on the east coast.”

“
They had friends on the outside.”

“
Who?”

“
I'm not sure, but I think the man I got yesterday was a red herring. A ruse.”

“
The man who killed the Brownstones?” A cough. “How?”

“
I think they bribed someone they knew on the inside. That's why they never showed, I bet. Blythe was going to bite it anyway — someone just rushed him along. I don't doubt that he
was
working for the mafia, and that
that
was the reason for his murders, but I also don't think it was coincidence that he chose to show up on the west coast. I suspect somebody waved money at him. The Japanese man I interrogated has been taken in for questioning since he worked with Rubens before…and I suspect I might be next.”

“
The two events could be unrelated — unless you think you're being set up for a fall?”

“
I've considered that, too. I'm trying to examine every angle. Not an easy task when I've got the whole world breathing down my neck. My agency keeps telling me that the time for bargaining is over. They think we need to show Rubens we're not just fucking around.”

Rubens? Are they talking about my dad?

“
Oh? And what stunningly insightful conclusion did the IMA reach?”

“
That I use the girl as an example. I said, 'Are you suggesting torture?' And Richardson said, 'I am willing to use whatever means necessary to solve this problem. Use your own judgment.'” There was a pause and my captor — Michael — added darkly, “
My
judgment. Seems rather ironic, doesn't it, since that's exactly what's being called into question here. Of course, he suggested that if I didn't feel up to it, I could always send her to Callaghan…”

My head was starting to spin as I tried to absorb all this information. I didn't want to listen anymore, but I had to; I now knew that my life depended on it. As if picking up on my thoughts, the British voice said, “Is it safe to talk here? I noticed the walls are rather thin…”

“
I already checked. There aren't any wires or bugs. We're alone, except for the girl.”

“
Does she know what the IMA has plans?”

“
She doesn't know anything.”

I do now
.

I had crept closer until my cheek was pressed against the peeling white surface of the door.

“
How long have you had her?”

“
Nearly five weeks.” The door knob clicked as a key was inserted. I fell back as if it had grown painfully hot. My eyes shifted around the room looking for a weapon, but my captor had thoughtfully cleared it of anything remotely hard.
Hold on, there's the broken glass
. I snatched one of the sparkling pieces and held my breath.

“
She should still be out. I gave her enough sleeping pills to knock out a bear.”

That bastard. My hand tightened around the shard and I gasped as the sharp edges sliced open my palm.
Shit
. I had no time to get back on the mattress, the door was opening. I collapsed in place as it swung open. Two sets of footsteps entered the room. The stench of cigarette smoke and beer filled the air, burning my nose and searing my lungs.

“
Odd place to fall asleep,” the British voice said.

My captor didn't respond. I was prodded in the side with a boot. I continued to play dead, trying not to jerk when he bent closer. Gloved fingers brushed against the band of exposed skin where my shirt had ridden up. It took all my willpower not to yank down the hem.

When he touched my throat next, searching for my pulse, his fingers were bare. I tensed involuntarily and the hand was replaced by a knife. “She's not asleep; she's awake.”

Would he know I'd been eavesdropping? He was crouching over me, wearing the plaid shirt and jeans from that afternoon and looked furious.

The other man wasn't wearing a mask, surprisingly, and looked about seventy. He had large, startled eyes, like an owl. “The sleeping pills didn't work?”

“
She broke the damn glass.” Michael had just spied the glittering shards, lit up from the light in the hall. “Bet you think you're clever, don't you?”

I lashed out with my piece of glass. Michael tore it out of my hand with the leather-clad fingers of his other hand and slammed both my wrists over my head. “You little saboteur. You'll stop at nothing to piss me off, won't you? I should have known.”

“
It was an accident,” I said weakly.

He pressed down harder. “I'm sure it was.”

I looked at the man, wondering if
he
was going to help me, but he was turned away, facing the window and whistling “Before She Cheats” as he watched the drizzle.

“
Stop looking at him. He won't help you. Look at
me
.”

Shaking, I did.

“
Tell me everything you heard. Don't leave anything out — or I'll start using this.” He held up the knife.

It occurred to me that my captor — Michael — might be harsher when his business associates were watching. He wouldn't want to risk looking soft in front of them, and he had already declared that he was short on patience with me. Would using me in an act of male posturing take a toll on his conscience? An iron hand clenched my stomach. “I didn't hear anything.”

The knife nicked just beneath my ear. “Don't fucking lie to me, Christina.”

I couldn't reveal what I really knew — he'd kill me. Or send me away to that horrible man to be tortured. “You put sleeping pills in my water,” I wept.

His eyes searched my face. “What else?”

I shook my head, squeezing my eyes shut. “There was nothing else!”

He drew the knife across my skin, down my throat, and I cried harder. “You're afraid. I know you heard something you didn't like.”

“
I'm afraid because you've got a
knife
.”

“
Kent.”

The old man turned around, halting in the middle of “My Baby Shot Me Down.” He glanced at me. I thought I thought a flash of sympathy on his face. “Yes?”

“
Please leave.” Michael's eyes never left mine. “I need to deal with my hostage. Alone.”

My blood turned to ice. “What are you going to do to me?”

The man — Kent — headed for the door. “I'll keep in touch.”

“
What are you going to do?” I repeated in a higher voice.

He kept staring at me. It wasn't exactly hatred on his face, but something similar. “Whatever I want.” Like a man possessed, he leaned closer, letting the knife fall to the floor with a clatter. I could smell the alcohol in his pores.
Is he drunk?
“Let's start with your mouth.”

“
No!” I choked. “Michael, don't —
please
!”

He froze, looking down at me with a curious expression. And then I realized my mistake; I had called him by his name. Which I wasn't supposed to know. The front door slammed. Michael didn't even glance in the direction of the hallway. Neither did I. Nothing else existed; he was the center of my universe. I was just one hapless planet orbiting far too closely around a lethal sun. “The game you decided to play is a very dangerous one.”

I raised my eyes to his, just in time to see his fist connect with my temple. A constellation of stars filled my vision, shimmering and white, before being absorbed into an endless black hole.

Chapter Nine

Wildfire

Christina:

My arms were stiff and bound behind my back with hemp rope. I sat up with a groan, stretching to see out the window. I caught glimpses of trees, interspersed with brief flashes of the mountains. My captor — I mean, Michael — was driving. I turned my neck, which hurt for some reason, and hissed, “You punched me.”

He didn't respond.

It was strange having a name to attach to the face of my nightmares. Maybe it suited him better than I'd thought. Michael was the angel of death — and war. “You — ”

“
I heard. I punched you.” His eyes studied me in the rear view mirror for a moment before returning to the road.

“
Are you trying to scare me? Is that why you're doing this? Am I supposed to beg?”

He laughed, low in his throat. “Oh, you have
no
idea, darlin.”

The hairs on my arms prickled. “You can't hurt me,” I said. “I'm your bargaining chip.”

“
Not anymore.”

“
My parents
will
come.” I couldn't muster up any conviction, though. Even I didn't really believe it anymore. “They love me.”

“
All the more reason they should have protected you. And yet they ran. Your parents won't get any sympathy from me. My organization wants you dead. You aren't so useful anymore, even as a bargaining chip. They think you know too much. And you do.” He paused. “You should be more concerned about yourself at the moment.”

“
Where are you taking me?”

“
My agency.”

We're going to the place where they want to torture me?
I opened my mouth, then closed it, remembering that was another piece of information I wasn't supposed to have. “Why? Why are we going there?”

Michael didn't seem to hear me. He was staring at the road with a fixed intensity. I stopped asking questions. We stopped at another desolate-looking building farther down the mountain, overlooking the foothills. I wondered how many sites there were like this; places that existed for the sole purpose of holding people captive. These derelict homes were nothing like the steel-doored mansions I saw in so many spy movies at home. They looked like what they were: prisons; places where you could leave and forget someone.

He had to drag me out of the car. I screamed and kicked at him, prompting him to say, “You can be conscious or unconscious when I take you through that door. You choose.”

I stopped thrashing.

After he cut the ropes around my wrists and cleaned the resulting wounds, I was instructed to take a shower.
Instructed
. I took no solace from the soap or warm water or even the razor he had procured for me. I was badly frightened. He was acting strange. I wrapped myself tightly in the towel before leaving the bathroom, dreading what would happen next.

As usual, he was waiting outside with the clothes. New ones I hadn't seen before. When I reached out to take them, he pulled me up against him. Not as violently he had in the past, but it still wasn't gentle even if it didn't quite hurt. I didn't think he was capable of gentleness. His face was so twisted, so distorted by ill-concealed emotion, that he seemed to be in pain.

“
Don't give me that innocent look.”

“
I'm not — ”

There was a sharp pain as his nose hit mine. “You're not what? You're not giving me a look? Let me tell you something, darlin. You can't look at a man like that and expect him not to notice. You've succeeded in making me look like a fool, and gotten me into a real shit storm. You've
fucked
me, darlin.” He moved closer. “It's only fair that I return the favor.”

“
Don't do it,” I pleaded.

When he spoke, his lips brushed mine. “You wouldn't be able to stop me.”

“
That's an excuse, not a reason,” I said, trembling.

“
This is the
least
you can do for me,” he added, with such venom that I jumped. “How's that for a reason?”

“
I don't owe you anything!” I lifted my knee in a sharp upwards jab. He knocked my leg aside with a growl, pressing me against the wall.
Not like this
. I squeezed my eyes shut when his mouth touched my throat.
No, no, no
.
Not like this
. “No,” I gasped. “I won't
let
you, you bastard. I
won't
. I said
no
.”

Michael ignored me, moving lower. The room spun. I could feel the towel slipping. I began to cry — loud, hitching sobs. If he was going to do this to me, he was going to get to experience the whole of it; I wasn't going to hide any of my misery, fear, or disgust.

It took me a moment to realize he was no longer touching me. “Jesus Christ. What are you — ” His face was a torrent of conflict as he looked at me, as if really seeing me for the first time. I stumbled away from him and my knees buckled; if he hadn't caught me, I would have collapsed to the floor. He drew in an uneven breath and cursed, pushing me away from him.

What is he doing?

He shoved the bundle of clothes at me. “Get the fuck out of here. Out.
Now
.”

I grabbed the clothes, trying not to touch him, and ran for the first empty room I saw. I glanced back, a lump in my throat, half-expecting him to chase me. No. He was still leaning against the wall. Doubled over. One hand was digging into his forehead, driving the bone-white knuckles of his clenched fist into his skull. I'd seen enough.

I closed the door behind me, breathing hard.
Oh my God
, I thought.
What was that?

After a while, the lock clicked. The house was submersed in silence.

Sniffling, I drew my knees to my chest, burying my face in the fabric of my skirt. This time, I hadn't provoked him. I hadn't done anything
wrong. There was no reason for his actions other than sheer spite and his own sadistic enjoyment.
But then why did he stop? Is he trying to scare me?
Well, it worked. I was scared.

The house remained silent, empty, as the shadows chased each other on the floor. I doubted Michael was going to hold himself accountable for the situation — he never did — which left only one other person to take the blame. He would blame me, as he always did, and use my behavior as an excuse to further justify his own actions.

I would never be safe around him.

The door downstairs creaked open. Footsteps started up the staircase. I stood up. They sounded…aimless. Michael knew the building well. This person, on the other hand, seemed unsure about where they were going. Lost. My feelings of unease intensified when my door rattled, but did not open. Michael had locked it himself. That meant somebody else was in the house.
Maybe it's a hiker — or a policeman!

The footsteps were receding, moving farther down the hall.
No!
I began pounding on the door. “Help me! If you can hear me — help me, please!”

I thought they moved closer again, but there was no response. I stopped my pounding, realizing for the first time that the trespasser might be a burglar or some other criminal. If it was a burglar, he (or she) could very well have a gun. I hoped he might not hurt me if he found out I was trapped here against my will, and had no qualms about him taking what he wanted from the house. I'd have just as much to lose by ratting him out. If I explained that, he might even be willing to take me into town. Burglars weren't necessarily bad people, right? They were just desperate.

Well, so was I.

I began hitting the door again. “I'm being held hostage! Please! Help me! You can take whatever you want from the house — just please,
please
help me!”

More silence met my plea but the footsteps were definitely coming from right outside the door. A series of clicking sounds and mechanical whirs emanated from the other side. My heart was pounding quite furiously, nearly blocking out the sounds.
Please, God
.
Let me come out of this safely
.

The noises stopped. The door swung open with a shriek five seconds later, confirming my suspicions: the man in the doorway was not Michael.

This man was tall — taller than my captor, even, though not as broad in the shoulders — and a little older. Late twenties or mid-thirties. He was wearing a white shirt tucked into black slacks, carefully creased. I didn't notice any of this until much later, though, because in his hands was a far more prominent accessory: a gun. And it was aimed at me.

I should have felt hysterical but mostly I just felt numb. My horror was dull and distant. It wasn't that I wanted to die, because I didn't, just that being held at gunpoint wasn't much worse than anything else that had happened to me so far. How sad.

“
I'm unarmed,” I squeaked, raising my hands to show they were empty. “Don't shoot!”

His eyes, the color of slate, studied me a moment before he set to examining the room. “Are you alone?” He had a soft accent I couldn't place. It sounded British, but I knew it wasn't — the cadences were different from the way that other man, Kent, had spoken.

What is he doing here?
He had a strange, foreign accent, he had found — and then broken into — the safe house, and he had a gun. He wasn't a hiker or a cop. I was pretty sure he wasn't a burglar, either. The equipment he had used to break down the door seemed pretty sophisticated. Like, government-issue sophisticated. Those thoughts propelled me into motion.

“
Who are you?” I demanded. “And what — ”

There was a muted
click
and I froze.

“
That was the safety.”
As if I don't know that
. “Make another move, and I'll shoot.”

Swallowing, I lowered my arms back down to my sides and stayed where I was. He walked farther into the room, appearing to wander aimlessly, but his steps brought him closer until he was standing only a foot away. His eyes were even fiercer up close, like a hawk's. And at some point in the past, I noticed, somebody had broken his nose.

“
I believe I asked you a direct question.”

“
Yes,” I said. “I am alone.”
Is he one of them?

He smiled. It wasn't reassuring. “Is your name Christina Parker?”

I was instantly on my guard. “Maybe.”

“
You certainly look like her.” He fished into his pockets, producing a picture I had trouble recognizing at first. My senior photo. My face was fuller, my color less pallid, but it was me. I almost reached for it but stopped myself just in time. “Strong resemblance,” he said, glancing first at me and then at the photograph. “Wouldn't you say?”

“
Who
are
you?” I repeated.

“
I'm detective Timothy O' Rourke.”

Detective? Like a private investigator? Did my parents send him?

“
You are Christina Parker, yes?”

I hesitated. “Yes…”

“
Good.” He winked at me. “Won't be needing this, then.” He lowered the gun, turned the safety back on, and tucked it back into his holster. “Your parents hired me to find you and rescue you,” he added, making my deadening heart flutter with renewed hope.

“
You mean…they're still free?”

“
Aye. Somewhere safe. But I'd rather not say where. Just in case — ” His fingers grazed my cheek, touching the bruise Michael had left when he'd hit me. It sent waves of pain rippling down my face and I shied away. “That's a nice shiner you've got there. Who gave it to you?”

“
My captor,” I said flatly.

He raised an eyebrow. “Captor?”

“
I've been kidnapped and he's holding me hostage here.”

“
Does your captor have a name?”

It stuck me that if he had asked me this yesterday, I wouldn't have known the answer. “Michael.”

“
Michael Boutilier?”

The French surname made me blink in surprise — Michael certainly hadn't
looked
French. “I don't know,” I said honestly. “He was careful around me.”

“
Not careful enough, I daresay.” The detective's voice held a hint of a smirk, though when I looked at him his face was impassive.

He took me by the arm, leading me down the stairs. I felt a surge of relief so strong it was dizzying.
Michael won't be able to hurt me or threaten me anymore
.
It's almost over
.

“
Michael Boutilier is a very powerful man.”

“
I'll bet,” I murmured. I would have agreed with him if he'd said the sky was yellow.

“
Aye,” Timothy said. “Murder, arson, kidnapping, robbery. He was a criminal long before he joined the IMA. Prominent member of a Cajun gang in Lafayette during his teen years. Louisiana still hasn't lifted the bounty on him.” He stopped, and said in a tone I couldn't quite read, “You're lucky to be alive, lass.”