Cloak and Dagger (The IMA Book 1) (15 page)

Her eyes widened. “What kind of confession?”

I hesitated. “Do you still want to know the truth? Because once I tell you, you can't
unknow
it.”

She nodded furiously. I had to give her credit; she had guts. I made sure the coast was clear for a final time and whispered, “They plan to kill us both.”

Chapter Twelve

Jeopardy

Christina:

I stared at him stupidly. I had been expecting something far more fantastic and complex. One of those intricate conspiracies that served as the plot line for so many action movies — not hostile takeovers and knowing too much! But this could be worse…because it was such a mundane explanation, there was no doubt in my mind it was also true.

It took me a moment to find my voice, lodged somewhere in the back of my throat. “You? Why?”

“
The story they've been kicking around the office is that I'm a traitor; that I allowed myself to become seduced by my hostage and gave you some information I shouldn't have in a moment of…weakness. Information that you leaked, which allowed your parents to escape. It's scandalous enough that most people will probably believe it. Or want to.”

“
And the truth?” I managed.

“
I'm a senior agent: old enough to be taken seriously, young enough to look like a threat. I have many enemies within this organization. When I relocated without notifying my superiors in advance, it looked a lot like insubordination. I don't screw up very often. I imagine they probably leaped on this opportunity like a pack of rabid dogs.”

“
But they're sending you on a mission to Michigan,” I protested, still trying to make sense of this. “Why would they do that if they didn't still trust you?”

The look he gave me was full of scorn. “Do you know where Lake Angelus is?”

“
It's a wealthy suburban town in Michigan. And there's a lake, of course,” I said haughtily. “It's the type of place we'd go on vacation.”

“
Which is exactly why your parents wouldn't go there. They aren't that stupid.” He had a point, though I begrudged him for being so snide about it. “I'll tell you what
is
there,” he continued. “A team of highly-trained agents being paid to neutralize — I mean, kill — me if necessary.”

“
How do you know all this?”

“
I have informants.” He paused. “And if you cooperate with me, I can get you out.”

“
You're offering to help me?”
It has to be a trap
.

“
The IMA has been fucking around with me for years” — his vehement tone made me flinch — “so I've been expecting something like this for quite some time. Counting on it, even. And what better way to get back at them than stealing one of their hostages right out from underneath their noses? It'll make fools of them, and they take pride on being foolproof.” His eyes met mine. “Keep in mind that this is revenge, and nothing else. If you get in my way, I will kill you.”

I could accept that if it meant getting out of here alive. “What do I have to do?”

“
Be my eyes and ears while I go to Lake Angelus.”

“
You know it's a trap and you're still going?”

“
I've never turned down a mission before. It would look unseemly. Besides,” he added, “Sometimes it's better to” — his eyes narrowed — “run.”

Sometimes it's better to run?
“What?”

“
Just do it. Run.”

“
Wh — ”

“
Now
.
”

I did. He tackled me, and we both went crashing to the floor. I gasped loudly and felt tears jump to my eyes. My knees had hit the floor pretty hard, and I could feel a dozen new bruises forming all over my body.

“
What's going on here?” an irritated but unfamiliar voice demanded.

A man in a uniform and carrying a rifle was glaring down at us. Beside him were two other men, one in uniform and one in plainclothes. The man who wasn't in uniform was quite young, maybe only a couple years older than Michael, with dark skin, curly black hair, and five o' clock shadow that was just beginning to turn into a beard. He was standing stiffly with his arms behind his back. His attractive, fox-like face was grave.

As I looked at him, our eyes met and he gave me a somber nod. I took in his tattered clothes, disheveled appearance, and bleeding lip, and realized that he must be another prisoner. He had to be. The stiff posture was undoubtedly due to injury, maybe from torture, and I just bet his hands were cuffed like mine.

“
She ran,” Michael said, diverting my attention. “I pursued.”

“
Where are her handcuffs?”

“
Somebody took them. But that doesn't matter. I have her under control now. I will see to it that she is returned to her cell and properly confined.”

The guard, who appeared to be the leader of this small party, nodded and the three men continued in the opposite direction. Michael yanked me to my feet and let out his breath. “Jesus,” he muttered. “That was close.”

We continued to my cell. I couldn't forget that young prisoner. The haunted look in his dark eyes hinted at unspeakable horrors. As soon as I figured we were far enough away, I whispered, “Who was that?”

Michael's face closed off. “As long as you're here, you still have a fighting chance. Just remember this: once they move you to one of our internment bases, it's over.”

Michael:

The IMA had many enemies, and some were considered too dangerous for ordinary imprisonment. We had two special high-security prisons similar to Guantanamo Bay for such individuals. One was in Russia and called Ground Zero, or GZ for short. The other was off the coast of Mexico, called Target Island. If the IMA ever officially turned on me, they would send me there.

I recognized the man in the hallway because I had been assigned as his bounty hunter. He'd been a double agent, working for a left-wing quasi-terrorist organization called the
Bureau du Nuit
, or Night Bureau,. They were a group of radicals who wanted political recognition. They regarded us as hypocrites and occasionally tried to thwart our missions. Until recently, they had never been successful.

Pierre Dupont was a very proud, very determined man. 27-years-old. Intelligent, crafty. One of their leaders. The BN was unique in the sense that those in power actually performed their own dirty work. It was why they considered themselves superior to the rest of us: socialism at its best. It also made them easy targets. Pierre would be taken to one of our high-security internment bases. He would be tortured and then, ultimately, executed.

The girl didn't realize how much danger she was in. That
both
of us were in.

Christina:

I was so full of adrenaline I thought I might burst. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't eat. It had been easier to believe my situation was completely hopeless than to believe I had a microscopically small chance at escape.
Hope really is the worst evil of all
, I thought wretchedly.

I curled up in a ball on the floor. When the door opened, I couldn't bring myself to sit up.
Probably the guard again, threatening to inject my food into me intravenously if I don't eat it
.
Maybe if I act pathetic, they'll assume I'm too weak to be defiant and leave me alone
. “I ate
most
of it,” I mumbled. “Please…let me sleep.”

“
Oh dear,” an unfamiliar voice said. “You
are
in bad shape.”

A woman's voice? I cracked open an eye. There was a pretty red-haired woman standing over me. I blinked. She didn't go away.
Well, that's a good sign
.

“
Hello,” she said, nicely enough for someone who was probably a murderer.

I hadn't seen many women since my arrival. This particular woman was wearing a pencil skirt and a blouse that looked exactly like the one I'd been drooling over in a magazine last month…when fitting in and test scores had been the worst of my problems….

A sob rose in my chest. I morphed it into a whimper.

Her face creased in concern. She approached with a guard on her heels. “Don't cry.”

Was this a trick? A good cop/bad cop routine? “I'm not crying. Who are you?”

“
I'm here to help you,” she said, neatly sidestepping the question.

A bubble expanded inside my chest. “Can you get me out of here?” I asked eagerly.

She laughed at that, but not unkindly. “I'm afraid not. They haven't been treating you very nicely,” she said, examining me closely. “Your clothes…and your hair” — her eyes fell on my wrists — “Oh, dear.”

I yanked my hands away from her. This pretty, well-kept woman was making me feel even more drab and scroungy than I had felt before. Worse, she was a painful reminder of just how good a set-up I'd had back home.

“
Are you here to torture me?”

“
No. I was told to let you take a shower.”

“
That's all?”

“
Well…” She looked confused. “And give you new clothes, of course.”

I didn't care about new clothes. I wanted to believe
one
person in this place didn't want to see me bleed.

“
Think about how nice it will feel,” she said encouragingly.

Even if it's a trap, at least I'll die clean
.

“
You can call me A,” she told me in the hallway.

I looked over my shoulder. The guard was following at a discreet distance. Discreet meaning close enough to overhear everything I said in the conversation but not so close he was breathing down my neck. “A? And what do you do here, A?”
Lead the office in a cheery rendition of the alphabet song?

“
I have a desk job,” she said, either not hearing or choosing to ignore my suspicion. “Research. Graduated from Smith
magna cum laude
.”

“
No offense,” I said. “But you don't exactly look like an agent.”

“
I suppose that's a compliment considering the way most people here dress. But I can only wear these around the office, because otherwise, people might stare.”

I stared at her.

“
My friends think that I work for a bank,” she explained. “Part of my cover story. A new Versace dress might raise unseemly questions regarding the annual income of an alleged banker.”

Is she for real?
“Have you ever killed anyone?”

“
Goodness, no!”

The locker room was exactly like the one at Holy Trinity, except that each locker had an access panel instead of a flimsy combination lock, and probably contained more than unwashed gym clothes and body lotion. “The showers are this way,” she said, gently but firmly steering me away from the lockers. The guard didn't come in but I suspected he was right outside the door.

A was right. The water did feel good, though the soap and hot water stung my wrists. The water pressure at the safe houses had sucked — here, I was able to get almost as clean as I had been before getting kidnapped. It was heavenly.

Why was A being so nice to me? Was this supposed to be a happy send-off before I died? And had she
really
never killed anyone, or was that a lie?

I rinsed my hair a final time and changed into the clothes A had hung over the door. They looked expensive. The quality was superior to what Michael brought me. I pulled on the pristine white sweater and blue jeans, searched fruitlessly for shoes, and walked out of the stall feeling cheated.

A was sitting on the long wooden bench with a first aid kit. “Let's have a look at your arms.” She pulled out strips of gauze and a bottle of peroxide.

“
No shoes,” I said.

“
Afraid not.” A wrapped up the minor cuts on my left wrist. The ones on the right were worse. “These are nasty things, aren't they?” She tried to sound upbeat, but she was frowning at the long gash — the one Adrian had torn. “Who did this to you?”

It was still red and angry-looking, like a screaming mouth, and puffy with infection.
It doesn't look as bad in my cell
. “Most of them are from the handcuffs. But Adrian — ”

“
Adrian?” Her hazel eyes burned with anger. “Adrian Callaghan? They sent
you
to
him
?”

“
Um…”
I shouldn't have said that
.
For all I know, she could be a plant
. “Is it bad?”

“
Not good, but not terrible, either.” She drizzled peroxide over the cut. I dug my fingers into my thigh to keep from crying out. “Just deep.”

Inwardly, I heaved a sigh of relief. Subject changed.

“
That's the best I can do for now.” She capped the peroxide. “I'll check on it in a few days.”

“
Can I ask you one more question?”

She started packing up. “That depends on what you ask.”