Cloak and Dagger (The IMA Book 1) (16 page)

“
Why are you helping me?”

She paused. “All Mr. Boutilier said was that you were in bad shape. He was right, although he neglected to inform me just
how
bad.”

I was speechless.

Michael:

A gentle, lacustrine breeze ruffled my hair through the open window of the van. Lake Angelus was full of large residences and small specialty stores geared towards the elite. With the average annual income hovering around a cozy $112,000, they could certainly afford it. This was a
scenic
little town, too. Big valley filled in with a large blue lake, with the surrounding tree-dappled hills reflected in the placid surface. Whitewashed cottage houses. Very WASP-y.

My partner, Miles Trevelyan, was too busy staring at the houses to notice the surroundings. “Wow,” he whistled. “Look at the size of that place.” he shook his head, slowly, so I would catch the significance of whatever he was going to say next. “It pisses me off how some people can choose to live like this.”

I'd never cared much for Miles. I found his jocular personality overbearing, and his interactions with Richardson bordered on insidious. Usually an office grunt, he had undoubtedly bounced around like a puppy when he found out he had been marked down for one of the coveted field assignments. I wondered how thrilled he'd be if he realized the reason he'd been chosen in the first place was precisely because of how expendable he was.

The IMA would not suffer a serious loss if, say, Miles somehow got caught in the crossfire.
Assuming they use guns
. “Are you saying that you, as a mercenary, feel you are less driven by money?” I asked absently.

Miles rolled his eyes. “Nah. But one-percent of the people in this world hold ninety-nine percent of the world's wealth. It's just something to think about.”

I was thinking I had seen that printed on an ad somewhere.

I parked the van in front of one of the larger houses. It matched the address I'd committed to memory in the debriefing room. Richardson rented our van under an assumed name and had it painted with the logo of a prominent local cable company. I'd made a point of checking the van out. It was clean. No detonator. Just a couple bugs. All the parts were operating normally; nothing was rigged to blow. Clearly, I was intended to survive the journey. That meant they intended to off me in the house. It was two and half stories, with a watered lawn. There was even a new champagne-colored Porche parked in front of the house. The IMA had gone through a lot of effort to make this plausible. In spite of myself, my heart began to pound.
They must really want me dead
.

“
Nervous?” Miles asked, looking down at my hands.

I unclenched them from the wheel. “You wish, rookie.”

Miles rolled his eyes again and pulled out a pair of binoculars. “Place looks secure. No guards, though.”

“
That's because they're idiots,” I said with grave finality, “Who have been lulled into a false sense of security by a series of lucky escapes and close calls. Their mistake.” I was pleased. That sounded like something I might say under ordinary circumstances.

Miles stared at me. “Here's something I don't get. What's the point of being out here if Richardson is going to give them the ultimatum?”

“
Seeing as how they didn't come when we had their daughter, I hardly believe that they are going to come to us of their own volition.” I slung my arm out the window. “Don't ask me any more questions until we get inside.”

“
Can I ask you something first?”

“
Is it pertinent to the mission?”

“
There's a rumor going around the office that you slept with your hostage.”

“
Disregard it.”

“
Is it true?”

“
Give me those.” I tugged on the binoculars. Unfortunately, they were still looped Miles's neck. He made a strangled sound: an improvement over what normally came out of his mouth.

“
Something's moving in there,” he rasped.

I eyed the house. “Where? Which room?”

“
The one on the left. Kitchen, maybe.”

“
Remember what I told you.” I released the binoculars. They smacked harmlessly against Miles's chest. “Corners are your friends — and your enemies. Check both sides before ascending a staircase or entering a doorway and, most importantly, stay off my tail.”

I suspected the shot would come from behind. It was doubtful the shooter would care about a little collateral damage, provided he got his quarry. I opened the door, gun drawn, and checked both hallways before pushing it wide open.

The hallway was empty.

“
All right, it's clear. Miles —
Miles
?”

He had vanished.

One less thing to worry about
.

I moved down the hall, about to turn right. Something socked me in the back. It took me a few moments to feel the pain, hot and burning, like a ball of fire in my chest. I clutched at the front of my uniform and my gloves came back coated in blood. My blood.

What the fuck —

I turned around. The last thing I saw was a scared-looking Miles holding a gun in his trembling hands. I started for him and he fired again.

Everything went dark.

Chapter Thirteen

Sickness

54 hours left.

I was instantly wary when the doors opened and a guard entered the room. “What's going on?” It was just the one, but his expression was dark.

“
They want to question you,” was his only comment.

Again?

I was getting used to the labyrinthine hallways. They were still intimidating, but less impressive. The guard led me up a flight of stairs, which lent support to my initial theory that part of the building was underground. The upper floor was less prison-like and more office-like. I had never liked change, and under these circumstances it seemed especially bad. Why was I being questioned again? Had somebody overheard my conversation in the hall with Michael?

The guard opened a plain wooden door that didn't have an access panel; we just went right in. With its tacky wallpaper, the heavy-duty sink, and the cot backed up against the corner, the room looked
just
like a doctor's office. There were other furnishings as well, these more out of place: a student desk — the kind with a table attached — and odd equipment hooked to a monitor.

The interrogator looked up as we came in. He wore a bland smile on a face like a withered apple. I would have placed him in his mid-sixties but it was hard to pinpoint his exact age; he could have been ten years younger or older. He was wearing a suit, a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, and had a goatee that looked like a tuft of white cotton candy. For some reason, he also looked vaguely familiar. The thought that I might know somebody here
was so distressing it took me a moment to realize he reminded me of a picture of Freud I had seen in my psychology textbook.
Ah, that's why
. I was relieved. God, he gave me the creeps.

“
Sit.” The guard forced me into the stiff-backed chair of the desk. He unlocked one of my handcuffs and refastened it to the bar that connected the seat of the desk to the table.

“
You must be Christina,” Freud said, smiling pleasantly.

I didn't deny it. I didn't agree, either. I said nothing.

His smile faded. He placed the monitor on the counter beside me. “Do you know what a polygraph is?”

A lie detector?
I shrugged. Clearly he'd never heard of CSI.

“
It's more commonly known as a lie detector. It measures various physiological responses, such as your pulse, blood pressure, respiration, skin conductance, and so on, after establishing a baseline.” As he spoke, he placed two black loops around my ring and index fingers. That wasn't so bad. Then came a blood pressure cuff, which was uncomfortable, and two metal bars around my chest, which was weird.

“
Your name is Christina?” he said, looking at the monitor. “Yes, or no?”

“…
Yes.”

He nodded. “Let's start off simply. Why don't you tell me about yourself, your school life, your hobbies…”

Why was
that
important? “I don't know.”

“
Withholding information will only make your situation worse.” His frown deepened, causing an eruption of wrinkles around his mouth and forehead. “You can cooperate with me, young lady, or I can let Mr. Callaghan pry the answers out of you. It's your choice.”

Freud seemed to accept that. He kept the next question simple. “Where do you attend school?”

“
Holy Trinity.”

“
Is that a Catholic school?”

“
Yes.”

“
Are you Catholic?”

“
My mother is.”

“
Are
you
Catholic?”

I sighed. “No.”

“
Do you believe in God?”

“
Yes.”

“
Any idea where you want to go to college?”

“
No.”
Not anymore
.

“
What are your grades like?”

I wondered if I should lie. Maybe if he thought I was stupid, he'd ask me stupid questions. These were getting a little too personal.
But they could look that up
. “They fluctuate from year to year.”

“
What is your collective GPA for
this
year?”

“
Not as high as I'd like it to be.”

Freud steepled his fingers in front of his mouth. “What about your parents?”

“
I don't know. They haven't been in school for a while.”

A searing pain tore through my scalp. The guard had hit me with his gun. The tears that stung my eyes came unexpectedly. “Don't be a smart-ass,” the guard snarled.

“
Don't be so rough with her!” Freud chastised the guard. He turned back towards me, pulling out a hanky to dab at his sweating bald head. “How would you describe your
relationship
with your parents?”

Well, let's see. My mother had positively medieval views about women. She was terrified of getting old, and so she tried to relive her modeling days vicariously through me. My father was never around and when he was, he was more like a distant relative, rather than the close confidante I thought a father
should
be.

“
It was great, until I got kidnapped.”

“
Your parents still haven't gotten back to us. Don't you find that odd?”

“
Maybe they're scared,” I suggested.

“
That doesn't seem very responsible.”

“
My parents
aren't
very responsible.”

Freud jotted something down in a little black notebook. “But you just said you had, and I quote, a 'great' relationship with them.”

“
You can have a great relationship with someone even if they aren't responsible.”

“
Even if those someones are your parents?”

I shrugged and closed my eyes. “You tell me.”

“
Your father is a computer programmer. What does he do at work?”

“
He bakes bread,” I said in a flat voice. “What do you think he does?”

The guard approached again, and Freud held him back. “Can you be a bit more specific?”

“
No.”

“
Did Michael Boutilier ever talk to you about the IMA?”

“
No.”
Not intentionally
.

“
Did he ever attempt to bargain with you?”

I told myself this was just the “story they were kicking around the office” that Michael had warned me about. The hallway had been completely empty when we'd talked, and he was too proud to incriminate himself. There was no way we could have been overheard.

…
Right?

“
No.”

“
Did you ever have sexual relations with Michael Boutilier, at his behest or yours?”

“
No!”

“
Take her back,” Freud said, after a long pause. “We have enough for one day.”

Michael:

Breathed in and heard a bubbling sound. Felt liquid in my chest. Tried to move. Couldn't. Restrained by something. Too dark to see what. Ground was vibrating. Tried to sit up. Last memory was Miles — with a gun. Miles — betraying me. Couldn't believe I'd overlooked him. Had seemed so incompetent. Didn't matter now. Needed to move. Arms were bound behind back. Felt like handcuffs. Shoulders ached, so had probably been unconscious for a while. If was going to die, would have done so already. Relief. Been through worse. Much worse. Would heal if got proper treatment in time.

If
.

Needed to figure out where I was. Why I had been left behind. Probably thought was dying or dead, if just left like
this
. Arrogant to leave operative to die if death not certain. Or just very, very stupid.
Miles
, I thought again. Shifted weight to abdomen to bend waist. To sit up.

Agony
.

Gasped. Sounded like cheap carnival whistle. Moving definitely bad idea. Ribs felt like they were being sawed apart by rusted metal implement. With dull edges. Shirt was damp with sweat and blood. Could smell blood everywhere. Knew it was mine from way shirt was plastered to skin. “Fuck,” I whispered raggedly, and heard bubbling sound again. Blood — in lungs. Jerked and knee hit something hard. “Fuck,” I said again, louder.

“
Did you hear something?”

Froze. Voices faint, but close.

“
Don't be so paranoid, Trevelyan
.
We got him
.
”

Trevelyan — Miles. And somebody else. Sounded familiar but not very.

“
I heard something move around back there
.
”

“
It's just your imagination
.
”

Long pause.

Was I…in the trunk of a car? Felt like coffin. No wonder couldn't move. Thought of most trunks, how small they were. Wondered what contortions they had performed on body to get to fit in such small dimensions. Muscles cramping. Suspected was folded up like origami crane.

Heard trunk pop open. Suddenly light. Kept eyes shut. Pretended to be unconscious. Was not hard. Wanted to be unconscious. Wouldn't be so painful that way.

“
What the — the fucker's still breathing?”

Wanted to laugh. Lungs scalded like fire. Felt like heavy weight was pressing down on chest. Coughed instead. Tasted blood in mouth, salty and metallic. Spat out blood. Bubbling in chest diminished. Maybe lungs weren't pierced after all.

“
I told you I heard a thump!”

“
Well, if you had shot him point-blank like I'd told you to, that wouldn't be a problem
.
”

Recognized voice now. Was Sheffield—Callaghan's backup. Son of a bitch.

“
Never mind
.
Throw his body in the lake
.
He won't be breathing for long
.
”

Was surrounded by water…and freezing. Couldn't move hands. Couldn't swim. Couldn't breathe.

Fuck
.

Christina:

49 hours left.

“
Rise and shine, Christina Parker.”

My eyes snapped open to meet a familiar pair of mocking gray ones. I blinked rapildy, praying the nightmare in front of me would vanish.

He didn't.

No! It's a dream, he's not real, he's not —

He reached out for me, just missing my chin. I felt the displaced air swoosh in front of my face. I shrieked, scrambling away by kicking my feet as hard as I could against the floor.

Adrian raised an eyebrow, letting his arm fall to his side. “You don't look happy to see me.”

I searched in vain for the guard. “Get out!”

“
You
don't order me around.” He didn't say it in a threatening way, as Michael would. He said it in an amused way, in the same tone as if the command has come from, say, a child. He rose from his crouch. “I saw the results of your polygraph.”

I pushed myself to my feet. His eyes tracked me. How had he seen the results already? I'd only taken the test hours ago. Then I remembered — Adrian was the backup on Michael's previous assignment. Me. Adrian was in charge of
me
. Freud hadn't been threatening me with Adrian for the fun of it; he was threatening to send me back to my new captor if I didn't cooperate, who would then use his own preferred means of extracting information.

I'm in trouble
.

“
Figured it out, have you?”

Big trouble
. “Stay away from me.”

A slow smile wound its way across his face. He took a few brisk steps towards me. I matched him step for step, curling my hands into fists.

“
I said, stay
away
from me.”

“
You're a liar, Christina,” he purred.

I veered to the right to avoid his idle grab for my arm. “I didn't lie.”

“
According to the test, you did.” He faked to the right and laughed when I nearly fell trying to avoid him, just barely managing to evade his lunge to the left.
My God, he's fast
. His feint attacks were exhausting to avoid, his footwork perfectly choreographed. I could feel myself getting tired at an alarming rate. Adrian stopped several feet away from me, giving me a heartbeat to catch my breath as he stopped to think. “Several times, actually. Why would you do that, I wonder?”