Cloak and Dagger (The IMA Book 1) (17 page)

My back hit the wall.

“
Maybe you
wanted
to be alone with me.”

I leaped away from the wall, shooting a nervous look at him. I couldn't let myself get cornered. Adrian seemed to enjoy the sound of his own voice. Maybe I could hold out long enough, keep him talking, and A — or a guard, or Michael — would intervene.

“
I didn't
lie
!”

“
Oh, don't apologize to me.” He laughed quietly. “
I
don't mind.”

I bet he doesn't
. God, he was sick.

“
Or maybe,” he continued, looking at me thoughtfully, “you're protecting someone.”

“
I'm not protecting anyone,” I snapped, glaring at him.

His smile widened. I saw he had been expecting this response. “Not even yourself?”

In that instant, I knew three things: (1) he was playing with me, like a cat with an enfeebled mouse, and perfectly willing to draw this out as long as I was, which meant that (2) no guards were going to come — or he believed no guards were going to come, which pretty much amounted to the same thing, and (3) he had clearly done this before many, many times because the fluidity of his speech and the quickness of his responses were so synced up that it was as though he were reading aloud from a script.

Adrian lunged. I screamed as I bounced off the wall. Not from pain — the soft padding absorbed most of the blow — but from sheer terror. His hands hit the wall on either side of me, boxing me in. His eyes drifted leisurely down my body but there was nothing sexual about that look. “Are you afraid?” he whispered, bending his head towards mine.

“
No.”
Oh, yes
.

He sighed. “So stubborn.”

I punched him. He caught my fist before it could reach his face, spinning me around like a dancer and then, when I had gathered enough momentum, let go. I hit the ground with a thud. The padding absorbed most of the impact again, but this time it actually hurt. For several seconds I was stunned and barely managed to dodge the blow he'd been aiming at my unprotected side. His shoe clipped me — had it connected, it would have bruised my kidneys, or worse.

I got to my feet but was exhausted and shaking too badly from fear to be stable. He had military training: I could barely get through gym class. I leaned against the wall for support, willing my knees not to buckle out from under me as I frantically hobbled away.

When he socked me in the stomach all the wind was pummeled out of me. He punched me again, lower — just above the groin — and there was a sharp ache that made me feel, for an instant, like I desperately had to go to the bathroom. The floor hit my knees. I barely noticed. I was too intent on hugging my aching midsection, as if I could hold the pain in with my arms alone.

It was a painful reminder that if I wanted to trade punches against the men in the IMA, they would always win.

“
Look at that,” he taunted, “Already on your knees.”

I told him he could go fornicate with himself in the crudest way possible, borrowing one of Michael's favorite words. For my efforts, I received another blow. I doubled over, in the fetal position. I didn't even bother trying to get up this time.

Adrian leaned over me. His shirt was a stark white. I had a sudden vision of how my blood would look spattered across the fabric, like a grisly Jackson Pollock painting.

He nudged me in the side with his foot. “If only you could see yourself…how pathetic you look. I could kill you with just a few more blows.” He ground his shoe into my side a little harder and my sob became a scream. “Maybe only two.”

“
You'll
pay
,” I gasped.

“
To whom? Michael? Did you really believe
he
could protect you?”

He's using the past tense
. I struggled to sit up. White-hot pain lanced through my stomach, arcing through my ribs, my bladder, and both my sides. Like some ghastly compass rose.
Pain in all directions
. “I don't…know…what you're talking about.”

“
Oh, I think you do — ”

He saw me trying to get up and swiped my legs from beneath me.

Wham
.

Back on the floor.

“ —
I know all about your deal with him.”

If I tried to speak, I was going to throw up.

“
But he's sleeping with the fishes, Christina; I doubt he'll wake up any time soon.”

“
He's…dead?” A bubble of blood burst from my lips.

“
Out like a candle,” he agreed.

I'd wanted Michael dead so many times. After he'd tried to rape me, I'd fantasized about killing him myself. Now I'd gotten my wish and he'd been replaced by an even greater evil. And with Michael died my only hope for escape. I turned on Adrian, my anger and disappointment providing me with the energy to shout, “You sick, twisted
fu —
”

He kicked me again, casually, and I broke off in a strangled yelp. Blood drizzled out of my mouth, spraying the floor with crimson. Adrian hadn't been exaggerating. A few more of those
love-taps
would probably kill me. The harder blows, definitely. Easily.

This wasn't pain anymore. This went beyond pain. This was
hell
.

“
Get up.”

“
I can't…you bastard…”

“
No?” He dropped to his knees beside me, his features arranged in mock solemnity. “Well, that's what you get for trying to play with the big lads, my bonnie lass.” He traced my lower lip. I braced myself for the pain that was sure to follow because he was like a sadistic King Midas, turning everything he touched into pain.

But he didn't hurt me. Just wiped the blood from my mouth almost…tenderly. No. That wasn't the right word. His face wasn't sympathetic or repenting; he looked rapt, almost fascinated. When he finally withdrew, his fingers were coated in my blood.

“
It's a pity he's dead.”

Michael? Was he talking about Michael? “Why…pity?”

“
Because.” He raised his eyes to my face as he licked my blood from his fingers. “I rather hoped he'd be around to watch this.”

Chapter Fourteen

Nightmare

Michael:

“
That was cutting it close, even for you.”

Kent was frowning down at me. If I tried, I could hear water slapping against a solid surface. We must have been aboard Kent's houseboat. I was lying on the dining room table, cleared to make room for me. “Sometimes…you need to take a few risks.” I examined the blood-stained bandages covering my torso. Nothing vital appeared missing.

“
This was more than a risk, Michael. This was reckless. You could have died.”

Scoffing, I tried to sit up and gasped. “Oh,
fuck
me.”

Kent gave me a look that plainly said,
I told you so
. “The bullet went through your kevlar. There was some internal damage.”

I slid my legs over the side of the table and tilted my head. There wasn't as much blood as I'd initially thought, though Kent had cleaned me up a bit. My bullet-proof vest had absorbed most of the bullet's impact. “Was it deep?” I probed at the wound and winced. It hurt, but not too badly.

“
Nothing a first aid kit and some skulduggery couldn't fix. Did you know they'd be using propellants?”

No, I hadn't. I'd been caught completely off-guard. It was the mistake of a rank amateur but — Miles? His hands had been shaking so hard, only luck and the fact that I had been standing stock-still must have allowed the bullet to meet its mark. If I had been in motion…

But dwelling on the past did nothing for my present situation. It would not speed up my recovery, it would not undo my error. The fact that Richardson had enlisted
Miles
to be my assassin instead of somebody more qualified was downright insulting, as he undoubtedly intended it to be. My death would be made both a mockery, and a warning.

Which reminded me. I was operating on a strict time frame. In just two days, Christina would die — and I'd be forced to await another chance to fuck them over. By then, news of my death would have already been released. I had to act
now
, while there was still secrecy. This botched assassination attempt had left me with an even greater thirst for retribution, and I was not to be denied.

Kent watched me get up. “Where are you going?”

“
I need to get to the Cascade Mountains.”

“
You just took a bullet. If you go back like this, they
will
kill you. Wait a few weeks. Get your strength back.
Then
worry about getting revenge.”

“
I don't have a few weeks.” I pulled on a shirt he'd laid out for me. “Get me on the first flight heading back to Oregon.”

Kent shook his head mournfully but picked up his phone. “Your funeral, Old Boy.”

Christina:

48 hours left.

“
I'll be back,” he breathed into my ear. “Don't go anywhere.” And then he laughed.

My fingers clenched. Every move I made elicited pain so strong, it was like being stabbed all over by a red-hot iron. Everything ached. The effect was strangely neutralizing, as if the sheer abundance of agony had driven my brain into automatic shutdown. I closed my eyes and tried to focus on breathing.
In
.
Out
.
In
.
Out
. Each breath was a slash to my lungs.

The worst part was, despite giving the fight — if I was being perfectly honest, it was more of a slaughter — my all, I had barely hurt him. All of this damage, all the bruises and blood, had taken minutes to inflict. And he had walked away with nary a scratch.

In
.
Out
. Since when did breathing hurt so much?

Adrian could have killed me. He didn't, but I was under no false illusions as to why. He wanted to save me for later, the same way animal predators will drag their half-eaten meal into a tree. His expression had been so alien, so
bestial
, that I hadn't been able to recognize it for what it was. I'd never seen that look on a human face before.

It was a primal lust for drawing blood and inflicting pain. A gratification from the former that bordered on sexual. His face, as he had licked my blood from his fingers, had been that of a man caught in the throes of passion. What was he going to do to me now? What was
left
to do?

Footsteps echoed in the hallway, coming closer. I turned my head towards the door, the muscles in my neck straining with the movement. Was it one of the guards? Or was it Adrian, back to finish the cruel game he'd started, coming back to his tree to devour what remained?

I heard the beeping of the access panel from the other side. The door whooshed open. A horrible silence ensued. I counted three and a half ragged breaths. The voice, when it finally came, was measured but concerned. “Oh my sainted Jesus — Christina?”

A
.

I saw her shimmering form through my tears. She was wearing an aubergine dress suit with matching heels. A white silk scarf draped around her throat. She dropped to her knees beside me, an angel wearing purple, her fingers gently rolling up the hem of my sweater. The sweater
she
had given me, hopelessly ruined now. Her hands were cool to the touch, painstakingly gentle.

“
Mr. Callaghan,” she spat, her soft voice discordant for the first time since I'd heard her speak. Her mouth was a thin, tight line as she pulled her hand back, which I didn't want her to do at all — I needed her touch to make sure I was still alive. A wish I regretted, when her finger pressed against a bruise too hard. A's face softened, becoming lovely again, as I recoiled, and she said, “I'm sorry! Are you in a lot of pain?”

No, I'm just lying here because I feel like it.

My laugh came out as a hacking rasp that quickly became a soundless cry. I managed to nod. It hurt too much to talk.

“
You're hemorrhaging. That's why this is black.” Her finger hovered over one of the darkest bruises but she did not touch me this time. I nodded faintly. I wasn't sure exactly what that meant, though I remembered hearing it before on
ER
and I knew it wasn't a good thing.

“
I can't move you by myself, and it isn't safe to. We'll have to wait.”

Wait for what? Who?
Adrian was going to come back.

A fine mist of sweat formed on my forehead. The fabric of my sweater felt wet and sticky on my back and under my arms. A placed her hand on my forehead, smoothing back my hair the way my mother used to when I was younger. “Why did he do this to you?”

I tried to think past the pain that veiled my thoughts. “He said I lied…on my polygraph.” The last syllable came out as a choke. Spit hit the ground beside me; it was veined with blood. I looked away. “But…he also said…he wanted to break me.” My chest hitched, sending ripples of pain down my body: a facsimile of a bitter laugh, or the beginnings of a sob. Beyond the agony, I didn't know what I was feeling. Nor did I care, particularly. “He got what he wanted…I'm definitely broken.”

I watched her watch me. Under this light, her hazel eyes looked green — as green as
his
, though considerably less cold.
As green as his
were. He was dead now. One less thing in the universe to concern myself with.

Did you lie? s
eemed to hover in the air like a ghost between us, making the air grow cold. To tell the truth, I was no longer sure whether I had or not. It didn't seem to matter; it certainly hadn't to Adrian.

Finally, A nodded. She pulled down my sweater, allowing me a modicum of dignity. She was trying to be gentle, but the drag of soft fabric scorched my skin like flame. My wince alerted her, made her ask, “Are you in a lot of pain?”

“
Yes, goddammit!” My own voice had become a stranger's.

Unfazed, A reached into her handbag and pulled out a black case. My skin shrank in recognition. I'd seen one of those before. I flinched when she pulled out one of the needles, and then flinched from my own flinching. “No.”

She frowned at me. “This will help you relax.”

“
I'm allergic.”

“
To opiates. I know. This is different.”

The needle slid beneath the skin of my forearm. The room seemed to tilt. “You'll have to be hospitalized,” she was saying. “If this isn't operated on right away, you could die.”

Hope buoyed me to consciousness. If they were taking me somewhere public, like a hospital, questions would be asked. Somebody might recognize me. Milk cartons bearing pictures of my face were probably circulating around school cafeterias.
Have you seen this girl?

I was just beginning to fantasize about the bust, the police having just received an anonymous tip-off from a hospital intern with a heart of gold who was too noble and good to accept the IMA's hush money. The reunion with my family. Seeing Adrian sentenced to a life in prison without parole.

“
We have a fully functional operating room on the premises,” A added.

The dream shattered, like brittle glass, the pieces scattering even as I reached out with the desperation of a beggar grasping at dropped coins in a busy street. I shook my head.

Misunderstanding, she said, “He's a very nice man. Very skilled. He got his medical degree from John Hopkins. He works on the field agents who are injured while on assignment. You'll receive better treatment than at most hospitals.”

That's not the point. I'll still be a prisoner
.

“
You can't have it both ways.”

It was as if she'd read my thoughts. No, she was just saying that I couldn't get better without moving. She thought I was concerned about the pain. She was right, either way. I
couldn't
have it both ways. I never have. My life has always been full of tough choices, ever getting harder.

“
Does this mean…they don't want to kill me?”

She looked at me for a long time — for so long that I wondered how the answer could be anything but “no”. Slowly, she shook her head. “Yes. At least, not yet. If he truly wanted you dead, he would have ordered Adrian to finish you.”

Those grim words hung between us until the sedative took effect. I was out —

(
like a candle
)

On the edge of a lake surrounded by trees, under overcast skies the color of concrete. Curls of mist rose from the still surface, though I didn't feel cold. The water seemed to stretch out forever but I could make out the lines of houses through the sheer curtain of vapor. It looked like it might rain.

I wasn't alone.

Michael was leaning against one of the trees, sharpening a knife against a whetstone. That's when I realized I had to be dreaming. That, or I had died — and this was hell. Michael took no notice of me, but I knew instinctively that he was aware of my presence. The scraping noises stopped, and he looked up at me with his strange eyes: perfectly green and cold, like two pieces of bottle glass set in his haggard face. They perfectly mirrored the stormy sky above.

“
What are you doing here?”

I took a step back, loose racks grating against my sneakers. “What are
you
doing here? You're…dead — aren't you?”

Michael looked up from his knife. “Do I look dead?”

I could see the muscles in his bare arms working as he continued to sharpen the blade. There were numerous scars crisscrossing his torso, of different shapes and textures. Some had nearly faded away into his tan skin, and others stood out in relief. He looked so untouchable. I was suddenly terrified —
more
terrified.

One of the scars was more pronounced than the others: a gaping rictus, still red and fleshy, just above his left nipple and only half-healed. It looked so
painful
. He stopped sharpening his knife and followed my gaze. “That one hurt the most.”

“
How did you get it?”

Michael moved like a panther, so fast I wouldn't have been able to dodge even if I'd tried. I was knocked from my feet to the ground, the air crushed out of my lungs on impact. With it, went my ability to scream. I was painfully aware of his body pressed against mine, cold and hard, like stone. He leaned in. “I was weak.”

He pressed my hand to his chest, splaying my fingers over the scarred, opalescent skin, just over where his heart should have been.
No heartbeat
. I tried to yank my hand back. He held on tightly — tighter, when I tried to pull away. His mouth covered mine, and he tasted cold and dead and salty, like raw fish.

“
You see?” he said. “I feel nothing now.”

I screamed, scrabbling at his heartless chest.

Michael seemed to hesitate. His hand, the one holding the knife, was halfway beneath my shirt. The tip of the blade pressed into my skin and I shivered. His skin felt slack and loose, peeling away where my fingers had gouged, revealing the carmine muscles and pallid bone beneath. He
was
dead; he was a corpse.