Cloak and Dagger (The IMA Book 1) (18 page)

The blade was warm in contrast, and that seemed wrong somehow, almost obscene: as if the metal was alive — an extension of him and his wrath.

“
If you want to survive against us, you have to be cold like us.”

I didn't even have time to scream as the knife pierced my skin, past the protective shield of my ribcage, deep into the recesses of my heart.

Michael:

Compared to the humidity of the east coast, Oregon was far cooler. I pulled on my black coat as I left the PDX Airport and popped some of the pain relievers Kent had procured for me, dry. My chest was aching in the cold like a son of a bitch. But I could still fire a gun. Even with the bullet wound, I was a formidable adversary.

—
Oh,
Christ
.

I nearly reached for the bottle of pills again. Stopped myself. At least the pain would keep me alert. I didn't want to arrive at the IMA's doorstep doped out of my mind, and I'd well exceeded the advised dosage.

I was aware of the eyes on me as I hurried through the terminals with my single carry-on item. Some people stared at me curiously, others avoided me entirely. Perhaps they could read the death warrant in my eyes. More likely, it was the fact I kept hacking up blood. In either case, I was attracting far too much attention. I quickened my pace, and my chest tightened.

Outside the airport, the roar of the departing planes was deafening. I scanned the curb, looking for a sign with the name “Coleman.” That had been Kent's suggestion. Even though I had “died” the IMA may have released my fake name to the public in an obituary. It would not be good for Edward Collins to be seen walking around, back from the dead. Coleman was just close enough to Collins that there was no chance of my forgetting it.

There was no Coleman sign. My driver hadn't arrived yet. I cracked open the can of orange juice from the flight and glanced down at my watch. I had forty hours.

Christina:

Forty hours left.

I shot up and immediately regretted it as pain lit up and down my sides like lights on a jukebox. I fell back against the cot, clasping my hands over my stomach as though in prayer.
A dios
. My heart — my poor, wonderful heart — was hammering in my ears.
Just a nightmare
.

Not all of it. Michael was still dead. And I was an invalid. A must have brought me to the hospital. I didn't remember arriving here. I didn't remember anything except pain. I was sore beyond description, but now it was the dulled ache of healing wounds as opposed to the sharp, raw stabbing of fresh bruises and open, stinging cuts. I was wearing a loose shirt and beneath it I could feel the ridges of what proved to be neat bandages, wrapped with the precision of a surgeon.

That's when I saw him. He was sitting down in a chair behind me, on the edge of my periphery — why I hadn't seen him on my initial, cursory inspection — and he was toying with something small and metallic hanging from a chain at his neck. At my gasp of startled horror, he looked up.

“
Oh, good,” he said. “You're awake. I said I'd be back, didn't I?”

I opened my mouth to scream. He crossed the room quickly, clapping one of his hands over my mouth. “I wouldn't do that.” I wanted to bite his hand, and
would
have if not for the distinct possibility that he would take it as an invitation to “play” — and I wouldn't survive round two.

Against the instincts to attack, scream, and hold on for dear life, I made myself to relax. Adrian raised his hand up and off my mouth. The fabric of his shirt lifted with that movement, revealing a gun holstered at his hip. He hadn't wanted me to scream, so that might mean nobody knew he was here. I tasted blood; I'd bitten right through the skin of my lower lip.

Adrian noticed me staring at his gun.

“
The lesser known instrument of the surgical world.” He drew it. “Generally used as a last resort, of course.” The detachment in his voice, plus the fact that nobody had rushed in at the sight of his drawn weapon, was terrifying. His smile grew as he slipped the gun back into its holster. “So, beneath the skin of the lion beats the heart of a rabbit, hmm?”

“
And what are
you
?” I had meant to sound brave, but my voice cracked mid-syllable. He smiled accordingly, adjusting his shirt so the gun was hidden from sight.

“
I'm very good at what I do.”

I braced myself for the attack — a blow to my stomach, a quick, backhanded slap. He leaned in and deliberately licked away the bead of blood clinging to my lip. His breath was hot, metallic, and sweet. Like molten copper. Like blood. I snapped at his tongue and he pulled away.

“
You
are
a pretty little thing, aren't you?”

I said nothing.

“
But pretty things are so easily broken.” My hand looked so fragile in his, when he caught it. “Here's what's going to happen,” he said reasonably, running his thumb over my pulse. “First, you're going to tell me everything. Then you're going to beg me for your life. And perhaps, if you're very,
very
convincing, I might even let you live.”

“
Screw you.”

His fingers tightened, past discomfort, to the threshold of pain and then beyond that, too. “No,” he said, still civil. “I don't think so.”

He's going to do it
.
He's going to break my wrist
. I could kick him. I wasn't sure how much it would hurt, but if I aimed right, it might get him off me.
And then what? You're incapacitated
. I didn't care. I'd deal with that when — and if — the time came.

I poised to strike, cocking my leg back beneath the sheets. A crack resounded in the room. I stared in amazement as Adrian Callaghan collapsed on top of me — unconscious.

Chapter Fifteen

Rendezvous

Christina:

Panic overrode logic. I flailed, trying to get him off. I didn't care that he was unconscious. I just wanted his body away from mine. There was a sickeningly sweet powdery smell, like talc, clinging to his clothes and skin, which made me feel like vomiting.

Adrian was a big man, but I was desperate. I felt him start to slide and then give way. He hit the floor with a heavy thud that made the medical equipment in the cupboards rattle. A groan escaped him. I did the sensible thing: I opened my mouth again to scream.

A soft, feminine hand covered my mouth before the sound could escape. I began to thrash again — that was how Adrian had reacted, too, which meant that
this
person also wasn't supposed to be here. A voice as feminine as the hand whispered, “No.
Please
. You must be quiet. Trust me.”

A looked as though she'd aged ten years since I'd seen her last. The expression on her face was horribly familiar: I'd seen it every time I looked in a mirror. Sheer terror.

My eyes shifted from the collapsed Adrian to her disheveled appearance and back again. Had
she
been the one to knock him unconscious? Her tweed dress was rumpled and askew, revealing the lace-edged slip beneath. She looked like she had been in a scuffle. Her handbag dangled limply from her hand. Its contents had spilled out on the floor. Adrian had been felled by a Coach bag. If I hadn't been so sickeningly relieved, I might have laughed.

“
Listen to me,” she said, in rushed, clipped tones. Her mouth was locked in a grimace, and her lipstick had bled onto her perfect teeth. “We don't have much time. I can get you out, but you must do exactly as I say. Do you understand? Nod once.”

“
What — ”

She shook her head, motioning to the security camera.
Right
. She had angled herself in such a way that her face wouldn't be visible to the lens. Could the people watching the cameras read lips? Probably. After all, these were the same people that forced their guards to memorize the floor plan in order to navigate.

“
Do you understand?” she repeated, her eyes urgent, pleading.

I brought my head down in the heaviest of nods.

A tugged me out of bed — rougher than before, but I suppose she had to keep up with appearances. I was relieved I wasn't wearing one of those flimsy hospital gowns. It was humiliating enough, being dragged around
without
having your butt visible.

“
Follow me.”

Easier said than done. My sides ached with each step. The tide of endorphins helped some. I hardly dared believe I was going to be released from this place — alive. Unless…was this a trick of some kind? To test me? With a shaking hand, A punched in the access code. Her fear didn't seem feigned, but Adrian had managed to fool me, too. Good acting seemed to be a prerequisite.

I edged carefully around Adrian's fallen form. His chest rose and fell, and I begrudged him each breath. I suppressed the urge to stamp on his throat and end his life then and there, hurrying after A. The doors slid open and I could barely keep up with her. A's white, open-toed sandals clicked noisily on the floor and I wondered why, if she was so eager to remain unseen, she was wearing such
loud
shoes. Then I saw the logo on the back of the heel and rolled my eyes.

Prada
. “Where are we going?”

“
Out.”

Out? Out of this hallway? Or out-out?
“Where?” I persisted.

“
I can't tell you right now.” She glanced around nervously. “We're in serious danger.”

She's only just figured that out now?
I almost laughed, but my throat was too dry. I could feel the pain returning now that I was coming down from my high; neurotransmitters could only go so far. “I know,” I whispered back. “You knocked Adrian Callaghan unconscious. When he wakes up, he's going to come after us and…there will be trouble.”

“
No, not just us — we
all
are.” She spread her arm in a broad half-circle, as if to encompass the entire building of the IMA.

I was gasping now. My stitches felt about ready to pop. “Why?”

“
Because Michael Boutilier is alive.”

Michael:

It didn't occur to the two grunts the IMA had posted as guards to be on the lookout for one of their own. I'd suspected as much. My killing would be strictly on a need-to-know basis for the next few days, allowing for an adequate amount of time to pass for Richardson to “discover” the “horrible news.” After all, he wouldn't want to leave his people with the impression that they could get bumped off before retirement — not with a mutiny already in the works.

The guards nodded me through. The clearance light flashed green. That meant I hadn't been declared dead yet. Good. I went through the door, keeping my head down. Nobody had stopped me but I doubted that my luck would stay this good. I had to assume that somebody had already seen me, recognized me, and made a phone call to the powers that be.

A piercing siren tore through the silence of level one. A light, surrounded by a cage of wires, suddenly started to flash. My hand tightened around my Glock 22, and I ran down the stairs, trying to ignore the fireball in my chest.

Showtime.

Christina:

“
Adrian told me he was dead.”

“
That's what we thought, too.” She shook her head, causing her red hair to fan out as she hustled me down the hallway. “He was growing too powerful, too ruthless, and had many enemies. When I heard he planned to take over the IMA…” She shuddered, as if the thought of a Michael-run IMA was too horrible to bear. “We were so relieved when we got a report saying that he might have drowned. I thought it was the end to all our problems. But he's alive. I don't know how, but he managed to survive — and he's coming
here
.”

My dream came back to me with frightening clarity. But what — I'd overheard Michael telling Kent he had no intention of taking over the IMA. He
knew
that he had many enemies, and that too many people would resent him for precisely the reasons A had just laid out. He'd also mentioned that he wasn't the only one hankering for a little power. Two other men wanted to lead the IMA, and one of them was Adrian. Did that mean A thought an Adrian-run IMA was better than a Michael-run one? I couldn't see that. Michael wasn't a
sadist
.

But again, this was stuff I wasn't supposed to know. I didn't know where A stood in the midst of this. Not enough to regale her with all the forbidden information I had managed to acquire. “You weren't afraid of Michael before.”

“
Of course I was!”

“
But you didn't act like it — he told you to help me, and you did.”

“
He was under our control then. Now he's like a grenade without a ring. He could do
anything
.” I had a feeling that wasn't the whole story behind why she was afraid. And the plural pronouns confused me. Was A protecting someone? Or was she referring to the IMA as a whole? A piercing alarm cut loose, splicing both my eardrums and my thoughts.

We both jumped.

“
If that's true, why are you helping me?” I had to raise my voice to be heard.

“
I have a daughter about your age.” She paused, adding swiftly. “I don't want to see you die. This is no place for a child.” We were outside the locker rooms. She handed me a long navy skirt and another white blouse. “You'll stand out too much dressed the way you are now. This way, you can pass as a secretary. Executive assistant. Just change — quickly!”

I tried to find the words that would simultaneously thank her for everything
and
wish her the best of luck with her own problems because I suspected she had many, but in the end all I could do was nod awkwardly and duck past the doors before the two of us were spotted.

Michael:

The guards had come out of nowhere. I'd already incapacitated several and killed just as many. I'd salvaged a helmet and two AK-47s. Assault rifles were powerful but made too much noise. I was going to have to use them if the Glock ran out of ammunition. Running footsteps down the corridor snagged my attention, turning it from thoughts of artillery. I dropped into a defensive stance, ready to shoot on-sight.

No guards.

It was — I couldn't believe my luck — Christina, accompanied by Richardson's little whore. How had Christina persuaded that bitch to help her escape? I stared, edgy, sore, and shocked as they conferred briefly. I couldn't hear what they were saying over the alarm, but I could guess. A shoved a handful of clothes at the girl, who disappeared into the locker room. A muttered something under her breath, turning down a different hall.

I considered following her and asking her what the hell she was thinking, turning against Richardson like that — did she believe she was more exempt from insubordination because she was sleeping with him? That he'd let her off with a fucking spanking? The sound of more footsteps swiftly changed my mind.

I dove into the locker room after the girl.

Christina:

39 hours left.

I got dressed in the privacy of one of the shower stalls. The light in here was good; it gave me a more intimate glimpse of my injuries than I would have liked. The mottled bruises and thick, black thread that laced through my skin like the stitching on a rag doll, made me want to retch. I tried to focus solely on the clothes.

The scream sounded as I was zipping up my skirt. It echoed shrilly off the yellow tiles. I paused a beat before slipping on the flats. Was it coming from the locker room? I could swear it was. Slowly, I pushed open the stall door, stepping out as my eyes restlessly swept the aisles of lockers. Nothing.

I made my way to the door that led back to the corridor. As I moved closer, I could make out voices — one male, one female. I cracked open the door and peeped out. Adrian had A pinned against the wall by her throat. “I can make you speak, or you can talk freely. Where are Michael and the girl? This organization does not tolerate traitors.”

I looked at A to see what she was making of this. She just looked scared. So A's vagueness
had
been because she was protecting someone. She knew what had happened to Michael, so that meant…she was probably connected to someone directly responsible for killing him. She probably thought Michael was going to come after her for revenge.

Adrian must have been in on it, too. He had encountered Michael and I in the hallway, that one time. He'd whispered something that Michael wouldn't repeat. All his thinly veiled threats, his baseless interest in me — which was looking less baseless by the minute. His premature certainty of Michael's death. Suddenly, the situation began to make sense.

“
I'm not a traitor,” A protested. “I was doing what was best — ”

“
For whom? The IMA? All evidence points to the contrary. Releasing hostages, stealing company property — ”

She flushed angrily. “The clothes are
mine —
and Michael might have killed the girl.”

“
She'd have made a pretty little trap then, wouldn't she? Why are you protecting her, A? I know you set her free. The door showed no sign of being forced, so I know Michael didn't do it, and we all know Richardson gives you unlimited access to the codes…”

I started forward and a hand clamped over my mouth for the third time that day. “Don't move.”

Michael?
I went so still I could feel the rise and fall of his chest against my back.
Oh God
.

“
I'm not here to hurt you,” he said in a strange, muffled voice. “But you have to keep your goddamn mouth shut.”

I nodded. He released me. I wasted no time in backing up and increasing the space between us. The muffling was caused by a riot helmet that covered all of his face in hard black plastic, except for the transparent visor. He was wearing black pants tucked into heavy black boots and, over a long-sleeved shirt, a ribbed vest that was probably bulletproof.

He looked as terrifying as I remembered, and very much alive.

I tried to scramble around him but he was standing between me and my escape. My heart echoed the sounds of his hands hitting the metal lockers. “Hold it.” He was looking at the outlines of my bandages through my shirt. “Callaghan's been playing with you.”

I tried to keep myself from looking at the door — and failed.

“
And you're still alive? Interesting.” He let his hand fall away. “Did you find anything useful?”

“
A and Adrian were both in on your death. And A might be close to one of the key people” — his tawny eyebrows lifted — “but if she is,” I added ferociously, “You have to promise not to hurt her, because I'm sure she didn't mean it.”