Cloak and Dagger (The IMA Book 1) (21 page)

“
He sent a virus to one of our computers, causing an entire network to shut down. It was an accident — or so we believed at first. He was taking his little experiment for a test drive. Seeing what it could do. When he broke through our security system, he didn't realize what he was getting himself into. But I imagine he figured it out when he deciphered our encrypted weapons placement orders describing a list of powerful artillery recently bought and sold — artillery not available to the general public.”

My father? A
hacker
?

It made sense why
Mamá
had gotten so upset over Dad's telling me about the “forbidden doors.” That must have been after he'd already broken through the IMA's security system. The allusion to Pandora's box had been a reference to his hacking, and perhaps even directly to his foray into the IMA computer mainframe itself.

“
So…that's why…all this?” I moved my free hand into a swoop.

“
No. We could have bought his silence. But he turned what he had found into the police.”

Dad had known all along — and he hadn't told me. Why? To keep me safe? That had worked really well. To protect my image of him as a father? The betrayal hurt worse than the knowledge of his double life. I stared at the wall. “If he turned it into the police, why haven't they launched an investigation?”

“
Infiltration.”

“
So, in other words, you have agents who pose as policemen.”

Half his mouth twitched. “Something like that.”

Well I had fallen for Adrian's act hook, line and sinker, until he dropped the charade. If he hadn't been so keen on lording my mistake over me, letting me stew in my own fear, he probably could have kept me fooled right up to the point where they slapped the handcuffs on me and slammed me in a cell. Could Adrian have fooled an entire police force? Probably, if he wanted to. I was sure the IMA had plenty of operatives who would feel even more comfortable in that role.

An onslaught of questions were tumbling into awareness. “Why was I kidnapped?”

“
The message referred to a 'curious girl.' We thought that girl might be you, that you might have something to do with the virus's code, or the stolen spreadsheets.”

“
Well, I'm
not
.”

“
I realized that. So we decided to try blackmail. Hold you for ransom.”

“
Fat lot of good that did you.” I drew in a shaky breath. “I wish
you
hadn't told me this.” By which I'd meant,
I wish my
parents
had been the ones to tell me this
.

But Michael took my words at face value. “I thought you'd be grateful to know.”

Grateful
. “All it's done is make me realize that my life sucks more than I thought.”

“
Oh? The IMA may enjoy playing judge, jury, and executioner, but even
they
need proof.”

“
They do have proof,” I said. “You said so yourself. It's on the — ”

The database? Which he had wiped clean?

“
The disk showed a digital footprint of the pages he accessed. Without the disk, they have no proof, as well as a couple other terabytes of information, including some on you and me, that I'm sure will be missed. I told that idiot technician Richardson wanted the computers backed up. Richardson hadn't let the lower-ranked operatives of the IMA know that I was dead. I was enough of a superior that he had no reason to doubt me. Then I re-released your father's virus into the system. Unchecked, it tore the computers apart from the inside-out.”

“
You could have used it as a bargaining chip!”

“
They would have killed me, anyway. You, too, in spite of what you may think. Even if your parents had agreed to the ransom, and met up with my man at the Walk of Flags. The moment you saw my face, you were screwed. Only difference between then and now is that the IMA will be just as screwed as we are.”

I paused, remembering something Adrian had told me. I hadn't paid it much thought at the time, focused as I'd been on escape, but now it made me wonder. “Is it true you were in a gang before you joined the IMA?”

Michael had closed his eyes but cracked one open to regard me in a steely squint. “Where the hell did you hear that from?”

“
Adrian.”

He laughed sourly. “I should have known.”

“
Well, were you?”

“
Yes,” he said. Both eyes closed now. “I was.”

“
You don't have any tattoos.”

Another unpleasant laugh. “That you can see.”

He was goading me, daring me to ask. “Why did you join a gang? It didn't seem to make you happy.”

“
What the fuck are you? A therapist?”

“
No…I…” I'd overstepped myself. I'd forgotten who I was talking to. I wished I could take my words back. “I was just curious.”

“
You think that's the root of all my problems? That if I hadn't joined a gang, I'd be a sweet, upstanding young thing like you? I grew up in the slums of backwoods Louisiana where there were two choices: join the gang or get the shit kicked out of you. At least if you joined the gang, you got some petty cash. Don't attach any of your pathetic childish fantasies to me just because I saved your father. For once, our wants coincided. You think I put my ass on the line for you for the hell of it? Because I thought it was the right thing to do?”

The hostile barrage of words spoke at a long-harbored resentment that had been left to kindle. What reason did he have to hate me? He had ruined
my
life — what would possess him to even hint that I had done the same to him? “If you really feel that way, then why didn't you let Adrian finish me?”

He leaned towards me. “Perhaps I
should
have.”

“
But you didn't.”

“
No. I didn't. I came back.” His hand cupped my face. “For you.” I flinched, but his fingers were, for once, oddly gentle. “My mistake.” His lips covered against mine, and his free hand closed around my wrist. He nudged me backwards —

And dizzily, I fell into darkness.

Michael:

Something was wrong. I don't know how I made myself stop, but I did. Her breathing had slowed. “Christina?” Speaking was an effort. No response. I lifted her eyelid. The pupil was dilated. Then I looked at her half-drained water bottle.

Drugs.

The water.

The
goddamn
water.

I could already feel the effects of it. A heavy lethargy. A feeling of being disconnected. A cold sweat had broken out over my body despite the fact that the room was not that hot. I pictured Richardson watching these scene, as relayed by whatever bug he'd installed in here, and imagined him laughing.
Revenge is a dish best served cold
, he would say.

I should have known he would take it literally.

Christina:

I wanted to throw up when I saw the guards' sleazy grins. Just like the St. John's boys, only worse because these were
men
, and there was something much more lascivious in their expressions. Much more…adult. Almost pornographic.

“
Rough night?” they said to Michael.

They ignored me.
After all,
I'm
only
a
girl.

Michael looked exhausted. The shadows beneath his eyes had darkened, and his chin and cheeks were covered in golden bristles. He squinted into the dimming sunlight, blinking excessively, and then glared at the guards through slitted eyes.

What is that supposed to mean?

I couldn't remember anything beyond waking up on the boat and discovering we weren't in Oregon anymore. I distantly remembered talking to Michael about…something.

What? What had Michael done to me?

Two armed guards escorted us off the boat with their weapons drawn. A warning sign near the beach said
PRIVATE PROPERTY; TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED
. I walked purposely slow, drinking everything in as I searched for a way to escape — until the guard jabbed his gun into the base of my spine to hurry me along.

The dirt was a soft dark brown that felt like sludge and smelled like sewage. Beyond the sunken path was a dense subtropical jungle. Birds chirped in the bushes. Periodically, I would hear a rustle from the undergrowth as something scampered away from our footsteps. It seemed like it would be easy — painfully so — to slip away. There had to be a second, hidden line of defense. Mines, maybe. Otherwise more people would escape, and Michael had said that once you were taken to an internment base, that was the end.

I stumbled over a rock half-buried in the muck. Michael caught me. I tried to push him away — I didn't want his hands on me, not after what we…
he
…might have done — but he caught my wrist to restrain me. Probably thinking I was going to make a run for the foliage and get us both killed.
He's always treating me like some idiotic damsel in distress
. I yanked my arm out of his grip with more violence than necessary and lost my balance. I fell, dragging him down with me, and we landed in an ungraceful heap, inches deep in the foul mud, at the nearest guard's feet. All my injuries awakened like hungry lions and I screamed —

Only to hear slow laughter.

Mr. Richardson was standing at the edge of the path. Somehow he'd managed to find a dry patch of land to stand on. Adrian was at his side. He was still dressed to impress in spite of the swampy heat, but I was pleased to see him suffering for it. Richardson, in contrast, looked far more casual. He had traded in his suit for Bermuda shorts and a Hawaiian shirt.
All that's missing is a flowery lei
.

“
Welcome to Target Island. In Spanish, the translation is closer to Target-Shooting Island, but that's a bit of a mouthful,” Mr. Richardson spoke as if he were just a tour guide relaying the history of a wonderful tropical paradise. “This is where we bring our operatives to…retire.”

Adrian clicked his tongue making a sound similar to a gun's safety being turned off.

Mr. Richardson gave him a glare and us a rueful smile. But his eyes were unrepentant. “Consider yourself lucky, Michael. Most people have to wait until they're sixty-five for that particular pleasure.”

“
What did you drug the water with? Rohypnol?” Michael demanded.

“
Rohypnol,” Mr. Richardson agreed. I inhaled sharply and he turned towards me. “I know what you are thinking, Miss Parker. And no, you would not have done anything that you hadn't subconsciously wanted to do.” He smiled simperingly. “Perhaps there is hope for you yet, Mr. Boutilier.”

I felt like sobbing — and
throwing
things. I started forward and so did the guards but Michael, being cuffed to me, got to me first. He grabbed my arm again, holding me back. As he struggled to keep me, and my temper, under control (“his mouth has always been like his ass” — this whispered remark interspersed with a furious look at his ex-boss — “the most unbelievable shit comes out of it”) a small, traitorous voice whispered,
Would it have been so awful?

Mamá
had always made it clear she believed girls who got raped deserved it. I hadn't done any of the things she said “bad” girls did, though. I didn't parade myself around in sluttish clothes and make untoward advances. But
Mamá
had been wrong about everything else so far, so maybe she'd been wrong about that, too. Maybe it didn't matter whether you were bad
or
good, prudish
or
wanton: maybe just being female was enough, for some men. Maybe, like so much else, it was only about control.
But then why do I feel so guilty?

“
Don't touch me,” I said to Michael, who dropped his hand.

Mr. Richardson was watching us. “You don't remember what happened, Miss Parker?”

“
No
.
”

“
Pity,” he said. “It was…rather touching.”

I felt Michael stiffen. “What did you do?”

“
I don't remember.”

“
What do you
think
you did?”

“
I don't fucking
know
.”

He sounded just helpless enough that I believed him.

Adrian, apparently disliking being ignored, said, “Your orders, sir?”

“
Ah, yes. Escort the two lovebirds to Node Six, Mr. Callaghan. Get them cleaned up and so to it that they receive food and a change of clothes — I won't have them stinking up the cells as they are.”