Cloak and Dagger (The IMA Book 1) (22 page)

Adrian did not look pleased by the prospect.
Fastidious bastard
. “Separate rooms?” he asked, glancing at me.

Oh God, no
.

“
No.” Richardson turned to face us. “Leave them together and double the guard. The girl is weak and slow. If he attempts to escape, she will drag him down; and he won't leave without her.”

Chapter Eighteen

Release

Christina:

12 hours left.

“
Dismissed. Get them out of my sight.” Behind the casual dismissal, the careful authority, the fury in Mr. Richardson's voice was like a giant splinter shredding through his words. I vaguely remembered what Michael had confessed to me — the ship was bugged. Had the confession been for his boss's benefit? If it had been, Michael's ploy worked: Mr. Richardson was pissed. “Now,” he added savagely, prompting the guards into immediate action.

Michael and I were separated. My handcuff was unlocked and I was thrown into a new pair. Oh, boy. The guard grabbed me by the shoulder and marched me away from the beach. It was a long walk. By now, the sun was a distant memory. The stars shone overhead, clearer than I had ever seen them before. In the distance, I could hear the hiss of the ocean waves. The sludge beneath my feet soaked into the fabric of my sweatpants, weighing them down until it felt like I was dragging a pair of smelly sandbags around my ankles. Soon, I was shivering.

I knew we were close when the muddy ground yielded to cement walkways. All the buildings were postmodern behemoths shaped from steel and shatterproof glass, twisted into asymmetrical shapes. The futuristic monoliths were at odds with the deep navy of the Pacific Ocean, just barely visible from where we were now, and the thickets of palm trees. I remembered the dense jungle that surrounded the beaches and realized now why the guards hadn't been concerned about escape: there were watch towers posted around in even intervals. Each tower contained two armed guards. My heart sank. Target Island wasn't that big, but the base itself took up a significant portion of the land. Escape from here would be nigh impossible.

Node Six turned out to be a large L-shaped building. A large metal six stood in front of it, and I could see a five further down. The automatic doors parted with a woosh of air. We were in an office, except guards were posted at every door. A few people looked up from their computers, then lowered their eyes again.
Sympathy or boredom?
Neither was reassuring.

I stumbled beside the guard, no longer able to keep pace with his military-precise steps. My injuries were aching from the long and arduous walk. My feet were blistered with splinters. I was cold and wet and exhausted. “Are we almost there?”

“
Shut up,” the guard said, with such viciousness I balked.

By the time we reached the showers, I was ready to collapse. The moment the guard released me, I did. He looked like he was considering hoisting me to my feet but I suppose he decided it was less effort to let me lie there on the floor while we waited. I closed my eyes and wheezed.

Footsteps approached. Red shoes and black boots appeared in front of me, about eye-level from my current position.
A?
I looked up hopefully. It wasn't A. It was another woman I'd never seen before. A dark and curly-haired woman with wide black eyes and red lipstick that looked much cheaper than anything I'd ever seen A wear. Her white sundress was a tight fit on her curvy body and had a plunging neckline. When she bent to my level, I saw more than I wanted.
A native?
I wondered if she spoke Spanish.

“
Tan joven y tan viejo,”
she said. So old and yet, so young. Even if she wasn't a native, her Spanish was perfect.

It occurred to me that I ought to pretend I couldn't understand her, that I might overhear the guards say something in Spanish if they assumed I didn't speak it. But the guard beside her gave no indication that he'd understood a word she said. If he
did
speak it, his bluff was much better than mine would be. If the guards here
were
stupid enough to converse about their secret plans
in Spanish
in front of
me
, my shock would probably give me away.

Plus, Latinos have this assumption that anybody who looks Latino can speak Spanish. One of my classmates at Holy Trinity, a Native American, gets approached by random Hispanic people all the time in airports, grocery stores, and buses. Even though I'm half-white, I still definitely look
Latina
.

“
¿Usted habla Español? Por favor, ayúdame.”
Just to make sure she understood how desperate I was, I used the most respectful form of address; the kind you use when you want to be really polite or formal, or acknowledge rank.

The woman shook her head and said in English, “I am sorry.”

“
Por favor
.
”

“
You'll speak
English
,” the guard said, punctuating his gruff command with a jab from his gun. “Nothing else.” I don't think he meant to do it so hard but the pain was exquisite. I found myself on my knees, guarding the bruise he'd assaulted.

The woman gave the guard a dirty look and helped me to my feet. I lurched off-balance, hitting a wall of dizziness and nausea. With my tired legs unable to support me, I sent both of us toppling to the ground like felled dominoes. The guard fixed us with a look that conveyed his scorn of all things female. “Are you sure you're going to be able to handle her alone?”

“
Yes, I am certain.” Her voice was beautiful, even when angry, and her English was quite good. She had a delicate accent that was clearly cultured. “Wait outside.”

The bathrooms were a step down from the base in Oregon. There were no lockers. Everything was in shades of gray, as if the architect had been trying to make the place look as gloomy and miserable as possible. To my horror, the showers had no stalls. Just spigots suspended from the ceiling with a drain in the floor to catch the runoff. “No stalls?” I croaked.

“
I promise I will not look.”

Seeing my indecision prompted her to give me a towel and a sunny smile. I was not won over so easily. What did she think this place was? Some kind of resort?

“
What's your name?”

“
B.”

“
Bee? Or B?
“What happened to A?”

B avoided my eyes and would not respond.

The water of the shower was warm, but it couldn't melt the layer of ice beneath my skin that was like the permafrost of the tundra. I was terrified. Yes, I'd survived a lot longer than I would have thought possible, but I was running out of time and ideas. In a matter of hours, Richardson would give my parents his ultimatum and they would die, not knowing they had given their lives up in vain.

And what had happened to A? Adrian had accused her of being a traitor, saying,
You wouldn't want to end up like Michael
. Richardson appeared to take what Adrian said to heart now. What if his testimony had gotten A killed? Was B the replacement? Was Richardson working his way through the alphabet? An alphabet of soft, feminine women with beautiful voices and an irrepressible urge to shop?
God, he's just as sick as Adrian
.

I shut off the water and wrapped myself in the towel. B handed me some underthings, sweatpants, and another white t-shirt nearly identical to the one I'd been wearing before. I pulled the shirt down as far as it would go, which wasn't all that far, and tugged on the pants while staring at B's turned back. “Are there any cameras in here?”

She shook her head.

“
Microphones?”

She nodded. “Please. At least tell me…are my parents here?”

Another nod.

I drew in a sharp breath. Maybe she hadn't understood the question.
How couldn't she? Even if her English weren't perfect, which it
is
, parents is a cognate; it sounds exactly like
parientes. “Are you sure? Rubens and Liliana Parker? They're both here?”

She nodded. In the mirror I saw pity flash across her face.

“
No! You're monsters!
Monsters
! I hate you all!” B tried to shush me, and I lunged at her. I didn't need her pity, her superficial concern. She was like the priests who read the last rites to a prisoner on death row; she was only here to make sure I died without a fuss.

It was futile struggle on my part. All I achieved was alienating the one person who had treated me even remotely decently, and a sharp jab from the guard, who had rushed in at the first sign of trouble. I was half-dragged, half-carried back from the showers. He pitched me into my cell like a bowling ball. I ran to the door, rattling the bars until my arms were sore, screaming until my voice was hoarse. When I ran out of energy, I let my head fall forward, until my face was pressed against the bars. The rush of AC was like ice against my tear-streaked skin.

“
They got your parents,” a familiar voice behind me commented.

My hands tightened around the rods. “You shut up.”

I heard the cot creak. Michael was sitting up now. His hair was wet, as mine was, and I guessed he had received a new pair of sweatpants as well. The guards had made certain improvements: both his hands were now cuffed together behind his back and there was a cut on his cheek, bleeding freely, which hadn't been there before.

“
I had a little altercation with the guards.”

“
What did you do?”

“
They underestimated me. I doubt it will happen again.”

I turned back around and stared into the hallway. There were four guards now. One of them was staring directly at me.

“
Christina? Come here.”

“
What do you want?”

“
Come
here
.”

“
You can't make me. You don't even have the use of your hands.”

Michael smiled. It was not a nice smile. “A minor setback. Come here.”

Oh,
fine
. I closed the distance and said, “What?”

“
I need you to get something sharp. A paperclip or a nail or…” He snapped his fingers. “A hairpin. B should be able to give you one.”

A hair pin?
“Why?” Oh. I got it. He wanted me to unlock his handcuffs. He was still trying to escape. Still trying to get his stupid revenge, even at my expense. I was nothing more than a tool to him. “Great idea,” I hissed. “Why don't I just ask them for a key, as well as a pardon?”

“
Now, now. Seducing your guards is exactly what got you here in the first place, darlin.”

I turned away from him. “Fuck you, then.” I'd just lost my parents to the IMA. I was never going to turn twenty-one. I felt emptier than I ever had in my whole entire life, which was about to end. All of my dreams, my hopes — shot down prematurely. I was really tired of being written off as collateral damage. “I hope you rot.”

“
You aren't doing your parents any favors by remaining locked up.”

“
Do
not
talk to me about my parents,” I hissed.

“
You need me.”

“
Stop
saying
that.”

“
Remember it, and I won't have to remind you. You know nothing about this business or this complex. Even if you somehow managed to escape, you wouldn't get far before you were apprehended by a guard and killed.” His words cut into me like lances. “You're here precisely because of that naivete and inexperience.”

“
No,” I said. “I am here because of
you
.”

Michael:

That had not gone well.

I cursed myself and my temper. Attacking the guard hadn't been wise, but I was pissed and they'd given me the opportunity. By now, word had spread amongst the guards in Node Six that the ex-IMA prisoner wasn't as incapacitated as he looked at a glance. They would be doubly cautious now.

I watched Christina sit in her corner. If only Richardson hadn't opened his trap about the effects of the goddamn Rohypnol. I should have known that my rant would anger him, that he would seize any opportunity to put me in my place. I wasn't going to let him do that. Was
she
?

She hadn't let that stop her when
I
was holding her captive.

I wondered if she ever stepped out of that fucking fantasy land of hers long enough to realize how much danger she was in. Her reaction was typical of delusional people forced to confront their denial. They give up in an attempt to convince themselves they don't care what's happening. Some might call that “acceptance.” I call it sticking your head in the fucking sand like an ostrich.

“
So that's it? You're just going to give up.”

“
So?”

“
So nothing. It's your life.”

She shook her head. I caught the strong, fruity scent of whatever she'd washed her hair with. “Not anymore. How long…do we have?””

Her voice was hard. Superficially so. She wanted to trust me, in spite of her misgivings.