Cloak and Dagger (The IMA Book 1) (27 page)

A hand circled my wrist, tangible and much too tight. Somehow I was on my feet, running, with a hot, dry heat pressing in on all directions. I quickly realized we were
not
in Hell, though we might as well have been. Node Five was a raging inferno and the fire was spreading rapidly, bridging across the dried palm leaves on the ground, already cresting towards Node Six as I watched.

“
I'm alive,” I said, and this surprised me. I could still feel the phantom barrel pressing against my chest, digging into my heart. Just thinking about that made me feel cold all over. I had seriously believed he was going to kill me. Maybe he had been. Nobody could sound that cold and detached on command, right? Not unless they meant it. And what about those two gunshots?

“
Neither of us will be alive for very long unless you
move
. Faster.”

He didn't need to tell me twice.

“
How…?” I croaked. Smoke stung my eyes, burned my nostrils. I was having trouble breathing, even though we both ran with ducked heads. The sour taste of it clotted my throat.

“
Mine launcher. They weren't expecting that. Probably too busy gloating over my bad aim.”

“
But…I heard gunshots.”

“
Gun
shot
. Just one, at the smoke balls, to buy us time. I didn't pull a gun on you.”

“
There were definitely two,” I said, “One right after the other.”

He cut me off with a sharp jerk. “Then you imagined it. You blacked out there, for a moment. Probably heard the same shot twice. Come on.” We were running towards the beach. I could tell by the smell of salt, which grew overwhelming as earth yielded to mud and then wood. We were on the dock, which was slicked with water that had been sluiced across the splintered slats by rough winds. “Get on that boat.”

That boat
was bigger than a motor boat, and conspicuous. Not just because of the color, which was jet black, but because of the size. It looked expensive, too. Did he think the IMA wouldn't notice if we took it out for a joy ride?

“
Don't stare at me,” he said. “Get on the boat.”

Reluctantly, I stretched out a leg to make a short jump. I collapsed the moment my feet hit the deck. My legs simply ceased functioning and gave out from under my weight. After running for so long, on so little, getting up was out of the question.

I could hear Michael hot-wiring the engine, cursing with every mistake, knowing each second of delay was a second closer to being captured by the guards. This time, there would be no mercy. I was pretty sure they would just shoot both of us on sight.

And then the motor revved to life and I was sinking into an oblivion of nothingness.

Michael:

I steered for about an hour and a half before I felt comfortable enough to set the boat on cruise control. I had to make sure I wasn't sending us into circles. It was difficult enough to steer in the open ocean and I didn't have time to search for a compass.

I stretched, causing my stiff and tired muscles to groan in protest, and saw Christina passed out on the deck. Her face looked troubled, even in sleep, and I found myself recalling — as if against my will — the expression on her face when I turned the gun on her. That look of betrayal.

I stared at the thousands of miles of flat Pacific Ocean that awaited me. Exhaustion was setting in as all of the functions that had been shunted off to one side suddenly clamored for my attention. The slate gray water was already starting to blur before my eyes. Whether I wanted to or not, I was going to have to stop somewhere — and soon.

And risk drifting ashore on Target Island?

I slapped myself. All that smoke wouldn't go unnoticed, even in such a remote location. Some plane would eventually fly over the area, see the smoke, and phone in the Coast Guard. I didn't want to be anywhere near Target Island when that happened.
Stay awake, couillon
.

I scooped the girl up from where she'd passed out and set her down on a cot below deck. It was a risk leaving the boat on cruise control unattended — we might hit a rock — but I didn't want any surprises when the girl regained consciousness. When I returned to my seat, a weight lifted from my chest at her absence.

The radio, which had emitted nothing but white noise since I'd turned it on, suddenly crackled to life in a burst of static. I jerked upright in my seat. Glanced at the radio, surprised, then wary. For several more seconds, there was just more static and indecipherable background noise. Then I heard a voice say, quite clearly, “Hello, Michael.”

I froze. What did Callaghan want? How did he know I was here?

He's bluffing
.

“
Don't bother pretending you're not there. All the boats are fitted with GPS navigators. Or did you forget?”

I ducked under the seat and saw, to my disgust, the small, blinking chip. Mocking me. I got to my feet, looked around. Spotted the propeller wrench hanging on the back wall where it would be in easy reach for repairs and set about prying the chip free. It didn't work well — the wrench was too blunt.

Come on
.

I clenched my teeth and pulled — hard. The locator chip fell to the ground. I pitched it into the water with a splash.

“
Oh,” Callaghan taunted, “Destroying the chip won't help you. I already know where you are.”

“
What the fuck do you want?” I demanded, nearly ripping the speaker off the cord.

“
Temper, temper.”

“
Don't you fucking tell me — ” I drew in a deep breath, counted to five. “Put Richardson on.”

“
I'm afraid I can't do that.”

“
Why
not
?”

“
He's dead.”

“
What?”

“
Dead, Michael. Worm fodder. Which would make the new head of the IMA…me. What an amazing coincidence, wouldn't you say?”

My fingers tightened on the receiver. Callaghan could be lying. He'd always been a liar, and a convincing one, at that, but I doubted whether even Adrian could sound so smug — unless this was true. I steeled myself for the worst. “How did that happen?”

“
Easily. He was far too busy staying two steps ahead of you that he never once thought of looking behind him. Where I was waiting. I'm a patient man, Michael. I can wait a long time. I have to say, it was pathetic how quickly he turned against you. Noble Michael. Patron saint of chivalry. What was it you said to the girl? Problem with being a saint is that you have to die first?”

I growled.

“
Richardson never did care for that temper of yours, though. And you were young, strong, uppity. He was terrified of rebellion and you were the prime candidate.”

“
Obviously, I wasn't.”

Adrian chuckled. “Quite.”

I recalled Christina telling me that she had heard two gunshots. At the time, it hadn't made sense. But now I remembered Adrian taking the guard's gun after I'd thrown it aside…I had never gotten it back. I'd used a different gun to set off the smoke, which I'd stolen from one of the guards felled in one of the blasts. Which led to one undeniable conclusion. “You shot him.”

“
Of course. You made it easy for me with your little fireworks display. Nobody heard a thing.”

“
And A?”

“
Also dead,” he said lazily.

“
What do you want?” I repeated, taking the boat off cruise control and picking up speed. “You could have sent a chopper by now, if you really wanted to detain us.”

“
Us?” Callaghan laughed again, and I realized my mistake. “The girl's with you? I wondered where she went. Don't worry. I'm far,
far
too busy to bother hunting you down. Right now.”

“
I don't understand.” But I thought I might. I was hoping I was wrong through.

“
Michael, Michael. Richardson said it himself — he had yet to see your equal on the training field. Killing you would hardly benefit my purpose. I want to the rebuild the IMA, not tear it apart. You were an integral part. Killing you would be like destroying the keystone of a bridge.”

“
You enjoy destroying things.”

“
Not always. Sometimes, I also like to create.”

Chaos, maybe
. “Your seizing power is going to start a full-fledged war. The IMA will fall apart from the inside and then you'll have pure anarchy. It's going to be a fucking mob.”

“
Let me worry about that,” he said sharply. “Regain your strength, Michael. Play with your pretty hostage. Just stay out of my way.”

“
You wanted that,” I said, pressing my face into my gloved hand. “All that power.” Richardson was but, but Callaghan was infinitely worse. “You
wanted
a mob.”

“
We were already criminal. By gradually infiltrating various civil offices, we can also gain power and extend our influence at a fantastic rate. Richardson was not the man for that job — he wanted to keep the organization small because he felt discomfited by the idea of such a large organization. Wanted to keep his contacts close and small, like an Old Boys' Club. The fool. He was holding us back, costing us valuable funds, which was precisely why he had to die. Because he was so pathetically weak.

“
You don't care about money,” I heard myself saying.

“
No,” Callaghan conceded. “I don't…but the operatives do. Let's be honest, Michael; they may not like me, but if I keep them satisfied, they'll do anything I say. Anything. I can be
very
persuasive.”

I frowned. Was that a thinly-veiled threat, or was the bastard gloating? Knowing Callaghan, it could be either — or both. I was quiet for a long time. Finally, I said, “Why are you telling me this?”

“
I'd hoped that, one day, I might persuade you to join me.”

I snorted. “Play Godfather all you want. I'm not joining. Fuck you.”

“
Oh, no, I don't think so,” he said amiably. “But young Christina Parker on the other hand…. She
is
a pretty thing, isn't she? I might take her for myself. I could even call her C.” He paused. “So quiet, Michael. Don't tell me that I've gotten to you already? I have, haven't I? Ha. You're still the same rag-tag ruffian you were seven years ago. The only thing that's changed is your French patois.”

I swore. The bastard laughed.

“
Same old temper, though. Consider my offer, Michael, or I'll consider the girl.
Slán
.”

The radio went dead in my hands.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Friction

Michael:

Life on the streets had doled out a healthy sense of reality to me. Fear was one of the first emotions I'd ever learned. Working for the IMA only served to reinforce that crucial guiding principle: kill, or be killed. Fear supported this principle, it kept me alert.

Terror, on the other hand, was new. Terror could get me killed.

The boat was low on fuel. I drove the boat inland until I reached a small port town. There were no signs that I could see. We could have been anywhere. I wasn't sure if we had even left Mexico, yet, though from the look of the locals, I suspected we had.

A new problem occurred to me: I had no shirt, no shoes, and no money.

I went below deck to see if I could salvage anything. The girl was still asleep. Her chest rose and fell in concert with each inhalation and the troubled expression had left her face. She looked peaceful. I remembered Callaghan's threat; it made me wonder how peaceful she'd look if she knew what that bastard had planned for her.

No. I wouldn't think about Christina. I'd come down here to search for clothes and money. There had to be some around here. Field agents got roughed up — it was part of the job.

I found a pair of boat shoes more or less in my size lodged behind some life preservers in the supply closet along with a number of dried goods, bottled waters, and two emergency flares.
Good to know, but not particularly helpful at the moment
. I slipped on the shoes, hoping I could find some petty cash to buy fresh food. The dry stuff would come in handy in case we encountered a real emergency.

Since the Phantoms were used by field agents, they were well-equipped for a myriad of situations. They should also contain an emergency supply of international money from countries like Europe, Canada, Mexico, and the United Kingdom. Hopefully it hadn't been depleted by the last operative using it.

Sure enough, there was a small fire safe in the back of the closet. I found the key hidden under the driver's seat. Some of the money was missing, but there was still plenty. I emptied the safe of all the U.S. dollars, stuffing the bills into the pockets of my sweatpants.

There was a small retail store within walking distance. Racks of cheap swimwear and Hawaiian shirts were being sold outside. It was off-season for beachwear so they weren't getting much foot-traffic. I glanced around out of habit and caught a couple people looking my way. Since that was probably because I looked like a vagrant, I decided not to be concerned. Ignoring the stares but still on guard, I selected a couple shirts and pants that would allow me to move around freely in case Callaghan decided to be a bastard and send a couple of his goons out to cause me strife. At this point, I wasn't ruling that out as a possibility. The man wanted to see me burn.

Regain your strength, Michael
.
Play with your pretty hostage
.
Just stay out of my way
.

He'd been quick enough to frame me and even quicker to get me out of the picture. What was he hoping to gain by keeping me around?

I turned back to the clearance racks and got some jeans in the girl's size, as well as a number of tops in neutral colors like gray and black. I intended to stay out of public places as much as possible but we would have to make runs for fuel and food. I did not want to stand out. Callaghan was no fool. Sooner or later he would send spies. Probably sooner.

“
Can I wear this out of the store?” I held up one of the gray shirts.

The cashier was a woman, with eyebrows so thin they looked drawn on. She arched one: a reddish-brown too dark to match her blonde hair. “Certainly. Let me just remove the tags for you.”

“
Thanks.” I pulled it on while she rang up the rest of my purchases.

“
For your girlfriend?” she asked casually, glancing at the lingerie.

“
Not exactly,” I muttered.

“
Oh?”

Something in her voice made me look at her twice. She wasn't as old as I'd initially thought, because of all that makeup. Rather than the late thirties I'd estimated, she was a great deal younger. Late- to mid-twenties, maybe. Blonde. Thin. The type of woman I always went home with. My libido stirred. I knew, without a doubt, this woman would come with me if I gave the word. She wouldn't flinch if I came near. She wouldn't cry if I propositioned her. If the overt way she was sizing me up was any indication, I could probably even get her to do me in one of the changing rooms.
Probably a scratcher, too
, I thought, staring at her red nails. I'm not sure what it is about red nail polish.

“
I love your accent,” she purred. “Are you a Southern boy?”

“
Louisiana. Yes.”

She tapped her nails on the counter,
click, click, click
, as she waited for the receipt to print out. Smiling at me, she said, in a meaningful voice, “Is there anything I can do for you? Anything at all?”

Images immediately popped into my head of all the things she could do for me. I knew I had to get away, quickly, because I was deprived enough to take her up on it. “No, thanks, keep the change.”

I didn't want to think about what would happen if my fingers brushed against hers. I knew what would happen. It'd happened a hundred times before, always ending in the same way. Waking up with a woman in my bed who I'd slept with but had no real interest in as a person. The joke was always on me, because they never looked as good in the morning as they had the night before with alcohol in me and makeup on them. And even though they always came across as tough as nails in the bedroom, scratching and biting, they always cried when I made them leave.

They wanted to change me. They didn't seem to realize that I couldn't be change. Or I'd thought I couldn't. I'd never turned down a free fuck before. Forcing a smile, I left the store with my blood pounding in my temples and the cashier's disbelieving eyes boring into my back. Wondering what was wrong with me. That was the million dollar question, wasn't it? I didn't know what was wrong with myself. I'd spent so many years looking at a stranger in the mirror that I didn't recognize who I was anymore. And now, for the first time, the image was starting to clear. Surprise, surprise — I didn't like what I saw.

Christina:

I sat up, shielding my eyes from the light. I half-expected to see the iron bars or the blank, white walls from the containment cell. Instead I saw glorious sunshine flooding in through the open window. I was free — free from the IMA. Against all odds, I had escaped.

I had the perverse desire to jump up and cheer. Instead I stood up and promptly bumped my head on the low ceiling. “Ow!” I muttered. With a curse, I climbed the small set of stairs leading up to the deck. A rush of ocean air assailed me. I blinked at the pungent saltiness of it.

Michael was driving, his back towards me, wearing jeans and a fitted gray shirt I couldn't remember seeing before. I sat down in the seat beside him and said, “Hey.”

“
You're awake.”

“
Barely. I was beginning to think I'd never be able to get up again.” I looked around at the endless expanse of ocean. “Where are we?”

“
About twenty miles off the coast of Southern California.” He tossed a carton at me. “Eat.”

It was a sandwich. Egg and cress. Still cold. I didn't hesitate; I hadn't eaten for almost two days. I ripped into the carton and tore at the bread with my teeth, not caring that I probably looked like a wild dog with my matted hair and filthy clothes. I savored each mouthful, pausing only long enough between gulps to ask, “Where did you get this?”

“
I picked up some things. Don't eat so fast, you'll get sick.”

I had to tear myself away from the lovely food again. “When?”

“
About two hours ago.” He paused. “You were asleep.”

Something in his voice — something almost accusatory — put me on edge. I swallowed the final mouthful of sandwich. “Where are we going?”

“
Seattle.”

“
Seattle?”

“
That's what I said.”

“
Seattle,
Washington
?”

He didn't bother to respond. Just looked at me in that unnerving way of his. “Get dressed,” he said at last, turning back towards the ocean. “You're a mess.”

I looked down at my once-white shirt, now ripped and stained and smeared with dirt and blood. “Are there clothes on the boat?”

“
There are now.”

“
Wow…thanks.”

He turned away. “Don't thank me.”

“
The sheets — ”

“
I'll rinse them all in salt water. The clothes are already clean. I went to a laundromat.”

Giving him a look — wasn't he just Miss Suzy Homemaker all of a sudden — I went back down below deck and saw a bag bearing the logo of a fairly prominent store. I sifted through it, frowning. Two pairs of jeans, one light and one dark. A sweatshirt. A sweater. Some t-shirts. Some tank tops. Flannel pajama pants. No pastels, everything strictly monochrome. Cheerful guy. The bra was, disturbingly, the right size. And the underwear he'd picked out made the heat rush to my face because they were all a bit lacier than the white cotton I'd usually wear.

I got dressed, tugging on the jeans — Jesus, I couldn't remember the last time I'd been able to squeeze into a size 12. Not since…Freshman year, at least. I picked out the sweater because it was cold on deck and looked decent enough.

When I climbed back up the stairs, Michael had the boat set on cruise control. He was sitting sideways with his legs resting on the seat I'd just vacated. One of his arms was dangling over the back of the chair and he was drinking some orange juice.

“
Why are we going to Seattle?” I asked. “I live in Oregon.”

“
Because I need to locate your cowardly parents.”

He held out the bottle of juice to me, which I refused. I folded my arms over my chest and tried my best to look outraged. “You didn't answer my question.”

“
We can't live on the boat. We have a limited amount of both money and food. Neither you nor I have any form of identification and the IMA is still presumably looking for us.”

“
You blew them up!”

“
Callaghan survived. I'm not sure how. The man is like a fucking cockroach.”

I fell back against the passenger seat. “Oh, God.”

“
I phoned one of my contacts. They're going to meet me in Washington, hook us up, so we're going there. I rented my apartment there under an assumed name that the IMA don't have on file. Callaghan won't find us.”

His apartment? We were going to his apartment?

“
That a problem?” he asked, taking an indolent swig from the juice.

“
No.” I had to force the word out.

“
It's safe, if that's what you're worried about.”
Not with you there, it isn't
. He set the half-empty bottle down. “They don't know about my lease. And it's under an assumed name, as I said. The worst is over. You can relax a bit.”

“
How can you say that with Adrian still alive?” I threw up my arms. “He's twice as dangerous as Mr. Richardson ever was.”

“
Because you can't live on adrenaline twenty-four seven.” His eyes dropped. My shirt had ridden up again. I moved to pull it down and he caught my wrists. I had unconsciously walked closer while shouting at him, bringing me within arm's reach.

“
Let go.”

“
I have news for you, darlin. You're on a boat. In the middle of nowhere.” He gave me a tug so I tumbled into his lap, and promptly leaned over me to cut the engine. “You're not going anywhere.” I could feel his heartbeat — it was pounding, almost as hard as mine.

Something corkscrewed in my chest. He put my hands around his neck. I didn't stop him. He put his hands around my waist. I didn't stop him, either. Gentle, deliberately, he began to caress my skin with small, firm strokes, without looking away. “Ça c'est bon,” he whispered.

“
Was that…French?” I asked desperately.

“
Mm-hmm.” His lips pressed against mine. His mouth tasted like orange juice. One of his hands moved to my hair, tangling in the lank and greasy stands. I stank — we both stank, despite the new clothes — and his hair looked just as unwashed as mine. “Ça c'est
très
bien.” I pulled my hand away from his neck and pushed his face away.

“
I can't — ”

“
Christina — don't do this to me.” From him, it was an order, not a plea.

“
I'm not doing anything to you.”

“
Believe me,
cher
,” he said. “You're doing plenty.” He grabbed my hand, placing it on the inside of his thigh.