Cloak and Dagger (The IMA Book 1) (5 page)

Please, God, let me get out of this and I swear, I'll start going to church again
.
I'll lose the twenty pounds my mother keep insisting on
.
Just don't let him hurt me
.
Please
, please,
don't let him hurt me
.

I jumped, unable to hold in the cry that escaped my lips as my phone exploded into dozens of twisted metal shards that pelted against my leggings like shrapnel from a fallout, creating a stinging sensation I experienced through rubber skin.

“
I don't miss twice.” The small fragments crunched beneath his shoes as he shifted his weight. “Are you alone?”

             
I nodded my head, feeling as if I had signed my own death warrant. Perhaps I had.

“
Good.” There was a hot stinging pain, a flash of light, and then I blacked out.

Michael:

I caught her as she slumped forward, set the gun down on the floor, and pulled a silk, paisley tie out of my trouser pockets to bind her wrists behind her back. Then I adjusted the complimentary eye mask I'd received from the airline over her face. A thorough search of her school bag yielded nothing dangerous, though I removed the Spanish book. She wouldn't be needing it, in any case. Not where she was going.

The girl groaned. I eyed her, waiting for any sudden movements or surprise attacks. Nothing. She was out. I watched her a few minutes longer before turning to her dresser. It was littered with pictures and expensive baubles. Her family was well-off.
Too
well-off, even if her mother was a designer. I filed that away. Richardson would be interested to hear that, I imagined. I stuffed more clothing into her bag. Slung it over my shoulder. The girl was too heavy to carry with the bag; I settled for dragging her down the stairs.

Rubens Parker had a nice house. Low-key, with tasteful furnishings. He had done away with several thousand dollars, stealing from various companies by means of a special virus that deducted small increments of money from the payroll. The increments were small, mere fractions of a penny, but the totals added up over time. Fortunately, the IMA did all their transactions with cash, so this was not a problem for us. His hubris, however, was.

In the living room I opened my briefcase, revealing a small metal box with a black display panel. When I pressed a small button a series of digits appeared in red with a beep. I pressed the button again and the numbers began to count down from 15:00. Someone would hear the explosion. One of the neighbors probably had the number to the Parkers' hotel. When their daughter failed to show up for school on Monday they would think the girl had died in the blast. When they found out she was alive, in our possession, we would undoubtedly have their full cooperation. How much would they be willing to pay to save their lovely daughter?

Information was valuable. So was a child's life.

I hoisted the girl into the backseat of the company-issued black sedan. I had prepared for the occasion: I had jammed the locking mechanisms on each of the passenger doors and replaced all the windows with bulletproof glass. Not that I expected gunfire but one could never be too careful, and I didn't want her getting hold of a blunt object and smashing her way to freedom. There was a nasty bump forming where I'd pistol-whipped her but otherwise she was in perfect condition. Richardson wouldn't have my ass over one measly bruise; I'd gotten his quarry.

I pulled out my phone.
Subject acquired
.
Proceeding to step 2
.

When I was sure the message had been sent, and received the answering message —
Proceed —
I dropped the phone on the ground. Got into the car. Backed up. Made sure to crush the phone beneath the wheels. Another pained sound came from the backseat. I didn't envy the headache she was going to have when she regained consciousness. Or her thirst.

I bought a red sports drink at a gas station mart, which I paid for in cash. In the parking lot, I freed a white packet from my jeans. The packet contained a white powder, which I shook into her drink to keep it from settling. To my satisfaction, the opaque red liquid was viscous enough that it concealed the remnants of any powder that hadn't dissolved.

Perfect.

Twelve minutes later, I heard the scream of sirens in the distance. But try as they might, the only evidence the police would turn up was rubble and the crushed remains of a black cell phone.

Christina:

I woke up paralyzed. Had I gotten all tangled up in my sheets again? Then a violent burst of pain exploded from just beneath my ear and it all came flooding back — the strange man — the gun — my phone being blown apart. Over the sound of my racing heart I could make out the faint but unmistakable purr of a car's engine and somebody else's breathing. I thought I had a pretty good idea who that somebody else was.

An odd noise left my mouth as I twisted around, trying to free myself, trying to find out why I couldn't see. “Who's there?” I cried. “Where am I? What did you
do
to me?”

“
There's no need for you to see where we're going.”

The sound of that familiar voice made me jerk in place; it was the voice of the man who had held me at gunpoint in my bedroom and then knocked me unconscious. He was no longer speaking in a whisper, but it was definitely the same man. The implication of his words took a moment to sink in. “What do you mean? Where are you taking me?”

No response.

Why
was
I being kidnapped? My family wasn't powerful, or interesting. My father spent all day in front of computers deciphering, writing, and rearranging code. We had our flaws but we were good people, for the most part. There were no skeletons in our closets. I couldn't figure out what I had done to draw this dark man into my life, but his silence allowed me to jump to my own terrifying conclusions.

I'm not sure how long we drove before he stopped — it could have been hours, minutes. With the blindfold, I had no way of telling what time of day
it was. I heard the car door slam and then my door opened. Something hard and plastic touched my lips. I jerked my head back, causing warm liquid to soak into the front of my dress. “What
is
that?”

“
Gatorade. Drink it.” His voice was hard and brooked no argument. I thought he might have a faint accent but if he did, he hid it well. That could be useful, if I got away.

That seemed like a pretty big if.

“
I'm not thirsty.”

“
You'll be anything I damn well say you are.” He pinched my nose until I was forced to open my mouth to breathe and poured in the drink. I gagged the cloyingly sweet liquid down. It certainly
tasted
like Gatorade but what if it was poisoned? Why would he go through the whole process of kidnapping me just to kill me?

“
It isn't poisoned. One more sip.”

I spat out the drink in the direction his voice had come from, hoping it would hit his face. He squeezed my jaw. His fingers were gloveless now, and the intimate contact filled me with disgust. “Now you listen to me. I don't think you know who you're dealing with.”

I said a rude phrase to him in Spanish involving his mother and a goat. Pain flared up my cheek. “One of my men is stationed right outside your parents' hotel. He's waiting in a black sedan, wearing a Hawaiian shirt, sharpening a knife. All I have to do is give the word and you'll be an orphan.”

I forgot how to breathe. “You're a monster.” His hand left my face. I heard the unmistakable sound of someone punching in a phone number. My heart stuttered. “No — stop! Don't hurt them!” My captor said nothing but, to my relief, he had ceased dialing. “I'll drink it…” I said. “Please…don't…”

The Gatorade was warm, as if he'd kept it in the car all day, and tasted of generic fruit. I swallowed it all with a grimace and the door slammed again. I felt the car shift from his weight as he got back behind the wheel.
This
was the man in charge of my fate. I couldn't remember ever feeling this scared and helpless. “Why are you doing this to me?” I said in a small voice. I don't think he heard me. Even if he had, he might not answer. He'd made it pretty clear how much — how little, I should say — he valued my input.

Time marched on. The steady rumble of the car's engine made me want to go to sleep. I closed my eyes, feeling the darkness around me grow even darker. The forced “nap” had left me feeling even weaker and less rested than before. I was so tired…like I might just drift away. How could I even sleep at a time like this, with so much adrenaline in my system?

Oh no
.

My eyes snapped open. “What was in the Gatorade?”

He didn't respond. A tight feeling formed in my stomach. No way he didn't hear me this time. What was happening to me was his doing — because he'd do
something
if it wasn't. Right? Maybe not. He was inhuman. He had to be. Nobody alive could possibly be this cold.

“
What
was
in
the
Gatorade
?”

“
If I wanted to kill you, you'd already be dead, darlin.”

Darling?

Whatever he had put in it was potent because I could feel the need for rest overwhelming me, as if my whole body was fatigued. The roar of the car grew fainter and fainter, until, at last, it disappeared, and sleep swallowed me up like a black hole.

Chapter Four

Deal

I stared ahead, on the cusp of consciousness, wondering why my head felt like a detonated bomb, and why my mouth tasted like cotton. The last I could remember, that nameless, faceless man threatened me and my parents, and then forced me to drink a sports drink that I hadn't even wanted….

I breathed through my nose, struggling to remain calm. Drugged Gatorade. He had drugged the Gatorade, which I had been foolish enough to drink. And now…I was here, alone, in a darkened room that smelled like old garbage. At least he'd removed the blindfold. I twisted around in an effort to see my surroundings and nearly blacked out again. The throbbing behind my temples and eyes increased sevenfold. It was as excruciating as if someone were having at my brain with a rusty bone-saw. Whether this was due to injury or an aftereffect of the drug, I couldn't say. Slowly,
carefully
, I rotated my head until I could see behind me.

The only light came from a dirt-smeared window situated about six feet above the concrete floor. I was in some kind of alcove, and the light didn't reach me. My half of the room was in shadow. The walls hadn't been filled in with plaster, exposing a labyrinthine network of wooden framing, pipes, and fiberglass that reminded me of the boiler room in the
Nightmare on Elm Street
movie. My right wrist was handcuffed to one of the pipes. A dull ache in my shoulder suggested I had been in this position for some time.

Tears formed in my eyes. I felt them course down my cheeks and spatter my thigh through the leggings. I was being held captive by a man who didn't seem to care whether I lived or died. My head hurt. I thought I might throw up. I wanted to
go home
. “I want to go home,” I said aloud, and I flinched at the sound of my own voice. I couldn't give into this panic.

Or I'd die.

A door opened, spilling a yellow rectangle of light over me. I shrank back against the wall, wishing I had the power to melt through it, and squeezed my watering eyes shut against the brightness. Footsteps were approaching, halting a few feet away. A shadow blocked out some of the light, and something hit the floor with a slap that made me jump. “I know you're awake.”

Did he have cameras down here to watch me in my misery?

I cracked open an eye. By this point, most of the pain had subsided. I could make out his worn, black boots. My eyes moved upwards, taking in a body that was both powerful and intimidating. The thick black jacket he had been wearing earlier was gone, and so was the gun. He was wearing a white undershirt, yellowed in some places from sweat, and stonewashed jeans. He had no tattoos, no piercings, no distinguishing markings of any kind — except the mask. It covered the top half of his face, leaving only his mouth visible.

He was still looking at me. I lowered my eyes, studying what he had dropped at my feet. A manila envelope. The instructors at Holy Trinity used similar ones to store the attendance roster.
I doubt he's here because he wants to take roll
.

“
Please. Where am I?”

Instead of answering, he dropped to his knees and opened the envelope. A permanent marker and a switchblade clattered to the floor.
A knife? He brought a knife? Is he going to kill me?

Maybe he was just hoping to intimidate me. It was working. I winced at the painful dryness of my throat. At this point, I'd gladly take some Gatorade — drugged, or no.

“
What are you going to do to me?”

“
That depends entirely on you…and your parents.”

“
My parents? What do they have to do with this?”

“
Everything.” His voice was cold.

“
I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“
Really.” I could see him stacking what he knew against what he could tell me. “Let's start small.” He dropped to one knee, so our faces were level. “What do your parents do for a living?”

His shoulders were quite broad and I could see the contours of his washboard abs beneath his grungy shirt. The man was fit — no, more than fit. Fit meant working out at the gym. He had a body adapted for thug work. So what was he? A government agent? A mafioso? A terrorist?

“
Well?”

I still hadn't answered his question.

“
My mother designs clothes,” I snapped, because I had a feeling he knew this already. “And my dad has a cubicle job — he's nobody you know.”

He hit me. The blow was open-handed, but it
stung
.

“
Don't get cute with me.”

“
You hit me.”

His face said he'd do it again. “Why did your parents jump on an international flight? Where did they go?”

I pressed my hand to my cheek. “What international flight?” I couldn't believe he hit me.

I hadn't forgotten about the gun — but guns were impersonal. An intermediary. It took a different kind of mentality to use your bare hands to hurt someone. One that might be worse.

“
Our last record of them shows them leaving a plane in a Canadian airport.”

“
I don't know anything about that! I thought they were in Hawaii — that's what
you
said!”

We glared at each other — him, furious and impatient; me, scared and defiant, with a growing sense of panic. The slap had knocked more than just pain into me.
Did he lie?

“
They must have been expecting an attack.” Him speaking softly was scarier than him yelling. “Perhaps somebody told them we were coming. One of your neighbors. Or a friend with connections. It's the perfect cover. Plan a vacation. Change of plans at the last minute. And yet…one thread hangs loose. They leave you behind.”

“
Are you implying my parents used me as
bait
?”

“
It
would
look suspicious, wouldn't it, pulling their daughter out of school? No, they had to leave you behind to maintain some semblance of normalcy. But they released the maid, the gardener…everyone but you. I don't need to imply anything, darlin. The message is loud and clear. They screwed you over; they threw you to the fucking wolves.”

I pulled away from him. “Stop it! You're lying!”

He said nothing. He didn't need to; he'd already planted the seed of doubt. He just needed to be patient, let it take root.

“
You're wrong,” I said. “You have no idea what you're talking about. You don't even know them, you don't know what they're
like —
”

“
I've seen their kind a thousand times before.”

“
But — ”

“
On
both
ends of the deal,” he added.

No. My mother and father would never do anything like that. He was just trying to put distance between us so I would be willing to betray them. Yes, that sounded about right. Well, it wasn't going to work. I wouldn't let him manipulate me.

“
I've seen your kind before, too, Christina. You look like a good girl. Smart. I bet you follow all the rules. Well, follow mine and you'll be just…fine.”

“
Why do you need me? I thought you had a man outside their hotel.” He shot me an impassive look. So he
had
lied. It was so obvious now. If he knew where they were, he would be there instead of here. My God, I was such an idiot. “I don't know where they are.”

He regarded me through the holes in the mask. His eyes were green — acid green. Caustic. “I think you know more than you're letting on. And I suggest” — he grabbed my face, digging his fingers into the hollows of my jaw — “I
suggest
you cooperate.”

“
I told you I don't know where they are!” I tried to pull away. “Let go!”

“
If you think being out of the country makes your parents safe, you're wrong. My organization does not have a specific jurisdiction. Your parents will not escape — and you are not doing yourself any favors by protecting them.” He shoved me away.

Fresh tears burst from my eyes. My shoulder was on fire. “Why should I help you?”

“
Because I will hurt you if you don't.”

God help me, I believed him.

“
I don't know where they are. I'm telling the truth. I can't help you — I
can't
!”

“
That's where you're wrong.”

“
But I ju — ”

“
Do you know what a bargaining chip is?”

“
What? No. No, no,
no
. My father would never negotiate with a killer. Never.”

He picked up the knife, twirling it in his hand. The blade snapped out at me with a
click
. “Not even if his daughter's life was on the line?” I felt the flat side of the blade beneath my ear, raising a line of buckled skin. But not cutting.

Not yet.

“
His very naïve, very
expendable
daughter's life?”

I tried to plead, to beg him not to hurt me, but the words lodged in my throat like barbed wire.

“
I think he would, darlin.”

He was right. I couldn't believe I had been so
stupid
. I pressed my lips tighter, trying not to tremble when his gloved hand dragged through my hair, pulling it free from the messy bun. My hair tumbled to my shoulders. He held up a strand in his fingers, examining it in the light.

“
W-what are you doing?”

“
Pretty color,” he remarked. “Distinctive.” Before I could blink he had hacked off three inches and slipped it into the empty baggie that had previously contained the knife.

Evidence
. I thought desperately. “They might not believe it's mine.”

He picked up the sharpie and began writing on the envelope. “I also have photographs.”

Fumes from the marker filled the air, making my eyes sting. “I don't believe you.”

He produced a crumpled sheet of paper and wrote on that as well.
Is that my ransom note?
My gut twisted around as I watched the letters span across the page. Did he really have photographs? When had he taken them? I hadn't seen a camera.

“
What if you can't find my parents? What if they get away from you and your men?”

He didn't look up. “I have never failed before.”

“
But if
they
do?”

He lifted his eyes from what he was writing and looked at me.

Then he left the room.

Michael:

Foolish girl, with her foolish questions. Did she have a death wish?

A red Toyota was stalling out front. Standing in front of the truck was a man dressed like a hiker. Faded jeans. Button-down shirt. Canvas backpack. But he wasn't a hiker, and I would have bet money that he was carrying at least two concealds. If not more.

“
Hey
. Nice mask.”

He was also a smart-ass.

I held out the envelope. He turned it over in his bare hands, like a child with a fucking present on Christmas Eve. Jesus. He wasn't even wearing
gloves
. “You're gonna get that dirty.”

He held out his clean hands with an affronted look.

For fuck's sake. “Fingerprints.”

His face went red. Apparently he hadn't taken this into account. He slammed his backpack on the hood of the car and tugged out a pair of worn leather gloves. “See any quail?”

A message had just been sent to my cell with a series of phrases I had committed to memory before destroying the phone. He was asking,
Did you get the information we needed?
Communications always managed to come up with some cute little theme for their codes. This time around it was “nature.” It should have been “I need to get fucking laid.”

I glanced at the safe house. “No. I'll find some soon. I've been looking hard.”

Torture wasn't my style. It was messy, and captives would blurt out any information they thought their interrogators wanted to hear, whether or not it was true. After two hours with Callaghan, a man might recall crimes that he never committed. I preferred a combination of scare tactics and mild physical assault. I tended to get better results with the
threat
of torture rather than the actual act itself.

The girl would be a difficult case. Not because I didn't think I could break her — I could, easily — but because she had to remain functional after I did it. When I took her to base, she would be evaluated by one of our psychologists to see if she was in a mental state where she could answer questions rationally. As frustrating as it was to proceed at this grueling pace, I had to respect the orders of my superiors. Even if I disagreed with them.