Cloak and Dagger (The IMA Book 1) (9 page)

“
You
,” he said.

“
Dismissed,” I said to my men, who left without a word.

It was cold. The garage wasn't heated and it had snowed the night before, leaving the poorly-insulated metal walls chilled. My breath rose into the air in cloudy plumes. I flicked out my knife. “So you're the one who killed the Brownstones.”

I expected denial. He surprised me. “They put a bust on a drug cartel for cocaine in South America. Ruined a big cocaine deal. The economy collapsed. An entire village in Colombia was destroyed in the fallout. Hundreds of people lost their lives. Several more were left to rot in prison.”

“
Spare me the noble bullshit,” I said. “You don't care about any of that.”

“
And you do?” He clung to his bravado like a shield. “I've heard about you, Boutilier. About the sick shit you've done. Sounds like even you could give Callaghan a run for his money.”

He was sweating through that fancy suit of his and his eyes were frightened. But not frightened enough to suggest he actually believed the crap coming out of his mouth. If he did, he wouldn't be insulting me — he'd be pissing himself, begging for mercy that would never arrive.

I did not go out of my way to find people's weaknesses for the sole purpose of exploiting them. If I did, it was out of necessity; it gave me no sexual gratification. “You betrayed us,” I said, reigning in my anger at such fallacious comparisons. “You entered into a contract with the IMA knowing full well what the repercussions would be if that contract was terminated prematurely. You killed three highly respected operatives. I know money changed hands. That's a difficult request. And an expensive one. Not something you'd do for the hell of it.”

“
They were going to get killed anyway. If it wasn't me, it would have been someone else.”

“
And the children? Did they have to die, too?”

“
Yes, they had to die, too,” he said, speaking in a sing-song tone as he threw my own words back at me. “I was ordered to kill everyone in the house, or I wouldn't get paid. Don't tell me you have a soft spot for little brats?”

“
How I feel about this is of little importance. If you don't talk, you will still die.”

“
A quick death is better than what they'll do to me if they find out I betrayed them.”

“
That's where you're wrong.” I revealed the other implements I'd kept hidden in the pockets of my trench coat, letting him have a long, hard look at the steel tools. The crotch of his pants darkened and he began to struggle in earnest as I moved closer. “I don't recall saying I was going to kill you quickly.” My voice was pitched low, but I know he heard me. Everett Blythe was a small man, but in the confines of the garage he screamed loud enough for five.

Christina:

His car pulled up in front of the house early in the evening. I peered through the bars of the window trying to get an idea of the mood he'd be in and gasped aloud at the state of his appearance. Dirtied black boots, jeans, and a trench coat, which he pulled off as I watched, balling it up and locking it in the trunk. When he stepped out of the redwoods' skeletal shadows and into the dying light, I saw that his shirt was smeared with what could only be dried blood.

He looked around to make sure the coast was clear and then he looked up — and saw me. I gasped again, louder this time, and covered my mouth with both hands.
Oh no
. I ducked down and leaned back against the wall beneath the window ledge. If there had been any lingering doubts in my mind about what he was, they were gone.

Murderer
.

I heard him coming up the stairs and stumbled to my feet, wishing I had somewhere to run as the door slammed open. “Spying is never a good idea, darlin. Not with me.”

“
I didn't mean to — I was just — ”

“
What? Enjoying the view?” He peeled off the bloody shirt. I averted my eyes.

“
Murderer
.”

“
What did you think assassins did, you foolish girl?”

I ignored the barb. “Who was it? Who did you kill?”

I could feel him gauging me as he folded his shirt into a neat square, avoiding the bloody spots. “No one you know,” he said at last.

And I was relieved. Somebody had died and I was
relieved
because it hadn't been my parents.

I was a horrible person.

“
Another innocent family?”

“
A traitor.”

My mind spun with all the definitions “traitor” could encompass in this world I could never hope to grasp; this world where the lines between “good” and “evil” were so blurred that it was impossible to see where one started and the other ended.

“
What did you do to them?”

He glanced at me. I took a step backwards, whimpering when he matched me step for step. “Why do you want to know that?” My back hit the wall and he hedged me into the corner, barring my escape with his arms. “You get off on hearing about that kind of shit?”

“
N-n-no…” I tried to meet his eyes but was too scared. He smelled like sweat and blood and musk: a monstrous fuse of man and animal. I stared at my feet. “I-I just — ”

“
It's none of your goddamn business.”

“
Was this because of any information I gave you? Did I help you kill them?”

He paused a long time, then scoffed, “This had nothing to do with you.”

Nothing to do with me
. I repeated those words to myself, like a chant. An absolution.
Not my fault
.

“
The man I killed was directly responsible for the death of a very young family because of a petty grievance he'd nursed for the better part of a decade. He was a drug-dealer and a gangster, descended from a very long line of drug-dealers and gangsters, and he happened to be a particularly nasty and greedy one. Does that make you feel better?” His voice was sarcastic. “Does that make me the hero in your deluded little fantasy world?”

“
No.” I still wouldn't meet his eyes. “I still think you're sick.”

My captor grabbed me, digging his gloved fingers into my cheeks. His
bloody
gloved fingers. “I'm an assassin. I'm whatever the job necessitates.”

I could smell the blood; it smelled like old, dirty pennies. “Then you're a whore.”

“
I'm a mercenary.”

“
What's the difference?” I spat. “You sell your body for money and you have no morals.”

His other hand slammed against the wall, making me jump. His fist left cracks in the plaster. “You're a naïve and foolish child to provoke me.”

“
What do you want from me? My approval? I thought you didn't care what I thought.”

His eyes dropped, briefly, before flickering back to my face. Something changed. I saw him grow colder before my eyes. He laughed and it was joyless: a sharp, brittle sound. A mockery of real laughter. Then the heat of his body vanished, cold air rushing to fill his place. The door slammed. He'd left the room, taking his mangled, bloody shirt with him, leaving his previous insult ringing in my ears. A few minutes later, I heard the shower run.

Chapter Eight

Sabotage

Michael:

The cold water stabbed at my skin like dozens of tiny needles. I braced my arms against the tiled wall, letting the spray run down my back, over my hips, to pool at my feet. When I couldn't stand it anymore I shut off the water, swiping the drips from my face with the heel of my hand. Though my skin now felt shrink-wrapped, the mountain water had done nothing to cool my temper. Just thinking about my charge's attitude made me burn with rage and other, more troubling sensations.

What do you want from me?

Everything.

I wanted everything. And I had been so close to slamming her against the wall and taking it. Tangling my hands in her hair and tasting her. I could still remember the sweetness of her mouth, of the tender, yielding skin of her throat. When she insulted me, she made me feel vindicated; it was a rush — psychological
and
sexual — and I sought it out, provoking her, intimidating her, plunging us both deeper into the vicious cycle. It was unprofessional. I knew I should call the IMA, tell them to have Callaghan take over the case. In one with this uncertain of an outcome, forging relations with the hostage was catastrophic. But I couldn't — the case was
mine
.

She
was mine.

I stepped into my jeans. A black strap over my chest kept my gun holstered to my hip, where it would be in easy reach in a pinch. I adjusted the strap and pulled on my shirt, doing up all but the last three buttons. My knife got tucked into my boot; it was the weapon I resorted to when all else failed. I grabbed my watch and gloves off the counter, forgoing the bulletproof vest for now. It was effective but hampering; the lead lining was heavy.

I dialed Kent's number as I pulled on my gloves, keeping the phone pinned at my shoulder. “It's me.” The leather creaked when I made a fist.

“
Michael? How was Oregon?”

“
A total no-show.” I filled a glass with water. “Both subjects fled the scene.”

“
Parenting's gone downhill since I was a lad,” Kent said dryly.

I shook my head. “What kind of parent in their right mind would leave their daughter with a man like me? She's too sheltered; did they think she could possibly survive?”

Kent — wisely, I thought — affected thoughtful silence.

“
I want your assessment on this case.”

“
By when?”

I unlocked the cupboard and took out a jar of pills. Slipped the key back into my billfold. Shook out the maximum dose and crushed them with the bottom of the water glass, grinding the pills against the counter until they were reduced to a fine powder. “I'm going back to the agency this week. They're expecting a full report. I already submitted the debriefing — now I have to deliver the bad news again. In person.”

“
Hard luck.”

“
Luck is irrelevant.” I scraped the powder into my palm and sprinkled it into the water. Then frowned down at my gloves. The fingers were caked in whitish residue. “I need this done as soon as possible. My charge has healed and the window is about to close.” I wiped my hands on my jeans. “Look, the reason I called is that I need you to come down here tomorrow and help me sort out some of the particulars.”

“…
Particulars?”

“
I think there's a leak — a big one.” I stirred the water with a spoon. “One of the local mountain towns was crawling with cops. I didn't stay long enough to hear who they were looking for, but I suspect it might be yours truly.”

There was another pause, longer than the first. “What do you want me to do about it?”

That was why I liked him — straight and to the point.

“
I have a list people who would stand to benefit from my disappearance. I'd like you to check them out…see what you can dig up.” I dropped the spoon in the sink and covered the water with plastic wrap, securing it with a rubber band. “Something has changed. I don't like it.”

“
You're being very cautious.”

“
With good cause.”

He sighed. “I'll see what I can do.”

“
I appreciate that.” I put the glass in the fridge and leaned against the door. “How much is this going to cost me?”

“
For you, Michael? Five hundred.”

“
Thousand?”

Kent laughed. “Five hundred
dollars
.”

Five  hundred dollars. Most mercenaries would have demanded ten times that amount — at least. An agent as sophisticated and efficient as Kent could easily charge twenty times more than that. I peeled the gloves off my now-sweaty hands and rubbed my eyes. “Quite the bargain.”

“
Hardly. If you die, Old Boy, I lose one of my best customers. This is self-preservation.”

Christina:

At some point the water shut off. The ensuing pause filled the cabin with an imposing silence. I thought he might have left until I heard a door slam downstairs. It sounded like he was still angry. Calling him a whore had been a bad move on my part. I was regretting it more with every passing second.

He slammed around down there for a while and then I heard his footsteps coming back up the stairs. The door swung open: he stood in the doorway, his face devoid of expression. I flicked my eyes over him nervously. In his hands was a glass of water. Without saying a word, he set the glass on the ground. Water dripped from his wet hair with the gesture, soaking into the carpet.

I stared at the water glass, frosted with cold. I had insulted him, made him furious…and he was bringing me ice water? My brain drew the logical conclusion.
Would this man poison me?
Thirsty as I was, I made no move to take it.

“
Have you had enough time to cool down?”

I didn't meet his eyes. “I thought you killed my parents.”

“
I know. And I think you owe me an apology.”

His face was composed, but there was a tightness to his jaw that hadn't been quite so prominent before. “Excuse me?”

“
I have tolerated your childish insults long enough.” His voice was like velvet — velvet that cloaked a poisoned blade. “I have been patient with your stunning lack of respect” — I must have made a noise because he added, viciously — “and I am not a patient man by nature. But my patience, or what's left of it, is wearing thin. You do not appear to grasp the severity of your situation.”

“
No, I don't understand. You think my life needs to be even more miserable?”

“
I think
you
need to learn your place, and quickly. I have held back  before because I was bound by a contract.” He exhaled through his nose, turning his piercing eyes on me. “Now that contract is almost null and void. Professionalism will no longer protect you from harm. This is your final warning. Any more displays of petty defiance, and I'll make you regret it.”

I swallowed — hard.

“
Now…” He folded his arms. “Don't you have something to say to me?”

I met his green eyes with poise and trembled at what I saw. His face was ashen with fury; he looked inhuman. My composure was fracturing. At any second, I would fly apart.

I spat an apology at him, wishing it was grit and broken glass instead. Which probably would have satisfied him, except I added, “Did I hurt your feelings, you bastard?”

He gave me a rough shove that sent me sprawling forward, so I was nose-to-nose with the carpet. Something sharp dug into my throat. “Your parents have fled, leaving you with little value. My boss no longer cares what happens to you. I don't think you get what that means. I can do anything I want to you, and nobody will care.”

The world seemed to halt. I could feel was his breath on my neck.

He gave me another rough shove. I turned around in time to see him sheathe the knife. “I suggest you exercise more caution when speaking to me.” The door slammed closed. I heard the lock click. Then through the wood, I heard him say, “Else I might take it upon myself to find a new use for that pretty mouth of yours.”

I heard the car pull away. I threw the water glass at the wall. It smashed satisfyingly, sending water and glass flying everywhere. I threw myself against the door, pounding until my hands were red and sore. Cursing and screaming at him, at my parents, at God — at anybody whose name I thought to invoke. I screamed until my throat was raw, until I was too exhausted to do more than collapse on the mattress and burst into tears. Soon, I ran out of those, too. I lay there in the darkness, watching the sky grow dark as it filled up with black clouds that swallowed up the stars. A heavy rain began to fall. I was still listening to it as I fell asleep.

Michael:

Kent suggested we meet in a place called
The Mountain View Bar and Grill
. I followed the directions from his e-mail, using the odometer for reference. I nearly missed one of the narrow turn-offs, which ran in the shade of the densely-packed trees.

Mountain View Bar and Grill
was an old, run-down building made out of dark brown wood. The sign was hand-painted with the intention of looking rustic. I had never heard of Mountain View before but suspected it was either an old mining town or an old lumber town that had tried being a tourist trap and dismally failed.

The inside of the bar was no better. The wooden furnishings were worn from many years of water damage and rough handling. The faint, musky smell of mildew and old beer hung in the air like smog, merging with the piney scent of the mountains. An old jukebox was playing “Wild Horses” by the Rolling Stones, and a small group of men sat nearby with quarters at the ready, dominating the music as they watched closed-captioning football on ESPN.

Kent was at the bar. Normally a fan of tweeds, he was dressed in a red-and-black-checked hunting shirt and a pair of hiking boots. He had traded his usual pipe for a pack of Camels. There was already a beer in front of him. He was staring down at a notebook.

I sat down on the stool next to him. A bartender materialized and asked me if I wanted anything to drink. Kent sat up a little straighter, pretending to notice me for the first time. “Get him a beer on me,” he said, in a dead-on American accent.

“
No thanks,” I said, before the bartender could comply.

Kent waited until the bartender was out of earshot before saying, “One beer won't hurt, Michael. You look a little tense.”

I bristled. “That's because the situation has gotten more complicated. I can't afford to be caught drinking on the job. It's imperative that I do what any situation asks of me.” And I wasn't sure what I might do to my hostage with alcohol in my blood.

Kent shook his head. “Aren't you afraid that you're becoming too good?”

The jukebox switched to “Before He Cheats” by Carrie Underwood. “I'm afraid I don't understand what you're asking.”

Kent blew a smoke ring. “I'm talking about your job. It's all fine and dandy when you
always get your man — but people are beginning to wonder: who's going to get
you
?”

“
I pay my loyalty where it is due.”

“
That doesn't matter. You're too strong. That scares them.”

I motioned towards the notebook. “What's this?”

“
This is a list of people who wouldn't mind seeing you disappear.” He rifled through it, showing me the pages. The notebook was full, and he had used both sides. Some of the names were highlighted.

“
Yellow are the people who wish you harm but don't have the means to carry it out themselves. Orange are people who have the means but haven't attempted it yet. Pink are people who have, at some point or another, attempted to sabotage you — but failed.”

There were people from the IMA in there. Several bore pink slashes. Callaghan and Morelli, included, but that was no surprise. I pushed the notebook away. “I appreciate the effort.”

Kent drained his beer and flagged down the bartender for another. “That's not all. I investigated your run-in with the cops; they received a tip-off.” The bartender placed another beer in front of Kent, who gave him an effusively slurred thanks. Kent winked at me, swallowing down another mouthful of beer. “A command like that would have been issued from someone pretty high up on the chain, don't you think?”

Richardson
.

I was in trouble.

Christina:

I lay on the mattress with the blanket wrapped around me, trying not to move. My stomach had taken on a dull, achy edge. All my captor had left for me was that single glass of water, which I had thrown against the wall. He'd never taken it upon himself to starve me before.
Maybe I really am becoming disposable
.

I listened to the house settle, trying not to focus on my thirst or my stomach's loud rumbling. The rumbling got louder — and it wasn't coming from me. Voices in the house. People
talking
. I recognized one of the voices: it was my captor. I pressed my ear against the floor but couldn't make out anything they were saying through the carpet. I could only hear the inflections in their voices. The conversation they were having didn't appear pleasant.