A minute later, I received one in return.
Confirmed.
We stopped at a fast food joint to change into a new set of clothes just in case we were being watched.
I ditched the coat and the jeans for a set of slacks and a button-down shirt and tie. While the bathroom was empty, I shaved the three-day stubble off my face and parted my hair to the side. When I was finished I shoved my old clothes into the toilet tank.
I stepped out of the bathroom, adjusting my shirtsleeves. Christina was waiting in the hallway, shifting from foot to foot. She had ditched her black dress for a navy skirt, white blouse, and blazer that looked a little too good on her for my peace of mind.
“Do you want anything?” she asked, nodding at the brightly colored billboard with the menu items.
I shook my head. “We can eat when we get back.”
The longer we stayed, the more memorable we'd be. There weren't many people dressed like us in the restaurant and we were already drawing some looks.
Her face fell. I pretended I didn't notice.
We arrived just in time for boarding. The security protocols went quickly, for once. We didn't even have to take off our shoes.
The woman waved us up. “Enjoy your flight.”
The plane smelled like new plastic and stale cleaning supplies. The cheap carpeting had tracks in it suggesting it had just been vacuumed.
Christina sat down while I placed our satchels in the overhead compartment. Leather, both of them. High quality. I'd learned that if you looked like you were on your way to something important people were less likely to try and stop you or interfere.
Despite its claims of democracy, the United States is inherently autocratic: money speaks, and power and authority make people bend.
Being white and affluent has its perks.
A stewardess came up the aisles. I guess they're called flight attendants and now they're allowed to wear pants, but it's just a euphemism for the same old humiliating position as before — and the skirts are still short. Too short.
She caught me looking and smiled brightly, giving me a slow once-over of her own.
“Can I bring you anything?”
Not what you're thinking.
“Scotch on the rocks.” I nudged Christina, who startled visibly. “Hey, sweetheart — the nice lady asked you a question.”
From the look on her face, the nice lady didn't appreciate being called a “nice lady.”
“What?” Christina looked up, and bit her lip. “Oh, I'm sorry.”
The stewardess's smile had dimmed; she now looked distinctly irritated. “What do you want?”
Color arced up her throat. She shifted in her seat uncomfortably. “Um, Earl Grey, please, if you have it. Black. No sugar.”
Christina took off her blazer and I saw one of the men nearby dart an appraising look at her breasts as she slid her arms out of the sleeves. The man saw me studying him and something in my face rekindled his undivided attention to his laptop screen.
A rustle of movement had me turning. I heard the sound of a zipper being pulled, which conjured all sorts of thoughts that aren't helpful on an airplane.
She was pulling a book out of her purse. I tilted my head to get a look at the cover, and Jesus Christ—it was a fucking programming manual for C++.
When she began to pick it up, I put my hand over hers to keep the pages flattened.
“Hey,” she said, “I'm trying to read.”
“Should you really be reading that on the plane?”
“If we're going to be stuck here for an hour, I might as well do something useful with my time.”
“We don't want to be any more memorable than we already are.”
“You mean a girl can't read a technical book on a plane without being noticed?”
“Not when they look like you.”
Her eyes flashed. “Are you implying I should have picked up one of those stupid romance novels from the airport bookstore?”
“Yes.”
“That is so incredibly sexist.”
“No. It's an observation. Pretty women stand out. They stand out more if they're unconventional.”
She stuffed the book back into her bag. “Well — I don't like that you think that being smart and being a girl is unconventional.” Her eyes cut at me. “That flight attendant was flirting with you, by the way.”
I had to hide a smile. “Not relevant.”
“I'm just saying, you're getting your fair share of attention, too. It's not just me.”
“Oh?”
I leaned against the armrest, lowering my head so my mouth was level with her ear. I blew a soft stream of air against her skin and saw her shoulders lock as she repressed a shudder.
“Are you sure about that?”
“What are you doing?” She had started to go pale, but her face was still flushed. Interesting effect.
“Relax.” My mouth brushed lightly against her earlobe, and she bit her lip. I watched goosebumps ripple down her bare arms with pleasure. “I'm not going to fuck you on the plane.”
She made an odd-sounding gasp that caused the woman in front of us spin around to give us an annoyed look. It was the people who weren't paying attention to us that I was interested in. But business class was fairly empty, and I was now fairly sure that none of them were plants of the IMA. Christina glared at me. I gave her a slow smile.
“Did you want me to fuck you on the plane?”
“No.”
“You look disappointed.”
“I'm not.”
She was breathing faster than normal, though. Oh, yes. She was disappointed.
She tried to hide her embarrassment with anger, as she so frequently did. I wondered idly if she was still upset that I hadn't wanted to eat lunch with her.
“You said you wanted to lie low,” she said.
“I do.”
“People are certainly watching us now.”
I leaned in again. “Nobody's watching us. At least, nobody who matters.”
Her eyebrows dipped in confusion. “What did you — ”
“Here's your scotch.” The flight attendant was back. “And your Earl Grey.”
I smiled and lifted my glass to Christina in a mock-toast. “Cheers.”
Christina stared at me for a moment. “You're a complete bastard sometimes.”
“I know.”
She wadded up her coat and threw it at my chest. It landed harmlessly in my lap. I laughed and took a sip of scotch —
And choked as I felt her fingers close around my erection. I glanced at her. Her eyes were downcast, focused on her book. Beneath the coat, she ran her hand up and down my shaft in strong, fluid jerks. I spilled some alcohol on my slacks and it was only with effort that I was able to set the glass down in the cup holder without spilling more.
Oh, fuck. Speaking of spilling … I was going to come in my pants like a teenager.
I opened my mouth to tell her to help me find the bathroom, so I could brace her against the sink and fuck her until the glass mirror cracked. The sexual tension between us was electric. It had been two days since we'd last had sex, and I was feeling every hour of deprivation right now, with each expert stroke. If only that were her mouth on me. Or her cunt.
I closed my eyes and struggled to catch my breath, to force myself to think in terms of words. Pain speared into the pleasure as some of the blood rushed back into my head, and I dug my fingers into my thigh, bracing myself.
“Christina…”
She stopped.
I could have killed her. My balls were throbbing. My shirt collar was too tight. A lot of things were too tight. I winced. 'Tight' was not a word I needed to be thinking about right now.
“Christina, for fuck's sake…”
“Hmm?” She glanced at me with wide, blue eyes. “Is there something wrong?”
And then I got it. I wanted to laugh, but that would hurt my balls. “You've started a dangerous game, sweetheart.”
“Oh?” she said, infuriatingly
calm. Thought she was so fucking clever.
“I don't think you understand.” I tilted her face towards mine. “As soon this plane lands, as soon as we're alone, I'm going to strip you down, rip your panties off, and fuck you senseless. Just throw you down on whatever surface looks strong enough, and fuck you until we're both sore and the only thing you can say is my name.”
“You want to rip my panties off.” She said it in a low voice. The only suggestion of her embarrassment was a whisper of color tinging in her cheekbones.
“Yes,” I growled.
“That's going to be a problem.”
I didn't back away. “Why?”
She crossed her legs, smoothing down her skirt. Drawing my attention to her creamy, light brown thighs. Making my stiff cock throb painfully.
“I'm not wearing any panties.”
Chapter Two
Breach
Michael
Most animals are put down once they get a taste for human flesh. No sense in keeping around a dog that's quicker to bite than it is to heel. The moment a tool becomes a risk, it ceases to become useful; it's a liability. Here's another example. Would you use a gun that had a fifty-fifty chance of blowing up in your face when you pulled the trigger? Probably not. I wouldn't. Nobody of any fucking sense would.
But the IMA were consistently showing that they exhibited zero fucking sense. Misfiring weapons are incinerated, biting animals are euthanized, but human beings, it seemed, were the exception to the rule; we made blood lust, especially the cannibalistic form of it, lucrative.
Somebody should have neutralized Callaghan years ago. As soon as he began to show signs of those same mad-dog-propensities. But instead of putting him down, the fools he worked with put him into power. Nothing had been quite the same since.
Callaghan had taken over the IMA through a series of carefully executed coups, starting with my dishonorable discharge and accusation of treason, and ending with the assassination of the previous head — which he pinned on me. The newly minted traitor. He was full of ruthless economy, the bastard.
He had to be, though. He had taken a group of trained mercenaries and turned them into a warring feudal mob. Powerful men bowing to him with their tails tucked between their legs, too afraid to say boo to their leader. Even when they should. Especially when they should. A leader who exists in a power vacuum isn't just a leader: he's a tyrant.
As a result, his organization had fragmented and grown increasingly corrupt. Callaghan thought little of loyalty, except in situations where it could be exploited as a potential weakness, and that belief was reflected in his men and their cutthroat — and cowardly, self-serving — mentality.
When he had grown bored with his playing ground, Callaghan branched out into the media. There was less blood to spill in this sector, but controlling a live news stream fed into his massive ego, and in the wrong hands, in his hands, it could be used to lead witch hunts against his enemies, which I suspected was his main goal in such a merger.
Revenge. Against us.
I had cut transmission during the unveiling of his new telecommunications project, marking him as a failure in front of the very people he had been trying to impress. Callaghan would have my head on a platter just for that, if he could — hell have no fury like a sociopath humiliated — but that was just one humiliation in a long line of many.
He would never forget that I'd been Richardson's first choice, not him.
Christina was on his list, as well. He knew she was his best chance at getting back at me. But she was also the one who had shot him. She'd gotten him right in the knee. Shattered the patella. Because of her, he'd been forced to drop out of the public eye to lick his wounds. Nobody finds a gimp terrifying.
God, I hoped it fucking hurt.
But however badly he was hurting now, it wasn't enough. Not even close. A limp wouldn't stop him. It might slow him down, but it wouldn't stop him.
To do that, we needed to kill him.
“Angelica — do you have the files?”
“One moment, please,” she called back in her Sudanese accent. I could hear her shuffling around in the file room. What the fuck was she doing in there?
I wasn't a patient man by nature and she'd had plenty of time to put the file together while I'd been on the goddamn plane. Which had landed late.
Turned out that there wasn't even time to give Christina the fucking I'd promised when we got back on land. Soon as we got in the car and I turned on my phone, I was assaulted by a number of texts from Angelica, each subsequent one rising in urgency in terms of tone.
Where are you?
Have you landed yet?
I have something you need to see.
Call me as soon as you get this.
I was already dialing by the time I'd reached the last one. Angelica picked up on the first ring and said, “Come back to base as soon as you can.” And now she wasn't even fucking ready? My patience had officially hit zero.
“Goddamn it, Angelica, where the hell is that folder? Are you shitting it out in there, or what?”
“I said one moment. I am not used to Ms. Parker's filing system. It will take me a minute to locate it.”
“Don't blame Christina. You had a full two hours to get used to it.”
“Found it.”
Angelica sashayed into the room, causing the tight material of her skirt to creak with the rolling motions of her hips.
“Here is the dossier you requested so nicely,” she said, smiling as she handed me a thick folder bursting with papers. I eyed them warily.
“I don't recall ordering a side of sass to go with it. What is this? You writing his biography?”
I flipped through the thick stack of papers. I couldn't help but feel a little impressed. Angelica had gathered everything. Names, dates — I snorted — even his social security number and a photocopy of his birth certificate. “Jesus H. Christ.”
“Is there a problem?”
I slapped the folder lightly against my thigh. “You assembled all this today?”
“Oh, yes.”
“How?”
She smiled, pleased. “A magician never reveals her secrets, Mr. Boutilier.”
The wry response, and its deadpan delivery, made me think, suddenly, of Kent. Which was not surprising in and of itself. Angelica had been Kent's protege. It would not be unusual for her to have picked up some of his mannerisms in the interim.
I just hadn't expected how much it would hurt.
Fuck.
After Kent's death, I'd hired Angelica, figuring she would be the next best thing. Kent himself was irreplaceable. He had been killed in an explosion rigged up by radical members of the BN. This had been before their merger with the IMA. Back when I still worked for the IMA. Back when the BN had seen me as the sinister figurehead of an organization that had put so many of their best men to death.
Kent had survived the rigors of being an agent of MI6 during wartime, a real-life James Bond. When he retired from military service, he started freelancing, trading intel instead of seeking it out personally. The thought of him dying because of an oversight filled me with rage. Rage, and a deep, yawning regret that I felt like a bullet wound.
What a fucking waste.
“Mr. Boutilier?”
Angelica's voice broke through my thoughts. I had been standing there for the better part of a minute. The folder had dents from my fingers.
“This is good work,” I said. “Well done.”
“Was that a compliment?” she asked archly.
“Don't push your luck.”
Angelica was new to her field, but Kent had been one of the greats, and he had taught her well.
Some of the information in the folder was redundant. I had been trained alongside the man and despite much of the data being classified, very little of it was new. Back when the IMA had been a mere killing ring, Adrian had been a lowly agent who paid his bills in human lives. Just like me.
Callaghan and I had worked together.
>
Side by side.
Those, sadly, had been the halcyon days of the IMA. Richardson, with his weakness for women and his constant paranoia, had been a shit boss, but he hadn't been a fucking psycho. Until he had branded me a traitor, I'd never had cause to complain. I'd honestly believed that most of the men and women I'd killed had deserved it. Those that hadn't — their deaths hadn't weighed on my conscience heavily enough to prevent me from sleeping at night. People died every day; I merely hastened the process. I didn't languish in their suffering.
Richardson's scouts had pulled me out of the slums of Louisiana and given me the education I'd never had cause to believe I'd ever need, let alone possess. If they hadn't done that, I'd still be in a gang, selling drugs, fighting in the streets, stealing from the prone and naive. A conscience was a luxury I couldn't afford when my mantra growing up had been the version of the golden rule that they don't tack up in kindergarten classrooms — them or me.
Callaghan's history was more convoluted, and because he was a pathological liar it was difficult to separate fact from fiction. I had heard many rumors about him, in the IMA and out of it. He almost certainly had roots in the IRA; he was too young to be in the thick of it, but I wouldn't put a grassroots revival behind the shit-fuck; he loved to stir the pot. A stint in the psychiatric facility? Less believable. That bastard was manipulative as hell, and could talk and threaten his way out of anything. But it was possible that he hadn't been as self-possessed in his youth; he could have fucked up, bad. For the same reasons, I wouldn't have been surprised to learn that he had killed his parents, as so many people believed. I'd seen him torture people with little recourse. If he had decided that his mother and father had outlived their usefulness they would have been dispensed with.
I couldn't believe Richardson hadn't seen his death coming, given Callaghan's colorful history. Not when he sat across from it, listening to its Irish brogue, looking it dead in the eyes.
He didn't have a scar to remind him.
Maybe that had been the problem.
Christina's name caught my eye. Her medical chart was in here from when Callaghan had beaten her so badly that the IMA had been forced to save her from dying until they were ready for him to finish her off. One look at her vitals showed how close he had come to doing just that.
Cease and Desist (The IMA Book 4) Page 2
