Cease and Desist (The IMA Book 4)

by Campbell, Nenia

“Maybe she is good after all.” The club owner's ugly voice jarred me from my ugly thoughts. I looked at him, keeping my face passive. His eyes gleamed with predatory consideration. “We will take her.”

  “There's still the matter of payment,” said the druggie, folding his scrawny arms. Where the sleeves rolled up I could see track marks, thick and purple.

  “Ah, yes.” The club owner snorted. “Your finder fee.” His voice was laced with amusement that swirled like the clouds of smoke from his cheap clove cigarettes. He snapped his fingers, turning to speak to the man still standing silently in the corner. His lip curled as he said, “Pay him what he deserves.”

  That was when I knew—but knowing came a heartbeat too late. Something sharp jabbed into my arm. Despite his not inconsiderable bulk, the club owner moved fast. Too fast, like he'd been trained.

  I looked down just in time to see a dirty needle receding from me, disappearing into that shiny paisley shirtsleeve. He was smiling.

  Just like Adrian Callaghan, I thought again.

  The last thing I saw before I hit the ground were the red holes blossoming on the front of the druggie's sweatshirt like gory fireworks. The tattooed guard had a gun fitted with a silencer, and his face, as he fired, was just as expressionless as it had been when he'd first greeted us at the door. The druggie's body crumpled, as wasted in death as he had been in life, and I remember thinking, this is unexpected.

  And then, fuck.

  Christina

  I woke up the next morning alone. The space next to me was warm, though, so I knew he hadn't been gone long. I sighed and rolled out of bed, wincing a little as I opened the blinds to let the light shine in.

  It was our turn to buy supplies — his and mine. Two people buying supplies enough for six would have looked suspicious, so we went out in singles or pairs several times a week. Not only did this help to rule out any odd patterns, it ensured that everyone managed to get at least some of the food they liked.

  Ordinarily I welcomed the opportunity for a bit of fresh air, but after last night's grim conversation I was apprehensive. Michael's mood was unpredictable, and sometimes an incident that had seemed resolved the night before could rekindle into a fresh grievance the following morning. Even I knew this wasn't healthy, but I wasn't sure what I could do about it: Michael was more set in his ways than an old man.

  I grabbed a sweater from the floor and a pair of jeans that were finally starting to feel worn-in. My watch was on the desk and as I was buckling it around my wrist I heard a loud knock on my door.

  “Come in.” I gave the wristband a tug to make sure it wasn't too tight, and then sat down in the chair so I could pull on my shoes. Michael slipped in like smoke. Under a black leather jacket he was wearing a wife beater that hugged his powerful body so tightly that not much was left to the imagination. He'd covered the scar on his face with some foundation, but even without it he would still draw stares. He saw my expression and scowled, pulling his baseball cap low over his head, to cover his eyes.

  Looking at him like this was almost painful. He looked like what he was: a killer. The other night, he had reeled off my weaknesses as casually as a shopping list. He was still dangerous. The imbalance of power was still very real, and not at all in my favor.

  Who else saw what Michael did?

  Who else knew my secrets?

  If I did, you can fucking bet that Callaghan did, too.

  I shivered.

  (“Torture covers a broad spectrum. The two main subgroups are physiological and psychological, but these can be divided into the subcategories of spiritual, emotional, physical, and sexual. Everyone has at least one weakness in at least one of these areas that can be exploited. Finding it only requires patience, and a suspension of societal norms.”)

  Maybe he already had.

  Adrian was the one who had trained Michael to see weakness, the one who had taught him how to intimidate — and it showed. In fact, sometimes, when Michael got really focused, it was like it was Adrian looking out of his eyes instead of him.

  That spooked me more than anything.

  “You about ready?” Michael asked gruffly.

  I let my sneakered foot fall to the floor. “Yeah,” I said, more certain than I felt. “Yeah, I'm ready.”

  He nodded at the door.

  “Let's go.”

  Clouds hung heavy over the city. I knew the Golden Gate Bridge would be all but invisible from the bay, sheathed in blankets of fog so thick you could almost cut through them with a knife.

  The moment we left our office suite in the Financial District, my hair begin to frizz and tangle in the moisture-laden wind. Water vapor from the air beaded on my skin, dampening my clothes, warming to my skin until it began to feel unpleasantly like sweat. Frowning, I tugged at the hem of my sweater.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Fisherman's Wharf.”

  The thought depressed me. The dense crowds and garish tourist attractions screamed of a blithe normality that was no longer attainable for me. “I don't want to go to the Farmers' Market,” I said. “Let's go to China Town.”

  “This isn't a date,” he told me flatly.

  Odd, how those words could make my heart crash to my stomach. “I know that,” I snapped, and then immediately regretted it, because I didn't want him knowing that I'd been hurt. “But we always go to Fisherman's Wharf — didn't you say yourself that patterns are dangerous?” I threw his words back at him, hoping to make him feel like a fool. “We go there all the time.”

  But he was like a brick wall. “Not China Town,” he said, giving no sign that my words had taken any sort of effect on him. “We'd stand out.”

  “With all the tourists?” Michael's odd insistence had made me all the more determined to have my way. I was relieved I hadn't brought up my feelings about the tourists at Fisherman's Wharf, or he'd have used my own arguments against me. “It's a popular tourist location,” I said. “We'd be totally fine.”

  His eyes narrowed under the bill of his hat. “You seem awfully sure. Don't forget who we are.”

  “How could I possibly forget when you make sure to remind me every day?” I asked bitterly.

  He didn't answer, but that didn't really matter because I hadn't really been expecting one.

  I kept my eyes on the streets ahead and tried to shelve my misgivings.

  San Francisco isn't that big. Even though it's a city that houses millions, you can walk the city proper in a couple hours as long as you're reasonably fit.

  We passed by expensive boutiques and gourmet grocers; indie coffee shops and apartments painted the colors of cakes; cigarette shops, drugstores, tattoo parlors; salons and pet salons; sports bars and gay bars and hookah bars; 18 and under dance clubs. China Town was only about a twenty minute walk from the Financial District but crammed into that short space it seemed like there was something to cater to everyone. It was impressive.

  Michael's eyes didn't linger on anything too long. As he tilted his head, they roved constantly, marking everyone and everything as a potential threat. I knew he had a gun and a knife tucked somewhere beneath his jeans and jacket — at least one of each. I knew, because he was left-handed, and he was gripping mine in his right, which left his dominant hand free to reach for a weapon or a throat, if necessary.

  His unusual handedness had me walking alongside him on the part of the sidewalk that wasn't next to the street. I liked being able to look inside the stores, at the shop windows festooned with garlands of paper money, where it wasn't uncommon to see a resplendently plump Buddha or cheerful maneki neko smiling out from behind the dirty glass. But Michael's paranoia was contagious and pretty soon I found myself scanning the crowds for hostile faces, too.

  “Stop looking so panicked,” Michael said. He pulled his hand from mine to wipe it on his jeans and I realized, with embarrassment, that it was because my own palms had grown so slick with sweat. “You're attracting attention. People are going to think I'm kidnapping you, for God's sake.”
/>
  Then he winced.

  “It's your fault,” I pointed out. “You're looking at everyone like they want to kill us.”

  “If they knew who we were,” he said, in a very quiet voice, “they probably would.”

  He was so depressing. “We really need to work on your people skills,” I muttered, shaking my head.

  “I have very good people skills. I'm skilled at using people to get what I want.”

  I couldn't tell if he was joking or not — he had gone back to scanning the streets. “You know that isn't even close to being the same thing.”

  Casually, he recaptured my hand in his. “If you're good enough, who would notice a difference?”

  “I would.” I said, “I would notice.”

  “Mais,” he said, a mocking twang of accent seeping into his voice. “So idealistic. So sure of changing the world.” His face grew serious as he looked at me. “Yet you've never once tried to change me,” he said, as though realizing it for the first time.

  “People only change if they want to.”

  His face clouded. He didn't say anything else.

  The open air markets were my favorite, because until we had come to San Francisco I had never seen anything like them before. Even if we'd had such places in Oregon, Mamá would have decried such places as filthy. I thought they were wonderful. Fish growing ripe under the sun, twisted tubers and roots that looked like gnarled fingers, wilted vegetables and gleaming fruits I had no names for. Something stunk to high heaven, though — like garbage in the summer heat, bad enough that I was forced to breathe in through my mouth. “Oh,” I choked. “Oh, God.”

  When I looked up, Michael was watching me again, a hint of a smile on his mouth. “Don't like durians?” he said, sounding very amused.

  “Is that what that is? No,” I said. “What is it?”

  “A fruit.”

  That smell had come from a fruit. Good God. “What's wrong with it?” I asked.

  “Nothing.” He looked away from me then, scanning the streets for dangers I couldn't see. Back to business. “That's just what they smell like.”

  He had such a charming smile, when it was real. Crooked and a little guilty, like it was something he didn't feel like he should be doing. When he smiled at me, it was like stepping into a patch of sunlight on a cold, clear winter day.

  I wanted to see it again.

  “Have you ever eaten one?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did it taste like?”

  “Better than it smells.”

  I gave up. Social hour was over.

  I continued looking around, trying not to let my paranoia — Michael's paranoia — get to me.

  In one shop front, big-eyed plush animals eyed me from atop a mountain of Hello Kitty merchandise. There was a store that sold qipao and silk slippers, and every other shop seemed to have jade talismans and Buddha figurines, and those red woven bracelets with the lucky golden coin knotted in the center.

  I had stopped looking in the storefronts, though. I was using the glass to spy on Michael. His face was tense. His posture was tense. He looked…worried.

  A twinge of fear went through me. “Michael.”

  He grunted.

  “Why didn't you really want to come to China Town?”

  Something was wrong. I could sense it.

  Only because he wants you to.

  Or because…it was already too late?

  “Michael,” I said, not even bothering to hide my alarm. “What — ”

  “Quiet.” His jaw was hard and I saw his hand at his hip, ready to draw whatever weapon he had stowed there.

  In public.

  Shit.

  Then I heard the shouting: angry, foreign shouting, but universal in its intent. I was about to ask him what was wrong again, in spite of his earlier command, until I heard a sound more universal still:

  The sound of gunfire.

  Chapter Eight

  Pursuit

  Christina

  The explosive sound of gunfire threw a wrench into the organized chaos of San Francisco's streets.

  People panicked.

  I saw a vendor's stall get overturned. A homeless man got up from the full plastic bag he was leaning against to yell at persons unknown. His voice was lost in the melee and it wasn't until Michael grabbed my wrist and I saw his lips moving that I realized he was saying something, too.

  Probably something along the lines of let's get the fuck out of here.

  I pointed in the direction of BART, back towards the office suites. Out of the city? I mouthed.

  He shook his head and pulled us both into the fleeing crowd — but not before I turned around to dart a quick look at our assailants.

  Michael's fingers tightened painfully around my wrist and when I glanced at him I saw that his face had become annoyed without losing any of its urgency. I guess I wasn't supposed to look. It didn't matter. They obviously knew our faces; and I'd seen what I needed to see.

  Men.

  Two of them.

  They were wearing black sweatpants and wife beaters. One of them had a sleeveless vest to show off his sleeves, the tattooed kind. They were inked in bright, primary colors, visible even at this distance, as though he had picked up a box of Crayolas and melted the interlocking designs on his skin. Very distinctive.

  Not the IMA then, I thought to myself. They aren't big on distinguishing marks.

  That had been one of the first things that I had noticed about Michael when he had taken me hostage. I had been watching him, searching for any sign of weakness, any defining characteristics I could use to identify him when I escaped. Because I had been so sure that I would escape.

  He'd had no birthmarks. No tattoos or piercings. Nothing to make him stand out except his good looks and his exceptionally fit physique, which he could conceal if he wanted to. Easily. Just like his scars.

  My thoughts circled back to the men. Standing out wasn't an issue for them which meant — what? That they were ordinary thugs? That didn't explain Michael's weary annoyance. He hadn't wanted to come to China Town in the first place, and I was sure that this was the reason why.

  Why hadn't he told me?

  I'd ask him later.

  Assuming there was a later to be had.

  Our nondescript apparel helped us melt into the crowd. Michael was one of the taller men here, though, and despite my initial protests to the contrary the majority of the men here were Asian, tourists be damned.

  From the back, I was fine — I was tall, too, but at least I had dark hair — but Michael and his golden locks stood out like a sore thumb, and he'd lost his baseball cap in the melee. I could hear him cursing under his breath.

  He'd been right all along.

  I felt like such an idiot.

  The crowd was thinning out as people made their escape. Diving into cars or buses, even though the streets were in gridlock, so choked up that bus passengers had been tossing up their hands and choosing to walk instead. Filming on their phones. Calling the police. That was dangerous — not just because we could be recognized, but because there was no way of telling whether Adrian had any plants in the local police force.

  A cramp was forming in my side, blistering hot with pain. I felt it every time I drew breath. I wasn't a runner; I didn't have the body type for it, and I never would. This was agony. It had been a while since I'd run for my life.

  I itched to look again, to see if the men had gotten closer, but I was also afraid. What if they were?

  What if they were right behind me?

  “This way.”

  Michael tugged on my wrist, and we slipped into a back alley that rounded an old delicatessen. Al's, said the sign over the window, without fanfare. The dirty, off-white building looked one visit away from being condemned.

  I looked in at the dark windows and they seemed to look back. Al — if he still owned the place, if he was still alive — was nowhere in sight. Paranoia, I thought again.

  But the goons with the
guns — that wasn't paranoia. They were real. Michael's fingers digging painfully into my wrist — that was real, too. His eyes were shadowed.

  “Don't scream,” he said.

  Oh, now there's an idea. Tell the bad men where we are with a loud noise. Just because I'd made one stupid mistake, he was going to treat me like an idiot? I shot him an insulted look, but he wasn't paying attention to me.

  “Where are we going?”

  No answer.

  The alley had spat us out onto a street running parallel to the one we'd been on before. We were separated from our attackers by a thick wall of buildings. For now.

  A loud chiming made me jump. One of the old green cable cars was going by. The bell was too noisy and too cheerful considering my blood was pounding in my ears like a kick drum.

  “Fuck,” Michael seemed to be cursing everything — the thugs, the gunfire, the cable car, the passerby giving us mild looks of curiosity, me. “Merde.”

  “What was that?” I asked, in between breaths. The stitch in my side had unwound, leaving unfettered agony in its wake. I could hardly speak for the lump in my throat. “And for God's sake — stop cursing. You're drawing as much attention to us as a scream would.”

  Michael shot me a dark look as he ran a hand through his hair, although he did, thankfully, stop cursing.

  I refused to be put off. “Those men,” I said. “Why are they chasing us? Tell me.”

  I watched his chest heave as he sighed, his frustration with me evident. “Remember what I said earlier about people wanting us dead if they knew who we were?”

  The iron gauntlet of dread clenched at my gut with its cruelly armored fingers. “Yes.”

  “They know who we are, and they want us dead,” he informed me flatly.

  He's being intentionally vague, I thought. Purposefully obfuscating his involvement.

  That meant only one thing.

  He's guilty.

  “That's obvious,” I said. “But who are they?”

  “It's better if you don't know.”

  Easier for who? I grabbed onto the sleeve of his leather jacket. No easy task, considering how he was hurrying me along. Easier for you?