So I stayed frozen and unresponsive, my mien of horror only partially feigned as I considered the precarious nature of my current situation. Now that there was an image of me in one of those nebulous cloud storage systems, it could easily wind up in the wrong hands. Dozens of celebrities could attest to the dangers of leaks and hacks of cloud storage.
What did the Albanians plan to do with the photo? By now it was clear that they were suspicious and for that I had no one but myself to blame. How easy would it be for them to release the photo to some contacts and find out that I had worked for — and betrayed — the very man they answered to?
I was living on borrowed time.
This morning, and every morning since, I had expected to wake up to a loud pounding on my door as a grim-faced man with a gun burst it open to tell me that the charade was over, it was done for. Every day this didn't happen, I would breathe out a half-hearted sigh of relief and some of the pressure would be alleviated from my solar plexus — some, but not all, because it could still happen, and the next day would likewise consist of sucked-in breaths tinged with dread and fear that I was helpless to suppress.
“Thanks, slut,” said my client before he left, the way he always did, tossing the used condom to the filthy floor before letting the door slip closed behind him. Off to his next victim. I hoped she wasn't young.
My skin felt disgusting, varnished with a patina of blood and semen and sweat, but I did not get up to shower. I had heard the door lock behind my client but hadn't heard the footsteps recede, which meant — what, that someone was outside my door? Now, at this very moment? My breath caught. If there was someone there, who was it? A guard, or one of the Albanians? Was I just imagining it?
Several minutes elapsed and then, over the pounding in my ears I heard the stealthy glide of footsteps slipping back into the dark.
It took me a while before I could contact Mr. Boutilier. If I hadn't been watched actively before, I could assume that I was now. Any mistakes I made would be under the glare of an unblinkingly watchful eye; to err now would mean death.
My fingers trembled as I sent Mr. Boutilier the message. He would be furious — his poor temper and short fuse were almost legendary — but that was not why I shook. I was not afraid of Michael Boutilier.
Oh, he was a dangerous man, yes, and a cruel man, but not a predatory one. He did not hunt purely for the enjoyment of it. Not like some.
I was feeling something I had not experienced since I had first met Adrian Callaghan in India.
Terror.
I was aware of the Albanians' scrutiny whenever I left my room. Unseeing eyes marking my skin like a brand that burned with the phantom awareness of a presence I could never quite see.
Why hadn't they done anything?
I had assumed that my transgression in the halls would result in a loss of the essentials they considered privileges — food, a decent night's rest, fresh water. At the very least, they should have stopped letting me work the streets at night, when those outings afforded so may opportunities for escape. But nothing in my daily ritual changed, save for their heightened awareness of me. I continued to work the usual hours in the usual way. No change.
This should have been comforting. It wasn't. They had to be biding their time. Waiting for the perfect moment to strike, when all my defenses were down. If they suspected I was more seasoned than I had let on, they would expect me to be nervous, skittish, paranoid. Meanwhile, they would squeeze me for every drop of profit I could bring to their enterprise.
Adrian Callaghan would have been proud.
I should have contacted Mr. Boutilier with my suspicions. I had, in a way, but not comprehensively. The painfully archaic technology I had been equipped with was inadequate for the task, and I didn't dare sneak away for any longer than I already had.
I had seen something in their faces change, as some dark shadow of awareness took root, flowering into something dangerously close to an epiphany. Whatever they thought they knew about me couldn't be good and I was prepared for any eventuality, but I couldn't be caught sending any more communiques to the outside. Not when I was in such hot water.
So I destroyed the transmitter, my last tie to the outside world. I crushed it beneath the razor-thin heel of one of my stilettos one night, as I waited out in the frozen streets, and then kicked the pieces into a storm drain. Mr. Boutilier would understand, I hoped. If he didn't, too bad.
The door to my room opened, and I braced myself for another “client,” another litany of illicit and seemingly endless demands. The clients had been increasing in frequency, lately, a constant, steady stream. But this man was no client.
I heard the laugh before I recognized the face — soft and mocking, it peeled the flesh right down to the nerves, bringing to surface every secret fear and insecurity I'd harbored since birth. Oh gods, I thought, as my terror exploded like a flock of birds tacking to the sky. Adrian Callaghan was standing in front of the now-closed door with his arms folded over his dress shirt and a smile that didn't reach his cold eyes. Preserve me.
But there would be nothing left to preserve. My death was inscribed within the harsh lines of his face, the mocking tilt of his mouth. His very presence here was a death warrant. I could already smell the blood.
“Well, well,” he said pleasantly, “it's been a while, hasn't it?” Those eyes scraped at me like claws. “I see defection has treated you well.”
A delicate pause.
“Until now.”
He lunged before I could draw breath to scream.
Christina
There was nothing we could do while in the air. For all intents and purposes, the plane was a flying prison holding us captive.
I sipped my champagne hoping it would calm me, but all that happened was heartburn. I set the glass aside, shifting uncomfortably in my seat as my belt cut into my belly in new and unpleasant ways.
“Maybe it's fine.” I didn't think Michael would appreciate the flying prison analogy. I tried to smile at him, tried to act as though I weren't falling apart on the inside. “Maybe nothing's really wrong.”
Michael turned to look at me slowly. The almost tender man from before was gone, leaving this icy-eyed stranger in his place. “Is that what you honestly fucking believe?” he asked, loudly enough that a woman sitting with her son nearby whipped her head in his direction to give him a scathing look. “Is it?”
I twisted the pendant around my finger, bouncing the planet-shaped charm against the knuckle. “Well …no,” I said hesitantly. “But — ”
I hate seeing you look like that. So rigid. So…afraid.
It was as if he could see right through me, to the heart that was soft and rotten with sympathy. “Then don't try to comfort me with bullshit and lies.”
“I was just trying to make you feel better — ”
“Don't,” he said, “we need to feel concerned.”
Concerned was putting it lightly. I thought we needed to be fucking terrified, to borrow his charming turn of phrase. The dangers were real.
But freaking out on an airplane, where we couldn't do a damn thing about it, would be pointless. I'd only wanted to keep him calm until we landed.
Calm? What are you thinking? The man is ice.
Maybe he was trying to protect me, too.
Overhead the intercom buzzed and the pilot's voice spoke after the initial burst of static.
“Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen. As we start our descent, please make sure that your seat and your tray tables are in the full upright position. Make sure your seat belts are securely fastened and that you remain seated until the plane safely lands. All carry-on luggage should be stored beneath the seat in front of you or in the overhead compartments. Also, we would like to remind you at this time that all electronic devices should be turned off until the plane has landed.”
Michael turned off his phone after glancing at it, grim-faced, and I took a moment to ensure that my own was powered down as well.
Why that expre
ssion? Had he seen something else he didn't like? Hoping for another message from Suraya? “Are you all right?” I asked him slowly. What I really meant was, what now?
“Don't worry about me,” he said gruffly.
I toyed with my necklace and tried not to feel hurt. As if his abrupt changes in mood didn't cut me to the quick every time.
“All right,” I said softly. “I won't.”
I was lying. Worry was my one stable currency, and I always paid it out in full.
Outside the window, the light shone hot and white. There were stretches of barren earth with Joshua trees clawing their way out of the soil, their branches like limbs twisted into tortuous poses of supplication. As the plane lost altitude, the ground seemed to rush up at us and I could feel my organs shifting around as we entered what felt like a very gentle free-fall.
(“I'll catch you.”)
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Los Angeles. The local time is 3:47 P.M. and the current temperature is seventy-eight-degrees Fahrenheit.”
Too hot to be heaven, too cool to be hell, Los Angeles was somewhere right in between. It was limbo; it was the place where we would decide our own fates, whatever they might be. I shook my head as I peeled off my jacket.
“Thank you for flying with us. We hope you have an exceptional day.”
The LAX airport was insanely crowded. People clotted the bag carousels in one big, congested mess. I saw people of all kinds — foreigners in elaborate, ethnic costumes, large families, rich businessmen in designer suits, hardcore goths with multiple piercings, soldiers coming to or returning from their stations. Nobody seemed to be looking for us.
I bit my lip. “Is it clear, do you think?”
Some of the tension had eased out of Michael's face, and his eyes had lost their hawkish look of concentration. “For now,” he allowed, and I let out my breath in relief. His phone chirped as it powered back on. “We need to get out of here.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, still watching the crowd.
“Help me hail a cab.”
Both of us tensed at the sound of police sirens in the distance.
“Make sure it's a licensed cab,” he said. “I don't want to have to deal with a kidnapping on top of all this other bullshit.”
“The irony,” I said dryly, and he gave me a dark look. “So vans with tinted windows are out?”
“Christina,” he said. “Don't.”
A chill rippled down my spine in spite of the sun beating down hard on my skin. Don't. The word carried the same threat as a gleaming blade.
I locked my shoulders and flagged down a Yellow Cab — out of the two of us, I looked the most trustworthy. I watched the yellow vehicle glide out of traffic like a gaudily-colored shark, circling around. The curb was so crowded, it was taking him a while to pull up in front. Without taking my eyes from it, I asked, “Where are we going? A hotel?”
His eyes reflected the harsh blue glare of his cell phone screen. “Yes. I made five reservations at five hotels, with as many names.”
“When did you have time to do that? You barely used your phone.”
“I have my ways,” he said vaguely, in a way that suggested whatever he'd done wasn't legal.
I was the technology expert between the two of us, too, but I'd often caught him watching me while I was working. I thought he just enjoyed watching me, but Michael was observant; he could have gleaned a few of my tricks. I'd have to be more cautious.
“Where is it?”
“Pick a number — one through five.”
“I thought you didn't like games.”
“This isn't a game.” The cab had reached us, and now I looked at him. His green eyes were dark, so dark they seemed to hold no color at all — just shadows. “Just do it.”
“Three,” I said.
“Good.”
“Where is number three?”
“If I remember correctly, it's called The Ivy.”
Sounds expensive.
“Where to?” The taxi driver had opened the door and was out. His face was heavily lined, giving his olive complexion the grainy nuances of a professional portrait. He was obviously relieved we had no luggage, and when he got back behind the wheel, I saw he limped.
“The Ivy,” Michael said.
There were no in-cab seductions this time. Michael seemed too distracted and edgy. Sex was probably the last thing on his mind for once. I could have used the diversion.
The cab pulled up in front of a building that reminded me of 1920s Hollywood, with its burnished, art deco facade. The bellhops wore red uniforms with gold lapels.
“James Holland,” Michael said to the receptionist, without preamble, and slipped him cash. Very flash, although in a place like this that wouldn't be unusual.
The concierge handed him a key card, which he closed his fingers over tightly. “Thanks.”
“James Holland,” I repeated, when we were out of earshot. “Are you serious? Why not John Smith?”
“This isn't a game.”
“James Holland,” I said.
Michael opened the door to the hotel room.
“I bet I could make you scream that name.”
Once I would have blushed, but I'd long since learned that when Michael was backed into a corner, he used sex as intimidation. It was the best way he had of pushing me away. I folded my arms instead.
I refused to be pushed away.
“I thought you said this wasn't a game.”
Michael stopped and looked at me over his shoulder.
“I'm starting to think it is.”
Suraya
Blood —
There was so much blood. It melted and melded with the agony, made my world go blind and screaming. The pain. Oh, gods, the fucking pain —
“So Michael put you up to this, did he?”
Adrian's voice cut through the muddy haze like a knife through butter.
“I must say, I didn't think the boy had it in him. He considered himself nigh incorruptible — until she came along and blew it all out of the water.”
I could no longer feel certain parts of my body. This should have been comforting — that I could no longer feel the pain — but it only intensified the effect by forcing me to focus on what I could feel.
My eyes.
Sharp, flaring pain exploded in my side. I whimpered, curling in upon myself as much as I was able. The bilious reek of butyric acid flooded my nose.
“Oh good,” he said. “I thought I'd lost you.”
My life was slipping away, thread by thread. I could feel my body dying all around me.
Dimly, I was aware of him stepping closer.
“She turned him into a bloody fool.”
Who?
Pain. This time I felt something inside me burst. I screamed and blood burbled in my throat.
“And he turned her into a fucking menace.” The curse slipped in as seamlessly as a knife into a back.
Oh, I thought. Michael and Christina.
“I should have killed her when I had the chance. There were so many opportunities when I could have used her to keep the boy in line, and then eliminated the two of them once I had them both in hand.”
I imagined him clenching his fist.
“But somehow, they didn't seem worth my time.”
And now?
“Greater empires than mine have fallen for less.” He was close to me, now, close enough that I could feel the heat of him. “Troy. Byzantium. Rome. The Third Reich. American imperialism.”
I gagged on hot, wet fluid. For a frightening moment, I couldn't breathe. And then, in an even more frightening moment, I realized that I still could.
What happens now?
“I made her an offer, you know. Told her that I might spare her life if she worked under me.”
He'd made me the same offer.
“Unlike you, my dear Suraya — ” it was as though he could read the spiderweb thoughts in my fractured mind “ — Christina Parker considers herself too proud to become
a whore or a mercenary. Vigilantism is only acceptable when it's free, because then it's noble, self-sacrificing, and good.”
He made a mocking sound.
“That's why they sent you in her stead in this pathetic little reconnaissance mission of theirs. Not because you possessed the skills, or because you were the right one for the job. No, Michael thinks I plan on stealing his girl away for my own amusement. Not quite so courageous, hmm? It always comes down to self-preservation in the end.
“If it's any consolation, your suffering could hold nary a candle to what I have in store for the leaders of AMI. I have them all but in my grasp.” I felt his breath on my skin and shivered. “Now tell me exactly where they are right now,” he said, “and perhaps I'll do you one last favor between old friends and kill you quickly. You would like that, wouldn't you?”
Graciously, like he was offering me tea and scones. Yes, I wanted to scream. Kill me.
But I scarcely had voice to utter the words.
In my desperation, I told him. I didn't even have to think twice about it. I told him, anything, everything he wanted, and he was a liar. He played with me the way a leopard bats around a moribund rodent, coaxing every last drop of stubborn life from my dying body, laughing delightedly all the while.
Death, in all its infinite mercy, was the only thing that could save me now.
Chapter Thirteen
Discovery
Michael
No new messages.
The transmitter I had fitted Suraya with, which Christina had programmed, had limited capabilities: one-way transmission. Small enough to secret into bodily crevices without being detected.
The basis of its appeal.
But those same traits that made it difficult to track also made the device fragile. And now I couldn't even get a trace on her. Did something happen to it?
Cease and Desist (The IMA Book 4) Page 15
