Cease and Desist (The IMA Book 4)

by Campbell, Nenia

  “That's very generous of him,” I said sarcastically.

  “He doesn't want to deal with the buyers directly.”

  “No, he wouldn't, would he? Much easier to let somebody indirect take the fall. Someone like you.”

  Valon shifted and I let my finger settle more comfortably on the trigger.

  “Don't fucking test me,” I told him. “Where are you routing the money to?”

  “A bank in Mexico,” he said. “Please.”

  “Does he work in Mexico?”

  “I don't know. I don't think so.”

  I wondered if that was the truth.

  “Do you know where he is now?”

  Valon was cut off by a loud thud. Christina had fallen to the floor in a heap. The drugs had taken effect just as quickly as he'd intended.

  When I turned my head, Valon sprang, pants around his hips, for the door. I shot him — and his groin disappeared in a bubble of blood. He let out a high, womanly scream, collapsing to the floor.

  I walked over him, avoiding the bloody patches on the floor. “Where the fuck is Adrian Callaghan?”

  “My cock!” he screamed, lapsing into Albanian, “Mother of God, my cock, you shot my cock!”

  “Where is he?” I shouted, raising my voice to be heard over his keening. I could hear footsteps outside. We were running out of time. “Answer me you fucking little shit. Where is Adrian Callaghan?”

  “I don' t know, I don't know, I swear to fucking God, my cock, please, I don't—”

  Useless. I shot him again. This time, his face exploded, splattering the wall behind him in a messy blend of pulverized flesh, blood, brain tissue, and vitreous fluid. I looked at the mess, then at the door.

  Fuck.

  I put the safety on the gun, shoved it into my pocket, and picked up Christina.

  At least she hadn't been awake to see me for the monster that I was.

  Thank God for small blessings.

  I headed back down the stairs. Men were coming, and there was shouting. I paused in the corner, and pressed my lips to Christina's. To anyone else, we would look like a drunken couple, engaging in a few stolen moments of lust. I was shoved aside as men raced upstairs: they would be looking for one running man, not a couple.

  The moment they were gone, I walked quickly through the club, doing my best to support Christina's dead weight. She was fading fast, and when I tried to engage her, she was unresponsive. Whatever that bastard had drugged her with was potent. I could only hope that he hadn't used an opiate, and that the dose hadn't been fatal.

  I managed to hail a cab. The driver looked us over, and seemed about to refuse. “Come on, man,” I said. “My girlfriend drank too much and there was a fight at the club. We have exams tomorrow. Please.”

  He relented, as I'd known he would.

  “Where to?”

  “Just drive. I'll pay whatever's on the meter.”

  The driver cursed under his breath but he pulled away from the curb. That was all that mattered.

  Christina stirred beside me as the engine came to life. “Oh God,” she moaned. “My head hurts.”

  “That's what you get for trying to take on the world yourself. You did good by the way.”

  She rubbed at her temples. “Where are we?”

  “Same place as we were before. I hailed us a cab.” I glanced at the driver, who was probably listening in on all this. “Almost couldn't get a ride. You're a mess.”

  “Yeah.” She zipped up the jacket to her throat. “Imagine that.” There was blame in her voice.

  “You knew what this job entailed.”

  “I thought I did.” Her head fell against my shoulder. I thought she was out again, but I heard her whisper, “He was in on it, you know. He was in on it all.”

  I whispered back, “I know.”

  “He drugged me.”

  “But not with an opiate, right?”

  She shook her head. “He would have raped me.”

  “I'm so sorry,” I said. “I got held up.”

  “I got him in the throat, though. And the balls.”

  “I saw.” She was still loopy. Her words were all slurred together like a string of wet clay.

  “What did he dose me with anyway?”

  “I'm not sure. Probably ketamine.”

  “What's ketamine?”

  “An anesthetic. It's also a pain-killer.”

  “But not an opiate.” I shook my head. “Great.” She swallowed noisily. “I hope this information was worth it, Michael Boutilier.”

  I hope so, too. God, I hope so, too.

  I glanced out the window, and frowned.

  “Michael.”

  “What?”

  “I think I'm going to throw up.”

  I saw the driver's shoulders tense.

  “Michael, I really think I'm going to be sick.”

  I didn't respond. We were outside our hotel and there were men waiting. Tattooed. Asian. Distinctly pissed off. The yakuza from San Francisco.

  Christina started to reach for the door handle but I held her back with an arm. “Stay in the car.”

  “What's wrong?” She saw the stalled car. Her eyes took in my face. “Michael — ” she paused, drew in a shaky breath “ — who are they?”

  “Some old friends of ours.”

  I didn't take my eyes from the driver who looked far uneasier than an innocent man should have. But he wasn't innocent. I had never told him the address where we were staying.

  Very deliberately, I said, “We've been set up.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Hunted

  Christina

  Set up.

  My head was spinning; it turned the scenery outside the cab windows into a dizzying carousel. I was going to throw up, it was only a question of when. It was like riding a ride an amusement park and getting sick and not being able to get off.

  In the past seventy-two hours I had discovered the dead and mutilated body of a colleague, seduced a revoltingly depraved crime lord, been drugged and then hunted down by the mafia.

  And now — this?

  “What do you mean, set up?”

  “That's what I mean to find out.” Michael whipped out a gun and held it to the man's head. “Who sent you?”

  “I don't know.”

  “Bad answer.”

  He removed the safety, and the driver, who hadn't braked, just slowed down, almost drove right off the road and into the sidewalk.

  “No, really! I don't know his name! I swear — ”

  “Michael, maybe you should just let him drive.”

  “Quiet, Christina,” Michael barked. “You. Slight change of plans. Take us downtown.”

  “I don't want to get involved. Please — ”

  “It's a little late for that, don't you think?”

  The sound of gunfire made the man flinch. The yakuza had grown tired of waiting. One of them had opened fire on the car. A bullet deflected off the outside of the car with a dissonant metallic sound.

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” the man whimpered. “Who the hell are you people?”

  “You got kids?” Michael asked.

  “W-what? Yes, two — why?”

  “Because those are the kinds of questions that will ensure that you won't live to see another tomorrow, and it would be a real shame if those two kids of yours don't grow up with a daddy because he wasn't smart enough to keep his mouth shut.”

  Michael glanced at me with empty eyes. “Stay out of this, sweetheart. You play too nice.” To the man he said, “You. Drive. Now.”

  The driver hit the gas.

  I glanced around through the back window and saw the Japanese men getting into a car of their own. My stomach lurched. “Oh God,” I choked.

  “Fuck,” Michael said, leaning away from me. “Fuck. All right. Okay.” With the hand that wasn't holding onto the gun, he pulled my hair back from my face. “Get it all out of your system.”

  “Did she just puke in my car?” the driver yelled.

>   “Watch the fucking road,” said Michael.

  “She did. She puked in my car.” He shook his head, muttering to himself. “Unfuckingbelievable.”

  I felt Michael's hand form a fist against my back. “I think you'd better focus on driving.”

  The driver's eyes darted to me in the mirror.

  Michael's narrowed.

  “Is that a problem?”

  “No,” the driver said meekly.

  “Then what do you keep looking at?”

  “Those men. The ones in front of the hotel — ” I saw the man's eyes in the rear view mirror, wide and white with fear “ — they're gaining on us.”

  “Go faster,” said Michael.

  “I can't. There's nowhere to go! It's gridlocked.”

  The traffic was terrible. I'd never seen cars so densely packed on one road.

  We would be sitting ducks.

  “You finished purging your guts?” Michael made the question sound almost tender, but there was a core of steel beneath that softness that made it hard to listen to him, hard to feel safe.

  When he was like this, he was deadly.

  I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. “Yes,” I managed.

  “Good.”

  Michael kicked open the door and got out, forcing me to run after him. He had my wrist in a vise-lock. He ran fast — faster than a man his size should be able to move. Before long I was out of breath, and feeling like I was going to retch again.

  The yakuza had gotten out of their cars and were in hot pursuit. The driver opened his door as well. “Wait, you owe me money! You — !”

  His mouth, along with most of his head, dissolved into a fine red mist. For a moment I thought Michael had shot him, and I looked at him, open-mouthed. He shook his head.

  “That was meant for us.”

  “His head — it just exploded.”

  I saw his face close down.

  “So will yours if you don't move that fine ass.”

  We wove our way through the stalled cars. People rolled down their windows to catcall or leer. Some shouted, “What the hell are you doing?” Others cursed at us. A few pulled out their phones and took pictures or videos, which made Michael's mouth tighten into a grim line.

  If the wrong people found that footage, he could be in trouble. Michael was a wanted man and going off the grid was becoming increasingly difficult in the burgeoning information age.

  At least we still had our disguises.

  The Japanese men were catching up, though. They were close enough that one of them risked a shot. The people around us screamed and rolled up their windows. The people with their phones out called the police. We were screwed.

  Michael yanked me behind one of the cars. I heard glass shatter. The people inside spilled out, narrowly missing hitting me as they shoved the door open in their haste to get out.

  Using the door as a barrier, Michael fired several rounds. The first two shots missed. The third hit one of the men in the neck. Blood spurted from the ruptured artery like a pipe with a leak as he tried unsuccessfully to draw breath to scream. He hit the ground, still clutching his throat.

  Michael walked out from behind the car and fired a final shot into the man's head, kicking him once to make sure he was still. Satisfied, he knelt down and fished into his pockets, taking the gun, his phone, his wallet, his keys.

  He handed me the Japanese man's gun. “This is yours now,” he said. “Take it.”

  I tightened my fingers around the gun. The last time I'd fired one, I'd shot Adrian in the leg. It had been right after he had propositioned me. Right after he'd shot Michael in the chest.

  A man appeared behind Michael, with a knife.

  I closed my eyes and squeezed the trigger, and red bloomed over the shoulder of his shirt, like bad tie-dye. Michael whirled around, shot him point-blank in the forehead. Blood, and thicker, slimier things that I assumed were brain, hit the ground in a gloppy shower.

  I dropped the gun and stumbled back from him. “This isn't me.” Loose grit cracked under my heels. “This isn't who I want to be. I'm not a killer.”

  “You think that's what I want to be? A killer?”

  He looked at me for a moment, and something shifted in his expression.

  “No,” I said hollowly. “But sometimes we can't help what we are. Sometimes our actions shape us in ways that we can't even fathom, and we don't notice until the damage has already been done.”

  He glanced at the couple in the car next to us. They flinched visibly when he met their eyes. I wondered what they were seeing — a monster? Two monsters? I had done so many terrible things.

  “You're not damaged.” Michael's face was wild, spattered with blood. A monster. My monster.

  “Then what am I?”

  His mouth quirked a little, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. What I'd said had displeased him. “A self-indulgent existentialist trapped in 2004.”

  “We're being shot at!” I snarled at him.

  “Then get over yourself.”

  A door opened. Someone tried to chase after us, but Michael was faster, and used to avoiding people who were far more determined. Several winding alleys later, we were standing in the midst of a residential area, surrounded by brownstones. A bus with an advert for a popular singer pasted on the side roared by, spewing exhaust.

  “There's now video image floating around of us on hundreds of mobile devices, and I'd say the odds of one of them going viral is pretty damn high.”

  “And we can't go back to the hotel…” I grabbed my hair. “All our things are in there.”

  That was what being on the run meant. Being forced, repeatedly, to abandon all traces of your old life at the drop of a hat. No longer being able to take material possessions for granted, because they could all be discarded at the drop of a hat. They had to be.

  “That's the least of our problems. You forget, we have cash.” He fanned the yakuza's wallet, making me look around just in case someone was watching.

  He's going to get us mugged.

  “There's almost two grand in here. L.A.'s full of malls. We'll find one and buy everything we need. There's always options.”

  I looped my fingers in the necklace he'd given me. “And our IDs? How are we going to get out of here? We can't fly, and we can't rent a car.”

  I took a look at his expression and grimaced.

  “By bus? Because that option's worked so well for us in the past. Every time we've ridden the bus in the past, something terrible has happened.”

  Michael ignored me. He walked to a nearby bus stop and grabbed one of the maps. “Looks like the eighteen's coming by in ten minutes.”

  I look down at my shoes. Cumbersome heels. Hot pink. Hideous. “I guess I can't walk.”

  “That's my girl,” he said.

  Michael

  I checked the map. The nearest mall was only ten blocks away. Close enough to walk from the bus stop, which was good because we needed new clothes. Christina's short skirt and leather jacket were at odds with the pastel preppy wear most of the women around us were wearing, and my filthy muscle shirt wasn't helping.

  When we were in a discreet corner I peeled off a couple hundred dollars and told Christina to use her judgment. “Meet me here in two hours. I suggest one of the first things you buy is a watch.”

  “Are you being sarcastic?”

  “Two hours,” I repeated. “Buy a watch.”

  The first thing I did was buy a new t-shirt and a pair of jeans. I left the old ones wadded up in the stall along with the muscle shirt. I held up the torn-off tags to the cashier and told them I wanted to wear the clothes out. They looked vaguely pissed but they took my cash. That was all that mattered.

  At a camping store I bought a large rucksack. We'd be needing food and other supplies and this would hold plenty. Not from here, though. Shit here was expensive and while money was tight I intended to pinch every penny until we could get our hands on a steady form of cash flow.

  Christina
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br />   Spending the dead yakuza's money felt a lot like tempting fate, but so did walking around in these filthy clothes. I was getting many looks from passers-by. I knew they were thinking I was a teenage runaway or a bum. Paying way more attention to me than they should.

  I had never liked shopping for clothes, but most of my friends had, and given my mother's profession I had learned more than I'd wanted to out of sheer necessity. I walked into the first store I saw that was typical for my age group, and picked out a pair of jeans, a flannel shirt, and a tank top. Since it was juniors, everything was a little tighter than I'd have liked. I hoped I wouldn't have to run again before my jeans had a chance to stretch.

  The gorgeous black girl at the register was looking me over, clearly wondering if she should call security. I guess I couldn't blame her — a filthy woman in a store for middle school girls, paying with a roll of cash? Yeah, I'd probably call the cops, too.

  “Is it okay if I wear these out?” I asked, trying not to look guilty or nervous. “I got splashed by a car — there was water in the gutters. My boyfriend is coming to get me and I don't want him seeing me like this.”

  “I'll have to ask my manager.” She very consciously ran my bills through a device designed to test them for fraud. I held my breath, but the light blinked green.

  Thank God.

  The girl then asked her black walkie, “Um, this woman says she wants to wear her clothes out? Is that okay? Yeah, she already paid and everything.” She glanced at me. “Did you want to use the fitting room?”

  “Yes, please.”

  The girl consulted with her walkie again. Her arm had moved, and I saw her name was Chauntelle. “Yeah, you can, but we'll have to check your bags after.”

  “That will be easy, then,” I said. “I don't have any.”

  Wordlessly, she handed me my purchases, receipt, and change. I pulled on the clothes in the privacy of the dressing room, trying not to feel too paranoid. Just get dressed and out of the store as quickly as possible.

  When I got out, there was a man in a black uniform standing near the register. Store security, I guessed.

  “Thanks,” I said, trying to smile.

  “Yeah, have a nice day.”

  Everyone seemed to be looking at me. What had Michael been thinking? This was far too conspicuous.