I wasn't completely helpless. Even with my hands cuffed I'd managed to get in a few impressive hits in, but nothing too serious. Nothing deadly.
So we danced, and I managed to dodge a number of blows until I'd been knocked supine, and this time, I couldn't get up fast enough. My attacker had only gotten up and left when he made sure I couldn't get up at all.
I tried to curl upright but a fiery pain spread across my middle and changed my mind, same as before. I hope it's not fucking hemorrhaging, I thought. Jesus Christ.
It struck me that I'd been getting beat up pretty bad whenever I went on a mission these days. Nearing the upper-limits of my prime. I was almost thirty. I could no longer do the things that I could do when I was twenty. I was starting to make mistakes that could kill me.
And if I wasn't real fucking careful, they would.
They already have. You're here, aren't you?
The door opened, and I craned my neck to see who it was. A man in a charcoal gray suit. A very tall — oh fuck.
I squared my shoulders and managed to levy myself to a sitting position by concentrating a small burst of force in my burning gut. Pain screamed through my midsection as I shot back up to a sitting position, but I didn't care. It was better than lying like a gutted trout.
Callaghan was in his thirties, now, and had finally started to show it. Not a lot, but enough. A bit of gray hiding among the brown at his temples. New lines on that death's head mask he called a face.
I hoped I was responsible for some of those. I liked the idea of making the bastard lose sleep.
“Here we are,” he said. “It's been a long time.”
“Not long enough.” He was alone. Cocky bastard hadn't brought in a single guard with him. Because he doesn't want witnesses? “You here to interrogate me?”
“I have Christina for that.”
The words were intended to cut and they did, far deeper than any blade. “Why? She knows nothing.”
“We both know that's not true,” the bastard pointed out. “She knows plenty.”
“Not as much as I do.”
“She knows enough. You made that girl dangerous, Michael. You could have disappeared off the face of the earth, and instead you chose to stick around and bait me, and you got her to help you do it. Well — ” he smiled “ — I'll bite.”
Damn it. “What did you do to her?”
Callaghan blinked. “Nothing.”
“You're a fucking liar.”
“She might have gotten a little roughed up, perhaps, but I'm sure even you would find her present condition acceptable.” He glanced at me. “Or perhaps not. In any case, hardly any harm at all has befallen your girl.”
“I don't believe you.”
“You should. We got her to talk with drugs instead of violence. You should thank me, Michael.”
“Fuck you,” I said.
“Of course, that could still change,” he mused. “We might decide that there is a possibility we overlooked something that could be of vital importance.”
The fluorescent lights buzzed loudly.
Callaghan studied his fingers. “We might decide — I might decide — that a firmer touch is necessary.”
I thought about speaking, but checked the impulse. He was trying to provoke me into saying something revealing. It was possible he was trying to supplement whatever Christina had told him with a slip-up from me.
It was also entirely possible that he was just toying with me. The hunt was over, and he wanted it to last, so he was attempting to prolong this as much as he could.
From a cold, logical perspective, the right answer was obvious: say nothing, give him nothing. But I could no longer claim to be emotionally detached.
I drew in a painful breath. “What do you want?”
Because he wouldn't have come in here if he didn't want something. Adrian Callaghan didn't do anything that wasn't a means to his own ends.
“I planned on having her tortured later. When her guard was down. She was rather unapologetic in the interrogation, you know. Regretted that she hadn't been able to do more damage than she had. That's rather implicating, wouldn't you say?”
“You already knew she hated you.”
“No, I don't think so,” he said. “That's part of it, but this goes beyond hatred. I think I frighten her, Michael. I rather think she's afraid I'm going to turn her into something she hates, so she turns that hatred outward, onto the most convenient target — me.”
“Or she hates you because you killed her mother,” I said. “Or because you nearly beat her to death. Or because you tried to rape her.”
“So did you,” Callaghan said. “And it got you the girl, didn't it, in the end? What does that say about society, I wonder, that the rapist gets a happy ending?” He paused. “Well, maybe not so happy.”
“For fuck's sake — ”
“Christina said many telling things that could get her into a lot of trouble. Branded herself as both a traitor and a loose cannon. I don't think any of my men would blink if I made her uncomfortable. However —” he gave me another slow look “— I could be persuaded to spare her the worst if you gave yourself up in her stead.”
“You said you have all the information you need.”
“Not for information, Michael.”
My skin crawled. I found myself recalling the phone call he'd made. I could even rape you, too.
“Why? You aren't gay.”
And he wasn't. Sexuality existed on a continuum, and Callaghan was living completely off the grid.
“Because I want to be the one to break you.”
This had some ring of the truth to it. Even when we had been equals, there had been something sharp and jagged between us, as lethal as the business end of a knife. When it became clear that I might be the better of the two of us, he had tried to kill me — and he had failed.
It was that failure, more than anything else, that rankled, I imagined. Every day, he had to live with the knowledge that he'd had the chance to eliminate his biggest obstacle and save himself years of strife, and he had been too amateurish to carry it out.
I wished I could have said I was surprised. I wasn't. In a way, it had always been leading up to this. He saw me as a threat, and he thought this would put me in my place. It wasn't about attraction or sex, but control —
And fear.
I maintained composure. “Why me?”
“You have a reputation. And that reputation is costing me men. It's costing me business deals. It's costing me partnerships.” It also must have cost him, to admit even this much. “There are far too many out there who see you as a Robin Hood character, killing the bad guys to save the good, and I can't have that.”
“You want to use me as an example.”
“It's good to know you're not as stupid as you act.”
I ignored that. “Why offer me this deal? What's in it for you, when you could simply take what you wanted and have done with it?” It wasn't like him, to be making deals when the other side had no leverage to speak of.
“I plan on spinning it to make you look like a coward who would rather whore himself out than take the noble, honorable route of his rank.”
Noble. Honorable. I wanted to laugh. Those words had never applied to me. I had sold myself to the highest bidder before for reasons far less meaningful. The only difference then was that it hadn't involved sex.
“If I say yes, you won't do…whatever it was you were planning on doing to her?”
“You have my word.”
“Your word doesn't mean shit.”
“No,” he agreed. “You'll just have to trust me.”
When I hesitated, he said, “Given what you know about Christina and her history, do you think she'll be able to recover from a second, similar trauma?”
God, I hated to admit it, but the sneering bastard was right. I'd forced myself on her, and it had damaged her, creating a lingering trauma that still festered like an open wound in her psyche. Seducing Valon had pushed her
to the very limits of what she was willing to endure for our sake, and it had forced her to relive all kinds of unpleasant memories. I couldn't do that to her again.
“Fine,” I said, and he tilted his head towards me in a way that reminded me of a raptor. “Fucking bring it.”
Christina had paid for enough of my mistakes.
Christina
I still remembered the first time I had been taken in for questioning by the IMA. It had been brutal, tortuous. They strapped me to a lie detector that looked as though it could double as a medieval torture device, and then they plied me with a number of questions designed to cause psychological distress.
They flaunted my relationship with Michael. They assumed it was sexual, instead of what it actually was: a kidnapping. To add insult to injury, they also implied that any non-consensual activity was not only my fault, but masterminded by me with the intent of sexually manipulating my captor.
At the time I had hated Michael more than I had ever thought it possible to hate anyone before in my life. He was the prevailing theme of my nightmares; he was brutish, and cruel, and had come close to raping me in the basement where he had held me captive. I didn't understand how they could entertain the possibility that I felt anything for him apart from sheer and utter loathing. I didn't yet understand that fear and hatred can make desperate people do desperate things. Even sleep with the enemy. Even worse.
That was the moment I realized the power that other people's opinions have on shaping your world, even if those opinions are wrong. I could deny everything, and they still wouldn't believe me, and I would suffer the consequences just the same as if their beliefs were factually correct.
That was also the moment I realized that there are people out there so evil that one meeting can eclipse the hatred you feel for your biggest enemies.
Through the lingering haze of the barbiturates, I could scarcely remember what questions the woman had asked, or what I might have said in response. I liked to think that I hadn't said anything incriminating, but the dread that weighed in the pit of my stomach like a hot and heavy stone said otherwise. These were the drugs the CIA used to coerce confessions from reluctant enemies of state; they wouldn't use them if they didn't work.
Oh, God, what had I said? Why couldn't I remember?
What have I done?
I turned, and knocked into something solid. My hand shot out to grab the object reflexively, and something wet spattered my hand. I stared.
It was a glass of water.
The lump in my throat made itself twice as obvious. I swallowed, and felt it tighten, catch, as though squeezing every last drop of saliva in my mouth like a penny-pinching miser gripping his last bit of change.
I was afraid to blink, afraid that if I did, the glass would disappear. When it did not, I fell upon it like a wild animal, drinking half the glass in two greedy swallows. Water. Thank God. Oh, thank God —
Then it occurred to me, as I was on the second swallow, that I should ration part of it for later.
Immediately after that, on swallow number three, I had another thought. The water could also be laced with drugs — drugs that might kill me, if I had served my purpose, or which might put me in yet another suggestive state if I had not.
And I had almost drunk it all without thinking.
Feeling dazed, I set the glass aside and tried to focus my scattered thoughts. Now that I really took the time to consider the water, and what it represented, I realized that this could be their way of saying that I had performed like a trained seal during my interrogation.
Good job, you betrayed your colleagues, have some fish.
Was that it? I hurled the water at the wall, but it was plastic, and merely bounced, sending arcs of water splashing harmlessly into the padding.
“Damn it,” I whimpered. Then, feeling this was not strong enough, I added, “Goddammit. Fuck.”
It made me feel a tiny bit better. No wonder Michael cursed all the time. But thinking about Michael was a mistake; he was one of the people who might have been compromised when the IMA had drugged me last night.
I punched the wall, feeling hopelessly stupid. When would I learn not to take things at face value? When would the natural suspicion of an agent come to me as instinctively as breathing? Was I just too naive?
As I waited to see what effect my impulsiveness would take, my mind circled back once more to last night's interrogation — the dim lights, the shadowed faces, the methodically brisk lines of questioning.
It felt like a dream that I could almost but not quite recall. I did remember them asking about my hacking. There were a few questions which might have been their sex-trafficking operation (not that they had owned up to it) because they had mentioned Suraya.
I remembered that.
Some of the questions had been about Michael. Quite a few of them had, actually. Which was odd. Our relationship was no longer secret, and knowing what he had done for me, they should have also known that I would never willingly betray him.
Which is why they drugged you, my brain whispered.
They had also asked me about Adrian, which frightened me. Because I tried so hard to keep my fear of him a secret and instead I feared that they were all too transparent. That he and all the rest of them could see through me as though I were made of glass — and they were more than willing to cast the first stone.
Outside, I heard the beeping of the panel as someone entered the code to open the door. I braced myself for more questioning, but what I saw was so much worse.
“If it isn't little miss Christina Parker.”
It was him again — in the flesh.
The sound of his voice sent goosebumps rippling up my arms. And as though he knew that, as though he were already anticipating the fear he could instill in me, he smiled and added softly, “It's been a while.”
He walked with a limp. That was new. I had done that. It seemed impossible that I could leave an indelible mark on this man, who was like the devil wrapped in human skin. He had the training of a solider and I — well, I was just a scared civilian who played at being a hacker. And yet, I'd marked him.
I swallowed hard. Limp or no, he could kill me with the twist of his wrist if he wanted. From the look in his eyes, which wasn't at all belied by the smile that curved his mouth, I suspected he wanted that very much.
I didn't realize that I had started backing away until I slammed against the wall. I uttered a startled noise.
“And now here you are.” He spoke as if this was a civil conversation, and not the prelude to what I was sure would involve terrible pain. “In the mouth of the lion's den. How does that make you feel?”
He was trying to corner me. There was nowhere to run, but I couldn't seem to make myself stand still. My body still held on to some faint hope that it could escape.
My nails dug into my palms. The pain was reassuring and grounded me. “Really pissed off.”
“Still a liar, I see. I know you're terrified. It's written all over your face.”
Was it?
Adrian lunged, shoving me back against the wall. “You never did know when to leave well enough alone.”
He barred me in place with one arm, and with his free hand he hooked a finger through my necklace to yank my chin up. He seemed about to say more but the pendant caught his eyes, and he glanced at it in critical appraisal as the stones caught the light. “What is this?”
I said nothing. I had the feeling, “It's a necklace, you moron,” wouldn't win me any favors.
Besides; my tongue was rooted to the roof of my mouth and wouldn't budge.
“It's very pretty, isn't it.” His cold eyes lifted to regard me with the same expression. “Just like the wearer.”
It wasn't a compliment.
(But pretty things are so easily broken.)
To him, objects and people were interchangeable.
Adrian tilted his head. “Did he give it to you?”
A direct question. It demanded an answer. I could continu
e to stay silent, but then he would feel the need to make me talk.
“So what if he did?”
The words were right, but the tone was all wrong, and his retaliation was swift. There was stinging pain, and I cried out, tears springing to my eyes as though he had called them there — because he had snapped my necklace. He had broken Michael's necklace, and the fire opal carved into the planet shape was already disappearing into his pocket, where I imagined it would soon join the cabinet of trophies he kept from those enemies he had destroyed.
Oh, yes. He had a cabinet. He'd shown it to me with all the glee of a little boy shortly before slicing me with a knife, and leaving me bruised and bleeding for Michael to find. He also had one of my rings. For a while, he'd worn it around his neck on a chain, like an animal smearing itself in the blood of a fresh kill.
That was what Adrian did.
My heart was pounding so fast I felt dizzied. I clawed at his face, but only grazed him. He knocked me aside, like a jaguar knocking aside the swipes of a small house cat, and grabbed me by the throat before I could fall. All veneers of politeness were gone now.
“I should have killed you when I had the chance, Christina Parker — ” I hated that he refused to call me anything but my full name “ — and by the time I've finished with you, you'll wish I had.”
He tightened his grip, and I was digging my nails into his hand, trying to allay his grip just so I could breathe. The pressure was terrible, painful, and the air I was managing to take in was scarcely enough to fill a straw. One minute went by, then two. “Please,” I squeaked. My lungs were aching, filled with sharp, stabbing pains. “I can't — ”
Adrian let his grip slacken, and I sucked in a clotted, panicky breath. Which was a mistake, I realized. Because seconds later, bile was rushing up my throat. Would I faint, or vomit? Both seemed imminent. I remembered Suraya. What he had done to her. Was that his plan? Mutilate me and then burn me alive and leave me for Michael to find?
I stumbled back from him, and he kicked me in the knee, hard enough to send me crumpling to the floor like discarded Styrofoam. If I put my heart into it, I'd last an extra five minutes. Longer, if he was enjoying himself.
Cease and Desist (The IMA Book 4) Page 24
