It was a paralyzing thought, and all too possible: these men were going to rape me, and then kill me. Possibly as he watched through some hidden camera. Why not? He had forced me to watch Michael kill another man on film before. I could just easily become another man or woman's cautionary tale.
I struggled. It was a knee-jerk response, vestigial, even. I could not prevent anything these men did to me. He had taught me that lesson all too well. But my resignation did not translate to the synaptic level — my body, a separate entity from me with its own will and agenda —wanted desperately to survive.
Just make it quick, I thought. That's all. Please God.
When they pulled off my clothes, I started to cry. Wordless, silent tears. These were a reflexive response as well. Despair rendered me incontinent, impotent, powerless. Once I started, I couldn't stop the silent, heaving sobs that left me gasping as a splintering pain lit up in my chest like a flare.
One of the guards noticed me doubling over, and said, “Oh, for fuck's sake — ” with disgust.
Why disgust? Did they feel guilt about what they were going to do? Clearly it wasn't enough to make them do the decent thing. That made their behavior more despicable; if they knew they were behaving cruelly and did it anyway, in spite of their misgivings, that made them miserable cowards.
That was when I looked up, and noticed that neither one of them had unzipped their flys. Despite the roughness of their respective grips, neither one had made a move to hurt me. One of them was holding a second set of clothes.
For me?
I was filled with a faint, wavering hope, checked by the grim certainty that whatever reprieve I'd been granted wouldn't last.
I let them dress me. They did so gingerly, as though fearful that any contact would cause them to contract a terrible disease — my humiliation, perhaps. Failure was seared into me like a scarlet letter.
I was filthy but they didn't take me to a shower, and I didn't ask. That request would have to be put through to Adrian, who would take great pleasure in denying me. It had been years since I'd felt this awful. Not since Michael had imprisoned me in that dark and awful basement. I swallowed hard — that iron fist of panic had returned to clench at my heart.
My hair hung in lank, greasy clumps around my face. Any traces of deodorant I had been wearing when captured had long since sweated away, and the guards maintained as much distance between us as possible while still asserting their presence. I wished this didn't bother me, but it did. It was a humiliation, one in a long line of many.
We went down a sterile gray hallway. The echo of the guards' footsteps was a steady as a metronome setting the tempo of my seemingly inevitable demise.
Death. Death. Death. Death.
Richardson's base had been a dizzying labyrinth of twists and turns and endless doors. This hall was much more straightforward, broken up by several security checkpoints and locked doors that required access codes in order to proceed. The walk was just as arduous, and when my flagging strength gave out they elected to drag me.
“I can walk by myself,” I said pathetically, but not one of them paid me any notice.
The hallway was almost entirely empty. But if Adrian's reign was as corrupt as we believed, it made sense that those in his employ would want to stay off his radar. He was like a grenade without a ring, liable to go off in the face of anyone who got too close. The few people we did see abruptly walked the opposite direction when they saw us coming.
When we finally reached the outside, the sun was blinding, filling my eyes with yellow ribbons of light that snapped at me like snakes. I squinted against the brightness, wondering what they planned to do with me. In high school, I had read a book about an insane huntsman who owned a remote island. When a group of people were shipwrecked there, he gave them a choice: die where they stood, or be hunted like animals in the wilderness. Looking at the dense curtain of trees surrounding the courtyard, I couldn't help wondering if Adrian was planning something similar. He was certainly twisted enough.
Stop it, Christina. Stop it right now. Don't do his work for him.
The guards stopped walking. I lifted my head and saw Michael standing there, sandwiched between two guards with his hands cuffed behind his back.
Until that moment, some small part of me had hoped that Adrian had spared him, after all. That he had only been rubbing salt into the wound, taking advantage of my fear and my doubts. But Michael looked awful — bruised and bloodied, and dark-eyed with exhaustion — and I knew, I knew…
How easy it was to hurt people when they cared about each other. Adrian had said something like that once. I hadn't realized until now how right he was.
Michael
I was as familiar with death as I was with the back of my own hand and suffering was no stranger to me, either. Countless men and women had fallen to their knees before me, many of them dead before they hit the ground. I knew damn well how to break the human spirit. Hell, I'd been good at it.
But I had never taken any pleasure from torturing my victims. Torture was a last resort, used only when all other means of interrogation had failed.
Rape was often used alongside other forms of physical assault. It was effective, within reason, although threats worked better. People feared the pain and loss of control that accompanied those acts; they would generally confess something, anything, before you were able to get far. The IMA had a history of looking the other way when people fucked their hostages, but it was supposed to be business, never recreational. Never for fun.
I was given gray sweatpants, which were put on me by one of Callaghan's guards. Another stood in the room, at a safe distance, training a gun on me — in case I tried anything funny. I was not given a shirt. My handcuffs would have to have been removed for that, and it was obvious they didn't want to take the risk, regardless of what their orders might have been.
Laughable, really. I was covered in blood, bruised in hundreds of places, and wounded badly enough to provide critical handicaps in several more. Any fight I initiated would not be won by me.
And yet, these men acted fearful. Terrified.
Callaghan must have been telling the truth. There had to have been something to these rumors about me, to make them more powerful than reality itself.
I was escorted, still in handcuffs, from my cell. No blindfold this time. A bad sign. It meant what I saw didn't matter, because I wouldn't be living long enough for it to make any difference.
I was led to a courtyard in the heart of the facility, which encased it like a concrete shell around a flat, grassy pearl. The courtyard was unpaved — possibly so it wouldn't be seen from the sky.
Interesting. Were we were near civilization? I didn't see how it would matter, otherwise.
Callaghan had mocked Richardson for being weak, but I noticed that hadn't kept him from stealing from our old boss's bag of tricks. I would have bet money that Callaghan had incorporated Richardson's idea of a living roof for camouflage.
A commotion from nearby had me looking up. Another procession of guards was approaching. Not Callaghan, but Christina as she was marched along by the guards. She was also cuffed and wearing different clothes from before. A white, ill-fitting shirt bared her arms, bruised enough that I could see the marks even at this distance. She also wore a skirt. Clean, but worn. I wondered what had spurred on the change. Maybe Callaghan was afraid that parading her around in the rags he'd raped her in would elicit a misplaced sense of sympathy from his men.
The void in my chest grew larger as she walked closer, and I saw just how badly she'd been treated. Her mouth was bruised, with traces of blood flecking the corners. Interlocking red lines crosshatched her skin, some still weeping fluid, and I recognized those marks because I had the same ones. The son of a bitch had used a knife on her. He hadn't told me that.
She looked at me with eyes that seemed larger because of the shadows surrounding them, and I saw them fill with tears even as I watched.
I would kill him for each one that
fell.
I wanted to take her in my arms and tell her that it didn't matter. That no matter what that bastard had done to her, she was still strong and brave. That this — none of this — made her any weaker. That I still loved her more than anything.
I wanted to do all this, say all this, as much as I wanted to carry out all of the threats I'd made to him earlier, while he had stood there and laughed.
But anything I said to her would only be thrown back in our faces. She was vulnerable enough already. I didn't want to do anything that would put her on the spot. I had tried to save her, and I had failed. I had failed at the one thing that mattered — keeping her safe. Revenge had blinded me to that, and we had made mistakes, and now we would both die for it.
I realized, with a suddenness that chilled me, that beneath that torn expression, Christina felt the same way. Beneath all the sorriness she had for herself was sorriness for me. She blamed herself just as much as I blamed myself. The expression I had glimpsed when she looked at me was pity. She felt sorry for me.
Nobody had ever felt sorry for me.
From the outer courtyard, we were led into a larger chamber that was separate from the rest of the facility. There was a strange, yet familiar smell here. Metallic and brackish, it reminded me of something I couldn't quite place, and that concerned me.
A handful of men were present now, including the bastard himself. Callaghan had stationed himself here, with a small retinue, to await our grim little procession. I looked at every one of them. None of their faces revealed what was in store.
Parading his victims around was a new low, even for him. Was this another attempt to make his men fear him, or was he merely showing off the fact that he had done what so many believed impossible, and caught me? Either was possible. Both.
Under Richardson's regime, Callaghan couldn't afford to have anyone find out just how fucked up he was. While there were plenty of rumors, nobody had ever actually caught him in flagrante delicto. Curiously, he no longer seemed to care what anyone thought.
I studied a reddish patch of discoloration on the nearest wall. Would that extend to executing his own men with little pretense? He had never shied away from bloodshed, but there was a time when he would have been willing to delay gratification in favor of other, more strategic advancements.
It appeared that time had now passed.
Callaghan rocked back on his heels, folding his arms behind his back as though mocking my current state. Except for the white noise hum of electricity, and a distant sound that might have been the wind caught in the tunnels, there was silence.
He's going to shoot us. Death by firing squad.
But no, that would be too quick. Too merciful.
“Michael Boutilier,” he said, “you've been a thorn in this organization's side since you were first discharged. And despite welcoming you back once, twice, with open arms, you continued to turn traitor.”
I stared him down and said nothing, even as my body throbbed and the word “traitor” echoed back at me, over and over, like a broken record stuck on loop.
You're the traitor.
You killed Richardson.
Were the markings on the wall rust — or blood?
“Do you know why people become serial killers?”
“Violence in the media,” I said. “Drugs. Lack of christian values.” If you believed the rumors about Callaghan, he'd been raised as a staunch Catholic.
“No. They enjoy being feared. Their calling cards, the little tells they leave behind at the scenes of every crime, are designed to instill in the populace a sense of dread. Why? Because it makes them fear that they'll be next — and they might well be.”
He lit up a cigarette, causing a stir to ripple among those who were assembled. His men shuffled around and exchanged looks. They'd have plenty to gossip about around the water cooler today. Men have been incited to mutiny for far less.
Money can compensate for a lot, which was why I imagined his men had stuck around all this time, but even money had its hard limits. And fear only buys you loyalty until people feel you're no longer the threat you used to be, and he was getting old.
I laughed, and he gave me a sharp look. This was not the reaction he wanted. Well, too fucking bad.
“When I became head of the IMA, I knew I had my work cut out for me. Under Richardson's reign, the organization had grown soft. A bloody Old Boys' Club where people reminisced about the good old times as they grew fat off their proceeds.”
Callaghan blew out a curl of smoke.
“I had to find a way to make us feared again.”
He moved unexpectedly, grinding the filter into my shoulder. I heard the hiss before I felt the agony. The odor of charred hair and burning skin filled my nostrils. I jerked my arms back instinctively, and the guards, either sympathetic or else too shocked to stop me, permitted this small rebellion.
With a cry, Christina stomped on the foot of the guard holding her, wrenching her soldiers in an unsuccessful attempt to break his hold. The guard hooked his arm around her neck, choking her into submission by putting pressure on her windpipe.
Seeing that gave me some relief, because it meant she wasn't broken; she still had a bit of fight left in her. Unfortunately, that little stunt also put her right on the bastard's radar.
Callaghan sauntered back towards the center of the room, so certain that his voice would carry. None of us could afford not to listen and he knew it, he fucking knew it.
“Bravado is so superficial. It's so easy to chip away, to reveal the terror that lies beneath.” He closed his fingers around her arms. “Fear of pain? Fear of loss of control? It's all there, mapped out in the very neural fibers comprising the emotional responses of the brain.”
He dug his fingers into the gash in her shoulder, and she twisted like a hooked fish. “As useful as you are, I can't risk having a viper roaming around at this crucial time, not when she hasn't been defanged.”
He released her and she shuddered violently.
“You should have joined me when you had the chance,” he said. “Pity that you decided to burn your bridges so … explosively, don't you think?”
She lifted her head. “I'd shoot you again.”
“Such a pity you won't have occasion to try.”
“I won't need to,” she said. “You'll think of me when the cold seeps into your bones and makes all your old wounds ache. You'll think of me and when you do, you'll remember who crippled you for life every time you have to take the elevator instead of going up the stairs. You thought I only shot you with one bullet, you sick fuck, but there were actually two. One to the knee, and one — ” with a tossing motion she indicated her head “ — right here.”
That gave him pause. I could see him looking at her, trying to decide if this brief show of spirit was worth crushing. Apparently it was. He pulled out his knife.
“No,” I shouted, unable to help myself. “Don't you fucking dare. You lay a hand on her and I'll — ”
What? What would I do? Glare impotently in his direction like a fucking patsy?
Callaghan ignored me and dug his spidery fingers into her jaw. She flinched and sank her teeth into the fleshy web between his thumb and index finger, hard. Hard enough that his blood seeped down the back of his hand, drizzling to the floor.
“Want to have a second go-round, do you?”
“I'll kill you!” She lunged forward — the guard had let go of her, taking a step back — knocking her head against his hard enough that I could hear the sound from where I stood. And then, breathing hard, she spat blood, his blood, into his face. “Unchain me. I'll end you now and God himself will absolve me.”
Callaghan was no longer smiling. He brought the knife to her face and pressed the sharp end of the blade to her lower lip. She tried to back away, but his hand was knotted in her hair. “Look around,” he said. “This is a godless place, Christina Parker. There is no place for your prayers or your conviction. Whenever will you learn that you can't win?”
<
br /> She spoke into the blade. “When I die.”
Oh sweetheart, you shouldn't have said that.
“When you die,” Callaghan repeated, amused.
He pressed until he cut skin, and she whimpered in pain and fear as blood, this time her blood, trailed down her chin to mix with his. He licked the blade thoughtfully, watching me watch him, so I knew this was as much for my benefit as hers.
“I'm sure that can be arranged.”
I had a sudden flash of insight what things would have been like, if he had been her captor instead of me. He would have shattered her mind. Broken her body. Warped and twisted her beyond recognition.
He would have destroyed her.
I felt him watching me. I tightened my jaw and let myself reveal nothing. He seemed disappointed. Without a mind for the blood coating the blade, he tucked the knife back into his pocket. A trophy.
You sick fuck.
Callaghan foisted Christina off on one of the other guards. She went as limp as a puppet with the strings cut. Playing dead. A natural defense mechanism.
Too bad it hadn't worked.
Callaghan made a dismissive gesture, moving back towards the building. His limp barely showed at all. He was showing restraint in front of his men, trying to keep the scent of his blood out of the water.
“Take them away. They've served their purpose.”
The guards exchanged looks. A braver one ventured, “Sir, what should we do with them?”
Callaghan looked back over his shoulder briefly.
“Unchain them and toss them in the silo.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Submersion
Christina
While watching various spy thrillers with my father as a young girl, I had always wondered why the bad guys inevitably went with a long and complicated plan for the hero's demise. Why draw things out? I asked myself. Why give them the chance?
Cease and Desist (The IMA Book 4) Page 26
