Cease and Desist (The IMA Book 4)

by Campbell, Nenia

  I shook my head sadly. My cat was the closest thing I had to a friend.

  Eventually, I ended up utilizing some connections. I found some semi-secret boards to advertise my talents and found people who were willing to pay for what I could do under the table. I was working on some of these shady side projects when my phone rang.

  I hadn't wanted to buy a phone — they were so easily traced—but in the Information Age people view going off the grid with suspicion. I didn't like having to explain to people that I didn't have a mobile. Better to have some connections and lie low than to be totally isolated. The ring tone was the default factory-setting one, loud and terribly synthesized. Poppet did not like it, and retreated to a safe distance, eyeing the phone with thinly-veiled suspicion and puffed tail.

  “Hello?”

  I disguised my voice, making it higher, with upwards inflection, vapid—the type of voice people tend to associate with blonde-haired, blue-eyed cheerleaders and not, say, dumpy Latina computer hackers. “Who is this? Greg? Is that you?”

  I heard what sounded like slow clapping. “Perhaps you should consider changing your name.”

  It was Angelica — Michael's…well, I suppose he would have called her a colleague.

  Would have. The ensuing pain twisted in my chest like a knife, but that was all. No panic. No guilt. No completely overwhelming desire to disengage. I was amazed that my reaction to hearing his name, to being exposed to his memories, could be so…manageable, and that was heartbreak in and of itself.

  And then apprehension washed over me like a cold shower, soaking into my skin, chilling my nerves into the stark reality of the situation. “You found me that easily?”

  She laughed. As far as responses went, that was pretty insulting.

  “You did not make much of an effort.”

  “I have a new phone number.” A new, unlisted phone number.

  “But the same name.”

  She had a point. There was something to that belief of names having mysitc power. Names are skeleton keys that unlock all sorts of pieces of information. By the time you factor in someone's social security number and date of birth you might as well own part of their soul.

  “I can connect you with someone who can provide you with new documentation. I'm rather surprised Michael hasn't offered to do it himself, really. Once the IMA stop jockeying among themselves like American frat boys, they will remember that you still exist, and that will be a very unpleasant situation for you.”

  Another knife twist. She didn't know? How could she not know that my world had ended? She knew everything. “Angelica.” I drew in a deep breath. You can do it. “Michael's dead.”

  The words stung the same as if they were pieces of barbed wire I'd chewed up and spit out.

  Angelica paused. “I don't understand.”

  “He's dead.”

  “How?”

  “Adrian Callaghan found us after we fled the base. He shot Michael, point-blank. I was the one who killed Adrian.” My voice sounded hollow, even to my own ears. Even though that ambush had happened months ago, it remained fresh in my mind.

  “You did?” I didn't miss the emphasis, or the delicate incredulity in her voice, but I was too upset to be properly offended.

  “I just kept shooting until he stopped moving. And then I kept shooting, just in case.”

  Angelica said something in what didn't sound like English. “My God,” she said. “I thought — that was just a rumor, one that he started to engineer his escape. He has played dead before.”

  Has he?

  “Not this time. This time — this time it was real.” Tears threatened. I blinked them away impatiently, grateful Angelica couldn't see. “The moment I saw what Adrian did to him, I knew he wouldn't pull through. Not without help.” I shook my head. “He was still breathing, and I couldn't take him to the hospital, I couldn't, because if I did — ”

  I'd only lose him again.

  Saving the life of the man you love, only to see him executed as a criminal while his name became interchangeable with the crudest slurs. Can you imagine? Can you?

  I'd spoken aloud, my voice rising almost to a scream as I said that last, “Can you?”

  There was silence, longer this time. And then, so softly that the static of her breath came close to consuming her words in a burst of crackling interference, she whispered, “I am so sorry.”

  Pity. I looked at my laptop, which had just blinked into sleep mode. I walked over to my desk and fiddled with the touchpad until the screen glowed brightly again. I didn't want her pity. The only thing I wanted was something that nobody — save God and the devil — had the power to give me, and just my luck, neither of them seemed game.

  “Did you need anything else?”

  “Pardon? Oh — yes, I actually wanted to know if you were interested in doing some contract work for a contact of mine. It involves cracking various encrypted files. If you are interested, I can have a flash drive with a copy of the files delivered to you … although if you're too—”

  “No.” My voice sounded too dissonant in the quiet. Too loud. Too desperate. “No,” I said again, trying for calm. “I'll take it. I could use the extra work.”

  “He can pay you three hundred dollars an hour. This should more than compensate for any other concurrent projects.” She started to say more, stopped. “I can try to have some preliminary documents sent along with the flash drive — identification cards, SSN, papers — so you're not a total sitting duck…although I am not sure I can have them ready by then.”

  “Just the flash drive is fine. Like you said, the IMA have their hands busy now.”

  “For now,” she agreed, in a way that still had the hairs on the back of my neck prickling.

  “You don't think it'll last.”

  “Do you?”

  I really hated how Angelica was actually starting to make sense.

  “Fine,” I said. “I'll take the documentation, as well.” She didn't say anything else, and it took me a moment to realize that further courtesy was required. “Thank you,” I added woodenly.

  “You're welcome. My condolences.”

  I stood holding the receiver and staring at the wall, marveling at how much my life had changed. If I could keep getting jobs like this, I would be set for life.

  For what remained of it.

  Because the IMA did not forgive, and they did not forget. I had knocked off their leader, and made them look like fools. Just as thieves are the least tolerant of theft, seasoned killers don't care for the murder of their own. Assassination had secured Adrian's power, but he still used Michael as a scapegoat whenever it was convenient in order to assert the loyalty of his men—because God forbid they get it into their heads that they might be next.

  When would they come for me? Would I even see it coming? Would that be better?

  Or was ignorance bliss?

  I thought Angelica had gone, but then I heard the thin thread of her voice whispering, “Be careful, Christina.”

  And then, belatedly, the click of dial tone.

  I picked up the flash drive at a location in Baja California that I wasn't to repeat under any circumstances. The drive arrived by courier, delivered by a man who was wearing gray hoodie, jeans, and the big sunglasses that were so useful in these parts for blocking out the rays of the sun.

  “Nice weather we're having,” he said, as I approached.

  Angelica had told me what to say. “Not if you're a snowball.”

  If he was surprised to see a girl doing what many people considered a man's job, he didn't reveal it at all. His face, as he handed over the baggie, was devoid of any expression. He didn't ask for any ID, either, so Angelica or someone else must have told him what I looked like. I hoped it was Angelica. The fewer people who knew about me, the better.

  At least until the documents with my new forged identity came.

  I was sure he'd already been paid, and generously, but I gave him a tip. It seemed like the right thing to do, and I did
n't want to make enemies by failing to follow protocol. If tipping was not usual, his face didn't show it as he pocketed the last twenty from my wallet.

  “Good thing we're not made of ice.”

  That was a matter of opinion.

  I went to a Starbucks on the way home, with the baggie containing the flash drive safely in my purse, and I ordered a dirty chai — in cash — to drink while I started work. Cracking was a lot like translation: it used a different part of the brain, one that allowed you to dissociate from the more personal, emotional aspects of life while you focused at the task at hand. It was a live-stream feed of logic, undiluted, untainted. Cold, hard numbers.

  Poppet tried to race out the door, and I had to juggle latte and purse as I nudged her out of the way with my foot. She was getting bigger now, and so were her litter mates. Sometimes my neighbors would curse in the mornings as they tripped over the growing cats on their way to work.

  As I looked down at her in reproof she raised a hind leg and began scratching her ruff. I was going to have to take her to get her shots soon. The appointment was for next month. Her carrier was waiting in the hall, the door open. She liked playing with the door. How long would that last?

  I set my drink down on the desk and plugged the flash drive into the USB. Instantly, Poppet was on my desk, lapping at the condensation beading on the side of the plastic cup. I set down a dish of milk for her, and she jumped down to the floor, her tiny pink tongue standing out in stark contrast to her dark fur as she stuck her face into the milk and sucked it up like a furry vacuum.

  Against my better judgment, I'd grown attached. I'd made room for her in my heart. Caring for another being is scary because their abrupt absence can be filled with nothing but pain; even though loving makes you a better person, it leaves your heart looking an awful lot like Swiss-cheese.

  I turned to the screen and studied the files. They were encrypted quite well. I didn't recognize the pattern off-hand, but that wasn't discouraging. I had a number of ciphers that I had created in my downtime, from researching other crackers' work. I ran through the ciphers and waited to see if one of them churned out anything that wasn't gibberish. It would save me hours of work if I didn't have to wing it.

  While the cipher ran, I checked my email. There was the purchase confirmation for Poppet's carrier, which I deleted. Spam. More spam. A message from Angelica, and another from Cliff. Cliff had apparently decided to return to civilian life, which didn't surprise me. He had legally adopted Jatinder, which did. I couldn't see him as the fatherly type. Maybe I was still a little biased. When I first met him, he had been one of Adrian's pawns. Maybe he'd changed.

  Maybe he had a hole in his heart, too.

  There was one email, without a subject. It had an attachment, which my anti-virus software didn't seem to like. The email had been flagged as spam. Curious, I ran a diagnostic on the attachment—if it was a virus, I wanted to know who had sent it, and why—but the file seemed clean. Famous last words, I know. My computer was fine after I opened the file, although I knew as soon as I saw the long lines of special characters that this — whatever this was — was encrypted, as well.

  Perhaps Angelica had forgotten to include something on the flash drive. But then why would she email it to me like this, without subject or sender? I might have deleted it, or accidentally forward it to someone else. She wouldn't have wanted to risk that. Angelica was every inch the professional and chalked nothing up to chance.

  I peered at the screen, like it was a puzzle, and I was trying to place the last missing piece. Now that I looked at the document, there was something…the encryption was different from the one I was analyzing with my current cipher. In fact — yes, I was sure of it — it was a cipher.

  My heart thumped once, twice. I wonder.

  With a shaking hand, I ran the flash drive's contents through the cipher I'd received in the email. It was a long shot, a million to one. A billion to one. It shouldn't have worked, but it did, it was.

  “Holy shit,” I breathed, digging my fingers into my knees as I leaned forward. The cryptograms began turning into English before my very eyes.

  And I saw my name. Right there, at the top. Christina.

  It was a message. A message for me.

  Everything stopped — the hum of my computer, the sound of Poppet's slurping.

  Everything.

  This couldn't be possible.

  No, no, no, no, don't do this to me, no.

  My eyes were blurring. I swiped at them angrily, as my stomach churned and my entire body vibrated with tension. Reading was making me physically ill, but I had to — I had to because not reading was worse.

  It was a long message. It took a while to finish. And at the end were three little words that threatened to undo me, to obliterate what remained of my heart. Or maybe, some part of me whispered, maybe it will piece those trembling little pieces back together.

  No.

  I wasn't that naive. Not anymore. This reeked of a trap.

  But what if it isn't?

  What if…he's still alive?

  It was as though I had been shocked with electricity. Something vibrant arced through my shoulder blades, propelling me to my feet.

  I wouldn't be able to live with myself for not taking this chance.

  I pushed a protesting Poppet into her kitty carrier, grabbed my purse, my coat, a few cans of cat food. Not thinking about what I chose. I didn't have to think. For the first time in my life, there were no fears, no self-doubts. Sometimes life grants you a second chance, but you have to be willing to rise to the odds.

  Double or nothing. Winner take all.

  I threw open the door, and I ran into the blinding light.

  Ack!(knowledgements)

  Well, this is it! The last book of the IMA series! Thank you for reading Cease and Desist. It's been wonderful sharing this journey with you.

  I'd just like to take a moment to recognize:

  My beta-readers!

  My readers — in many ways, the books in this series were one of my biggest challenges, since it's such a deviation from what I normally write. Their support and encouragement, especially when I was feeling exhausted or down, was really energizing, and I can't tell you how lucky I feel to have such amazing people reading my books. Thank you!

  Louisa — for making my book covers and just in general being a wonderful, supportive friend. I'm so glad I finally got to meet you IRL!

  My PR whoars, especially Kendal, who deserves an extra special shout-out because she was the one who read the first draft of this book (where the last 50% was all outline & I'd pretty much stopped caring about what tense I was using. IT WAS TERRIBLE).

  Please leave a review on Amazon or Goodreads! As an independent writer, I rely heavily on word-of-mouth publicity. Your opinion makes a huge difference!

  If you would like to contact me, I can be found on:

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/aficionenias

  Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6563933.Nenia_Campbell

  Twitter: https://twitter.com/NeniaCampbell

  Instagram: http://instagram.com/neniagram/

  You're always welcome to contact me! I love hearing back from readers!

  Hugs,

  Nenia Campbell

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