“No, I don't understand. You think my life needs to be even more miserable?”
“I think you need to learn your place, and quickly. I have held back before because I was bound by a contract.” He exhaled through his nose, turning his piercing eyes on me. “Now that contract is almost null and void. Professionalism will no longer protect you from harm. This is your final warning. Any more displays of petty defiance, and I'll make you regret it.”
I swallowed — hard.
“Now…” He folded his arms. “Don't you have something to say to me?”
I met his green eyes with poise and trembled at what I saw. His face was ashen with fury; he looked inhuman. My composure was fracturing. At any second, I would fly apart.
I spat an apology at him, wishing it was grit and broken glass instead. Which probably would have satisfied him, except I added, “Did I hurt your feelings, you bastard?”
He gave me a rough shove that sent me sprawling forward, so I was nose-to-nose with the carpet. Something sharp dug into my throat. “Your parents have fled, leaving you with little value. My boss no longer cares what happens to you. I don't think you get what that means. I can do anything I want to you, and nobody will care.”
The world seemed to halt. I could feel was his breath on my neck.
He gave me another rough shove. I turned around in time to see him sheathe the knife. “I suggest you exercise more caution when speaking to me.” The door slammed closed. I heard the lock click. Then through the wood, I heard him say, “Else I might take it upon myself to find a new use for that pretty mouth of yours.”
I heard the car pull away. I threw the water glass at the wall. It smashed satisfyingly, sending water and glass flying everywhere. I threw myself against the door, pounding until my hands were red and sore. Cursing and screaming at him, at my parents, at God — at anybody whose name I thought to invoke. I screamed until my throat was raw, until I was too exhausted to do more than collapse on the mattress and burst into tears. Soon, I ran out of those, too. I lay there in the darkness, watching the sky grow dark as it filled up with black clouds that swallowed up the stars. A heavy rain began to fall. I was still listening to it as I fell asleep.
Michael:
Kent suggested we meet in a place called The Mountain View Bar and Grill. I followed the directions from his e-mail, using the odometer for reference. I nearly missed one of the narrow turn-offs, which ran in the shade of the densely-packed trees.
Mountain View Bar and Grill was an old, run-down building made out of dark brown wood. The sign was hand-painted with the intention of looking rustic. I had never heard of Mountain View before but suspected it was either an old mining town or an old lumber town that had tried being a tourist trap and dismally failed.
The inside of the bar was no better. The wooden furnishings were worn from many years of water damage and rough handling. The faint, musky smell of mildew and old beer hung in the air like smog, merging with the piney scent of the mountains. An old jukebox was playing “Wild Horses” by the Rolling Stones, and a small group of men sat nearby with quarters at the ready, dominating the music as they watched closed-captioning football on ESPN.
Kent was at the bar. Normally a fan of tweeds, he was dressed in a red-and-black-checked hunting shirt and a pair of hiking boots. He had traded his usual pipe for a pack of Camels. There was already a beer in front of him. He was staring down at a notebook.
I sat down on the stool next to him. A bartender materialized and asked me if I wanted anything to drink. Kent sat up a little straighter, pretending to notice me for the first time. “Get him a beer on me,” he said, in a dead-on American accent.
“No thanks,” I said, before the bartender could comply.
Kent waited until the bartender was out of earshot before saying, “One beer won't hurt, Michael. You look a little tense.”
I bristled. “That's because the situation has gotten more complicated. I can't afford to be caught drinking on the job. It's imperative that I do what any situation asks of me.” And I wasn't sure what I might do to my hostage with alcohol in my blood.
Kent shook his head. “Aren't you afraid that you're becoming too good?”
The jukebox switched to “Before He Cheats” by Carrie Underwood. “I'm afraid I don't understand what you're asking.”
Kent blew a smoke ring. “I'm talking about your job. It's all fine and dandy when you always get your man — but people are beginning to wonder: who's going to get you?”
“I pay my loyalty where it is due.”
“That doesn't matter. You're too strong. That scares them.”
I motioned towards the notebook. “What's this?”
“This is a list of people who wouldn't mind seeing you disappear.” He rifled through it, showing me the pages. The notebook was full, and he had used both sides. Some of the names were highlighted.
“Yellow are the people who wish you harm but don't have the means to carry it out themselves. Orange are people who have the means but haven't attempted it yet. Pink are people who have, at some point or another, attempted to sabotage you — but failed.”
There were people from the IMA in there. Several bore pink slashes. Callaghan and Morelli, included, but that was no surprise. I pushed the notebook away. “I appreciate the effort.”
Kent drained his beer and flagged down the bartender for another. “That's not all. I investigated your run-in with the cops; they received a tip-off.” The bartender placed another beer in front of Kent, who gave him an effusively slurred thanks. Kent winked at me, swallowing down another mouthful of beer. “A command like that would have been issued from someone pretty high up on the chain, don't you think?”
Richardson.
I was in trouble.
Christina:
I lay on the mattress with the blanket wrapped around me, trying not to move. My stomach had taken on a dull, achy edge. All my captor had left for me was that single glass of water, which I had thrown against the wall. He'd never taken it upon himself to starve me before. Maybe I really am becoming disposable.
I listened to the house settle, trying not to focus on my thirst or my stomach's loud rumbling. The rumbling got louder — and it wasn't coming from me. Voices in the house. People talking. I recognized one of the voices: it was my captor. I pressed my ear against the floor but couldn't make out anything they were saying through the carpet. I could only hear the inflections in their voices. The conversation they were having didn't appear pleasant.
A floorboard in the hall creaked. “…has the motive but…too cowardly…himself.”
That had been the unfamiliar voice. It was deeper than my captor's, punctuated by phlegmy hacks and coughs. He sounded British.
“He's always been spineless.” My captor. His cold tenor was unmistakable. Even through the solid oak doors, his voice carried easily. He must have been angry if he was speaking so loudly.
“What…your boss?”
“The IMA is like a pack of wolves — nobody will challenge the leader unless he shows weakness. Richardson has taken special care to make it appear he has none. I have heard him describe me as ruthless. He thinks I want to ascend to power.”
“No. There are too many people who are loyal to him, and would not appreciate the shift in power. It's not worth the trouble or the time. I'd rather watch Callaghan and Morelli fight for it.”
“And I would rather see you leading them, Michael, than see Callaghan in power. That man is insane. There are stories about him that chill the blood — ”
Michael? Is that his name? It didn't suit him at all.
“All of them most likely true.”
“Seizing control now, while you still have the chance, might help your situation.”
My captor — Michael — said something in response, but they must have gone to a room that was farther away because their conversation became indecipherable again. I wondered about the people they were discussing. Were they like him? Unfeeling and immoral? I guessed ye
s. He — Michael — had referred to them as a pack of wolves, and he was not exactly model citizen.
I sat there, mulling that over, and the voices got close again. “…escaped from state lines.”
“How did that happen?” The British voice again. “Last I heard, they were on the east coast.”
“They had friends on the outside.”
“Who?”
“I'm not sure, but I think the man I got yesterday was a red herring. A ruse.”
“The man who killed the Brownstones?” A cough. “How?”
“I think they bribed someone they knew on the inside. That's why they never showed, I bet. Blythe was going to bite it anyway — someone just rushed him along. I don't doubt that he was working for the mafia, and that that was the reason for his murders, but I also don't think it was coincidence that he chose to show up on the west coast. I suspect somebody waved money at him. The Japanese man I interrogated has been taken in for questioning since he worked with Rubens before…and I suspect I might be next.”
“The two events could be unrelated — unless you think you're being set up for a fall?”
“I've considered that, too. I'm trying to examine every angle. Not an easy task when I've got the whole world breathing down my neck. My agency keeps telling me that the time for bargaining is over. They think we need to show Rubens we're not just fucking around.”
Rubens? Are they talking about my dad?
“Oh? And what stunningly insightful conclusion did the IMA reach?”
“That I use the girl as an example. I said, 'Are you suggesting torture?' And Richardson said, 'I am willing to use whatever means necessary to solve this problem. Use your own judgment.'” There was a pause and my captor — Michael — added darkly, “My judgment. Seems rather ironic, doesn't it, since that's exactly what's being called into question here. Of course, he suggested that if I didn't feel up to it, I could always send her to Callaghan…”
My head was starting to spin as I tried to absorb all this information. I didn't want to listen anymore, but I had to; I now knew that my life depended on it. As if picking up on my thoughts, the British voice said, “Is it safe to talk here? I noticed the walls are rather thin…”
“I already checked. There aren't any wires or bugs. We're alone, except for the girl.”
“Does she know what the IMA has plans?”
“She doesn't know anything.”
I do now.
I had crept closer until my cheek was pressed against the peeling white surface of the door.
“How long have you had her?”
“Nearly five weeks.” The door knob clicked as a key was inserted. I fell back as if it had grown painfully hot. My eyes shifted around the room looking for a weapon, but my captor had thoughtfully cleared it of anything remotely hard. Hold on, there's the broken glass. I snatched one of the sparkling pieces and held my breath.
“She should still be out. I gave her enough sleeping pills to knock out a bear.”
That bastard. My hand tightened around the shard and I gasped as the sharp edges sliced open my palm. Shit. I had no time to get back on the mattress, the door was opening. I collapsed in place as it swung open. Two sets of footsteps entered the room. The stench of cigarette smoke and beer filled the air, burning my nose and searing my lungs.
“Odd place to fall asleep,” the British voice said.
My captor didn't respond. I was prodded in the side with a boot. I continued to play dead, trying not to jerk when he bent closer. Gloved fingers brushed against the band of exposed skin where my shirt had ridden up. It took all my willpower not to yank down the hem.
When he touched my throat next, searching for my pulse, his fingers were bare. I tensed involuntarily and the hand was replaced by a knife. “She's not asleep; she's awake.”
Would he know I'd been eavesdropping? He was crouching over me, wearing the plaid shirt and jeans from that afternoon and looked furious.
The other man wasn't wearing a mask, surprisingly, and looked about seventy. He had large, startled eyes, like an owl. “The sleeping pills didn't work?”
“She broke the damn glass.” Michael had just spied the glittering shards, lit up from the light in the hall. “Bet you think you're clever, don't you?”
I lashed out with my piece of glass. Michael tore it out of my hand with the leather-clad fingers of his other hand and slammed both my wrists over my head. “You little saboteur. You'll stop at nothing to piss me off, won't you? I should have known.”
“It was an accident,” I said weakly.
He pressed down harder. “I'm sure it was.”
I looked at the man, wondering if he was going to help me, but he was turned away, facing the window and whistling “Before She Cheats” as he watched the drizzle.
“Stop looking at him. He won't help you. Look at me.”
Shaking, I did.
“Tell me everything you heard. Don't leave anything out — or I'll start using this.” He held up the knife.
It occurred to me that my captor — Michael — might be harsher when his business associates were watching. He wouldn't want to risk looking soft in front of them, and he had already declared that he was short on patience with me. Would using me in an act of male posturing take a toll on his conscience? An iron hand clenched my stomach. “I didn't hear anything.”
The knife nicked just beneath my ear. “Don't fucking lie to me, Christina.”
I couldn't reveal what I really knew — he'd kill me. Or send me away to that horrible man to be tortured. “You put sleeping pills in my water,” I wept.
His eyes searched my face. “What else?”
I shook my head, squeezing my eyes shut. “There was nothing else!”
He drew the knife across my skin, down my throat, and I cried harder. “You're afraid. I know you heard something you didn't like.”
“I'm afraid because you've got a knife.”
“Kent.”
The old man turned around, halting in the middle of “My Baby Shot Me Down.” He glanced at me. I thought I thought a flash of sympathy on his face. “Yes?”
“Please leave.” Michael's eyes never left mine. “I need to deal with my hostage. Alone.”
My blood turned to ice. “What are you going to do to me?”
The man — Kent — headed for the door. “I'll keep in touch.”
“What are you going to do?” I repeated in a higher voice.
He kept staring at me. It wasn't exactly hatred on his face, but something similar. “Whatever I want.” Like a man possessed, he leaned closer, letting the knife fall to the floor with a clatter. I could smell the alcohol in his pores. Is he drunk? “Let's start with your mouth.”
“No!” I choked. “Michael, don't — please!”
He froze, looking down at me with a curious expression. And then I realized my mistake; I had called him by his name. Which I wasn't supposed to know. The front door slammed. Michael didn't even glance in the direction of the hallway. Neither did I. Nothing else existed; he was the center of my universe. I was just one hapless planet orbiting far too closely around a lethal sun. “The game you decided to play is a very dangerous one.”
I raised my eyes to his, just in time to see his fist connect with my temple. A constellation of stars filled my vision, shimmering and white, before being absorbed into an endless black hole.
Chapter Nine
Wildfire
Christina:
My arms were stiff and bound behind my back with hemp rope. I sat up with a groan, stretching to see out the window. I caught glimpses of trees, interspersed with brief flashes of the mountains. My captor — I mean, Michael — was driving. I turned my neck, which hurt for some reason, and hissed, “You punched me.”
He didn't respond.
It was strange having a name to attach to the face of my nightmares. Maybe it suited him better than I'd thought. Michael was the angel of death — and war. “You — ”
“I heard. I punched you.” His
eyes studied me in the rear view mirror for a moment before returning to the road.
“Are you trying to scare me? Is that why you're doing this? Am I supposed to beg?”
He laughed, low in his throat. “Oh, you have no idea, darlin.”
The hairs on my arms prickled. “You can't heart me,” I said. “I'm your bargaining chip.”
“Not anymore.”
“My parents will come.” I couldn't muster up any conviction, though. Even I didn't really believe it anymore. “They love me.”
“All the more reason they should have protected you. And yet they ran. Your parents won't get any sympathy from me. My organization wants you dead. You aren't so useful anymore, even as a bargaining chip. They think you know too much. And you do.” He paused. “You should be more concerned about yourself at the moment.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“My agency.”
We're going to the place where they want to torture me? I opened my mouth, then closed it, remembering that was another piece of information I wasn't supposed to have. “Why? Why are we going there?”
Michael didn't seem to hear me. He was staring at the road with a fixed intensity. I stopped asking questions. We stopped at another desolate-looking building farther down the mountain, overlooking the foothills. I wondered how many sites there were like this; places that existed for the sole purpose of holding people captive. These derelict homes were nothing like the steel-doored mansions I saw in so many spy movies at home. They looked like what they were: prisons; places where you could leave and forget someone.
He had to drag me out of the car. I screamed and kicked at him, prompting him to say, “You can be conscious or unconscious when I take you through that door. You choose.”
I stopped thrashing.
After he cut the ropes around my wrists and cleaned the resulting wounds, I was instructed to take a shower. Instructed. I took no solace from the soap or warm water or even the razor he had procured for me. I was badly frightened. He was acting strange. I wrapped myself tightly in the towel before leaving the bathroom, dreading what would happen next.
Cloak and Dagger (The IMA) Page 10
