Cloak and Dagger (The IMA)

by Nenia Campbell

  I hadn't even realized I'd slapped him until the guard tackled me to the floor. The 250-something pounds of muscle slammed all the air out of my lungs, bruising a few ribs to boot. He pinned my throat with his bulky forearm, preventing any oxygen from making it back inside my lungs.

  “That was very unwise.”

  His voice sounded far away. Red and black spots danced before my eyes, standing out in stark relief against the white padding. Then suddenly, I could breathe. My throat ached, my head was buoyant, and my eyes felt like they might just burst, but I could breathe.

  “If you ever assault me again, physically or otherwise, I will let Mr. Callaghan have his way with you.” The boss gave me a hard look that belied his fake tan and round paunch. “I suggest you learn your place — and quickly. Is that clear?”

  I nodded.

  “As I was saying, Stockholm syndrome is not an uncommon disorder, especially in isolated cases like these, when the captor is a member of the opposite sex. Stockholm syndrome, Miss Parker, is about power. Mr. Boutilier had power over your life and undoubtedly informed you of that. Perhaps he showed you some small gesture of kindness, established rapport — something that made you believe he was showing you favor?”

  I found myself remembering the razor, the new clothes, and the way his face looked when he shoved me away in the hall — almost tortured — but no, that meant nothing. Only that he had the tattered remains of a conscience. That he wasn't as bad as Adrian. Not yet.

  But he had also forced himself on me, hit me, and cut me with a knife.

  The boss was confusing guilt, a normal, healthy, human emotion with something more. Something sinister and warped.

  “Did Adrian tell you I was perfectly willing to turn him in?”

  “Denial is a powerful thing. It can lead one to…overcompensate.”

  “I spent every day thinking of escape — or, at the very least, survival. Michael showed me little kindness. I was lucky if I received food and water. He made no attempt to establish rapport. Living under his regime of terror was a nightmare. You're sick in the head if you believe otherwise.”

  The guard decided to intervene at this point. I heard the snap of handcuffs and shot the boss a glare.

  “Miss Parker,” he said, in a voice that reminded me of slimy, crawly things. “Perhaps your head is the one that needs to be examined.”

  I cursed at him. The boss stood there, accepting the abuse, waiting for me to calm down enough so he could deliver more of his own. Whereas my blows were glancing and superficial, his cut straight to the bone.

  When I had run out of curses and fallen into a seething, livid silence, he said, “Are you ready to be reasonable, Miss Parker?”

  “He almost killed me.”

  “And yet he didn't, Miss Parker, and you stand before me as the very picture of perfect health. My operative would never defy a direct order unless it was in his interests to do so.” He didn't have to say what these were; his gaze said everything.

  “How closely do you actually watch him?” I snapped. “Did you ever stop to think that he might be working for somebody else? That maybe he didn't feel like listening to you?”

  Both the guard and the boss froze over. I'd hit the nail on their head — and hearing their own suspicions voiced by such an unlikely candidate had taken them by such surprise that even they, with all their training, had let down their guard. For a few seconds, at least. Both their faces became indecipherable masks. “We will have to see what Mr. Boutilier says.”

  He might as well have pushed me into the ocean with cement shoes and told me to swim.

  Michael:

  I pulled up to the base, flashing my ID at the guard. The green light flashed and he waved me through. That was a good sign. I locked up the car, glancing around at the too-silent trees, before making my way to the base entrance. There were no lights outside because those could potentially be spotted by passing planes at night.

  The man who'd built this base had designed the exterior based on his experience in Vietnam. He'd been impressed by the way the Vietcong had used the thick foliage of the jungle environment to their advantage, which was why he'd chosen the middle of the woods as a location. There were many traps located around the outside. Some I knew about, some I didn't; I always stayed on the path. Of the few prisoners that had managed to escape, none had survived.

  I dialed Richardson's number to tell him to call off the dogs. He wasn't picking up. Great. I shoved the phone in my back pocket. Looks like we're doing this the old-fashioned way.

  The most innovative and brilliant detail of the base's camouflage was the garden on the roof. The granite walls dipped down, forming a basin several feet deep at the top of the building, rather like an earth-filled swimming pool. Pine trees and natural forms of ground cover had been planted there. Combined with the granite, extracted from the quarries in the Cascade Mountains, the base was invisible from the air.

  I continued down the path. Then I paused. A soft sound, almost too soft to hear, echoed briefly in the clearing. A footstep, just a beat too slow. I bent and pretended to tie my shoe, looking around for any sign of my pursuer. Nothing. Gritting my teeth, I walked the rest of the way, aware of the footsteps ghosting mine. I didn't glance behind me or slow my pace again.

  Someone was following me. But why? When I got through the door, there was another unpleasant surprise. A security checkpoint. Two guards, a man and a woman, regarded me through their shaded visors. This is new.

  “Someone was tailing me outside,” I informed the woman.

  I thought I saw her eyes flicker behind the tinted frames. “Michael Boutilier?”

  “Yes.” I didn't bother to hide my impatience. “Why am I being treated like suspicious personnel? My card was cleared.”

  A scuffling sound drew my attention away from the female guard long enough to glance over my shoulder. Another guard was now standing in front of the door. Blocking it.

  “And you must be the welcoming committee.”

  A harsh sound escaped the man. It might have been a laugh. I turned towards him since he was the only one who'd given me a reaction. “What the hell is going on?”

  The woman said, “Disarm, and put your hands against the wall.”

  So Richardson hadn't been making idle threats. “I was under the impression that I had two hours to reach the base and file a report. I want to speak to Richardson.”

  “He will see you.”

  “Good.” I moved to get by her but she intercepted me.

  “After you disarm.”

  I tossed my issued gun into the plastic tub the man kicked at me. The woman sighed at her partner. “Eric?”

  He shoved me into the wall, yanking my arms behind my back. The woman frisked me methodically, taking, in addition to my gun, a Swiss Army knife, a lock-picking kit, the keys to my car, my cell phone, and the knife I kept in my boot. I turned around, breathing hard, and glared at the three of them. “My car keys?”

  “These items will be inventoried. They will be returned to you on your way out.”

  “I see no reason why I should be forced to endure such a humiliating breach of protocol.”

  “We have our orders,” Eric said.

  “So do I.” I took a step forward, gratified when they all backed away. “Step aside.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Terror

  Christina:

  I ate though I wasn't hungry. I needed my strength. I was going to see my captor again. The man who had made these past couple months' worth of hell. I tried to tell myself I could do this. That I was a strong young woman and — oh, who was I kidding? He terrified me, and now he was returning at the worst possible time to damn me. His boss already believed I had Stockholm syndrome. Now my word was completely dependent on his testimony, and there was no doubt in my mind that his arrival would lead to an even closer inspection of all my behavior.

  In fact, I was beginning to suspect that the IMA wasn't ever going to let me go, in spite of their assur
ances that I wouldn't be harmed if I cooperated. Not after they had brought me to one of their top-secret bases. I might have been young, but wasn't stupid. They knew I could point out faces and names. The FBI would want to talk to me and perhaps the CIA. I would be interviewed. My release, if it happened, would be widely televised — the IMA had become a liability, just as Michael had, by letting me see their true face.

  I finished the juice, pushing the empty carton away from me. The air conditioner, regulated by a thermostat I could not see, switched on and I shivered, wishing I was wearing something more substantial. The temperature in the cell was always about ten degrees too cold.

  I scooted into a corner, pressing myself into the padded wall. It was only mildly warmer than the center of the floor. I looked up at the blank ceiling. The empty white room had bothered me from the beginning and now I knew why: it looked like the solitary confinement rooms in insane asylums. The padded walls, the absence of stimuli, the buzzing silence — the similarities were chilling. I fought to stay alert, but my eyelids were heavy. Almost like lead.

  I was so tired…it was easier just not to move.

  And the nightmares began.

  I dreamed about gunshots in the middle of a dark forest where redwoods pierced the sky like black lances. The tops of the trees climbed higher and higher until the sky fell away, and the trees became the iron bars of a prison cell. I dreamed about concrete mansions and endless hallways where a faceless man chased me, slowly closing in. In a flash I was no longer the hunted — I was the hunter: cold-hearted and intent. No matter how badly I wanted to, I couldn't keep my finger from pulling the trigger of the gun I held. Something slammed into my back, blazing with heat, and just as abruptly I found myself on the floor, swimming in my own blood, looking into the piercing green eyes of my killer.

  With a gasp, I shot up. The door to the cell was sliding open. I stared at the guard with a dazed, bewildered expression. “Get up,” he ordered.

  “Why?” I asked. Oops. I should have asked where. Why sounded a mite too confrontational. Clearly the guard thought so, too, because he snapped a pair of steel manacles around my wrists and did not answer my question. I grimaced into the padding of the wall. Several of the more sensitive sores reopened as the sharp edges of the metal rings chafed my flesh, forming identical bracelets of pain. “You're hurting me,” I said. “My wrists are bleeding — they'll get infected!”

  The guard muttered something surly and dragged me to my feet. I watched him type a long passcode into the access panel. With a whoosh of air, the steel doors slid open and we were in the hallway. We were the only ones, and the heels of the guard's boots echoed like gunshots. The hallway seemed to extend infinitely in both directions and all the doors were identical — solid steel, and airtight.

  Even though I'd been distracted by the discovery that my “savior” was a sadistic madman, I didn't remember the building looking this big from the outside. Were we underground? Or did the walls just look deceptively huge? I couldn't even figure out how the guard was managing to navigate until I heard him under his breath. Counting. Counting the doors. That crushed my hopes of escape. Even if I somehow managed to break free from my cell, I still wouldn't be able to find myself out unless I memorized the floor plan.

  It was ingenious; it was insane — and I hated them for it.

  We stopped outside a door. Door number twenty-six of this hallway, from the guard's count. He pushed in the access code, his fingers stumbling in his haste. “Get in,” he said, articulating the command with a push.

  Get up, get in, get bent.

  The guard gave me another shove and I stumbled forward, yelling as the floor came rushing up to meet my face. I had just enough time to think about how much it was going to hurt having my face smash against the stone tiles before the guard caught me by the chain links of my handcuffs. I stared at my scared reflection in the polished floor as the guard set me back on my knees.

  Still shaken from the vertiginous fall, I looked around the room. Three of the walls were eggshell white but the one nearest to me was an opaque black glass that shone as smoothly as polished obsidian. If I looked closely, I could see the faint outlines of a room on the other side. One way glass? I moved closer and the guard yanked me back.

  Was I being watched? “What's going on?” I yelped.

  “Be quiet,” he said edgily.

  There was a slow revving noise, like an engine starting, and the ground beneath my feet rumbled. I felt it move. I jumped again, looking around with wild eyes, recounting all the high-tech traps I had seen in James Bond movies. One of the eggshell walls was parting to reveal a large TV screen. Confused, but still afraid, I watched the screen snap on to an analog channel. Then it flickered again and a man appeared on the screen. He was middle-aged with brown hair that was going gray, a drab suit, and easily forgettable features. He was also tied to a chair.

  I squinted. The man's eyes shifted towards something off-screen. His face widened in a silent O of horror as another man walked on-screen. Michael. He was wearing a tight gray t-shirt, jeans, and a trench coat. I caught a flash of silver in his left hand, his switchblade. I saw the man's mouth move as Michael listened, his face impassive as he flicked the blade in and out. He must not have liked what he was hearing because he produced several sharp, gleaming objects from his pocket and started towards the other man. I looked away when the crotch of the bound man's pants darkened to black. There but for the grace of God go I.

  This was the traitor that Michael had killed the day before I was brought here. The one who had killed a family. A family who had worked for the IMA. This man's blood had been on Michael's clothes. He looked like he should be teaching college students World History.

  And if this man was capable of committing such atrocities, what sins had the family been guilty of to incur his wrath?

  I shivered again. In the flickering lights of the garage, with his coat flaring out, Michael looked like a ferocious angel of death about to deliver his final judgment.

  “I thought I'd spare you the audio.”

  Adrian.

  He was propped against the door, holding a small remote, clearly delighting in my reaction. I hadn't even heard him come in. How long has he been standing there?

  Adrian pressed a button and the TV disappeared. I looked around for the guard to find he had vanished. His edgy impatience now made sense. He knew who he was delivering me to, and didn't want to stick around to watch the show. My mouth wanted to curve into a scream. I couldn't let it; once I started, I wasn't sure I'd be able to stop.

  He slipped the remote into his pocket. “Alone at last.”

  My lungs constricted. “Why did you show me that?”

  Adrian didn't answer but his weight shifted towards me. I edged back. “Is that why I'm here? To watch your sick home videos?”

  “No,” he said, stooping down. Even kneeling, he was almost a full head taller than me. “That's not why you're here.” He prodded my wrist. “This looks painful.”

  “That's because it i — ahhh!” I jerked away from him, gasping like a stuck pig. Something warm and liquid trickled down my wrist. Blood. My blood. I saw drops of it on the floor, gleaming under the lights like small garnets. He ripped open one of the sores.

  “Oh dear,” he said. “Are you going to faint?”

  I'd landed in an even more vulnerable position. My fear was so thick it seemed to shimmer before my dizzy eyes like a desert mirage. He crawled closer, like a spider, looming over me. “You are going to faint.” His glee at this was evident.

  Panic exploded as I thought of all the unpleasant things he could do to me while I was unconscious. But even conscious, I was helpless without the use of my hands. I was trapped — and he knew it. I could only watch as he tilted his head to get a better look at me, like a painter studying a canvas. He was calculating how — and where — to hurt me next.

  “I'm not going to faint,” I said, without much conviction.

  “Not yet,” he agreed, his
accented voice still pleasant. A genteel sadist.

  “Your boss said not to hurt me.”

  “Not yet,” he repeated, in that soft, seductive voice. “Poor Christina. So alone…so terrified.”

  “No!” I gritted my teeth, grateful he couldn't see how tightly my fists were clenched behind my back. “I'm not afraid of you!”

  “I said I was going to break you. And I will.” His voice dropped, so low that I had to strain to hear him. I didn't want to, but for some reason I couldn't seem to shut him out. “My boss doesn't believe your amusing little tirades. And Michael won't save you, either. That boy only cares about his own worthless hide.” He grinned suddenly: an artist inspired. “You couldn't stop him, could you? Well. When the time comes, you won't be able to stop me, either…”

  I froze as he leaned closer. His fingers tilted my face upward for inspection. It took every fragment of control I had not to look away from his scrutiny or scream at his touch; I had a feeling that to do so would mean the end of me. “No,” he mused. “I don't think you are going to be as entertaining as I thought.” He smiled again, tucking some strands of hair behind my ear. “We'll just have to make do with what we have, won't we?”

  He opened his mouth to unleash more poison and a series of beeps filled the air. Without moving back from me, he took the call. The world halted on its axis as he listened intently to whatever was being said to him, toying with the strand of hair that had caught his interest. When he hung up, he sighed. “Speak of the devil,” he said, with mock regret.

  “What?” I mouthed the word, unable to vocalize it. My head was still full of his sinister promises, the unpleasant feel of his fingers, the sickening knowledge that I had just escaped a fate too horrible for words alone to describe.