Cloak and Dagger (The IMA)

by Nenia Campbell

“Never mind.” Adrian slipped the phone into his pocket. “Come on,” he said, as I stumbled upright. “Michael, the prodigal son, has arrived home at last.” He flashed his teeth; it wasn't a smile.

  Michael had been the nameless man of my nightmares so long, I still felt my adrenaline kick-start every time I saw him — like a Pavlovian experiment gone wrong. Most of the fear I had for Michael was being canceled out by an overwhelming terror of Adrian Callaghan. There was something very wrong with him.

  His hand was on my shoulder, steering me. My wrist throbbed behind my back, too sore to be gripped; we both knew the consideration on his part was a farce. I could still feel that phantom tearing sensation, and the white-hot agony that had followed in its wake. The expression on his face…it had been like a shark that smelled blood.

  He looked down at me curiously. “Something wrong?”

  I didn't answer, and felt his hand brush the back of my neck. I jumped, hissing like a cat and heard him chuckle, quietly satisfied.

  It was a long walk. He had ample time to make me squirm. My nerves were shot to pieces when we arrived at our destination.

  This room was big, the size of a classroom, with white walls — no opaque one-way windows this time — and navy blue carpeting. A large oak table sat in the center, surrounded by a number of chairs. A waste considering that the only other people in the room were the boss, his purple-scarred escort, Michael, and a couple of guards flanking the doorway with their weapons in easy reach.

  Adrian pushed me into one of the chairs farthest from the door. With my arms behind my back the way they were, I was in constant danger of slipping off the edge of my seat. The boss laughed at my discomfort. “You can remove her handcuffs, Mr. Callaghan. She's not going anywhere.”

  Adrian knelt down, close — much too close — to my leg. The handcuffs loosened and slipped away. Without a word, he settled into a seat one down from me, setting the handcuffs on the table with a clatter. I was sitting across from Michael. I could feel his eyes boring holes into me like acid. I sneaked a look at him through the screen of my lashes.

  He was wearing plainclothes and looked absolutely furious; jaw tight, military-straight posture, the muscles in his arms as taut as the bowstring on a crossbow. I immediately thought of that video, which was odd because in the parking garage he had showed no emotion at all.

  “Is everyone present? Excellent.” The boss shuffled some papers noisily. “Then we can proceed. I heard you had some trouble with the security checkpoint, Mr. Boutilier.”

  Michael's scowl intensified.

  “Perhaps you will be pleased to hear that the answers you gave me are consistent with those of Miss Parker.” His eyes flicked towards me, before going back to the waspish Michael across the table. “I apologize. I had not realized the nature of the situation. Perhaps your judgment was not as erroneous as I thought.”

  Adrian coughed.

  “Thank you,” Michael grated. He shot a menacing look at Adrian, who continued smiling.

  “Regarding the girl's case: after much thought, I have reached a decision that should satisfy those who were entertaining…certain doubts.”

  He definitely looked at Michael when he said that.

  “We will give her parents an ultimatum. They will have seventy-two hours to turn themselves in, or face the consequences. Mr. Boutilier, I hereby release you from your previous assignment. You will be replaced by your backup, Adrian Callaghan. You will fly to Michigan with one of our other operatives. I have already booked you a flight; the plane departs tomorrow.”

  Michigan? Why Michigan? Are my parents there? I thought they had fled the country. But Michael nodded, looking as though he had expected nothing less. “Yes, sir.”

  “What consequences?” I broke in. Everyone in the room looked at me when I said, in a loud voice, “What are you going to do to my parents?”

  The boss raised an eyebrow. “Nothing.”

  I stared at him disbelievingly. “Nothing?”

  “If you parents fail to meet our demands, we will do nothing — to them. They are too flighty, and I grow weary of this perpetual game of hide-and-seek. But I am afraid that you, Miss Parker, are an entirely different matter…”

  Adrian drew a finger across his throat.

  “I'll need a map of the location,” Michael said.

  If my parents don't cooperate, the IMA is going to kill me?

  Adrian glanced away from me, letting his hand fall to the arm of his chair as he lifted his body higher. “You're letting the traitor go?”

  “Mr. Boutilier passed all the lie detector tests with flying colors, and allowed our physicians to administer a truth serum” — he gave Adrian a meaningful look — “and I believe him. The girl will remain here. Under guard. Keep her in the holding cell but, again, do not harm her.” This time Adrian received the stare weighted with disapproval. He dropped into an aggressive slouch.

  “Coimhead fearg fhear na foighde,” he said, pushing in his chair and walking out of the room. The guards made no move to intercept him as he passed, and his words rang in the silence. They had been in a language I had never heard before — and it certainly hadn't been Latin-based. Gaelic, maybe. There was no misinterpreting the anger in his voice.

  The boss frowned and tugged at his collar. “Mr. Sheffield, I'm putting you down as Callaghan's backup.” This was addressed to one of the guards at the door. He nodded his assent, though he didn't look pleased. “Mr. Boutilier, would you take the girl back to her cell, since Mr. Callaghan has decided to leave prematurely?”

  Michael nodded, getting up from his seat as well.

  “Wonderful.” He clapped his hands. “Everyone — dismissed.”

  I cried out when Michael took my by the wrist. Adrian had taken the handcuffs with him when he left — it figured that sicko would have his own personal pair — and Michael's fingers made direct contact sores. “What is it?”

  “My wrists hurt.”

  There was a pause, presumably as he glanced at my wounds, and his hand relocated to my shoulder. His grip was surprisingly loose. I suspected I might even be able to tear out of it with a sharp lunge, but that would be fruitless — I had nowhere to run and he was faster. The only thing I'd accomplish would be getting myself a different escort and another pair of wretched handcuffs.

  I could sense his mounting agitation; it was obvious, from the restraint in his hold. I assumed it had something to do with me and some unknown faux pas I committed in the conference room. When he said, “What happened to your wrists?” I was thrown.

  “Why do you care?”

  “If my subordinates are out there delivering their own brand of rough justice without my permission, I have the right to know. Answer the question.”

  “It wasn't a guard. They brought me to Adrian and — ” I closed my mouth, remembering who I was talking to. What if Michael told Adrian what I said? Hell, he'd been about to send me to the man himself, back at the safe house.

  “Who did?” Michael's grip tightened on my shoulder. “Tell me what happened.”

  “No.”

  “Tell me.”

  I had never heard such concentrated rage in such a short sentence; it was like being slapped in the face. I leaned away from him, shutting my eyes to close him out. But I couldn't turn off the pictures in my head as easily, and that pressure was bringing back too many memories.

  —Except now, Adrian had joined the slide-show, too.

  “Stop it,” I gasped, when he shook me. “It's your fault.”

  “Why is it my fault?”

  I pressed my lips together.

  “Look, darlin. Callaghan is going to tear you apart. He will get inside your head and destroy you from the inside-out. You are completely” — he drew in a deep breath — “and I mean completely out of your league here.”

  “Why do you care?” I repeated adamantly. “You won't help me.”

  “Insurrection in the hallways?” an amused voice observed. “Michael, you know better.”

>   “I'm taking the girl back to her cell — step aside.”

  I took a step back so Michael was standing between us. I hoped neither of them noticed. Adrian's eyes weren't focused on me, so I don't think he did. “I am sorry. I didn't realize you were already preoccupied,” he murmured. “Don't let me keep you.”

  I saw a tendon in Michael's throat jump. “What do you want?”

  “Answers.” When Michael hesitated, Adrian sad, “I've been assigned as your replacement. I just have a few questions about her case. Nothing more.” He looked at us both through hooded eyes, and I immediately distrusted him.

  “Make it quick.”

  Adrian looked at me meaningfully and said nothing.

  “Oh, for fuck's sake — ” Michael took two steps closer. “What?”

  Adrian bent his head to whisper in Michel's ear. I couldn't see his face, but the muscles in his shoulders bunched up. Whatever Adrian had asked him, he didn't seem to like it. “No?” Adrian asked, and laughed. “Oh, good.”

  Michael punched Adrian in the face.

  The movement was so fast, I barely saw it coming. Adrian must have, quick as he was, but he took it anyway. He reached into his slacks, pulled out a handkerchief, and began dabbing at the blood trickling from his nose.

  “Oh my God,” I said.

  “Get out,” Michael said. “I can break your nose again — and I will if I hear any more rumors about you playing judge, jury, and executioner with my hostages in my absence again.”

  The color drained from my face as Adrian slowly turned to look at me. “I know the truth,” he said, folding the bloodied handkerchief into his pocket. “And no amount of lie detectors in the world will keep you safe from that. Either of you.”

  “Get out,” Michael roared.

  Still laughing, Adrian went.

  Michael:

  Callaghan was literally insane. Not just desensitized; he was a card-carrying psychopath. I'd heard that, at some point, he had been forcibly hospitalized, but that was mere speculation. I wasn't sure I believed it, anyway. Most crazies I knew got better with medication. Callaghan clearly hadn't. I watched him walk away thinking that if anybody in this building should have their weapons confiscated, it was him. His mocking words were still in my ears.

  Had her, yet?

  The girl lurched in my periphery. With a final glance to make sure Callaghan had actually left, I walked towards her. Slowly. It had better not be another one of the escape plans she seemed able to conjure up so indefatigably. This was neither the time nor place to pull such stunts. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “I can't stand the sight of blood.”

  “Are you going to faint?”

  She went whiter. “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She opened her eyes. “I…think so.”

  I could feel Christina staring at me as I guided her down the hallway. She wasn't stupid. She must have known that Adrian had said something to bother me. I knew she wanted to ask what that something was. It was none of her concern. She should know that by now.

  “Why did you tell him that?”

  I glanced down at her. “Tell who what?”

  “The part about the rumors you heard about him playing judge, jury, and executioner. Why did you tell Adrian that? Now he'll know I told you what he did.”

  Of course. It all came down to self-preservation in the end. “He won't care. If anything, it pleased him. He likes to know when he's gotten to people,” I said grimly. “And besides, what I said had nothing to do with you. There's bad blood there.”

  “But that's not what he'll think! You mentioned hostages!”

  She was probably right. I shrugged. “I don't like torture. It's not effective and I don't need him undermining me. That's all. If you — either of you — choose to interpret that in a different way, that's your problem. Not mine.”

  I could tell she didn't like being grouped with Callaghan. I tightened my grip on her shoulder, warning her not to say anything else. We were close to her cell. I hurried along, wanting to get this over with. She was too insightful. Too nosy. She had to cut that out if she wanted to live.

  As if further proof of this was needed, she asked, “What did Adrian say to you?”

  “It was a private conversation that's none of your concern.”

  She stopped walking. I pushed her and her feet slipped and slid on the floor, but our progress was hindered. And I knew from experience she was difficult to carry for extended periods of time. “What?”

  “I…think it is. My concern. I want to know what's going on.”

  I snorted. “Trust me. You don't.”

  “I do.”

  I had started pushing her again but at her insistence, I stopped. Her eyes were wide, earnest, afraid. She was a little fool. I shoved her into the security cameras' blind spot. “Even if you do want to know, I am not going to tell you. You're too reckless and emotional.”

  “As opposed to having no emotions at all?”

  “I almost forgot how irritating you are. You still haven't learned your place.”

  “Your boss said the thing.”

  I didn't want to contemplate the kinds of things she must have said to draw such a remark.

  “Did you ever stop to consider that he might be right? Maybe whatever Callaghan has in store for you is going to do you a world of good, because someone needs to take the piss out of you. Now I am going to take you to your room” — I ignored the silent tears streaking down her cheeks — “And you are not going to say another word to me.”

  “They put a cap on my life.”

  “No talking.”

  Anger was beginning to assert itself in her voice. “You knew this was going to happen.”

  I hadn't actually, but it didn't surprise me. The IMA were notorious for their ruthlessness. A little collateral damage was nothing. They had done worse, much worse. All things considered, Christina had been extraordinarily lucky so far. I shrugged.

  “Were you going to wait until you slept with me before you killed me?”

  The idiot. She was hopeless. The hall was still clear, though a bug might have picked up the audio. I dragged her down the hall, into another blind spot. “Are you trying to get yourself killed? If they think I told you something confidential, you are dead. Why do you think they're bothering with this spiel about Stockholm syndrome? It's not because they care about you, darlin — Callaghan is proof of that. No. They think I screwed up. Big time. This is all strictly standard procedure. It's a way to make people feel a confession is the only choice, the only way out.”

  Her eyes widened. “What kind of confession?”

  I hesitated. “Do you still want to know the truth? Because once I tell you, you can't unknow it.”

  She nodded furiously. I had to give her credit; she had guts. I made sure the coast was clear for a final time and whispered, “They plan to kill us both.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Jeopardy

  Christina:

  I stared at him stupidly. I had been expecting something far more fantastic and complex. One of those intricate conspiracies that served as the plot line for so many action movies — not hostile takeovers and knowing too much! But this could be worse…because it was such a mundane explanation, there was no doubt in my mind it was also true.

  It took me a moment to find my voice, lodged somewhere in the back of my throat. “You? Why?”

  “The story they've been kicking around the office is that I'm a traitor; that I allowed myself to become seduced by my hostage and gave you some information I shouldn't have in a moment of…weakness. Information that you leaked, which allowed your parents to escape. It's scandalous enough that most people will probably believe it. Or want to.”

  “And the truth?” I managed.

  “I'm a senior agent: old enough to be taken seriously, young enough to look like a threat. I have many enemies within this organization. When I relocated without notifying my superiors in advance, it looked a lot like
insubordination. I don't screw up very often. I imagine they probably leaped on this opportunity like a pack of rabid dogs.”

  “But they're sending you on a mission to Michigan,” I protested, still trying to make sense of this. “Why would they do that if they didn't still trust you?”

  The look he gave me was full of scorn. “Do you know where Lake Angelus is?”

  “It's a wealthy suburban town in Michigan. And there's a lake, of course,” I said haughtily. “It's the type of place we'd go on vacation.”

  “Which is exactly why your parents wouldn't go there. They aren't that stupid.” He had a point, though I begrudged him for being so snide about it. “I'll tell you what is there,” he continued. “A team of highly-trained agents being paid to neutralize — I mean, kill — me if necessary.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “I have informants.” He paused. “And if you cooperate with me, I can get you out.”

  “You're offering to help me?” It has to be a trap.

  “The IMA has been fucking around with me for years” — his vehement tone made me flinch — “so I've been expecting something like this for quite some time. Counting on it, even. And what better way to get back at them than stealing one of their hostages right out from underneath their noses? It'll make fools of them, and they take pride on being foolproof.” His eyes met mine. “Keep in mind that this is revenge, and nothing else. If you get in my way, I will kill you.”

  I could accept that if it meant getting out of here alive. “What do I have to do?”

  “Be my eyes and ears while I go to Lake Angelus.”

  “You know it's a trap and you're still going?”

  “I've never turned down a mission before. It would look unseemly. Besides,” he added, “Sometimes it's better to” — his eyes narrowed — “run.”

  Sometimes it's better to run? “What?”

  “Just do it. Run.”

  “Wh — ”

  “Now.”

  I did. He tackled me, and we both went crashing to the floor. I gasped loudly and felt tears jump to my eyes. My knees had hit the floor pretty hard, and I could feel a dozen new bruises forming all over my body.