Cloak and Dagger (The IMA)

by Nenia Campbell

  Christina:

  26 hours left.

  I didn't understand — why would Michael destroy the disk? If Richardson was telling the truth, and the only reason the IMA was keeping us alive was to learn its location, then any bargaining power we had was as hopelessly crushed as those tiny pieces of silicon. What did he think the IMA was going to say when they found out? That's okay, accidents happen? That was what was running through my head.

  Luckily, a guard came in with more water before I had to respond. A different guard than before, younger. I thought that because of his age, he might be more amenable to asking questions. I asked how much time was left before we docked. He snorted and muttered something sarcastic under his breath as he unceremoniously set the bottles on the floor.

  “They won't answer any of your questions.”

  I grabbed one of the carrots and took a huge bite. Not because I was hungry but because I needed something for my jaw to work on, else I was going to grind my teeth into a fine, powdery dust. If my mother was here, she would be pleased. She had always tried to find a way to transition me to snacking on carrots. The answer had been under her nose all along: all she had needed to do was threaten me with untimely death.

  When I looked up, Michael was watching me again. “You never answered my question.”

  “Dieting,” I answered. “I think the prisoner look is going to be the new heroin chic. What about you? What's on yours?”

  He just looked at me.

  Michael had been a different man since his attempted assassination. It wasn't that he had stopped being dangerous, because he was, but that he had become dangerous in a different way. Fire instead of ice. Explosive instead of contained. Mercurial instead of predictable. I found myself looking at him sometimes and wondering what he was going to do next.

  “Your father is good with computers,” he said suddenly.

  I nodded, taking another bite of carrot. Where is he going with this?

  He paused only a beat. “Did you know he was a famous computer hacker?”

  The carrot I was chewing lodged in my throat. Carrot flecks speckled the floor as I coughed, “What?”

  “He sent a virus to one of our computers, causing an entire network to shut down. It was an accident — or so we believed at first. He was taking his little experiment for a test drive. Seeing what it could do. When he broke through our security system, he didn't realize what he was getting himself into. But I imagine he figured it out when he deciphered our encrypted weapons placement orders describing a list of powerful artillery recently bought and sold — artillery not available to the general public.”

  My father? A hacker?

  It made sense why Mamá had gotten so upset over Dad's telling me about the “forbidden doors.” That must have been after he'd already broken through the IMA's security system. The allusion to Pandora's box had been a reference to his hacking, and perhaps even directly to his foray into the IMA computer mainframe itself.

  “So…that's why…all this?” I moved my free hand into a swoop.

  “No. We could have bought his silence. But he turned what he had found into the police.”

  Dad had known all along — and he hadn't told me. Why? To keep me safe? That had worked really well. To protect my image of him as a father? The betrayal hurt worse than the knowledge of his double life. I stared at the wall. “If he turned it into the police, why haven't they launched an investigation?”

  “Infiltration.”

  “So, in other words, you have agents who pose as policemen.”

  Half his mouth twitched. “Something like that.”

  Well I had fallen for Adrian's act hook, line and sinker, until he dropped the charade. If he hadn't been so keen on lording my mistake over me, letting me stew in my own fear, he probably could have kept me fooled right up to the point where they slapped the handcuffs on me and slammed me in a cell. Could Adrian have fooled an entire police force? Probably, if he wanted to. I was sure the IMA had plenty of operatives who would feel even more comfortable in that role.

  An onslaught of questions were tumbling into awareness. “Why was I kidnapped?”

  “The message referred to a 'curious girl.' We thought that girl might be you, that you might have something to do with the virus's code, or the stolen spreadsheets.”

  “Well, I'm not.”

  “I realized that. So we decided to try blackmail. Hold you for ransom.”

  “Fat lot of good that did you.” I drew in a shaky breath. “I wish you hadn't told me this.” By which I'd meant, I wish my parents had been the ones to tell me this.

  But Michael took my words at face value. “I thought you'd be grateful to know.”

  Grateful. “All it's done is make me realize that my life sucks more than I thought.”

  “Oh? The IMA may enjoy playing judge, jury, and executioner, but even they need proof.”

  “They do have proof,” I said. “You said so yourself. It's on the — ”

  The database? Which he had wiped clean?

  “The disk showed a digital footprint of the pages he accessed. Without the disk, they have no proof, as well as a couple other terabytes of information, including some on you and me, that I'm sure will be missed. I told that idiot technician Richardson wanted the computers backed up. Richardson hadn't let the lower-ranked operatives of the IMA know that I was dead. I was enough of a superior that he had no reason to doubt me. Then I re-released your father's virus into the system. Unchecked, it tore the computers apart from the inside-out.”

  “You could have used it as a bargaining chip!”

  “They would have killed me, anyway. You, too, in spite of what you may think. Even if your parents had agreed to the ransom, and met up with my man at the Walk of Flags. The moment you saw my face, you were screwed. Only difference between then and now is that the IMA will be just as screwed as we are.”

  I paused, remembering something Adrian had told me. I hadn't paid it much thought at the time, focused as I'd been on escape, but now it made me wonder. “Is it true you were in a gang before you joined the IMA?”

  Michael had closed his eyes but cracked one open to regard me in a steely squint. “Where the hell did you hear that from?”

  “Adrian.”

  He laughed sourly. “I should have known.”

  “Well, were you?”

  “Yes,” he said. Both eyes closed now. “I was.”

  “You don't have any tattoos.”

  Another unpleasant laugh. “That you can see.”

  He was goading me, daring me to ask. “Why did you join a gang? It didn't seem to make you happy.”

  “What the fuck are you? A therapist?”

  “No…I…” I'd overstepped myself. I'd forgotten who I was talking to. I wished I could take my words back. “I was just curious.”

  “You think that's the root of all my problems? That if I hadn't joined a gang, I'd be a sweet, upstanding young thing like you? I grew up in the slums of backwoods Louisiana where there were two choices: join the gang or get the shit kicked out of you. At least if you joined the gang, you got some petty cash. Don't attach any of your pathetic childish fantasies to me just because I saved your father. For once, our wants coincided. You think I put my ass on the line for you for the hell of it? Because I thought it was the right thing to do?”

  The hostile barrage of words spoke at a long-harbored resentment that had been left to kindle. What reason did he have to hate me? He had ruined my life — what would possess him to even hint that I had done the same to him? “If you really feel that way, then why didn't you let Adrian finish me?”

  He leaned towards me. “Perhaps I should have.”

  “But you didn't.”

  “No. I didn't. I came back.” His hand cupped my face. “For you.” I flinched, but his fingers were, for once, oddly gentle. “My mistake.” His lips covered against mine, and his free hand closed around my wrist. He nudged me backwards —

  And dizzily, I fell into darkness.r />
  Michael:

  Something was wrong. I don't know how I made myself stop, but I did. Her breathing had slowed. “Christina?” Speaking was an effort. No response. I lifted her eyelid. The pupil was dilated. Then I looked at her half-drained water bottle.

  Drugs.

  The water.

  The goddamn water.

  I could already feel the effects of it. A heavy lethargy. A feeling of being disconnected. A cold sweat had broken out over my body despite the fact that the room was not that hot. I pictured Richardson watching these scene, as relayed by whatever bug he'd installed in here, and imagined him laughing. Revenge is a dish best served cold, he would say.

  I should have known he would take it literally.

  Christina:

  I wanted to throw up when I saw the guards' sleazy grins. Just like the St. John's boys, only worse because these were men, and there was something much more lascivious in their expressions. Much more…adult. Almost pornographic.

  “Rough night?” they said to Michael.

  They ignored me. After all, I'm only a girl.

  Michael looked exhausted. The shadows beneath his eyes had darkened, and his chin and cheeks were covered in golden bristles. He squinted into the dimming sunlight, blinking excessively, and then glared at the guards through slitted eyes.

  What is that supposed to mean?

  I couldn't remember anything beyond waking up on the boat and discovering we weren't in Oregon anymore. I distantly remembered talking to Michael about…something.

  What? What had Michael done to me?

  Two armed guards escorted us off the boat with their weapons drawn. A warning sign near the beach said PRIVATE PROPERTY; TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED. I walked purposely slow, drinking everything in as I searched for a way to escape — until the guard jabbed his gun into the base of my spine to hurry me along.

  The dirt was a soft dark brown that felt like sludge and smelled like sewage. Beyond the sunken path was a dense subtropical jungle. Birds chirped in the bushes. Periodically, I would hear a rustle from the undergrowth as something scampered away from our footsteps. It seemed like it would be easy — painfully so — to slip away. There had to be a second, hidden line of defense. Mines, maybe. Otherwise more people would escape, and Michael had said that once you were taken to an internment base, that was the end.

  I stumbled over a rock half-buried in the muck. Michael caught me. I tried to push him away — I didn't want his hands on me, not after what we…he…might have done — but he caught my wrist to restrain me. Probably thinking I was going to make a run for the foliage and get us both killed. He's always treating me like some idiotic damsel in distress. I yanked my arm out of his grip with more violence than necessary and lost my balance. I fell, dragging him down with me, and we landed in an ungraceful heap, inches deep in the foul mud, at the nearest guard's feet. All my injuries awakened like hungry lions and I screamed —

  Only to hear slow laughter.

  Mr. Richardson was standing at the edge of the path. Somehow he'd managed to find a dry patch of land to stand on. Adrian was at his side. He was still dressed to impress in spite of the swampy heat, but I was pleased to see him suffering for it. Richardson, in contrast, looked far more casual. He had traded in his suit for Bermuda shorts and a Hawaiian shirt. All that's missing is a flowery lei.

  “Welcome to Target Island. In Spanish, the translation is closer to Target-Shooting Island, but that's a bit of a mouthful,” Mr. Richardson spoke as if he were just a tour guide relaying the history of a wonderful tropical paradise. “This is where we bring our operatives to…retire.”

  Adrian clicked his tongue making a sound similar to a gun's safety being turned off.

  Mr. Richardson gave him a glare and us a rueful smile. But his eyes were unrepentant. “Consider yourself lucky, Michael. Most people have to wait until they're sixty-five for that particular pleasure.”

  “What did you drug the water with? Rohypnol?” Michael demanded.

  “Rohypnol,” Mr. Richardson agreed. I inhaled sharply and he turned towards me. “I know what you are thinking, Miss Parker. And no, you would not have done anything that you hadn't subconsciously wanted to do.” He smiled simperingly. “Perhaps there is hope for you yet, Mr. Boutilier.”

  I felt like sobbing — and throwing things. I started forward and so did the guards but Michael, being cuffed to me, got to me first. He grabbed my arm again, holding me back. As he struggled to keep me, and my temper, under control (“his mouth has always been like his ass” — this whispered remark interspersed with a furious look at his ex-boss — “the most unbelievable shit comes out of it”) a small, traitorous voice whispered, Would it have been so awful?

  Mamá had always made it clear she believed girls who got raped deserved it. I hadn't done any of the things she said “bad” girls did, though. I didn't parade myself around in sluttish clothes and make untoward advances. But Mamá had been wrong about everything else so far, so maybe she'd been wrong about that, too. Maybe it didn't matter whether you were bad or good, prudish or wanton: maybe just being female was enough, for some men. Maybe, like so much else, it was only about control. But then why do I feel so guilty?

  “Don't touch me,” I said to Michael, who dropped his hand.

  Mr. Richardson was watching us. “You don't remember what happened, Miss Parker?”

  “No.”

  “Pity,” he said. “It was…rather touching.”

  I felt Michael stiffen. “What did you do?”

  “I don't remember.”

  “What do you think you did?”

  “I don't fucking know.”

  He sounded just helpless enough that I believed him.

  Adrian, apparently disliking being ignored, said, “Your orders, sir?”

  “Ah, yes. Escort the two lovebirds to Node Six, Mr. Callaghan. Get them cleaned up and so to it that they receive food and a change of clothes — I won't have them stinking up the cells as they are.”

  Adrian did not look pleased by the prospect. Fastidious bastard. “Separate rooms?” he asked, glancing at me.

  Oh God, no.

  “No.” Richardson turned to face us. “Leave them together and double the guard. The girl is weak and slow. If he attempts to escape, she will drag him down; and he won't leave without her.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Release

  Christina:

  12 hours left.

  “Dismissed. Get them out of my sight.” Behind the casual dismissal, the careful authority, the fury in Mr. Richardson's voice was like a giant splinter shredding through his words. I vaguely remembered what Michael had confessed to me — the ship was bugged. Had the confession been for his boss's benefit? If it had been, Michael's ploy worked: Mr. Richardson was pissed. “Now,” he added savagely, prompting the guards into immediate action.

  Michael and I were separated. My handcuff was unlocked and I was thrown into a new pair. Oh, boy. The guard grabbed me by the shoulder and marched me away from the beach. It was a long walk. By now, the sun was a distant memory. The stars shone overhead, clearer than I had ever seen them before. In the distance, I could hear the hiss of the ocean waves. The sludge beneath my feet soaked into the fabric of my sweatpants, weighing them down until it felt like I was dragging a pair of smelly sandbags around my ankles. Soon, I was shivering.

  I knew we were close when the muddy ground yielded to cement walkways. All the buildings were postmodern behemoths shaped from steel and shatterproof glass, twisted into asymmetrical shapes. The futuristic monoliths were at odds with the deep navy of the Pacific Ocean, just barely visible from where we were now, and the thickets of palm trees. I remembered the dense jungle that surrounded the beaches and realized now why the guards hadn't been concerned about escape: there were watch towers posted around in even intervals. Each tower contained two armed guards. My heart sank. Target Island wasn't that big, but the base itself took up a significant portion of the land. Escape from here would be
nigh impossible.

  Node Six turned out to be a large L-shaped building. A large metal six stood in front of it, and I could see a five further down. The automatic doors parted with a woosh of air. We were in an office, except guards were posted at every door. A few people looked up from their computers, then lowered their eyes again. Sympathy or boredom? Neither was reassuring.

  I stumbled beside the guard, no longer able to keep pace with his military-precise steps. My injuries were aching from the long and arduous walk. My feet were blistered with splinters. I was cold and wet and exhausted. “Are we almost there?”

  “Shut up,” the guard said, with such viciousness I balked.

  By the time we reached the showers, I was ready to collapse. The moment the guard released me, I did. He looked like he was considering hoisting me to my feet but I suppose he decided it was less effort to let me lie there on the floor while we waited. I closed my eyes and wheezed.

  Footsteps approached. Red shoes and black boots appeared in front of me, about eye-level from my current position. A? I looked up hopefully. It wasn't A. It was another woman I'd never seen before. A dark and curly-haired woman with wide black eyes and red lipstick that looked much cheaper than anything I'd ever seen A wear. Her white sundress was a tight fit on her curvy body and had a plunging neckline. When she bent to my level, I saw more than I wanted. A native? I wondered if she spoke Spanish.

  “Tan joven y tan viejo,” she said. So old and yet, so young. Even if she wasn't a native, her Spanish was perfect.

  It occurred to me that I ought to pretend I couldn't understand her, that I might overhear the guards say something in Spanish if they assumed I didn't speak it. But the guard beside her gave no indication that he'd understood a word she said. If he did speak it, his bluff was much better than mine would be. If the guards here were stupid enough to converse about their secret plans in Spanish in front of me, my shock would probably give me away.