Cloak and Dagger (The IMA)

by Nenia Campbell

  “Get away from her,” I said to Callaghan.

  “Whatever you say, Michael.” He backed away with a mocking bow.

  Christina's legs were poised to run. She took several large steps backwards until Callaghan moved to intercept her. She came to an abrupt stop. “What are you doing?”

  “Exactly what it looks like. You know what the problem with being a saint is?” I had to force myself to press the barrel against her chest. Hard, to be convincing. Hard enough to make her wince. “You have to die first.”

  “You coward.” She spat in my face. “I hope you burn in the deepest, darkest circle of he — ”

  I punched the button of the detonator around my wrist.

  The ground beneath us rumbled as Node Five burst into flames. My “aimless” shots hadn't been quite as aimless as they'd chosen to think. The gun — which had been the mine launcher —shot highly explosive mines instead of bullets, and all those shots had been strategic. Remembering Richardson's warning. I pressed the watch again and the snipers screamed as their lofty range suddenly caught fire. Five shots. Five large explosions.

  Target Island was going up in flames.

  Christina:

  Time seemed to stop when I heard the gunshots. Two, in quick succession. No pain came. I wondered if the bullet really was that quick, that painless — whether I'd already died. I did feel strange. Not completely without sensation, but it seemed…minimized. A strange sour taste was in my mouth, thick and peppered with small motes that stuck to the back of my dried-out throat. When I reached out to steady myself, soft, wet earth sifted through my fingers.

  “Get up.”

  A familiar voice cut through the fog, as harsh and grating as sandpaper, and I stared up at the tall figure looming above me from my seat on the ground. My brow furrowed. If Michael was here, I wasn't in Heaven. Which meant (1) either he had been killed, too, and we were both in Hell, or (2) we were both…alive.

  A hand circled my wrist, tangible and much too tight. Somehow I was on my feet, running, with a hot, dry heat pressing in on all directions. I quickly realized we were not in Hell, though we might as well have been. Node Five was a raging inferno and the fire was spreading rapidly, bridging across the dried palm leaves on the ground, already cresting towards Node Six as I watched.

  “I'm alive,” I said, and this surprised me. I could still feel the phantom barrel pressing against my chest, digging into my heart. Just thinking about that made me feel cold all over. I had seriously believed he was going to kill me. Maybe he had been. Nobody could sound that cold and detached on command, right? Not unless they meant it. And what about those two gunshots?

  “Neither of us will be alive for very long unless you move. Faster.”

  He didn't need to tell me twice.

  “How…?” I croaked. Smoke stung my eyes, burned my nostrils. I was having trouble breathing, even though we both ran with ducked heads. The sour taste of it clotted my throat.

  “Mine launcher. They weren't expecting that. Probably too busy gloating over my bad aim.”

  “But…I heard gunshots.”

  “Gunshot. Just one, at the smoke balls, to buy us time. I didn't pull a gun on you.”

  “There were definitely two,” I said, “One right after the other.”

  He cut me off with a sharp jerk. “Then you imagined it. You blacked out there, for a moment. Probably heard the same shot twice. Come on.” We were running towards the beach. I could tell by the smell of salt, which grew overwhelming as earth yielded to mud and then wood. We were on the dock, which was slicked with water that had been sluiced across the splintered slats by rough winds. “Get on that boat.”

  That boat was bigger than a motor boat, and conspicuous. Not just because of the color, which was jet black, but because of the size. It looked expensive, too. Did he think the IMA wouldn't notice if we took it out for a joy ride?

  “Don't stare at me,” he said. “Get on the boat.”

  Reluctantly, I stretched out a leg to make a short jump. I collapsed the moment my feet hit the deck. My legs simply ceased functioning and gave out from under my weight. After running for so long, on so little, getting up was out of the question.

  I could hear Michael hot-wiring the engine, cursing with every mistake, knowing each second of delay was a second closer to being captured by the guards. This time, there would be no mercy. I was pretty sure they would just shoot both of us on sight.

  And then the motor revved to life and I was sinking into an oblivion of nothingness.

  Michael:

  I steered for about an hour and a half before I felt comfortable enough to set the boat on cruise control. I had to make sure I wasn't sending us into circles. It was difficult enough to steer in the open ocean and I didn't have time to search for a compass.

  I stretched, causing my stiff and tired muscles to groan in protest, and saw Christina passed out on the deck. Her face looked troubled, even in sleep, and I found myself recalling — as if against my will — the expression on her face when I turned the gun on her. That look of betrayal.

  I stared at the thousands of miles of flat Pacific Ocean that awaited me. Exhaustion was setting in as all of the functions that had been shunted off to one side suddenly clamored for my attention. The slate gray water was already starting to blur before my eyes. Whether I wanted to or not, I was going to have to stop somewhere — and soon.

  And risk drifting ashore on Target Island?

  I slapped myself. All that smoke wouldn't go unnoticed, even in such a remote location. Some plane would eventually fly over the area, see the smoke, and phone in the Coast Guard. I didn't want to be anywhere near Target Island when that happened. Stay awake, couillon.

  I scooped the girl up from where she'd passed out and set her down on a cot below deck. It was a risk leaving the boat on cruise control unattended — we might hit a rock — but I didn't want any surprises when the girl regained consciousness. When I returned to my seat, a weight lifted from my chest at her absence.

  The radio, which had emitted nothing but white noise since I'd turned it on, suddenly crackled to life in a burst of static. I jerked upright in my seat. Glanced at the radio, surprised, then wary. For several more seconds, there was just more static and indecipherable background noise. Then I heard a voice say, quite clearly, “Hello, Michael.”

  I froze. What did Callaghan want? How did he know I was here?

  He's bluffing.

  “Don't bother pretending you're not there. All the boats are fitted with GPS navigators. Or did you forget?”

  I ducked under the seat and saw, to my disgust, the small, blinking chip. Mocking me. I got to my feet, looked around. Spotted the propeller wrench hanging on the back wall where it would be in easy reach for repairs and set about prying the chip free. It didn't work well — the wrench was too blunt.

  Come on.

  I clenched my teeth and pulled — hard. The locator chip fell to the ground. I pitched it into the water with a splash.

  “Oh,” Callaghan taunted, “Destroying the chip won't help you. I already know where you are.”

  “What the fuck do you want?” I demanded, nearly ripping the speaker off the cord.

  “Temper, temper.”

  “Don't you fucking tell me — ” I drew in a deep breath, counted to five. “Put Richardson on.”

  “I'm afraid I can't do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “He's dead.”

  “What?”

  “Dead, Michael. Worm fodder. Which would make the new head of the IMA…me. What an amazing coincidence, wouldn't you say?”

  My fingers tightened on the receiver. Callaghan could be lying. He'd always been a liar, and a convincing one, at that, but I doubted whether even Adrian could sound so smug — unless this was true. I steeled myself for the worst. “How did that happen?”

  “Easily. He was far too busy staying two steps ahead of you that he never once thought of looking behind him. Where I was waiting. I'm a patient m
an, Michael. I can wait a long time. I have to say, it was pathetic how quickly he turned against you. Noble Michael. Patron saint of chivalry. What was it you said to the girl? Problem with being a saint is that you have to die first?”

  I growled.

  “Richardson never did care for that temper of yours, though. And you were young, strong, uppity. He was terrified of rebellion and you were the prime candidate.”

  “Obviously, I wasn't.”

  Adrian chuckled. “Quite.”

  I recalled Christina telling me that she had heard two gunshots. At the time, it hadn't made sense. But now I remembered Adrian taking the guard's gun after I'd thrown it aside…I had never gotten it back. I'd used a different gun to set off the smoke, which I'd stolen from one of the guards felled in one of the blasts. Which led to one undeniable conclusion. “You shot him.”

  “Of course. You made it easy for me with your little fireworks display. Nobody heard a thing.”

  “And A?”

  “Also dead,” he said lazily.

  “What do you want?” I repeated, taking the boat off cruise control and picking up speed. “You could have sent a chopper by now, if you really wanted to detain us.”

  “Us?” Callaghan laughed again, and I realized my mistake. “The girl's with you? I wondered where she went. Don't worry. I'm far, far too busy to bother hunting you down. Right now.”

  “I don't understand.” But I thought I might. I was hoping I was wrong through.

  “Michael, Michael. Richardson said it himself — he had yet to see your equal on the training field. Killing you would hardly benefit my purpose. I want to the rebuild the IMA, not tear it apart. You were an integral part. Killing you would be like destroying the keystone of a bridge.”

  “You enjoy destroying things.”

  “Not always. Sometimes, I also like to create.”

  Chaos, maybe. “Your seizing power is going to start a full-fledged war. The IMA will fall apart from the inside and then you'll have pure anarchy. It's going to be a fucking mob.”

  “Let me worry about that,” he said sharply. “Regain your strength, Michael. Play with your pretty hostage. Just stay out of my way.”

  “You wanted that,” I said, pressing my face into my gloved hand. “All that power.” Richardson was but, but Callaghan was infinitely worse. “You wanted a mob.”

  “We were already criminal. By gradually infiltrating various civil offices, we can also gain power and extend our influence at a fantastic rate. Richardson was not the man for that job — he wanted to keep the organization small because he felt discomfited by the idea of such a large organization. Wanted to keep his contacts close and small, like an Old Boys' Club. The fool. He was holding us back, costing us valuable funds, which was precisely why he had to die. Because he was so pathetically weak.

  “You don't care about money,” I heard myself saying.

  “No,” Callaghan conceded. “I don't…but the operatives do. Let's be honest, Michael; they may not like me, but if I keep them satisfied, they'll do anything I say. Anything. I can be very persuasive.”

  I frowned. Was that a thinly-veiled threat, or was the bastard gloating? Knowing Callaghan, it could be either — or both. I was quiet for a long time. Finally, I said, “Why are you telling me this?”

  “I'd hoped that, one day, I might persuade you to join me.”

  I snorted. “Play Godfather all you want. I'm not joining. Fuck you.”

  “Oh, no, I don't think so,” he said amiably. “But young Christina Parker on the other hand…. She is a pretty thing, isn't she? I might take her for myself. I could even call her C.” He paused. “So quiet, Michael. Don't tell me that I've gotten to you already? I have, haven't I? Ha. You're still the same rag-tag ruffian you were seven years ago. The only thing that's changed is your French patois.”

  I swore. The bastard laughed.

  “Same old temper, though. Consider my offer, Michael, or I'll consider the girl. Slán.”

  The radio went dead in my hands.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Friction

  Michael:

  Life on the streets had doled out a healthy sense of reality to me. Fear was one of the first emotions I'd ever learned. Working for the IMA only served to reinforce that crucial guiding principle: kill, or be killed. Fear supported this principle, it kept me alert.

  Terror, on the other hand, was new. Terror could get me killed.

  The boat was low on fuel. I drove the boat inland until I reached a small port town. There were no signs that I could see. We could have been anywhere. I wasn't sure if we had even left Mexico, yet, though from the look of the locals, I suspected we had.

  A new problem occurred to me: I had no shirt, no shoes, and no money.

  I went below deck to see if I could salvage anything. The girl was still asleep. Her chest rose and fell in concert with each inhalation and the troubled expression had left her face. She looked peaceful. I remembered Callaghan's threat; it made me wonder how peaceful she'd look if she knew what that bastard had planned for her.

  No. I wouldn't think about Christina. I'd come down here to search for clothes and money. There had to be some around here. Field agents got roughed up — it was part of the job.

  I found a pair of boat shoes more or less in my size lodged behind some life preservers in the supply closet along with a number of dried goods, bottled waters, and two emergency flares. Good to know, but not particularly helpful at the moment. I slipped on the shoes, hoping I could find some petty cash to buy fresh food. The dry stuff would come in handy in case we encountered a real emergency.

  Since the Phantoms were used by field agents, they were well-equipped for a myriad of situations. They should also contain an emergency supply of international money from countries like Europe, Canada, Mexico, and the United Kingdom. Hopefully it hadn't been depleted by the last operative using it.

  Sure enough, there was a small fire safe in the back of the closet. I found the key hidden under the driver's seat. Some of the money was missing, but there was still plenty. I emptied the safe of all the U.S. dollars, stuffing the bills into the pockets of my sweatpants.

  There was a small retail store within walking distance. Racks of cheap swimwear and Hawaiian shirts were being sold outside. It was off-season for beachwear so they weren't getting much foot-traffic. I glanced around out of habit and caught a couple people looking my way. Since that was probably because I looked like a vagrant, I decided not to be concerned. Ignoring the stares but still on guard, I selected a couple shirts and pants that would allow me to move around freely in case Callaghan decided to be a bastard and send a couple of his goons out to cause me strife. At this point, I wasn't ruling that out as a possibility. The man wanted to see me burn.

  Regain your strength, Michael. Play with your pretty hostage. Just stay out of my way.

  He'd been quick enough to frame me and even quicker to get me out of the picture. What was he hoping to gain by keeping me around?

  I turned back to the clearance racks and got some jeans in the girl's size, as well as a number of tops in neutral colors like gray and black. I intended to stay out of public places as much as possible but we would have to make runs for fuel and food. I did not want to stand out. Callaghan was no fool. Sooner or later he would send spies. Probably sooner.

  “Can I wear this out of the store?” I held up one of the gray shirts.

  The cashier was a woman, with eyebrows so thin they looked drawn on. She arched one: a reddish-brown too dark to match her blonde hair. “Certainly. Let me just remove the tags for you.”

  “Thanks.” I pulled it on while she rang up the rest of my purchases.

  “For your girlfriend?” she asked casually, glancing at the lingerie.

  “Not exactly,” I muttered.

  “Oh?”

  Something in her voice made me look at her twice. She wasn't as old as I'd initially thought, because of all that makeup. Rather than the late thirties I'd estimated, she
was a great deal younger. Late- to mid-twenties, maybe. Blonde. Thin. The type of woman I always went home with. My libido stirred. I knew, without a doubt, this woman would come with me if I gave the word. She wouldn't flinch if I came near. She wouldn't cry if I propositioned her. If the overt way she was sizing me up was any indication, I could probably even get her to do me in one of the changing rooms. Probably a scratcher, too, I thought, staring at her red nails. I'm not sure what it is about red nail polish.

  “I love your accent,” she purred. “Are you a Southern boy?”

  “Louisiana. Yes.”

  She tapped her nails on the counter, click, click, click, as she waited for the receipt to print out. Smiling at me, she said, in a meaningful voice, “Is there anything I can do for you? Anything at all?”

  Images immediately popped into my head of all the things she could do for me. I knew I had to get away, quickly, because I was deprived enough to take her up on it. “No, thanks, keep the change.”

  I didn't want to think about what would happen if my fingers brushed against hers. I knew what would happen. It'd happened a hundred times before, always ending in the same way. Waking up with a woman in my bed who I'd slept with but had no real interest in as a person. The joke was always on me, because they never looked as good in the morning as they had the night before with alcohol in me and makeup on them. And even though they always came across as tough as nails in the bedroom, scratching and biting, they always cried when I made them leave.

  They wanted to change me. They didn't seem to realize that I couldn't be change. Or I'd thought I couldn't. I'd never turned down a free fuck before. Forcing a smile, I left the store with my blood pounding in my temples and the cashier's disbelieving eyes boring into my back. Wondering what was wrong with me. That was the million dollar question, wasn't it? I didn't know what was wrong with myself. I'd spent so many years looking at a stranger in the mirror that I didn't recognize who I was anymore. And now, for the first time, the image was starting to clear. Surprise, surprise — I didn't like what I saw.