Or at least, they had been. The IMA had changed all that.
Mr. Chou didn't answer, and I scratched harder. God it itched. There was something gritty on my skin, like I had particles of sand stuck there. I looked closer. There were strange little flakes of something there. Yellowish and dry. Where had that come from?
The bad feeling in my gut hardened into a small, hot ball of lead. I looked at the soda bottle. The label seemed fine but the cap—I peered closer and was unable to contain my gasp of horror.
The cap had been glued back in place so it would make that same cracking snap as if the seal had been broken afresh.
Mr. Chou had opened one of the sodas. Mr. Chou had drunk about half.
“Shit,” I whispered. “Shit! Mr. Chou! Mr. Chou, I think the soda was—”
I looked up just in time to see him fall. There was a thud and a wet, sloshing sound as the soda bottle fell from his hand to soak into the carpeted floor of the limousine. I pounded against the driver's window already knowing that it would do us no good.
And then the limousine faded away in the wake of my terror, leaving me to plunge into the dark waters of my nightmares alone.
Chapter Fifteen
Reunion
Michael
I tried calling Hawk's number from a payphone. No dice. Either he wasn't picking up, which meant something bad might have happened, or they were in on the whole thing, which meant something bad would happen shortly.
I'd make fucking sure of it.
Callaghan must have put out an alert for my extended absence because when I got to the base I encountered two of his goons.
Ex-mafia.
Not from a very good mafia either, because I was pretty sure they had exactly one braincell to spare between the two of them. They made Ricky Morelli look like a Rhodes Scholar.
“Boss wants to talk to you.”
I was not impressed. “He fucking better. I want to talk to him.”
They looked at each other. People did not often demand to be brought to their boss. Not in so many words. Then they shrugged. “Let's go.”
I marched through the hallway with the two goons at my back. I slammed his door with a fist.
“Let me in—now.”
The less ugly of the two shuffled forward as if to stop me. I held up a hand, flexing the fingers. “You touch me, and I'll rip your arm off.”
That gave him pause.
I turned back to the door. “Callaghan, you better open this fucking door right now.”
“Bright and early.” His voice was muffled by the wood. “If I didn't know better, I'd say you were concerned about something.”
“I'm not in the mood to play. Open the door. Don't make me ask you again.”
“It's unlocked, Michael.”
But I knew it hadn't bee a moment earlier. Fucking mind games. Always with the fucking mind games.
I caught the handle in a vice-grip and twisted hard, wishing it was his neck. He was standing in his cushy little office, hands laced behind his back.
Without turning around, he said, “You should've left well enough alone, Michael.”
“That implies that things were well to start.”
“They were.”
“Not for me. Not for them.” I shook my head. “Why did you buy out the goddamn BN?”
“It was a business venture. They hold control over territories that we do not. It's so much easier to simply take what's already there than it is to break everything down and start…anew.”
“I don't believe you. That never stopped you before.”
“Ah, but that's because I'm getting older. Wiser.” He sneered. “Pity one cannot say the same of you, Michael.”
“Fuck you.”
“Let's not play games.”
“No, let's. I fucking love a mindfuck in the morning.”
“I know why you're here,” he continued. “You're concerned about where this leaves your pretty little friend.”
The thought had occurred to me. I kept my voice level. “Should I be?”
“Not as long as she serves her purpose.”
“What purpose? You have no business with her.”
“Oh, but I do. Now that I own the BN, she works for me. I have no intention of letting her go. Now, I'm planning a sortie for tomorrow night to celebrate the newest addition to my media conglomerate. Perhaps you've heard of them?”
He named a group even I knew; the name was like a fist to the gut.
“It's black-tie, Michael, and yes, that means I expect you to wear one.”
“Don't jerk me around you fucking mick. Answer the question—what the fuck is your business with Christina?”
“You answer to me. Don't forget that. Never forget that. Or I'll remind you. Very, very slowly.”
“What about Christina?”
“Her, too.”
“That's not what I meant.”
“But it is what I meant.” He smiled coldly. “Now. Get the hell out of my office.” I stood there, unmoving. He snapped his fingers at the goons. “Get him the hell out of my office.”
“Never mind. I'll see myself out.”
But I had one more ace up my sleeve.
“Suraya? It's Michael. I know you aren't too fond of me right now and shit, I don't blame you. But what would you say if I told you that there's a way for you to get your revenge and keep your sister safe?”
I listened for a moment. Then smiled.
“That's what I thought.”
Christina
I woke up with a throbbing head.
I was wearing a formal dress. Spangled gold lace. Beautiful, but I couldn't imagine that it looked very good on me. I'd never looked good in pale colors, and this dress felt a little too tight as if the person who had bought it hadn't been quite sure of my size.
Why was I wearing it? Who had put it on me? And where was I? I tried to get up. That was a mistake. My head was spinning like a carousel and now, so was the room.
I wondered if I was going to throw up. If the bad taste in my mouth was anything to go by, I might already have.
I put my palms to my eyes, wincing. Then I frowned. My bangs were not where where I had left them. They were curly and stiff—hairspray. I lifted one of the curls hanging against my cheek to my nose and sniffed. Then coughed. It smelled like hairspray.
In addition to the dress, my hair had been curled too, it seemed. When I reached up to explore, the strands felt stiff and unyielding. When had this happened? How long had I been out?
This time, I knew the why. Drugs. From the limo. It had to be the drinks. The glue—the itchiness. Sneaky, someone gluing the cap back on. I hoped it was nontoxic, though if the way my skin had reacted was any indication that didn't seem likely.
Had Mr. Chou known the drinks were drugged? Surely he, a seasoned operative, would have noticed something was wrong.
What if he did? If he still drank it anyway?
That meant something. Something bad. I couldn't quite put my finger on what, specifically, that meant. My thoughts were whirring like the blades of a disposal, chopping up reason, chewing it up and spitting it out in frenetic, panicky spurts.
The door opened. My head swung towards it and in that instant, I understood how a trapped animal feels. You want to run, but there's nowhere to run, and when you don't know the intentions of the person approaching you the temptation is to attack first and ask questions later, because you just never know.
It was a man in tuxedo, which confused me a little without making me feel any less afraid. The horror of the situation took on a surreal, comic cast.
“Who are you?”
“I'm here to escort you to the festivities.”
Was 'festivities' a euphemism for something? I looked around. There was nothing I could use as a weapon.
I took a step back, thinking that if worse came to worst I could jab him in the throat with the heel of my shoe. “What's going on? Where am I?”
“Please don't be difficult, Ms. Parker.”
P
eople only said that when something bad was about to happen. I took another step back. Then another. My back hit wall. The guy seized my arm and I started to scream.
“It's just a party.”
This, in spite of the fact that he had me in a choke-hold that could subdue a wrestler on steroids.
Oh, the irony.
“A party for what?”
“The dawn of a new era.”
God help me, I thought, I've been kidnapped by a cult.
Then I realized who he was—he'd shaved the beard, but I recognized the voice. Belatedly, but there it was. The man in the tux was Emil Anders.
“You—you lied to me!”
“Not exactly.”
I snapped my head back, hitting him directly on the forehead. He cursed, tightening his hold on my wrist. “If you don't go willingly, I'm authorized to give you a dose of tranqs.”
I stopped fighting.
And started plotting.
Michael
I hired my own cab to take me to Callaghan's new media headquarters. The lights were dimmed, so the colored stage lights would illuminate the glass walls and tiled floors. The bar was lit up with neon lights. It was all real classy, in blues and swamp-gas greens.
The smell of alcohol and perfume hung in low choking clouds, exuded from the sea of bodies. Evening gowns, tuxedos. Some cheap off-the-rack numbers and others evidently tailored to fit. What a waste. All cats were gray in the dark, and it took a more discerning eye than mine to be able to spot the difference.
I headed for the bar where a man in a white tuxedo was pouring drinks for two women who looked like they'd sprung fully-formed from a life-sized plastic mold.
When the Russian Barbies left, he turned towards me. “What'll it be?”
“Surprise me.”
“One Kamikaze coming right up.”
“What's in it?”
“Triple sec, vodka, lime.”
Perfect.
“Gonna be quite a show tonight,” he said chattily. “They say this Callaghan is going to give all the major press companies a run for their money.”
“Just pour the drink.”
He lifted his hands. “What's your problem, guy?”
I didn't answer that. I took my Kamikaze from the bartender and knocked it down, shivering a little from the impact of the bitter triple sec, the acrid vodka, and the sharp splash of lime.
It went down as rough as the name suggested
I loosened my shirt collar a little. I wasn't used to wearing a tie. In the humid room, it felt a lot like a choke-chain. For all intents and purposes, it pretty much was.
Fucking Callaghan.
I hoped everything went as planned tonight. I was starting to wonder if Suraya was going to bail.
I finished the drink, slammed the empty glass and a few bills on the counter. “Here's another tip. Don't talk so much next time.”
The throbbing in my head matched the fast beat of the European techno music. Light instrumental shit, the kind they play in clubs. I finished off what was in the glass and headed back out to the floor, keeping an eye on the various men and women who crossed my path.
Callaghan had never been one for social gatherings. Given his latest line of acquisitions, I could only assume it was a coup of some kind. He seemed to be expecting trouble. I'd been issued a gun, which I had on under my jacket. It gave me some reassurance, though I doubted I'd be able to use it against Callaghan or any of his men. He was fucking Argus-eyed this evening.
But if he was staging a coup, why bring me?
Wasn't he afraid I'd throw a wrench in his plans? If he wasn't—I smiled to myself—he was sorely mistaken.
Something shimmered in the corner of my eye.
Another guest. A woman, wearing an evening gown that even I knew wasn't off the rack. Like half the dresses here, the clingy fabric revealed more than it concealed. There was more skin on display tonight than in a porno.
Then I did a double take.
No, it couldn't be.
It was.
No. Fucking. Way.
I pushed through the crowd, ignoring the mutters and curses in my wake. She was on the arm of some young goon. “You have two choices,” I said to the goon, slipping my hand into my jacket. “Take your arm off her, or lose the arm.”
“Good luck with that.”
“My gun's aimed at your collarbone, right at the shoulder. You ever had that break? It hurts like a son of a bitch. You'll find that out personally in a few seconds.”
The goon decided to lower his arm.
I dragged Christina away, and took her by the shoulders. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Michael?” She stared up at me with wide eyes. “Where is here? What's going on?”
“Who was that you were with?”
Her face darkened. “A traitor.”
“Get out,” I said, “get out now. It isn't safe.”
“Not so loud.” She grimaced. “Don't you think I know that? Where am I, please?”
“Callaghan's Grand Opening Ceremony. I guess he's celebrating being able to broadcast his bullshit to an even wider audience.” I shook my head. “Why are you still here? I told you to get the fuck out.”
“Callaghan? As in Adrian Callaghan?”
“Yeah. Looks like you made the guest list.”
“Not willingly. I was drugged.”
Fuck, first Suraya going MIA, now this.
“It was awful. We were in the limo, and my teacher, Mr. Ch—”
“Not so loud.” The music drowned out mostly everything, but I was sure the entire place was bugged. “Over at the bar. It's near the speakers. That'll distort any bugs.”
The bartender, Joe Friendly, glared at me, but I noticed he was a lot quieter this time as he served the customers. I ignored him.
“Now tell me,” I said, “nice and slow—what the fuck are you doing here?”
“I don't remember anything that happened after getting into the car.”
“Where did you get the dress?”
“I woke up in it.”
Which meant someone else had put it on her.
I hadn't realized my fingers were clenched until I saw her flinch from the pressure of my hand on her wrist. When I lowered my arm there were red marks on her skin. “Sorry. You have to get out of here.”
“How? There are guards at every door.”
She had a point.
I wanted to kill that bastard for bringing her here.
I caught another man looking her over.
“Stick with me, then.” I made my face like stone as I laced my fingers through hers. “There's something else you should know. Adrian bought out the BN.”
“What? He did? When? How?”
“I've been trying to figure that out myself. What little I've been able to root up doesn't look good.”
“Oh God. This is a nightmare.”
“Callaghan had a little chat with me about that. I guess that means he's hiding something. He doesn't usually bother explaining himself—and I hear you've been poking your nose where it doesn't belong, too, darlin.” I ran my fingers up her bare back.
Her eyes had a glazed-over look that suggested she was still digesting the news of the takeover.
Or maybe that was the drugs they'd used on her, still wearing off.
“What do you mean?”
“There's a hacker who's been making a nuisance of herself around here. Driving Callaghan and his IT into a furor. Calls herself—or himself—Cassandra.”
“Like the Greek prophetess?”
“You've heard of her, then.”
“Well, yes, everyone has. Everyone who's ever taken Greek mythology, anyway. She was a doomed prophet cursed by Apollo.”
“Your luck with that subject isn't so good, either.”
“That's the irony; they were big on curses. Especially death curses—and the furies.”
“So is it you?” I swung her back against my arm.
“The hacker?” She blinked
. “No. Of course not.”
“Adrian Callaghan seems to think it is.”
“Well, he's wrong. I don't even like hacking. I'm a programmer. I don't want to dismantle, I want to create.”
“Not much room for that in this business.”
“Exactly. So I don't know who would—”
She broke off, and a familiar look eclipsed that face. I'd never seen it on hers before, but I'd seen it on others. It was the face of someone who just realized they've been screwed.
“What?” I demanded, drawing her closer. “What are you thinking?”
“There was a man—didn't you tell me once that my father had a partner? A…a colleague? A man who betrayed him to the IMA?”
“Yes. Itachi Watanabe. I was his interrogator. What do you want to know about him?”
She hesitated. “Was that his real name?”
“Probably not. Sounds like one of those damn animes.”
“Because—and I'm not sure if this is relevant—but the BN had a man working for them called Mr. Chou.”
“Chou is a Chinese surname. Your father's associate was Japanese.”
“That's the thing. On his computer terminal, he was programming in what looked like Japanese characters.”
Japanese? “Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure. He got very strange when I asked him about them. I thought I'd offended him, but now I'm starting to think that I was right all along. I'm almost positive that those weren't Chinese characters at all.”
“Oh, so you speak Chinese, too?”
“No, but there were girls at my school who did. Korean, too. Chinese ideograms are more complex. They have more lines. And I've seen enough anime to know kanji when I see it, even if I don't know what it means.”
Then he very well could be the hacker. I didn't want to spook her, though. The song ended, and I led her back to the edge of the floor.
“That might be something to follow up on.”
“There was one more thing.” She hit her palm with her fist. “Just before he passed out, he told me that he knew my father. I don't think he meant to. I think it was the drugs, breaking down his inhibition.”
“Very likely. Especially if they used Rohypnol.”
“Do you think it's him?”
I was thinking this situation couldn't possibly get any more complicated than it already was. That thought in mind, I checked my phone and exhaled in relief. Suraya had responded.
Locked and Loaded Page 15
