Oh no.
My eyes snapped open. “What was in the Gatorade?”
He didn't respond. A tight feeling formed in my stomach. No way he didn't hear me this time. What was happening to me was his doing — because he'd do something if it wasn't. Right? Maybe not. He was inhuman. He had to be. Nobody alive could possibly be this cold.
“What was in the Gatorade?”
“If I wanted to kill you, you'd already be dead, darlin.”
Darling?
Whatever he had put in it was potent because I could feel the need for rest overwhelming me, as if my whole body was fatigued. The roar of the car grew fainter and fainter, until, at last, it disappeared, and sleep swallowed me up like a black hole.
Chapter Four
Deal
I stared ahead, on the cusp of consciousness, wondering why my head felt like a detonated bomb, and why my mouth tasted like cotton. The last I could remember, that nameless, faceless man threatened me and my parents, and then forced me to drink a sports drink that I hadn't even wanted….
I breathed through my nose, struggling to remain calm. Drugged Gatorade. He had drugged the Gatorade, which I had been foolish enough to drink. And now…I was here, alone, in a darkened room that smelled like old garbage. At least he'd removed the blindfold. I twisted around in an effort to see my surroundings and nearly blacked out again. The throbbing behind my temples and eyes increased sevenfold. It was as excruciating as if someone were having at my brain with a rusty bone-saw. Whether this was due to injury or an aftereffect of the drug, I couldn't say. Slowly, carefully, I rotated my head until I could see behind me.
The only light came from a dirt-smeared window situated about six feet above the concrete floor. I was in some kind of alcove, and the light didn't reach me. My half of the room was in shadow. The walls hadn't been filled in with plaster, exposing a labyrinthine network of wooden framing, pipes, and fiberglass that reminded me of the boiler room in the Nightmare on Elm Street movie. My right wrist was handcuffed to one of the pipes. A dull ache in my shoulder suggested I had been in this position for some time.
Tears formed in my eyes. I felt them course down my cheeks and spatter my thigh through the leggings. I was being held captive by a man who didn't seem to care whether I lived or died. My head hurt. I thought I might throw up. I wanted to go home. “I want to go home,” I said aloud, and I flinched at the sound of my own voice. I couldn't give into this panic.
Or I'd die.
A door opened, spilling a yellow rectangle of light over me. I shrank back against the wall, wishing I had the power to melt through it, and squeezed my watering eyes shut against the brightness. Footsteps were approaching, halting a few feet away. A shadow blocked out some of the light, and something hit the floor with a slap that made me jump. “I know you're awake.”
Did he have cameras down here to watch me in my misery?
I cracked open an eye. By this point, most of the pain had subsided. I could make out his worn, black boots. My eyes moved upwards, taking in a body that was both powerful and intimidating. The thick black jacket he had been wearing earlier was gone, and so was the gun. He was wearing a white undershirt, yellowed in some places from sweat, and stonewashed jeans. He had no tattoos, no piercings, no distinguishing markings of any kind — except the mask. It covered the top half of his face, leaving only his mouth visible.
He was still looking at me. I lowered my eyes, studying what he had dropped at my feet. A manila envelope. The instructors at Holy Trinity used similar ones to store the attendance roster. I doubt he's here because he wants to take roll.
“Please. Where am I?”
Instead of answering, he dropped to his knees and opened the envelope. A permanent marker and a switchblade clattered to the floor. A knife? He brought a knife? Is he going to kill me?
Maybe he was just hoping to intimidate me. It was working. I winced at the painful dryness of my throat. At this point, I'd gladly take some Gatorade — drugged, or no.
“What are you going to do to me?”
“That depends entirely on you…and your parents.”
“My parents? What do they have to do with this?”
“Everything.” His voice was cold.
“I have no idea what you're talking about.”
“Really.” I could see him stacking what he knew against what he could tell me. “Let's start small.” He dropped to one knee, so our faces were level. “What do your parents do for a living?”
His shoulders were quite broad and I could see the contours of his washboard abs beneath his grungy shirt. The man was fit — no, more than fit. Fit meant working out at the gym. He had a body adapted for thug work. So what was he? A government agent? A mafioso? A terrorist?
“Well?”
I still hadn't answered his question.
“My mother designs clothes,” I snapped, because I had a feeling he knew this already. “And my dad has a cubicle job — he's nobody you know.”
He hit me. The blow was open-handed, but it stung.
“Don't get cute with me.”
“You hit me.”
His face said he'd do it again. “Why did your parents jump on an international flight? Where did they go?”
I pressed my hand to my cheek. “What international flight?” I couldn't believe he hit me.
I hadn't forgotten about the gun — but guns were impersonal. An intermediary. It took a different kind of mentality to use your bare hands to hurt someone. One that might be worse.
“Our last record of them shows them leaving a plane in a Canadian airport.”
“I don't know anything about that! I thought they were in Hawaii — that's what you said!”
We glared at each other — him, furious and impatient; me, scared and defiant, with a growing sense of panic. The slap had knocked more than just pain into me. Did he lie?
“They must have been expecting an attack.” Him speaking softly was scarier than him yelling. “Perhaps somebody told them we were coming. One of your neighbors. Or a friend with connections. It's the perfect cover. Plan a vacation. Change of plans at the last minute. And yet…one thread hangs loose. They leave you behind.”
“Are you implying my parents used me as bait?”
“It would look suspicious, wouldn't it, pulling their daughter out of school? No, they had to leave you behind to maintain some semblance of normalcy. But they released the maid, the gardener…everyone but you. I don't need to imply anything, darlin. The message is loud and clear. They screwed you over; they threw you to the fucking wolves.”
I pulled away from him. “Stop it! You're lying!”
He said nothing. He didn't need to; he'd already planted the seed of doubt. He just needed to be patient, let it take root.
“You're wrong,” I said. “You have no idea what you're talking about. You don't even know them, you don't know what they're like — ”
“I've seen their kind a thousand times before.”
“But — ”
“On both ends of the deal,” he added.
No. My mother and father would never do anything like that. He was just trying to put distance between us so I would be willing to betray them. Yes, that sounded about right. Well, it wasn't going to work. I wouldn't let him manipulate me.
“I've seen your kind before, too, Christina. You look like a good girl. Smart. I bet you follow all the rules. Well, follow mine and you'll be just…fine.”
“Why do you need me? I thought you had a man outside their hotel.” He shot me an impassive look. So he had lied. It was so obvious now. If he knew where they were, he would be there instead of here. My God, I was such an idiot. “I don't know where they are.”
He regarded me through the holes in the mask. His eyes were green — acid green. Caustic. “I think you know more than you're letting on. And I suggest” — he grabbed my face, digging his fingers into the hollows of my jaw — “I suggest you cooperate.”
“I told you I don't know where they are
!” I tried to pull away. “Let go!”
“If you think being out of the country makes your parents safe, you're wrong. My organization does not have a specific jurisdiction. Your parents will not escape — and you are not doing yourself any favors by protecting them.” He shoved me away.
Fresh tears burst from my eyes. My shoulder was on fire. “Why should I help you?”
“Because I will hurt you if you don't.”
God help me, I believed him.
“I don't know where they are. I'm telling the truth. I can't help you — I can't!”
“That's where you're wrong.”
“But I ju — ”
“Do you know what a bargaining chip is?”
“What? No. No, no, no. My father would never negotiate with a killer. Never.”
He picked up the knife, twirling it in his hand. The blade snapped out at me with a click. “Not even if his daughter's life was on the line?” I felt the flat side of the blade beneath my ear, raising a line of buckled skin. But not cutting.
Not yet.
“His very naïve, very expendable daughter's life?”
I tried to plead, to beg him not to hurt me, but the words lodged in my throat like barbed wire.
“I think he would, darlin.”
He was right. I couldn't believe I had been so stupid. I pressed my lips tighter, trying not to tremble when his gloved hand dragged through my hair, pulling it free from the messy bun. My hair tumbled to my shoulders. He held up a strand in his fingers, examining it in the light.
“W-what are you doing?”
“Pretty color,” he remarked. “Distinctive.” Before I could blink he had hacked off three inches and slipped it into the empty baggie that had previously contained the knife.
Evidence. I thought desperately. “They might not believe it's mine.”
He picked up the sharpie and began writing on the envelope. “I also have photographs.”
Fumes from the marker filled the air, making my eyes sting. “I don't believe you.”
He produced a crumpled sheet of paper and wrote on that as well. Is that my ransom note? My gut twisted around as I watched the letters span across the page. Did he really have photographs? When had he taken them? I hadn't seen a camera.
“What if you can't find my parents? What if they get away from you and your men?”
He didn't look up. “I have never failed before.”
“But if they do?”
He lifted his eyes from what he was writing and looked at me.
Then he left the room.
Michael:
Foolish girl, with her foolish questions. Did she have a death wish?
A red Toyota was stalling out front. Standing in front of the truck was a man dressed like a hiker. Faded jeans. Button-down shirt. Canvas backpack. But he wasn't a hiker, and I would have bet money that he was carrying at least two concealds. If not more.
“Hey. Nice mask.”
He was also a smart-ass.
I held out the envelope. He turned it over in his bare hands, like a child with a fucking present on Christmas Eve. Jesus. He wasn't even wearing gloves. “You're gonna get that dirty.”
He held out his clean hands with an affronted look.
For fuck's sake. “Fingerprints.”
His face went red. Apparently he hadn't taken this into account. He slammed his backpack on the hood of the car and tugged out a pair of worn leather gloves. “See any quail?”
A message had just been sent to my cell with a series of phrases I had committed to memory before destroying the phone. He was asking, Did you get the information we needed? Communications always managed to come up with some cute little theme for their codes. This time around it was “nature.” It should have been “I need to get fucking laid.”
I glanced at the safe house. “No. I'll find some soon. I've been looking hard.”
Torture wasn't my style. It was messy, and captives would blurt out any information they thought their interrogators wanted to hear, whether or not it was true. After two hours with Callaghan, a man might recall crimes that he never committed. I preferred a combination of scare tactics and mild physical assault. I tended to get better results with the threat of torture rather than the actual act itself.
The girl would be a difficult case. Not because I didn't think I could break her — I could, easily — but because she had to remain functional after I did it. When I took her to base, she would be evaluated by one of our psychologists to see if she was in a mental state where she could answer questions rationally. As frustrating as it was to proceed at this grueling pace, I had to respect the orders of my superiors. Even if I disagreed with them.
Especially if I disagreed with them.
The girl could use a good scare, though. She didn't appear to grasp the seriousness of her situation. I got the feeling she believed, on some basic level necessary for survival, that this was a nightmare she was going to wake up from. I needed to shatter that illusion.
“Maybe you're looking in the wrong place,” the agent was saying.
I tore off my mask. “You don't question my methods. You just do as you're told. Is that clear?” His eyes widened in recognition. He bobbed his head. “Good.”
“But…the quarry…Mr. Richardson will be wanting answers. What should I tell him?”
“You can tell your boss that he'll get his answers, but I need more time with this one.”
He nodded quickly and got back behind the wheel. I watched him tear out of the clearing, filling the clean mountain air with the smell of burning rubber. I snorted, slipped the mask back in place, and started towards the safe house. For her sake, she had better start speaking — and soon. I wasn't sure I had the patience to wait much longer.
Christina:
Days passed without word from my parents.
Part of me took pleasure in the fact that they had managed to elude capture. But if my captor was as good as he claimed, we were all still in terrible danger. Especially me. I worried about them every day, but I worried about myself every second. After all, he already had me.
My captor had barely said one word to me since he had delivered his latest threat. It had been recent. Yesterday. Or the day before that. All the days blended together. My captor had come down to deliver my breakfast. He got too close, and I launched myself at him, digging my nails into his neck as hard as I could. He managed to pry me off, making me wish more than ever than I had both hands free. I went without breakfast that morning. Lunch brought a single glass of water. It was drugged. When I woke, he was there, setting my food down as if nothing had happened. There was a bandage on his throat. He reached into his pocket and showed me a fingernail clipping, with chipped red polish. “Next time,” he said, “You lose a finger.”
With the exception of bathroom breaks, which were few and far between, I remained chained up like a dog. I had the feeling that I smelled like one, too. A viscous membrane of grime surrounded me. When was the last time I had taken a shower? My hair was starting to feel wet, and when I ran my fingers through the matted strands they stuck up in clumps.
The bathroom contained a shower. The spigot was orange with rust, the tiles discolored by mildew, but I suspected it worked. My captor didn't have greasy hair. I planned my course of action accordingly, playing up the cooperative hostage bit to the point where he asked me, “What the hell are you up to?” I swallowed the question and shrugged, postponing my request until the next meal where I asked, in a suitably cowed voice, “Can I take a shower?”
“A shower?” He scoffed. “That why you've been so cooperative?”
I thought about denying it. No. With my luck, I'd anger him by lying and he would withhold showers as punishment. Then I'd be back to square one. “Please?”
He set the sandwich and the bottle of water down with a clatter. “This isn't a hotel.”
“But I'm filthy,” I protested. “I won't try to escape. Please. I just want to get clean. What if I get sick?” I tacked on, pounc
ing on his one weakness. He couldn't want me to fall ill if I was the bargaining chip. If something happened to me, he would lose that leeway with my parents. He couldn't afford that. Right? Right?
“No.” He left the room. I sank into filthy despair.
Hours later, he returned with a key. I'd been crying and jumped when I heard him, swiping the tears from my eyes. He always managed to catch me with my head down. “Don't make me regret this.” He unlocked the cuffs and yanked me along like a pull-toy. I barely noticed — or cared. All I could think about was the warm water and how good it would feel on my skin. And soap. Soap. Lovely white scented lather.
My happiness popped like a soap bubble. What was I thinking? I'd achieved nothing except making myself look even more pathetic and helpless than before. Worse, I'd shown him he could manipulate me. Jesus had been betrayed for thirty pieces of silver. I'd betrayed myself for soap. If he was even planning on giving me any. I wished I hadn't pleaded quite so hard now.
But I couldn't resist asking, greedily, “Do you have soap?”
“Yes. Mine. You can use some.”
His? I said nothing.
The rest of the house was as shoddy as the basement. The carpet was burnt orange, the beige paint on the walls was cracked and peeling. All the windows were curtained, or so smeared it didn't matter. I wondered whether his intent was keeping me from seeing out, or others from seeing in. Both? Did that mean we were someplace where there were others around to see in?
We went past the living room. I caught a glimpse of cheap furniture through the rails of the staircase, a couple of bookshelves. There was a laptop on a desk but the screen was black. If he had a computer, we weren't completely removed from civilization. He had to plug that laptop in somewhere. And I'd seen him with a phone.
With that thought in mind, I allowed him to steer me to the bathroom. It was one of the worst rooms for wear. The counter was cheap fake marble that looked like plastic. The casing on the pipes certainly was. The floor was real ceramic but so chipped that the wood beneath was exposed in places. How could he stand to live like this? I pulled the shower curtain aside, checking for bugs or, God forbid, rats, and felt a stab of panic when he didn't leave.
Cloak and Dagger (The IMA Book 1) Page 5
