Cloak and Dagger (The IMA Book 1)

by Nenia Campbell

  I waited until the rumble of his voice was out of earshot before refastening the buttons he'd undone. This simple task took me several minutes. If the phone hadn't rang, I kept thinking. He would have done it. He would have raped me.

  A door slammed. Brisk footsteps came down the stairs. I stared at his shoes — black, scuffed-up combat boots — until his gloved fingers yanked my chin up, forcing me to look at him. He still wasn't wearing his mask but since he wasn't wearing his shirt, either, I was afraid that if my eyes dipped any lower he'd take it as a sign of submission or, worse, encouragement.

  “When I get back we're going to resume this discussion, and you're going to tell me everything you know. There will be no further insults on your part — and you will never attack me again. Is that clear?”

  “I hate you.”

  “You go ahead and do that, darlin. I don't care…as long as you keep your hands to yourself. But if you hit me, then I hit you back — twice as hard.” He released my face, bending to pick his shirt up from the ground. As he pulled it over his head, he glanced at me. “The sooner you learn that, the easier it will be.”

  I didn't have a chance to ask him what he meant. I didn't see him again for hours, after crying myself into sleep, when I woke up exhausted, cold, and hungry, with a pressing urge to use the bathroom. My dreams had been consumed by nightmares but reality was worse. I couldn't escape from reality by waking up.

  A door slammed inside the house. When he came down the steps, I wasn't sure whether to feel relieved or terrified. He had a bottle of alcohol, a roll of paper towels, a cell phone, and a small silver key. I knew what the key was for, but the purpose of the other objects was a mystery.

  He dabbed the alcohol on the worst of my facial cuts, then unlocked my handcuff and did the ones on my wrist. He wasn't trying to be gentle, and I drew back from each painful burn until he tightened his grip and forced me to remain still. “You're going to make a phone call,” he informed me, setting the alcohol aside. Out of my reach, I couldn't help noticing.

  “I have to go to the bathroom.”

  The bathroom trip gave me some time to think, but only enough to make me realize how little I really knew. I suspected the call he wanted me to make was to my parents. Just thinking about speaking to them made my eyes tear up. I wouldn't be able to listen to my dad's voice without breaking down. I splashed some cold water on my face; it didn't help much. A familiar tightness was in my throat. Any moment now my captor would lose patience and give me the usual thirty second warning before busting the door.

  “Hurry up,” he said, right on cue.

  We went to the living room instead of the basement. The orange carpet was even more hideous up close, mottled with a rainbow of stains. I looked at the desk: the laptop was gone. He wasn't taking any chances. “Sit.” He pushed me onto the threadbare sofa and took the seat beside me. I scooted away, until I was pressed up against the arm. The front door has to be around here somewhere. I wanted to turn my head and look around but his posture was as rigid as a cobra poised to strike. If he got even the slightest impression I was planning on escaping, he'd hurt me.

  Badly.

  The phone he handed me was sleek and black and expensive-looking. I reached for it. He caught my wrist. His strong fingers were as constricting as any handcuffs. “I'll warn you once, and only once. Don't try anything cute like calling the police” — his hand tightened over mine — “If you do, what I'll do to you will make last night look like a tea party. Got that?”

  “Yes,” I whispered.

  “Good. Here's the number…”

  He reeled off a set of digits but I made no move to press the corresponding keys. It was like I'd been subjecting to a massive dose of Novocaine. His threat rang in my ears, and it was deafening. He shot me a fierce look, grabbed the phone, and punched in the numbers himself — so hard, I thought he'd break the phone in half.

  “Remember what I said.”

  How can I forget?

  I raised the phone to my ear. There was ringing. A man picked up on the second ring; it wasn't my dad. “Hello?” He had a smattering of an accent I couldn't place. “Who is this?”

  My tongue felt like an arid desert.

  “Hello?”

  “Answer him,” my captor hissed.

  “Hi,” I croaked. “This is…This is Christina — ”

  “What?” the man said. “Speak up, I can't hear you.”

  A bottle of water was thrust at me. I decided my captor wouldn't drug me while I was on the phone. I drained half of it in one gulp.

  “I said, this is Christina Parker.”

  Voices murmured, conferring in the background. I started to wonder why my captor had made me call this number when I heard my mother's voice say, “Christina? Is that you? You are alive?”

  “Mamá?” She sounded jaded and weary. Tears sprang in my eyes like clockwork. “Is Dad there?”

  “Yes, he's here. He's fine. Are you? Where are you?”

  The tears started to fall as concern for my parents' well-being was eclipsed by my own. “No, I'm not fine. Mom — Mamá — please, help me. Please. He's a monster.”

  “That's enough.” He tried to grab the phone.

  I clung on. “Help. He tried to — ”

  “I said, that's enough. Hello. Mrs. Parker-de-Silva, is it?” He leaned back against the couch, raking the hair out of his eyes as he kept them trained on me. “I'm the man who has your daughter. You've spoken to her. You've received photographic evidence that she is alive and well. And now — ”

  I heard her response. It was quite loud and didn't sound polite.

  My captor shot me a menacing look. “She is lying. I haven't touched her.”

  “You son of a bi — ”

  Click.

  He continued talking into the phone. Casually. Like he wasn't pointing a gun at me. “If you don't want that to change, I suggest you and your husband pull your heads out of your respective asses and get your act together. My employer is displeased with you two, and I am getting restless.” He gestured for me to come closer.

  I stared at the gun and stayed where I was.

  “Come here,” he demanded.

  Mechanically, I shook my head.

  He set the safety back on the gun and tucked it out of sight. “Now.” I went. He handed me the phone and said, “I need you to repeat after me. Can you do that?”

  “Can you do that?” I said obediently.

  His hand closed around my wrist. “Don't toy with me.”

  “Christina?” My mother's disembodied voice floated from the receiver. I looked at the phone.

  “Don't listen to her. Listen to me.” He caught my other wrist. “Are you listening?”

  I nodded.

  “Say, 'Mom, I'm scared.'”

  “Mamá, I'm scared.”

  “Me, too.” She sounded faint.

  “Now say, 'He wants the data that was stolen.'”

  “He says he wants the data that was stolen.”

  An intake of breath.

  “Mamá?”

  No response. More whispering in the background.

  “Did she hang up?”

  I shook my head. He relaxed.

  “Are you still there?” Her voice was a whisper, but she no longer sounded close to tears.

  “I'm still here,” I said, and waited.

  My captor squeezed my wrist, which he still hadn't released, reminding me here was still here, too. “Tell them that if I don't get what I want from them by midnight tomorrow, I'll take what I want from you. Say it.”

  “Don't make me say that. Please. Not to my mother.”

  “Say it.”

  “Please, no — ”

  He began to tug me closer with rough, painful jerks that made my shoulder ache.

  “Let go!” I couldn't keep the terror out of my voice. “No!” Ignoring me, he moved closer until I could taste his breath on my tongue. I screamed. A bright exclamation came from the phone. I stared at my captor's face and re
alized what he had been doing. “You're sick.”

  “Say it.”

  I averted my eyes. “He says…he says if he doesn't get what he wants by midnight tomorrow…he'll take what he wants from me,” I finished in a whisper.

  My mother wailed. My captor took the phone from me, wincing as Mamá let loose an ear-splitting curse. Good. I hoped he went deaf.

  “Tomorrow, a colleague of mine will be waiting for you at the Walk of Flags, in front of the Oregon State Capital. He won't be alone. Others will be watching. So if you try to call the police he will be gone and I will be informed.”

  I closed my eyes.

  “See that you do, Mrs. Parker-de-Silva. I am not a patient man. I might not make it to midnight.”

  I felt numb.

  Drugged?

  I no longer cared.

  Chapter Six

  Fever

  Michael:

  She stopped moving.

  I reached for my gun, bracing myself for an attack. She slumped against me. Unconscious. I reholstered the gun. She wasn't a good liar; this seemed genuine. I reached out to take her pulse and her low heartbeat confirmed this. Her skin was cool to the touch, a characteristic symptom of shock. A fairly common response to high levels of stress. Smelling salts were a quick means of reviving fainted individuals. I had a ready supply upstairs but having Christina unconscious simplified things. She had already provoked me once. I did not want that to happen again.

  I finished the negotiations with her mother, who was hurling curses as if they were knives. The Dominican ex-model was a real firebrand. It was easy to see where the girl got her attitude. Unlike her daughter, Mrs. Parker-de-Silva seemed to be all talk. She was still threatening me, even as I hung up the phone. Stupid woman. She had better show up tomorrow for her daughter's sake. For both their sakes. The two of them were wearing my nerves thin.

  The girl was still unconscious. I took her pulse again; it was a little slow but within the boundaries of normal. I picked her up and carried her back down to the basement. I had no intention of letting her remain in the living room, where escape would provide too much of a temptation. She was already starting to stir.

  The girl groaned the moment she touched the cold stone floors. She didn't rouse. I decided to wait around until she regained consciousness…just in case there were complications. I pulled out my cell and started phoning the contacts who still owed me favors. All the numbers I needed had been committed to memory long ago. The best contacts valued secrecy — as did I. I wanted tomorrow to go off without a hitch. We had an image to preserve; my ass was on the line.

  I called Kent first, a retired agent from the SIS. Retirement had been too quiet for him after three decades of work on the field. He had moved out of England, becoming a permanent expatriate, and turned to private investigation, offering his services to a small ring of exclusive contacts. I met him through one of our mutual clients and knew, from past experience, that his plans were always foolproof. “Everything ready?”

  “Everything.”

  I had expected this answer but it still pleased me.

  “Tomorrow, at the Walk of Flags — our man is going to be there?”

  “I handpicked him myself.”

  “I trust your judgment.”

  “That means a lot, coming from you.” Kent's voice was wry.

  “We can't afford any screw-ups.”

  Kent hesitated. “There is one thing you should know…”

  “What?”

  “Your…quarry…made a phone call, shortly before you arrived on the scene.”

  I glanced at the girl, still collapsed at my feet. “I fail to see how that could be a problem. I destroyed her phone.”

  Kent coughed. “The problem is that the phone was recording a message up to the point you destroyed it. About a minute's worth. A case of poor timing if there ever was one,” he added, in an attempt to be conciliatory.

  The back of my neck prickled in alarm. “And the problem, Kent?”

  “Her friend got the message. A girl named…let's see…Renee Patterson, if I'm not mistaken. She didn't like what she heard, so she called the police.”

  Shit. “What was on the message?”

  “A rather desperate request, a scream, and a gunshot — in that order.” Kent coughed. “Made the local papers. Everyone thought she was dead, killed in the blast. Now there's some speculation that she might still be alive.”

  I cursed, low in my throat, hoping Kent couldn't hear. If he could, he chose not to comment.

  “Is this something that needs to be taken care of?”

  “No. The girl knows nothing. I checked it out. Christina Parker was listed as missing by the police eight days ago. Her friend's phone call merely upped the amount of public interest, especially in her own county. I just wanted to point out that people are going to be looking for her — and you. If they haven't already started.”

  A thought occurred to me. “If the police report was eight days ago, why did her friend report the message now? It makes no sense to wait.”

  Kent laughed. “There's a perfectly innocent explanation for that. The girl ran up quite the extortionate phone bill. Her parents confiscated the mobile. She only just received it back. It's a dead end, Michael. One less detail to concern yourself with.”

  I pressed 'end' and stared at the phone before crushing it under my heel.

  Christina:

  The sound of crunching plastic woke me.

  I stared at the plastic and metal fragments, then at his face. He didn't look angry, but I was beginning to suspect his moods were so unstable that there was actually a delay while his facial expressions caught up to his emotions. After all, he had just destroyed an expensive cell phone.

  He closed his eyes. I saw his chest rise and fall in quick succession. He reached into his jeans pocket just as nice as you please — and produced a brand new cell phone. I couldn't believe it. He carries around spare cell phones in case he breaks one? Who is this guy?

  He punched in a number. “It's me. Yes. I just got off the phone with a contact — ”

  He never took his calls when I was in the same room. Never. Did that mean it didn't matter what I knew anymore? Was he going to kill me?

  Maybe he thinks I'm still unconscious. Maybe he forgot I'm here.

  No. I wasn't that lucky.

  Was I?

  “I don't care what he said. Finish the job now. That's a direct order.” I found myself edging back from him, even though his anger wasn't directed at me. “Fine,” he said. “You have three days until I come down there and finish the job for you. We do not tolerate traitors in this organization.” He rammed the phone into his pocket and began scooping up the pieces of the broken phone.

  I frowned suddenly, staring down at my wrist. He didn't put the handcuff back on.

  “Hey. You awake over there?”

  I sat up, keeping my hands in the shadows. “Hmm?”

  “You fainted.” He glanced at me, briefly, before turning his attention to the metal splinters.

  “I did?” Don't act too stupid. He'll get suspicious.

  His back was facing me, and I had a clear path to the stairs. I took a step towards them. If this was a trap, it was a poor one, riddled with potential loopholes. This man was not the type to overlook a loophole. That decided it for me. Not only had he neglected to cuff me, he'd also left the door open. I wasn't one to push my luck.

  He was working at an efficient pace and still didn't turn around. There were a few chips to pick up and he was scooping them up, carefully, so he wouldn't cut himself on the sharp edges. The window of opportunity was closing. He's almost finished!

  My first impulse was panic — but nothing draws attention faster than running away. Especially when running from someone accustomed to chasing people. Against every instinct, I continued at my slow pace. The stairs were about a foot away now. If I reached out, I'd just be able to touch the second step. I drew in a deep breath. Please, don't turn around.

 
; He turned around.

  “Where — ”

  He spotted me. The upper half of his body dropped into a lowered crouch. No. I bolted up the staircase, throwing all caution to the wind. He tossed the metal fragments aside. I heard the clang of the pan, the pieces as they scattered across the floor with a sound like sand. Then the pound of his boots against the squeaky basement steps.

  He knew the house better than I did. He was stronger. I'd been banished to one section, kept on a minimal diet, and chained up to a wall — but I was desperate. I had to escape. Because I was fairly sure that if I didn't, he'd kill me. He wasn't speaking or issuing any threats. He didn't have to. The fact that he was running so fast said all that needed to be said.

  He intended to catch me.

  I went through the living room, to a kitchenette with only a fridge and a small stove. Outside the kitchenette was a small foyer and a watermarked door. I pitched myself at it, wrenching the handle in a choke hold. The door swung open and I fell off the porch, into an evergreen wonderland where golden sunlight dazzled my eyes. So this is how Alice felt.

  Redwoods stretched as far as the eye could see. I caught a glimpse of mountains in the distance, still topped with virgin snow. Under other circumstances, I would have found such isolation beautiful, breathtaking, even, but now it chilled me to the bone. I was stranded here. With him. Nobody was around to save me.

  Where is —

  I caught the barest glimpse of movement before I went down. He had caught up to me while I stalled, then tackled me from behind. My legs buckled under his weight and I fell, with him on top of me, getting a mouthful of pine needles and dead leaves. The air in my lungs was squeezed out as though from a tube of toothpaste.

  No! Not when I was so close! I planted my hands on the mulchy ground and tried to push him off. My arms buckled, just as my legs had. I collapsed, promptly releasing any oxygen remaining in my lungs. He grabbed me by the shoulders and rolled me over so that I was on my back, facing the sky.

  “I don't appreciate this.”

  I coughed, spitting out a dry leaf. “Please…” I gasped. “I can't…I can't breathe.”

  “You want to play rough? Fine. I can play rough.” His hand dipped into the pocket of his jacket. I was expecting the gun, so when he pulled out a black case I was puzzled.