Plus, Latinos have this assumption that anybody who looks Latino can speak Spanish. One of my classmates at Holy Trinity, a Native American, gets approached by random Hispanic people all the time in airports, grocery stores, and buses. Even though I'm half-white, I still definitely look Latina.
“¿Usted habla Español? Por favor, ayúdame.” Just to make sure she understood how desperate I was, I used the most respectful form of address; the kind you use when you want to be really polite or formal, or acknowledge rank.
The woman shook her head and said in English, “I am sorry.”
“Por favor.”
“You'll speak English,” the guard said, punctuating his gruff command with a jab from his gun. “Nothing else.” I don't think he meant to do it so hard but the pain was exquisite. I found myself on my knees, guarding the bruise he'd assaulted.
The woman gave the guard a dirty look and helped me to my feet. I lurched off-balance, hitting a wall of dizziness and nausea. With my tired legs unable to support me, I sent both of us toppling to the ground like felled dominoes. The guard fixed us with a look that conveyed his scorn of all things female. “Are you sure you're going to be able to handle her alone?”
“Yes, I am certain.” Her voice was beautiful, even when angry, and her English was quite good. She had a delicate accent that was clearly cultured. “Wait outside.”
The bathrooms were a step down from the base in Oregon. There were no lockers. Everything was in shades of gray, as if the architect had been trying to make the place look as gloomy and miserable as possible. To my horror, the showers had no stalls. Just spigots suspended from the ceiling with a drain in the floor to catch the runoff. “No stalls?” I croaked.
“I promise I will not look.”
Seeing my indecision prompted her to give me a towel and a sunny smile. I was not won over so easily. What did she think this place was? Some kind of resort?
“What's your name?”
“B.”
“Bee? Or B? “What happened to A?”
B avoided my eyes and would not respond.
The water of the shower was warm, but it couldn't melt the layer of ice beneath my skin that was like the permafrost of the tundra. I was terrified. Yes, I'd survived a lot longer than I would have thought possible, but I was running out of time and ideas. In a matter of hours, Richardson would give my parents his ultimatum and they would die, not knowing they had given their lives up in vain.
And what had happened to A? Adrian had accused her of being a traitor, saying, You wouldn't want to end up like Michael. Richardson appeared to take what Adrian said to heart now. What if his testimony had gotten A killed? Was B the replacement? Was Richardson working his way through the alphabet? An alphabet of soft, feminine women with beautiful voices and an irrepressible urge to shop? God, he's just as sick as Adrian.
I shut off the water and wrapped myself in the towel. B handed me some underthings, sweatpants, and another white t-shirt nearly identical to the one I'd been wearing before. I pulled the shirt down as far as it would go, which wasn't all that far, and tugged on the pants while staring at B's turned back. “Are there any cameras in here?”
She shook her head.
“Microphones?”
She nodded. “Please. At least tell me…are my parents here?”
Another nod.
I drew in a sharp breath. Maybe she hadn't understood the question. How couldn't she? Even if her English weren't perfect, which it is, parents is a cognate; it sounds exactly like parientes. “Are you sure? Rubens and Liliana Parker? They're both here?”
She nodded. In the mirror I saw pity flash across her face.
“No! You're monsters! Monsters! I hate you all!” B tried to shush me, and I lunged at her. I didn't need her pity, her superficial concern. She was like the priests who read the last rites to a prisoner on death row; she was only here to make sure I died without a fuss.
It was futile struggle on my part. All I achieved was alienating the one person who had treated me even remotely decently, and a sharp jab from the guard, who had rushed in at the first sign of trouble. I was half-dragged, half-carried back from the showers. He pitched me into my cell like a bowling ball. I ran to the door, rattling the bars until my arms were sore, screaming until my voice was hoarse. When I ran out of energy, I let my head fall forward, until my face was pressed against the bars. The rush of AC was like ice against my tear-streaked skin.
“They got your parents,” a familiar voice behind me commented.
My hands tightened around the rods. “You shut up.”
I heard the cot creak. Michael was sitting up now. His hair was wet, as mine was, and I guessed he had received a new pair of sweatpants as well. The guards had made certain improvements: both his hands were now cuffed together behind his back and there was a cut on his cheek, bleeding freely, which hadn't been there before.
“I had a little altercation with the guards.”
“What did you do?”
“They underestimated me. I doubt it will happen again.”
I turned back around and stared into the hallway. There were four guards now. One of them was staring directly at me.
“Christina? Come here.”
“What do you want?”
“Come here.”
“You can't make me. You don't even have the use of your hands.”
Michael smiled. It was not a nice smile. “A minor setback. Come here.”
Oh, fine. I closed the distance and said, “What?”
“I need you to get something sharp. A paperclip or a nail or…” He snapped his fingers. “A hairpin. B should be able to give you one.”
A hair pin? “Why?” Oh. I got it. He wanted me to unlock his handcuffs. He was still trying to escape. Still trying to get his stupid revenge, even at my expense. I was nothing more than a tool to him. “Great idea,” I hissed. “Why don't I just ask them for a key, as well as a pardon?”
“Now, now. Seducing your guards is exactly what got you here in the first place, darlin.”
I turned away from him. “Fuck you, then.” I'd just lost my parents to the IMA. I was never going to turn twenty-one. I felt emptier than I ever had in my whole entire life, which was about to end. All of my dreams, my hopes — shot down prematurely. I was really tired of being written off as collateral damage. “I hope you rot.”
“You aren't doing your parents any favors by remaining locked up.”
“Do not talk to me about my parents,” I hissed.
“You need me.”
“Stop saying that.”
“Remember it, and I won't have to remind you. You know nothing about this business or this complex. Even if you somehow managed to escape, you wouldn't get far before you were apprehended by a guard and killed.” His words cut into me like lances. “You're here precisely because of that naivete and inexperience.”
“No,” I said. “I am here because of you.”
Michael:
That had not gone well.
I cursed myself and my temper. Attacking the guard hadn't been wise, but I was pissed and they'd given me the opportunity. By now, word had spread amongst the guards in Node Six that the ex-IMA prisoner wasn't as incapacitated as he looked at a glance. They would be doubly cautious now.
I watched Christina sit in her corner. If only Richardson hadn't opened his trap about the effects of the goddamn Rohypnol. I should have known that my rant would anger him, that he would seize any opportunity to put me in my place. I wasn't going to let him do that. Was she?
She hadn't let that stop her when I was holding her captive.
I wondered if she ever stepped out of that fucking fantasy land of hers long enough to realize how much danger she was in. Her reaction was typical of delusional people forced to confront their denial. They give up in an attempt to convince themselves they don't care what's happening. Some might call that “acceptance.” I call it sticking your head in the fucking sand like an ostrich.
“So that's
it? You're just going to give up.”
“So?”
“So nothing. It's your life.”
She shook her head. I caught the strong, fruity scent of whatever she'd washed her hair with. “Not anymore. How long…do we have?””
Her voice was hard. Superficially so. She wanted to trust me, in spite of her misgivings.
“Our execution is scheduled for around ten am. Twelve hours from now.”
“That's only half a day,” she said, sounding stunned. “I didn't think…”
I didn't give her a chance to finish the thought. I was being manipulative, using tactics that I'd learned in my second year of training. I didn't want to die; I suspected that, deep down, she didn't, either. “If you want to die, you won't have to wait that long. But if you want to be screwed that badly, I can think of a much pleasanter way to do it — you could ask me.”
I could feel her eyes on me as I rolled back to face the wall.
I allowed myself the privilege of a smile, knowing she was hooked.
Christina:
10 hours left.
B returned to the cell, accompanied by one of the guards. A Spanish-speaking one, this time. “¿Está durmiendo?” she asked, glancing at Michael.
“Pienso.” I honestly couldn't tell.
The guard relaxed a hair. B smiled. “¿Hay algo que tú necesitas?”
“Una horquilla, por favor.” I held up a strand of my frizzy hair.
The guard looked like he thought I was a very vain and foolish girl. B reached into her red leather purse and handed me several of her own tortoise-shell bobby pins. I made a show of smiling and using one to pin back my bangs. I was so afraid the guard would see through my display and confiscate the pins, but he turned on his heel with B trotting after him as obediently as a dog. Neither looked back.
“Michael?” I turned towards him, eager to spread the news of my victory. Even to him. He still hadn't opened his eyes. He really was asleep? I grabbed his shoulder and shook him gently, screaming in surprise when he kicked my feet from beneath me.
In the next instant, he was sitting upright, breathing hard, and looking down at me with eyes that looked too white in the dimness. “Jesus. I could have killed you. What the fuck were you doing, getting so close to me?”
“You weren't answering,” I protested, still scared. What Michael had said before about the uselessness of his hands being a minor setback no longer seemed like an idle threat. The kick had heart, its delivery subconscious. I had no doubt he could do much worse.
Michael groaned and flopped back against the mattress. “What did you want?”
“I got the pins.”
He didn't congratulate me or even thank me. “Are there any guards outside the cells?”
I checked. “Six.”
“Good. Being in large numbers makes them overconfident. How many are actually watching us?”
I looked again. “Two.”
Michael released his breath through his teeth. “All right. Get on top of me.”
“Um…what?”
“I need you to unlock my cuffs. You won't be able to do it from the floor.”
“You didn't tell me I'd have to do that!”
“What, did you think they would just magically unlock themselves?”
You're doing this to save your life. You're doing this to save your parents' lives.
I knelt astride him, feeling incredibly uncomfortable. “There. Now what?”
“Reach around me. Can you feel the handcuffs?”
“No.”
“Then you have to move closer.” He leaned up a little, as if doing a sit-up, causing the muscles in his abdomen to flex. “That should help.”
I think I'm close enough. I bowed my head so I wouldn't have to look at him. I thought I could feel the hole in the handcuffs where the key was supposed to go. I bit my lip and fumbled with the pin in my sweaty fingers — and Michael leaned up to kiss me.
I pulled back with a cry, snapping the pin. The two halves fell to the floor with a tink. “Nice,” he said flatly. “You broke the goddamn pin.”
I covered my mouth with a shaking hand. “You — ”
“If I fooled you, I must have been fooling the guards, who, I might add, are now all watching us — thanks to you.”
“It wasn't my fault! You tried to…and the guards — you might have warned me!”
“You've been warned. Was that the only hair pin?”
“I have extras.” I slipped the one from my hair.
“This will be more difficult with the guards watching. We'll have to give them their money's worth.”
“What do you mean, give them their money's worth? What are you going to do?”
“Don't waste any more pins. We might need them later. Reach behind me.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Just reach behind me.”
An uncomfortable sense of déjà vu wrapped around me like a thick fog when he kissed me. I tried to concentrate on the cold still of his handcuffs but the feeling wouldn't leave. Why is this so familiar? My left thumb brushed against the small keyhole again. I pushed the key into it.
“Did you find it?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” he whispered. “Now, slide the pin between the notches and the ratchet.”
“I am,” I hissed, even though I had no idea what a ratchet was.
“Push it,” he said impatiently.
“I am.”
“At an angle?”
“It won't go in that way.”
Michael leaned up, forcing me to grab onto his shoulder to keep from falling off. “Then push harder, darlin, and make it go in that way.”
He was making me nervous with his shouted commands. What if I broke the pin again? What if the guards heard and caught on? “It's slipping,” I said. “Stop moving, I can't — ”
“Harder.”
One of the guards made a sound of disgust and pointedly looked away. I froze, yanking my hands away from him, just in time to hear a soft snap. I got to my feet as quickly as my injuries would allow.
Michael smiled at me. It was a fierce smile, purely triumphant, and made me wonder if setting him free had been such a good idea.
“Was it as good for you as it was for me?”
Chapter Nineteen
Cataclysm
Michael:
I woke from my light doze to tingling arms. I discreetly shook them to get the blood circulating again. No one would see. The cell was dark. There were no windows so it was impossible to tell what time it was, though I suspected it was around one or two in the morning.
In several hours, we would die by firing squad.
I bit the inside of my cheek, scanning the room for anything that could be used as a weapon. The cell was empty, cleared of anything even remotely dangerous. Even during meals, a guard was present at all times, standing sentry at the door to make sure the dishes were returned.
Hmm. I might have a plan.
I got up, keeping my movements slow for the sake of the guards, and prodded Christina in the side with my foot. She rolled over, guarding, and muttered something intelligible.
I applied a little more pressure this time. She stirred and looked at me blearily. “What?”
“Bathroom,” I said, jerking my head in that direction. “Now.”
She shook her head and started to curl back up on the floor.
I nearly grabbed her by the shoulders. Caught myself just in time. “Do you want to get out of here?” I said instead. “If you do, then don't breathe a word. Just follow me.”
I started purposefully for the bathroom without looking back over my shoulder to see if she was following. I heard her stumble to her feet. Good. The bathroom, which I had examined earlier on the pretense of using it for its intended use, was one of the few areas that didn't have cameras. Pointless expense in a cell, when all other areas are monitored and you can easily time the prisoner's comings and goings.
I wasn't worried about bei
ng inconspicuous — not after our earlier display. The guards would assume I wanted one last screw before I died, and that was exactly what I wanted them to think.
Christina leaned against the sink, rubbing her eyes. “What?”
I clapped a hand over her mouth. “There may not be any cameras in this room but that doesn't mean it's not bugged. So be quiet.” I waited until she had nodded. “We have a couple hours before the guards take us to Node Seven — that's the island's shooting range, namesake, and the end of the line, as far as we're concerned. But I have a plan. If you do as I say, you have a chance at survival. A chance, mind you, and a small one at that: there's no guarantee that either of us are going to live. Understand?”
Christina nodded again. Good. She was a fast learner.
I whispered the details into her ear, repeating the most important ones several times. My superiors had always said that three was the magic number — I'd always suspected it was their attempt at excusing away the fact that they were senile old bastards that couldn't help repeating themselves, but it seemed to work, regardless.
She nodded in all the right places without saying anything, absentmindedly pulling down the hem of her shirt. Which, I noticed, pulled the fabric taut over her breasts. There was some pink in her cheeks, too. Quite a bit different from the sickly pallor I remembered from her basement days. In fact …she looked very fuckable.
The guards must have thought so, too, because I saw them nudge each other and snicker as we came out of the bathroom together. I should start charging some goddamn admission. How could she be so oblivious? She hadn't caught on about the lock-picking display either — not until the end. Where the hell had she gotten her education? A parochial school? Remembering the name of it — Sacred Heart, or something like that — I suspected that might not be too far from the truth. And here I thought Catholic schoolgirls were supposed to be kinky.
“Isn't it the girl who's supposed to be tied up, Boutilier?”
Guffaws all around.
I smiled tightly and lay back down. Let's see how much you're laughing three hours from now.
Christina:
5 hours left.
Cloak and Dagger (The IMA Book 1) Page 21
