Armed and Dangerous (The IMA) (11 page)

BOOK: Armed and Dangerous (The IMA)
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I hoped it worked.

Half-stumbling in my haste, I crouched in front of the primeval forest. The sour smells of particleboard and damp paint stung my eyes and nose. I heard footsteps again. Faintly but there, and growing louder all the while. I peeked around the edge of the board and saw a man—tall, muscular, dangerous.

Not anybody I wanted to tangle with.

I didn't know him, had never seen him before in my life, but he fit the profile of someone the IMA might hire. Except for his impressive physique, he looked perfectly ordinary. He could have been a jock at the school, maybe in his early twenties. Unaware of my frightened watch, he looked around and cursed. He spent several seconds muttering to himself, then raked his fingers through his dark hair and drew out a mobile phone from his coat pocket.

I didn't dare breathe.

A brief but intense conversation followed. I could make out the words “girl,” “easy,” and “escaped,” punctuated by bursts of sarcasm, and discussions of money, both in an affronted tone that made me wince. The gist of it was, he'd been assuming that a female college student would be easy to find and overpower, and he was pissed off that I had managed to get away. His supervisor was chewing him out for being a chauvinistic moron, and seemed to be ordering a return of the down payment my stalker had received for his services. The man was refusing, demanding a second chance.

It was getting ugly. I backed farther into the shadows, more determined than ever not to get caught. He hung up the phone, pacing the deserted sidewalk with ill-concealed frustration. About five minutes later by my watch, a jet-colored car with tinted windows pulled up to the curb. I tried to read
the license plate in the dim glow of the tailights but couldn't quite make it out — not without moving from my hiding spot and exposing myself.
S9J
was as far as I got before the car roared off.

I stayed put for a few minutes longer just in case they decided to double-back for a final sweep. I was shaking, and not from cold. When it looked as if they really had gone, I stepped out from the wall of paintings and started back for home. I kept to the shadows, taking care to avoid bushes, cars, and other objects someone could potentially use to lie in wait.

By the time I made it to the bus stop, I was ready to fall apart. Only about three other students were waiting. A boyfriend and a girlfriend couple, and that same goth guy who'd been sitting in front of me during the ride over. No mysterious, sinister strangers. I collapsed on the bench and willed myself to hold it together. At least until home.

Fate was working against me that night.

That same black car—the one I had seen this afternoon, and then again this evening when it picked up my pursuer—was parked across the street from my apartment complex. The plate matched. There was no question. They know who I was, and where I lived, and they knew I had given them the slip.

I was in trouble.

Big
trouble.

What should I do?
I lowered my hand from the stop cord. That's what they would be expecting. I got off at the next stop instead. From there, I looped around to the back of the complex, near the laundry room. I had the advantage; I knew the area better than they did. There was usually someone in the laundry room, even at night, and it was always well-lit. Plus, the doors locked automatically, and only someone with a key could open them up again. Smashing through the glass would trigger an alarm.

I went inside the laundry room, took out my phone, and dialed the number for the city police department. The operator answered, “Coswell Police Department. What is your emergency?”

“There's a man following me.”


Excuse me? Speak up, ma'am.”

I was gasping. I drew in a breath and said, too shrilly this time, “There's a man following me—well, two of them now. One of them was outside my apartment earlier, the other was outside my classroom, and now both of them are in a car in front of my apartment. W-waiting for me, I think.”

“Can you give a description of the vehicle?”

I could do better than that. I gave her the plate number, in addition to a brief description of the car and the two men inside it.

“Can you get to someplace safe?”


I'm hiding in the laundry room of my apartment complex. It locks.”


Good. Stay there. Someone will be out shortly.”


Please hurry.” I injected a whimper into my voice that wasn't entirely fake. “I'm scared.”

She assured me again that the officers were on their way. “Would you like me to stay on the line with you until they arrive?”

“N-no. That's okay.”

The operator hung up. I tucked the phone into my pocket, and peered through the window. I could just barely make out the street from here, and through the trees, the black car. My breath fogged the glass. One of the dryers rattled, the pungent smell of the fabric softener filling my nose like a perfumed smog.

Another car drove by on the street. Unmarked. It stopped behind the black car. An officer got out of the vehicle and began walking up to the black Sedan. Before the cop could reach them, they gassed it and roared off. The cop raced back into his car to pursue, phoning for backup, but I knew it was fruitless. Either the car had been stolen or the plates had. They would find the vehicle abandoned on a roadside somewhere, all traces of both passengers long gone.

That was because the IMA were professionals. They were the people you went to when you wanted to be above or below the law. They made the FBI look like amateurs. The police wouldn't be able to help me.

I ran up the stairs to my apartment and locked the door behind me, tightening my grip on the pepper-spray as I did a quick search of the rooms. It was empty; I was alone. If I had been wearing my iPod, the way I sometimes did, I wouldn't have heard that guy following me. Not until it was too late.

I slid down the wall until my butt hit the floor. My fingers were still curled around the reassuring curve of the pepper-spray canister. I looked at it and felt stupid. Pepper-spray? A freaking butter knife? Who was I kidding? They had guns.

I couldn't stay vigilant forever. I wasn't a robot. When I let my guard down, as I eventually would have to, the IMA would kidnap me. Or worse.

I'd barely survived their internment base the first time, and that had been with Michael's help. If they put me there again, alone, with the Sniper or Adrian as my guard, I wouldn't stand a chance. I didn't like pain. I wouldn't be able to stand up to torture. I'd be a goner. And even that was
assuming that they didn't just save themselves the time and resources by putting a bullet in my head.

So what are you going to do, Christina? Hide with your head buried in the sand like an ostrich and wait for them to kill you?

If I kept my phone on me at all times as I had done so far, the IMA wouldn't be able to bug it. A phone was a handy lifeline. In the meantime, I'd only eat sealed foods. I'd find a buddy, preferably a man, to walk around with me at night, and I'd use the campus escort service.

Actually, no, I wouldn't, because that followed a schedule. The IMA could run circles around regular police officers. I didn't want to think about what they might do to our underpaid, hourly salary rent-a-cops.

God help me.

Chapter Ten

Enemies

Michael:

Annie's turned out to be a downtown greasy-spoon. The sort of dive that could double as a cafe or a coffeehouse depending on the hour and the special of the day. Tired-looking businessmen hunched over their eggs and cracked mugs of coffee, oblivious to everything but the ticking of time. I looked around. Nobody seemed like they were waiting. I sat down at the counter and ordered an espresso and watched the Premier League soccer match they were showing on the TV hung crookedly on the back wall.

A tall shadow crawled over my steaming cup. “Mr. Agnew, I presume?”

“Presume all you want.” I gave the man a quick once-over. My suspicion wasn't feigned.


You aren't one of the regulars.”


Are you Charles?”


Close enough.” He made an attempt at an enigmatic smile. It made him look constipated.


We talking here?” I asked, picking up my espresso and taking a sip. Tasted like shit, but it gave me an excuse to stall without being obvious.


No, Mr. Agnew. This way, please.”

I followed 'Charles' down the darkened hallway. My fingertips brushed against my hip for the weight of the gun that I'd decided would be a bad idea to bring. Rightly so, it seemed. I hoped 'Charles' hadn't seen—or read—too much into the gesture.

Be more careful, you fool. Remember your training.

That was a laugh. How could I possibly forget?

Most IMA agents, it's easy to tell that they're into something physical. We have to be in top shape, ready for any situation that gets handed to us. Most of the men and women working the field are under thirty years of age, in the prime of their lives.

Studying those assembled in the back of this small room made me realize that the BN were a very different kettle of fish. Political ideologies and techniques aside, some of the men were strikingly slender, and several were older than Kent. I slipped my hands into my coat pockets before they could betray me any more than they already had. If these people read nervousness out of the gesture, so
much the better. It could make them underestimate me.


Mr. Agnew,” said one of the men. “You came highly recommended to us.”

I inclined my head.

One of the women said, “Perhaps you don't realize what an honor it is to be here, standing before us.”


Not really.” I gave them a lazy grin. “But I'm sure you folks are just rearing to tell me.”

I saw a few of them exchange dubious glances.

“Yes,” the same first man said. “We are.”

Another spoke. This one was in a suit ten years out of date. “The
Bureau du Nuit
is a very prestigious organization, and not for everyone.”

He had an accent I couldn't place. Eastern-European. An ex-Soviet Satellite.

“No, not for everyone,” another woman agreed.


Like a secret society?” They'd expect a question like that from a college boy. “Like the Skull and Bones?”


Apropos of nothing, yes,” the first man agreed. “We expect only the best.”

The first woman laughed. It was not a nice laugh.

I let my head loll to one side. “Something funny? I don't see anything here worth laughing about.”


Such an interesting accent. Whereabouts are you from?”


The U.S. Of A, of course.”


From the South?”


Well, I sure as shit ain't no Yankee.”

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't enjoying myself. Their scandalized expressions were such that any real inquiring student would have been completely offended. For me, it was a real fucking hoot, the most fun I'd had in a while.

“I've never heard anything like it.”


My grandmother was Cajun.” I folded my arms and leaned back on my heels. “Some of that patois made it on down to me. Like as not, that's what you're hearing right now.”


Indeed,” the first man said. Politely. He didn't seem like he was going to be hard to win over, so I'd have to watch out for him. He could be manipulative—the superficially nice ones usually were.

I cleared my throat. “So what am I supposed to call you people?” That earned me a few more suspicious looks, but again, they'd expect that buddy-buddy shit.

“You can call me Perry.”


I'm Robin.” That was the old woman.

Because I had already decided I didn't like her, I sneered and said, “What, no Batman?”

The wrinkles in her face sharpened.


Sparrow,” said the younger woman. Also British.


Hawk,” the second man said. He was the one giving me the majority of those distrustful glares. I hadn't made any friends over in that quarter.

They went around introducing themselves from there, giving me time to take a headcount. There were about twenty people, all told. The handles they gave me were clearly aliases. Birds of a fucking feather. “Nice to meet y'all. Can I be Eagle?”

“Mr. Agnew,” Robin said. “Might I remind you, we haven't accepted your application yet.”


How can you not? I'm the best there is.”


Look you little upstart—”


Now, Robin,” Perry cut in. Was that short for Peregrine? Cute. Real cute. “There's no need to beat around the bush—we've already got our bird.”


Mixing metaphors?” I said dryly.


Oh no. Not at all. We're very interested in your history. Ex-military, aren't you?”

BOOK: Armed and Dangerous (The IMA)
5.49Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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