Armed and Dangerous (The IMA) (14 page)

My dreams of college parties and sophisticated talk in independent coffee shops were crumbling the dirt in the empty gullies and ravines. I hadn't made any friends. I was too suspicious of everyone around me. No man had looked at me twice. I couldn't sleep, couldn't think. My grades were bad. I hadn't been to Coswell's library once since the semester began. I had no excuse for that. I loved to read. The bus on my route went to the library, as well.

So why not study there?

The idea lifted me. It was so simple, so obvious, that I
wondered why it hadn't occurred to me before.

I loved the smell of old books and papery dust. The coughs and the squeaks of shoes on polished stone tiles, like punctuation in a sentence of silence. Going to the library would break up my normal routine, too. Staying at home was probably the stupidest thing I could do.

That cinched it; I was going to the library.

I was even smiling a little as I shoved my books in my backpack and headed out to the stop. I was still crushed about the D but now I had a solution. The programmer in me was happy. The Catholic in me was also happy; the smell of the souring milk in the kitchen had been making me feel guilty about my slovenly housekeeping and marked failure as a domestic. I had something to feel positive and hopeful about.

In less than twenty-four hours, that would all change.

Chapter Twelve

Return

Michael:

When I opened my eyes it was as if I'd been bludgeoned by a sledgehammer. I tried to reach up to my temples and found that my wrists were stuck behind my back. There was a familiar coldness against the skin. Shit. Handcuffs.

The day had started off as usual. I did my workout regimen until the hotel kitchens opened, and then I went downstairs for breakfast. I spent the rest of the morning after doing reconnaissance, the fruits of which I would have to deliver to Perry at the end of the day.

But…Perry hadn't greeted me that day. Hawk had. Which had been strange enough on its own, but he had also
said
something that made me falter, something I could no longer remember. I hadn't expected the chloroform rag—by the time I realized what was going on, it was already too late.

And now, I was here—wherever here was.

A man in a suit strolled over, looking me up and down. I figured it was one of the BN operatives, and I was right. When my vision cleared I realized it was Hawk. The arrogance when he spoke would have given him away. “Well, well, well. It appears that our little bird has turned out to be an IMA rat.”

His superiority was hardly appropriate considering I was half-conscious, immobile, and tired as fuck. Get him in a ring with me, and he'd be singing a different tune. “How long did it take you to come up with that gem? Did you practice your stage routine while I was out?”

Hawk's face darkened. “Search him.”

Figures stepped out of the shadows. They removed my coat, unbuttoned my shirt, even rummaged through my trousers. Good old public humiliation. Some things never change. “I'm pretty sure those are my balls you've found,” I said to the man wrist-deep in my pants. “You going to count 'em out for me now? Because I'll save you the trouble. There's two.”

“He's clean, sir,” the man said coldly, wiping his hands on his pants. “Except for his mouth.”

“
Pity we don't have any soap,” said Hawk.

These two were a regular fucking vaudeville routine.

“So, Mr. Agnew, do you plan on talking?”

“
My contact will be hearing about this. I don't tolerate such treatment, not even from my superiors. I don't take kindly to being felt up by some closet-case, either.”

“
Very convincing.” Hawk rocked back on his heels. “I will say this: you were impeccably trained. What was he carrying?” he asked, directing this last to his men. They had divested me of anything even remotely sharp or hard. My keys, one of the hotel's pens, my watch, my shoelaces, and, of course, my phone and knife. “No gun?”

I lifted an eyebrow. “Those are illegal in England.”

Hawk shook his head. “It's pointless to pretend at this point. We already know who you are.”

I glanced at my car keys. “A man who drives a Lotus?”

“Very amusing. Unfortunately, your reputation and your legendary wit precede you, Mr. Boutilier.” He hadn't been bluffing. “Perhaps your organization should have chosen someone less conspicuous.”

“
I don't know what you're talking about.”

“
Enough.” Hawk was losing patience. That was good. People did stupid things when they got caught up in the moment. “Your stubbornness is an insult to us, and a discredit to your own intelligence.”

I said nothing, figuring if I didn't he'd keep talking. He seemed to enjoy the sound of his own voice. My instincts paid off; Hawk was working himself into a monologue.

“You were a well-respected agent, a rags-to-riches fairytale ending. Until you became disgraced. Now it appears your own organization wishes to be rid of you. Why is this?”

“
My gun turned back into a pumpkin.”

“
I think we know why,” one of the other guards murmured in an aside. Hawk sent them a look befitting his moniker before continuing.

“
There are no records of the incident and yet…rumors abound. Your demotion appears to be an open secret. The elephant in the room as it were.” He paused. “You are a most interesting man, Mr. Boutilier.”

I closed my eyes. “What did you do to the other members of my team?”

“Ah, so you are playing along now. Good. Denial is a most dull and tedious game. They are dead, Mr. Boutilier. It takes but one man to answer a question. With your credentials, you seemed the most qualified.” He paused. “That isn't saying much, though, I'm afraid.”

Now the generic insults to my intelligence. These guys were going by the book.

“You do yourself no favors keeping silent. Why protect your organization, Michael? Your loyalty is admirable, but they have done you no favors. Quite the opposite—they have let you fall right into our own hands.”

Because it wasn't my organization I was protecting.

“Unless it isn't your organization you're protecting,” Hawk mused. “Perhaps the IMA has some sort of hold on you. We've speculated as much. A woman, maybe — a girl. There's another open secret in your organization. It seems you had a rather torrid affair with one of the hostages assigned to your charge, isn't that right?”

“
No.”

How could they possibly know that?

Adrian
.

That son of a bitch. Looked like my expiration date was sooner than I'd thought. The bastard had fucked me up the ass at my own game.

“I thought we were past being difficult, Mr. Boutilier.”

One of the agents — it felt like a woman's hand — shoved a pill into my mouth from behind. Cyanide? I
spat it out with a curse. A gun pressed against my temple. The click of the safety as loud as a gunshot as the barrel dug into that hollow right in front of my ear.

They forced another pill past my lips. Maybe it was the same one that had fallen on the floor. Without looking away from Hawk's cold stare I swallowed it dry. If they wanted me dead they'd have shot me already, and I wasn't about to beg. My chances of surviving their poison were a lot better than pushing my odds with the gun aimed at my left temporal lobe.

“Do you know what PCP is, Mr. Boutilier?”

“
Phencyclidine. Anesthetic. Hallucinogen. Neurotoxin. Sometimes used a recreational drug. What is this? A pop quiz? I don't remember signing up for Pharmapsychology one-oh-one.”

“
Phencyclidine cases aggression — something that clearly comes naturally to you, Mr. Boutilier — and, as you were so good to point out, partial immunity to pain.”

What a shame it didn't also grant partial immunity to condescending assholes.

“In extreme cases, there have been reports of people pulling apart handcuffs with their bare hands, often resulting in injury once the drug wears off.” He nodded at me. “You may be interested to know that this requires almost ten thousand pounds of force.”

Something sharp punched through my shirtsleeve like the stinger of a wasp. I inhaled sharply, jerking my shoulders back. Too late. One of the younger, smaller men withdrew. He had a hypodermic needle. It was empty.

“What the
fuck
did you just inject me with?”

He deposited the syringe into a biohazard canister someone had quietly procured and didn't respond.

“Answer me,” I snarled.

“
You are no position to fight us, Mr. Boutilier, and struggling will only make the drug rush through your veins all the faster.”

I twisted around to glare at him. “Fuck you.”

“I suggest you remember your manners before your lack thereof lands you in a far more precarious position.”

“
Don't fuck with me,” I said. “This sure as shit isn't a tea party, so you fucking tell me right now — what was in that fucking needle? Sodium pentathol? Poison?”

“
Nothing so barbaric.”

Yeah, right.

“You will be happy to know it was a garden-variety sedative, such as that which one might receive at any hospital. It should take effect in a few minutes, depending on your body's metabolism.”

“
And the pill?”

“
The pill in phencyclidine, coated in a slow-dissolving but digestible agent. The sedative will slow the digestive process still further.” He paused. “If the drug can cause one to exert such horrific force on a pair of steel handcuffs, imagine what it might cause one to do to the comparatively frail human body.”

I stilled. “You're bluffing.”

“Did we receive the girl's address from our scout?” Hawk asked one of his cohorts.

“
I believe so, yes.”

“
Good. Make sure she receives our gift. Perhaps we should tie a ribbon around your neck, Mr. Boutilier.”

“
I'll kill you.” My words were turning to mush in my mouth. “You come near me and I'll tear your throat out. You watch. I'll make the
misere
out of you.”

Hawk made a dismissive sound. Just before I lost consciousness I thought I heard him say, “Make sure you give Villanueva our generous thanks.”

Villanueva? The name sounded vaguely familiar. Where had I heard it before? Where — ?

Then everything went dark and I wondered no more.

Christina:

A heavy thud came from outside. It was loud enough to make me jump. I lowered my textbook.

The sound didn't repeat.
That could be a bad thing.
I looked at the door again. Got to my feet as quietly as I was able. For once, the floors didn't squeak. I went into my bedroom and got my knife, sliding the blade loose as I tiptoed towards the door.

More silence.

An ambush? I looked through the peephole. The stairs were empty from what I could see. That didn't mean it was safe out there, but I was a little reassured.

Keeping the safety chain in place, I undid the main lock and peered through the gap. Drew in a sharp breath. I couldn't believe what I was seeing.

Not the strange men from the black car —

Not the Sniper —

Michael.

Michael
was lying on my doorstep.

Unconscious.

…Dead?

A startled sound made me whip my head around and tighten my grip on the knife. It took a moment for the panicked animal my brain had become to realize the sound had come from me.

I looked back down at the porch steps. I'd half-expected the image of him to dissipate like smoke. 

Nope. He was still there.

“Oh shit,” I said. “Shit.” He was still
there
.

It was beginning to sink in. This was really happening. Michael was here. On my doorstep. I fumbled with the chain.

Oh, bad idea, Christina
.

All
my senses were telling me that this was a bad idea. Were screaming it, in fact. I told my senses to go to hell. I couldn't very well leave him out there.

What if it's a trap?

What if it wasn't? If someone found him on my porch steps, I would be so screwed.

The metal chain links rattled against the door frame as I pushed the door aside. I jumped and lost my grip on his arm.
Well, this isn't going to work.

I set my teeth. The longer I stayed out here the more likely it was that someone would see him.

I squatted down to reach under his armpits for better leverage. His shirt was unbuttoned and damp with something that could have been blood, sweat, or a mixture of the two. Whatever it was, he smelled bad enough to be distracting and his body was
heavy
.

Little alarm bells were going off in the back of my head. That he was dead or dying — and that I was going to be held accountable for it. That this was a trap. That I had finally cracked and was suffering mass hallucinations on a psychiatric scale.