Cease and Desist (The IMA Book 4) (26 page)

“I plan on spinning it to make you look like a coward who would rather whore himself out than take the noble, honorable route of his rank.”

Noble. Honorable. I wanted to laugh. Those words had never applied to me. I had sold myself to the highest bidder before for reasons far less meaningful. The only difference then was that it hadn't involved sex.

“If I say yes, you won't do…whatever it was you were planning on doing to her?”

“You have my word.”

“Your word doesn't mean shit.”

“No,” he agreed. “You'll just have to trust me.”

When I hesitated, he said, “Given what you know about Christina and her history, do you think she'll be able to recover from a second, similar trauma?”

God, I hated to admit it, but the sneering bastard was
right
. I'd forced myself on her, and it had damaged her, creating a lingering trauma that still festered like an open wound in her psyche. Seducing Valon had pushed her to the very limits of what she was willing to endure for our sake, and it had forced her to relive all kinds of unpleasant memories. I couldn't do that to her again.

“Fine,” I said, and he tilted his head towards me in a way that reminded me of a raptor. “Fucking bring it.”

Christina had paid for enough of my mistakes.

Christina

I still remembered the first time I had been taken in for questioning by the IMA. It had been brutal, tortuous. They strapped me to a lie detector that looked as though it could double as a medieval torture device, and then they plied me with a number of questions designed to cause psychological distress.

They flaunted my relationship with Michael. They assumed it was sexual, instead of what it actually was: a kidnapping. To add insult to injury, they also implied that any non-consensual activity was not only
my fault
, but masterminded by me with the intent of sexually manipulating my captor.

At the time I had hated Michael more than I had ever thought it possible to hate anyone before in my life. He was the prevailing theme of my nightmares; he was brutish, and cruel, and had come close to raping me in the basement where he had held me captive. I didn't understand how they could entertain the possibility that I felt anything for him apart from sheer and utter loathing. I didn't yet understand that fear and hatred can make desperate people do desperate things. Even sleep with the enemy. Even worse.

That was the moment I realized the power that other people's opinions have on shaping your world, even if those opinions are wrong. I could deny everything, and they still wouldn't believe me, and I would suffer the consequences just the same as if their beliefs were factually correct.

That was also the moment I realized that there are people out there so evil that one meeting can eclipse the hatred you feel for your biggest enemies.

Through the lingering haze of the barbiturates, I could scarcely remember what questions the woman had asked, or what I might have said in response. I liked to think that I hadn't said anything incriminating, but the dread that weighed in the pit of my stomach like a hot and heavy stone said otherwise. These were the drugs the CIA used to coerce confessions from reluctant enemies of state; they wouldn't use them if they didn't work.

Oh, God, what had I said? Why couldn't I remember?

What have I done?

I turned, and knocked into something solid. My hand shot out to grab the object reflexively, and something wet spattered my hand. I stared.

It was a glass of water.

The lump in my throat made itself twice as obvious. I swallowed, and felt it tighten, catch, as though squeezing every last drop of saliva in my mouth like a penny-pinching miser gripping his last bit of change.

I was afraid to blink, afraid that if I did, the glass would disappear. When it did not, I fell upon it like a wild animal, drinking half the glass in two greedy swallows. Water. Thank God. Oh, thank God —

Then it occurred to me, as I was on the second swallow, that I should ration part of it for later.

Immediately after that, on swallow number three, I had another thought. The water could also be laced with drugs — drugs that might kill me, if I had served my purpose, or which might put me in yet another suggestive state if I had not.

And I had almost drunk it all without thinking.

Feeling dazed, I set the glass aside and tried to focus my scattered thoughts. Now that I really took the time to consider the water, and what it represented, I realized that this could be their way of saying that I had performed like a trained seal during my interrogation.

Good job, you betrayed your colleagues, have some fish.

Was that it? I hurled the water at the wall, but it was plastic, and merely bounced, sending arcs of water splashing harmlessly into the padding.

“Damn it,” I whimpered. Then, feeling this was not strong enough, I added, “
Goddammit.
Fuck.”

It made me feel a tiny bit better. No wonder Michael cursed all the time. But thinking about Michael was a mistake; he was one of the people who might have been compromised when the IMA had drugged me last night.

I punched the wall, feeling hopelessly stupid. When would I learn not to take things at face value? When would the natural suspicion of an agent come to me as instinctively as breathing? Was I just too naive?

As I waited to see what effect my impulsiveness would take, my mind circled back once more to last night's interrogation — the dim lights, the shadowed faces, the methodically brisk lines of questioning.

It felt like a dream that I could almost but not quite recall. I did remember them asking about my hacking. There were a few questions which might have been their sex-trafficking operation (not that they had owned up to it) because they had mentioned Suraya.

I remembered that.

Some of the questions had been about Michael. Quite a few of them had, actually. Which was odd. Our relationship was no longer secret, and knowing what he had done for me, they should have also known that I would never willingly betray him.

Which is why they drugged you
, my brain whispered.

They had also asked me about Adrian, which frightened me. Because I tried so hard to keep my fear of him a secret and instead I feared that they were all too transparent. That he and all the rest of them could see through me as though I were made of glass — and they were more than willing to cast the first stone.

Outside, I heard the beeping of the panel as someone entered the code to open the door. I braced myself for more questioning, but what I saw was so much worse.

“If it isn't little miss Christina Parker.”

It was him again — in the flesh.

The sound of his voice sent goosebumps rippling up my arms. And as though he knew that, as though he were already anticipating the fear he could instill in me, he smiled and added softly, “It's been a while.”

He walked with a limp. That was new. I had done that. It seemed impossible that I could leave an indelible mark on this man, who was like the devil wrapped in human skin. He had the training of a solider and I — well, I was just a scared civilian who played at being a hacker. And yet, I'd marked him.

I swallowed hard. Limp or no, he could kill me with the twist of his wrist if he wanted. From the look in his eyes, which wasn't at all belied by the smile that curved his mouth, I suspected he wanted that very much.

I didn't realize that I had started backing away until I slammed against the wall. I uttered a startled noise.

“And now here you are.” He spoke as if this was a civil conversation, and not the prelude to what I was sure would involve terrible pain. “In the mouth of the lion's den. How does that make you feel?”

He was trying to corner me. There was nowhere to run, but I couldn't seem to make myself stand still. My body still held on to some faint hope that it could escape.

My nails dug into my palms. The pain was reassuring and grounded me. “Really pissed off.”

“Still a liar, I see. I know you're terrified. It's written all over your face.”

Was it?

Adrian lunged, shoving me back against the wall. “You never did know when to leave well enough alone.”

He barred me in place with one arm, and with his free hand he hooked a finger through my necklace to yank my chin up. He seemed about to say more but the pendant  caught his eyes, and he glanced at it in critical appraisal as the stones caught the light. “What is this?”

I said nothing. I had the feeling, “It's a necklace, you moron,” wouldn't win me any favors.

Besides; my tongue was rooted to the roof of my mouth and wouldn't budge.

“It's very pretty, isn't it.” His cold eyes lifted to regard me with the same expression. “Just like the wearer.”

It wasn't a compliment.

(But pretty things are so easily broken.)

To him, objects and people were interchangeable.

Adrian tilted his head. “Did he give it to you?”

A direct question. It demanded an answer. I could continue to stay silent, but then he would feel the need to make me talk.

“So what if he did?”

The words were right, but the tone was all wrong, and his retaliation was swift. There was stinging pain, and I cried out, tears springing to my eyes as though he had called them there —
because he had snapped my necklace
. He had broken Michael's necklace, and the fire opal carved into the planet shape was already disappearing into his pocket, where I imagined it would soon join the cabinet of trophies he kept from those enemies he had destroyed.

Oh, yes. He had a cabinet. He'd shown it to me with all the glee of a little boy shortly before slicing me with a knife, and leaving me bruised and bleeding for Michael to find. He also had one of my rings. For a while, he'd worn it around his neck on a chain, like an animal smearing itself in the blood of a fresh kill.

That was what Adrian did.

My heart was pounding so fast I felt dizzied. I clawed at his face, but only grazed him. He knocked me aside, like a jaguar knocking aside the swipes of a small house cat, and grabbed me by the throat before I could fall. All veneers of politeness were gone now.

“I should have killed you when I had the chance, Christina Parker — ” I hated that he refused to call me anything but my full name “ — and by the time I've finished with you, you'll wish I had.”

He tightened his grip, and I was digging my nails into his hand, trying to allay his grip just so I could breathe. The pressure was terrible, painful, and the air I was managing to take in was scarcely enough to fill a straw. One minute went by, then two. “Please,” I squeaked. My lungs were aching, filled with sharp, stabbing pains. “I can't — ”

Adrian let his grip slacken, and I sucked in a clotted, panicky breath. Which was a mistake, I realized. Because seconds later, bile was rushing up my throat. Would I faint, or vomit? Both seemed imminent. I remembered Suraya. What he had done to her. Was that his plan? Mutilate me and then burn me alive and leave me for Michael to find?

I stumbled back from him, and he kicked me in the knee, hard enough to send me crumpling to the floor like discarded Styrofoam. If I put my heart into it, I'd last an extra five minutes. Longer, if he was enjoying himself.

“If the patella shatters, you'll never walk quite right again.” I was scooting away from him as fast as my legs would allow. He smiled coldly. “But you already know that.”

My heart fluttered weakly. It was no longer a question of whether he planned to kill me; it was a question of how long he intended to make me suffer before he did. This was to be a rehashing of what he had done to me in the IMA's base under Richardson's regime. But this time, there would be no quick patching-up at their on-site hospital, no. This time, he would beat me until I died.

Using the wall, I managed to sway unsteadily to my feet. My knee throbbed painfully as my weight again shifted upright but that was the least of my concerns. He came at me again and I twisted, driving a hard kick at him from my good leg at his bad one. He narrowed his eyes, so I knew it must have hurt.

“Finally learned some self-defense, did you?”

I braced myself.

Adrian grabbed me by the front of my shirt — hard. Too hard. The cheap fabric ripped, cracking against my skin as it tore with a sharp sting. I tried to wriggle free, but only succeeded in widening the tear.

“I could peel your skin like an apple,” he said. “That's what I have my men do to the girls who think they can try and run. I wonder, do you think that Michael would care at all for you then?”

I shook my head wordlessly, too afraid to speak.

“Aye. Pretty faces make men stupid.” He flicked out his knife. I reintensified my earlier struggles to get away, but his grip was firm, and he pressed the cold metal beneath my chin. “When they're not so pretty, that's when the men who would help them flee rightly enough. Because without the distraction they realize that their lives simply aren't worth the forfeit.”

No
.

“I could do that to you, Christina Parker.” With the slightest pressure, he forced me to turn my head or risk being sliced. “Or,” he said, “I could cut out your innards like a Cornish game hen and leave you to die in a pool of your own filth as you choke to death on your own blood.”