Cease and Desist (The IMA Book 4) (34 page)

I blinked. The outside world had become much more terrifying than the cramped, claustrophobic microsphere I had ensconced within the walls of my apartment — at least at home I had the benefit of predictability. But my skin was turning gray, and my eyes were bloodshot all the time and had started to take on a distinctly insane quality when I looked at my face in the mirror.

Sometimes, I even saw
his
.

I shuddered. What had I become? I needed to get out of here. Just for a few hours.

I printed out a map and the sound of the printer's mechanisms as they revved to life for the first time startled me.
This was a bad idea
. The map slid out onto my desk, warm and smelling of fresh ink, and I stared at the interwoven mess of roads and street names and thought,
Shit
.

What if I got lost?

Go to the library.

What if I couldn't find my way back?

Go
.

I went to the library — and it was terrifying. I was there for all of ten minutes before I ended up hightailing it back home and spending the rest of the day in bed, trembling and covered in sweat.

I am never doing this again, ever.

But a few days later, I made myself do it again. Then I went to a grocery store, a different one from the usual, one located all the way across town. I found hole-in-the-wall cafes, old-fashioned ice cream parlors, Mexican restaurants on practically every street. There was a bakery I found, called
Las Tres Palomitas
, where they served the same pastries that our maid had baked growing up: gingerbread
marranitos
, gaily colored
pan de huevo
,
reposteria de polvo —
although I could no longer stand to eat this; the smell of powdered sugar reminded me of Adrian.

There was even a Cajun restaurant, called
A Bon Couer
, but I never went in. I couldn't.

Day 42. Christina is still depressed — but at least she is leaving the house.

There were a number of stray cats surrounding my apartment complex. They hid in the bushes when people walked down the sidewalks, emerging only to snatch small birds, insects, and leftovers from the garbage. One of the cats had kittens, which followed behind their mother in a mewing line. A small black one, a female, was less timid than the others. After kneeling on hot cement for the better part of an hour with a tin of tuna, I was able to coax her to come near.

As I stroked her trembling little body, I felt something that closely approximated happiness.

I bought some cat food the next time I went to the grocery store, feeling a little guilty. Like I wasn't supposed to do anything that could make me feel anything apart from what I deserved, which was a melange of guilt and misery. “I have a cat, too,” the cashier said, as she rang up my purchases, prattling on as though we were in cahoots together, and my guilt intensified.

Pretty soon, the kitten was there every day, waiting for me. Even when I didn't have food. She gave me something to look forward to, which was a little pathetic, but not pathetic enough to stop me from buying a litter box and a few dozen cans of food. My apartment was pet-friendly, and with an additional hundred dollars added to my deposit fee, my kitten was allowed inside of my apartment for the very first time.

I opened the blinds, watching the sunlight catch on her gleaming coat. As she began to sniff various things, I thought of my first cat, Dollface. I hadn't thought of him in years. The last time I'd seen him had been the day of my kidnapping. I'd just put him outside when Michael had blown up our house to hide any remaining shreds of evidence. I hoped he'd had the sense to run, fast and far, to another family who would love him like I did. I hated to think that he was dead, too, like so many other people in my life. A lump formed in my throat. I swallowed it down.

“What should I name you?” My voice was a little choked. “Shadow? Midnight? Salem?”

The kitten wiggled her rear and vaulted into my lap with a clumsy leap. I stared down at her, a warm little bundle of affection wrapped up in fur and mischief. She looked like a toy, she was so small. I ended up calling her 'Poppet.'

I shook my head sadly. My cat was the closest thing I had to a friend.

Eventually, I ended up utilizing some connections. I found some semi-secret boards to advertise my talents and found people who were willing to pay for what I could do under the table. I was working on some of these shady side projects when my phone rang.

I hadn't wanted to buy a phone — they were so easily traced—but in the Information Age people view going off the grid with suspicion. I didn't like having to explain to people that I didn't have a mobile. Better to have some connections and lie low than to be totally isolated. The ring tone was the default factory-setting one, loud and terribly synthesized. Poppet did not like it, and retreated to a safe distance, eyeing the phone with thinly-veiled suspicion and puffed tail.

“Hello?”

I disguised my voice, making it higher, with upwards inflection, vapid—the type of voice people tend to associate with blonde-haired, blue-eyed cheerleaders and not, say, dumpy Latina computer hackers. “Who is this? Greg? Is that you?”

I heard what sounded like slow clapping. “Perhaps you should consider changing your name.”

It was Angelica — Michael's…well, I suppose he would have called her a colleague.

Would have
. The ensuing pain twisted in my chest like a knife, but that was all. No panic. No guilt. No completely overwhelming desire to disengage. I was amazed that my reaction to hearing his name, to being exposed to his memories, could be so…manageable, and that was heartbreak in and of itself.

And then apprehension washed over me like a cold shower, soaking into my skin, chilling my nerves into the stark reality of the situation. “You found me that easily?”

She laughed. As far as responses went, that was pretty insulting.

“You did not make much of an effort.”

“I have a new phone number.” A new, unlisted phone number.

“But the same name.”

She had a point. There was something to that belief of names having mysitc power. Names are skeleton keys that unlock all sorts of pieces of information. By the time you factor in someone's social security number and date of birth you might as well own part of their soul.

“I can connect you with someone who can provide you with new documentation. I'm rather surprised Michael hasn't offered to do it himself, really. Once the IMA stop jockeying among themselves like American frat boys, they will remember that you still exist, and that will be a very unpleasant situation for you.”

Another knife twist. She didn't know? How could she not know that my world had ended? She knew everything. “Angelica.” I drew in a deep breath.
You can do it.
“Michael's dead.”

The words stung the same as if they were pieces of barbed wire I'd chewed up and spit out.

Angelica paused. “I don't understand.”

“He's dead.”

“How?”

“Adrian Callaghan found us after we fled the base. He shot Michael, point-blank. I was the one who killed Adrian.” My voice sounded hollow, even to my own ears. Even though that ambush had happened months ago, it remained fresh in my mind.

“You did?” I didn't miss the emphasis, or the delicate incredulity in her voice, but I was too upset to be properly offended.

“I just kept shooting until he stopped moving. And then I kept shooting, just in case.”

Angelica said something in what didn't sound like English. “My God,” she said. “I thought — that was just a rumor, one that he started to engineer his escape. He has played dead before.”

Has he?

“Not this time. This time — this time it was real.” Tears threatened. I blinked them away impatiently, grateful Angelica couldn't see. “The moment I saw what Adrian did to him, I knew he wouldn't pull through. Not without help.” I shook my head. “He was still breathing, and I couldn't take him to the hospital, I couldn't, because if I did — ”

I'd only lose him again
.

Saving the life of the man you love, only to see him executed as a criminal while his name became interchangeable with the crudest slurs. Can you imagine? Can you?

I'd spoken aloud, my voice rising almost to a scream as I said that last, “Can you?”

There was silence, longer this time. And then, so softly that the static of her breath came close to consuming her words in a burst of crackling interference, she whispered, “I am so sorry.”

Pity. I looked at my laptop, which had just blinked into sleep mode. I walked over to my desk and fiddled with the touchpad until the screen glowed brightly again. I didn't want her pity. The only thing I wanted was something that nobody — save God and the devil — had the power to give me, and just my luck, neither of them seemed game.

“Did you need anything else?”

“Pardon? Oh — yes, I actually wanted to know if you were interested in doing some contract work for a contact of mine. It involves cracking various encrypted files. If you are interested, I can have a flash drive with a copy of the files delivered to you … although if you're too—”

“No.” My voice sounded too dissonant in the quiet. Too loud. Too desperate. “No,” I said again, trying for calm. “I'll take it. I could use the extra work.”

“He can pay you three hundred dollars an hour. This should more than compensate for any other concurrent projects.” She started to say more, stopped. “I can try to have some preliminary documents sent along with the flash drive — identification cards, SSN, papers — so you're not a total sitting duck…although I am not sure I can have them ready by then.”

“Just the flash drive is fine. Like you said, the IMA have their hands busy now.”

“For now,” she agreed, in a way that still had the hairs on the back of my neck prickling.

“You don't think it'll last.”

“Do you?”

I really hated how Angelica was actually starting to make sense.

“Fine,” I said. “I'll take the documentation, as well.” She didn't say anything else, and it took me a moment to realize that further courtesy was required. “Thank you,” I added woodenly.

“You're welcome. My condolences.”

I stood holding the receiver and staring at the wall, marveling at how much my life had changed. If I could keep getting jobs like this, I would be set for life.

For what remained of it.

Because the IMA did not forgive, and they did not forget. I had knocked off their leader, and made them look like fools. Just as thieves are the least tolerant of theft, seasoned killers don't care for the murder of their own. Assassination had secured Adrian's power, but he still used Michael as a scapegoat whenever it was convenient in order to assert the loyalty of his men—because God forbid they get it into their heads that they might be next.

When would they come for me? Would I even see it coming? Would that be better?

Or was ignorance bliss?

I thought Angelica had gone, but then I heard the thin thread of her voice whispering, “Be careful, Christina.”

And then, belatedly, the click of dial tone.

I picked up the flash drive at a location in Baja California that I wasn't to repeat under any circumstances. The drive arrived by courier, delivered by a man who was wearing gray hoodie, jeans, and the big sunglasses that were so useful in these parts for blocking out the rays of the sun.

“Nice weather we're having,” he said, as I approached.

Angelica had told me what to say. “Not if you're a snowball.”

If he was surprised to see a girl doing what many people considered a man's job, he didn't reveal it at all. His face, as he handed over the baggie, was devoid of any expression. He didn't ask for any ID, either, so Angelica or someone else must have told him what I looked like. I hoped it was Angelica. The fewer people who knew about me, the better.

At least until the documents with my new forged identity came.

I was sure he'd already been paid, and generously, but I gave him a tip. It seemed like the right thing to do, and I didn't want to make enemies by failing to follow protocol. If tipping was not usual, his face didn't show it as he pocketed the last twenty from my wallet.

“Good thing we're not made of ice.”

That was a matter of opinion.

I went to a Starbucks on the way home, with the baggie containing the flash drive safely in my purse, and I ordered a dirty chai — in cash — to drink while I started work. Cracking was a lot like translation: it used a different part of the brain, one that allowed you to dissociate from the more personal, emotional aspects of life while you focused at the task at hand. It was a live-stream feed of logic, undiluted, untainted. Cold, hard numbers.

Poppet tried to race out the door, and I had to juggle latte and purse as I nudged her out of the way with my foot. She was getting bigger now, and so were her litter mates. Sometimes my neighbors would curse in the mornings as they tripped over the growing cats on their way to work.