Cloak and Dagger

Chapter 27.) Vendetta

Something is seriously fucking wrong.

The words looped through his brain like a malicious virus in the mainframe of his brain, goading him. Taunting him. Flooding his blood with epinephrine. Michael gritted his teeth, forcing himself to contemplate the dark, cloudy sky and the long stretch of road ahead. At this point, he could not afford to do anything rash. But it was hard to send his body the message. His blood pressure was much too high, his central nervous system aroused, and sitting in a car provided little opportunity to let off the stress that came with the fight or flight impulses.

Unconsciously, he glanced at the woman beside him. She was playing with her necklace, zipping the charm back and forth across the chain. His eyes dropped to her breasts, squeezed out by the tight fabric of her top. What the fuck was Shannon doing, wearing an outfit like that when someone was chasing her?

She turned, sensing his scrutiny. For a brief instant, she smiled. The smile quickly faded as she glimpsed the expression on his face. “Ed?”

The name echoed in his head.

Ed.

“Don't talk to me. I need to think.”

The car went silent.

It was pretty warm for Washington, hovering in the mid-seventies. The humidity in the air was as smothering as a wet blanket. Michael switched on the air condition, wondering how many people in those nice, two-story houses were suffering from the heat. He was willing to bet that none of them had any fans or cooling devices.

Ed.

He glanced at her sharply, but Shannon hadn't spoken.

Michael shook his head. What was wrong with him? He was as jumpy as a fucking girl.

His feeling of misease grew stronger as he made his way through downtown Seattle. A light drizzle spattered the windshield, blurring the city lights. On the other side of the glass, the world was in motion; but inside the car everything was frozen. His silence was getting to her: he could see her getting more and more tense.

“Ed?”

He just looked at her.

“Do you mind?” she blurted. She was already fiddling with his car radio before he had time to respond. Michael stared at the knobs, a feeling of deja vu overtaking him as he remembered twisting one of the knobs clean off in the Cascade Mountains. That had been right after his boss had called him.

Before he was branded as a traitor.

Bursts of sound came from the speaker as Shannon continued to turn the fucking knobs. Finally, she settled on some easy-listening station from the 90s.

How do I get back there to the place where I fell asleep inside you?

How do I get myself back to the place you said?

I want something else to get me through this.

It didn't take long for the music to wear his nerves as thin as the Euro-dance had.

“I love this song.”

A flash of … something … arced through him. What was it? His hands tightened on the wheel and he grated out, “It's about drug addiction.”

“What?”

“It's about fucking crystal meth.”

Shannon looked at him strangely. “So? It's a good song, Ed. Loosen up. You're so tense.”

She's fucking right. Relax, he told himself, If you explode, she'll only get more suspicious.

But he did not want to 'loosen up.' Especially since she had told him to.

She's hiding something. But what?

Michael had a very powerful photographic memory and the rare ability to sift through his memories as if they were footage from security cameras. Some people with autism had this ability. So did Michael. He took a deep, calming breath, tuning out the radio, going back to the early evening. Back to when he had spilled his guts to Christina.

The memory made him wince a little but wasn't particularly dangerous … at least, not immediately so. She hadn't seemed to grasp the significance of what he had told her. He had let her see that he was vulnerable. Weak. And by telling her, he showed that he didn't care if she knew … that maybe he even fucking wanted her to know.

And that, more than anything else, was dangerous.

He no longer cared. The thought caused alarm, but it was faint—no longer quite as deafening as it would have been a week ago. He didn't care. All that mattered was holding her close, with his hand over her pulsing heart, feeling her warm skin against his.

Is that how she's paying you? Is that how she's paying you, Ed?

Wait. Mental backtrack. She hadn't said 'Ed', now, had she? He could swear that she had called him 'Michael.'

Is that how she's paying you, Michael?

The words rang true. His mouth tightened into a hard line and he pulled the car off to the side of the road.

Shannon started, looking out the dark window. The traffic had thinned out, leaving the road mostly empty. A fact that had not escaped Michael's mind. “Is … is something wrong?” Shannon asked, in a too-high voice.

“Yes,” he said. “There is.”

+ II + II +

+ II + II +

My head felt as though somebody had packed it with several bushels of cotton but that did nothing to stifle the pain. Through the strange, puffy feeling, I could feel a steady pounding in my temples. My chest was on fire. I tried to sit up and felt the pain lick through my ribs—the pain of old injuries awakened. A soft whimper escaped before I was conscious enough to claim it back. Groaning, I opened my eyes, whereupon they promptly widened in horror.

I was in a moving car.

And then it all came hurdling back at me—Michael's confession—Michael leaving the apartment with that other woman—the Sniper's cryptic threats—getting knocked out. I instinctively tried to touch my chest, to inspect the damage, but my arms wouldn't move. Somebody had bound my arms behind my back with hemp rope.

They had trussed me up like a chicken for the chopping block.

My heart leaped into my throat. Mierda.

The time on the dash said 3:00. AM, not PM, I guessed. That meant we'd been driving for several hours. The sky outside was a deep indigo sprayed with stars that looked like cheap glitter. Behind us, the sky had a disturbing, burnt orange cast from the light pollution. Seattle? I wondered. Or some other city?

I squinted, lifting my body up as carefully as I could to glance out the window. Judging from the pace at which the lights were whizzing by, we were moving along at an incredibly fast pace. At least 70MPH or more, though it was much too dark in the car to read the actual speed. We were probably on the freeway. I wouldn't be able to jump.

I could do nothing.

We're not in Seattle anymore, Toto.

The Sniper, who was sitting beside me, chose that moment to glance over at me.

“Well, well,” he said. “Look who is awake. Did you sleep well, young lady?”

I cursed at him. But he had gagged me as well, so all the insults came out garbled. I think the Sniper got the gist, though, because he started to laugh. Which really pissed me off. I was scared. Who was he to make fun of me for that? Just who the hell did he think he was? And even though I knew that I was just cutting off my nose to spite my face, I lunged forward, wishing that I could incinerate him with my glare. All it did was make him laugh harder. “Feisty. Cliff,” he said, grabbing my shoulders, “Look at this face. Isn't she fearsome?”

“I'm driving,” 'Cliff' said. He sounded like the other man from the apartment. I strained to look past the edge of the seat. Was he here, too?

The Sniper relaxed his grip on my bruised arms. “How far are we?”

“About two hours.” Cliff's deep voice was flat. His lack of affect scared me far more than anger. Anger was familiar. Predictable. This was … this was different. He was completely removed from the situation.

Sorry, kid. Make it easy on yourself.

What would make a man like that stoop to pity?

Where were they taking me?

The Sniper pushed me back in my seat. “Didn't I tell you that I do not specialize in guns alone?”

I was really beginning to hate the sound of the Sniper's voice.

As if picking up on that thought, his voice dropped to a low whisper. “You know, Michael didn't find all of my cameras.”

I stared at him.

He's lying. Don't believe him.

But could I really afford to take that chance? What else had he seen?

"But whether he has or not, I have gathered all the evidence we need. Enough to come to a rather stunning conclusion."

"Sniper," Cliff grated.

The Sniper's dark eyes shifted towards the front, before moving back to me. He smiled suddenly. "A conclusion which you have no need of knowing. A good magician never reveals his secrets, after all—although I bet you could guess."

“You talk too fucking much. You've seen those movies with the men who compromise everything because they can't shut the hell up? Shut the hell up.”

The Sniper rolled his eyes. “This is not a movie. Bad things are going to happen to you and Michael, young lady.”

"Don't torment her."

"Her boyfriend was rough with me," the Sniper said. "I have been looking forward to returning the favor.”

He wasn't nearly so brave when Michael was having his way with him. I remembered the terror in his eyes. That hadn't been faked.

Perhaps he read the scorn in my face. "No, he won't be saving you this time. Unfortunately for you. Michael's not the only one who likes them with a little fight."

I tried to kick him. He pinched my cheek and then slapped me.

"She has enough problems," the other man said. "I mean it. Leave the fucking kid alone."

What the hell was that supposed to mean? The gag prevented me from asking, but the Sniper backed off. And the panic I had swallowed down threatened to bubble over.

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Shannon tried to make a break for the door. With a casualness he did not feel, Michael pressed the lock button.

“You're scaring me, Ed.”

Michael said nothing.

“Ed—”

“You called me Michael earlier.”

The horror on her face gave her away far more than any mere slip of the tongue.

She tried to recover. “Did I? My ex-boyfriend was named—”

“Bullshit.”

“I—”

"Bullshit." Michael grabbed her by the front of her shirt, pulling her close. As close as she'd been trying to get him for the last two days. Strangely enough, she didn't look like she was enjoying it all that much. He stared into her wide, terrified eyes. "Don't play stupid with me, Shannon. Somebody talked to you. Where did you hear that name? Was it that man you told me about earlier, or was it somebody else?"

She wet her lips. “It was him. The man. The one who came to my house. The one who was looking for you.”

“How the fuck am I supposed to trust you?”

“It's true! He was looking for you! He told me you were wanted by the police or something—I don't remember. Ed, please—”

He slammed his fist against the car door, inches away from her face. “Don't fucking call me that.”

She started to cry—loud, heavy sobs.

Fuck.

Breathing heavily, he struggled to compose himself. "Never mind what he told you. What did you tell him?"

Tears rolled down her cheeks. He watched them with a blend of disgust and morbid fascination. When she spoke, her words were hitched and uneven. "He said that if I told him where the girl was, he wouldn't hurt you."

“Fuck.”

“I ... I thought—you were an agent.”

"Nice of you to think of your country all of a sudden," he said coldly, "Considering that you had no qualms about undermining the law before."

“Your life was more important," she was stammering, "I mean, if they got you—”

He slammed the door again. “Bull-fucking-shit. You can't stand not being the center of attention for one fucking second. Parading yourself around in a—whatever the fuck it is you're wearing—claiming you're in fucking danger. I suppose you thought you were doing yourself a favor, eliminating the fucking competition.”

“But Michael—”

“You think you fucking know me? I'm an assassin. I kill people for a living. And that girl you just fucking sold out is the only thing in this world that makes me remotely human.”

He tightened his grip on her shirt.

“You better pray that nothing happens to her.”

+ II + II +

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“Everybody out,” the Sniper said, punctuating his order with a sharp tug that had me stumbling out of the car. Regardless of what he had said about being unable to carry me, he was plenty strong.

And my hands were tied. Literally.

The other man—Cliff—untied my gag. I sucked in a deep, experimental breath. My chest ached a little, and the breath subsided into a cough. “You bastard.” My voice sounded rusty from disuse, “You're going to be dead when he finds you. Both of you are.”

“I'm so worried,” the Sniper said.

I was led down a series of long hallways. Not steel, like the halls I'd grown accustomed to in the IMA's Washington base and Target Island, but regular tiles. The were paneled, although I doubted they were real wood. This place looked like an office building, not a prison. I found myself speaking my thoughts aloud: "Where are you taking me?"

"The boss insisted that we bring you back to HQ," the Sniper said, in that strange accent-that-was-not-an-accent.

His words made me freeze.

The Boss.

Adrian.

No.

"I'm sure he will want to deal with you personally."

A clammy sweat had broken out over my forehead. I refused to give him the response he was looking for.

I refused.

And then I felt a small prick in my arm. The world went gray. Then black. Then numb.

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"So kind of ye to join me."

I was instantly awake.

He was sitting behind the desk, perfectly still, with his hand at his mouth. Adrian looked exactly the same as the last time I'd seen him, except his hair was shorter--it looked professionally cut--and instead of his tailored, preppy wear, he was wearing a three-piece suit. A reminder that he had moved up in the world.

As if I needed reminding.

His smile was the only indication that he was well aware of my terror. "Tea?"

"No."

I eyed him warily as he shrugged and poured himself a cup. "I must admit; I expected a greater challenge. It's almost as if ye wanted to be caught."

My lips were as dry and crackly as parchment, but I wasn't so desperate that I was about to take any food or drink that he offered me. I watched him take another sip before pushing the cup aside. The subtle movement made me realize for the first time that there was a manila envelope on his desk. Rather surprising, considering that the surface was otherwise bare, but I had more pressing concerns on my mind. What is that? I wondered sickly. Michael had used a similar envelope to send my parents that ransom note.

As I watched, he opened it with care that bordered on fastidiousness. It would have been laughable if I hadn't already known how much pain his slender hands were capable of inflicting. "Did ye want to be caught?" I bit back a cry as he produced a stack of photographs.

Of course the Sniper had given the originals to his boss.

"I didn't realize the two of ye were so close."

Fuck fuck fuck.

He was watching me, gauging my reaction.

What I felt went far beyond mortification.

"Fuck you."

"Sexualization is a method of objectification. It creates distance." He regarded me over the rim. "Debasement. Power." My throat felt impossibly thick. Even if I had wanted to, I wouldn't have been able to speak. "A common defense mechanism."

Against what?

With a scoffing gesture, he slammed the folder down on the desk and stood up. I managed not to flinch.

Part of his technique was making people fill ill-at-ease. Crowding them. Invading their personal space. Touching them. I understood what he was doing, but I still jumped when I felt his hand on the back of the sofa, inches away from my back. Please don't let him hurt me, I thought frantically. Please, for the love of God.

"Ye breached his defenses. That makes ye valuable. It's why yer still alive."

I said nothing.

In a movement too fast to track, he grabbed my chin. That single bit of impersonal contact made nausea rush to my stomach. He wasn't hurting me--not yet--but that could easily change.

"Nothing to add?"

My heart was pounding freely now.

"What do you want me to say?"

"A month ago, ye would have done anything to hurt Michael. Ye would have sold him out in a heartbeat."

He was right.

Oh my god.

He was right.

"Ye see? We're not much different, you and I."

"Of course we're different! You're sick. Michael told me what you did, you son of a--"

Too late, I realized my mistake.

He dug his thumb into the side of my throat. I choked and tried to pull away.

"Did he now? Well. If vengeance is what ye want, ye already have everything ye need to hurt him."

"I don't understand," I said flatly.

With his free hand, he tapped the left side of my chest.

"He's in a rather compromising position, Christina Parker. And yer the one who put him there."

"Not on purpose."

"Regardless."

There was a long pause.

"I would pay ye quite a bit to have him brought to me. Alive."

Was he ... bribing me? He wasn't doing a very good job of it.

"He's an assassin," I said dully. "If you can't catch him, I don't see how I can."

"Honeyed traps catch more flies, Christina Parker. I want him alive. I don't care how, or in what condition, he is brought to me."

And then I got it.

"Oh my god," I said, unable to keep the horror from my voice. "You're out of your fucking gourd."

"Rather attractive lad, isn't he? Don't think he doesn't know. He's seduced countless women, only to lead them to their deaths. I thought ye were a vigilante. Don't ye want justice?"

"I don't want to hurt people!"

Adrian chuckled, although his eyes remained cold. "Some would argue that he isn't human. Not anymore. But he'll survive. I won't kill him. Not right away."

I felt sick just listening to him speak. Just thinking about doing ... what he was implying ...

"You have nothing that I want."

"Not even your freedom?"

"I don't want to hurt anybody."

"Pity," he said softly, loosening his tie. "Because I do."

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Author's note: Here it is. The product of all my free time for the last two months. University has been very, very exhausting, leaving me with barely enough energy for work, let alone writing. Hopefully this chapter's not too crappy. :)

Also, thank you so much for all the reviews! It really made my day to be toiling away on one of my many essays and suddenly see a review alert pop up, telling me to keep at it. You guys are what motivated me to work through the exhaustion. So thank you!

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