Read Online Cease and Desist (The IMA Book 4) by Nenia Campbell - Free Book Online
Authors: Nenia Campbell
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That wasn't what I wanted for myself.”
“No,” I said slowly. “I imagine not.”
“Can you really, though?”
I thought of my gang in Louisiana. I thought about how it felt to be invincible. To be feared. My world had consisted of a few run-down buildings in the French Quarter and a couple of shady back alleys, but it had been mine. I didn't have to pay taxes or fill out forms. I could wake up when I fucking felt like it, and answered only to the gang leader and myself.
And why had I turned to the gangs in the first place? Because the government doesn't have two shits to rub together for the poor, dissolute children who slip through the cracks of the litigation system. I'd seen what happened to kids like me, kids who tried to play by the rules and ended up bent over scrubbing toilets while Uncle Sam fucked them up the ass — if their foster father hadn't already beaten him to it.
I continued to meet Suraya's gaze. At first, working in the IMA had seemed like the answer. Power. Money. Women were harder to get; for them I had to pretend to be someone other than who I actually was. It was ugly work, but had a lot of pretty perks. Until one day, I was forced to look at the life I'd built and realized it wasn't worth it. I'd almost been killed before having that epiphany.
Had Suraya had a similar epiphany? Her story was tragic, but it's easy enough to spin a convincing sob story: hundreds of fiction writers do so every day.
No, the pressing question was, could Suraya be counted on? I knew Christina didn't trust her, and while I had blown off her doubts — publicly, at least, trying not to appeal to any outward sense of favoritism in spite of what Angelica believed — I considered her to be a fair judge of character.
“So,” I said. “You got involved with the IMA.”
“One of my bosses had dealings with them, yes.”
“How did you get involved?”
“I went with him on one occasion — he was illiterate … although his vanity spurred him to go to great lengths to hide it. I was a secretary of sorts, and part of the deception.”
“Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain,” I murmured.
“Yes.” It wasn't clear if she understood the reference. “He would have me look over important documents on the pretext of reviewing them in order to gauge their importance. Then, later, he would have me read the documents to him in private so he could make his own decisions.”
“As fascinating as this all is, I don't care about your idiot boss. Get back on topic. How did you get involved with Callaghan?”
“We had one meeting that was of particular importance, and rather than risk losing face in my absence, he brought me with him on the pretext of an apprenticeship. We were meeting the head of a Western organization that he wanted very badly to impress. An Irishman. Ruthless, but very, very powerful — and rich. That was how I met Mr. Callaghan for the first time. He was that man.”
“How did you learn to read?”
“My mother was educated.”
The answer was evasive, and she knew it. Her eyes dared me to press for more details; it was insulting that she thought I would fall prey to such easy bait.
I changed tactics. “Did you know the nature of their dealings?”
She bit her lip. I wondered if that was intended to distract me, too. “My boss at the time had requested to have some fairly powerful competitors killed. I never understood why he sought outside help — there were plenty of locals he could have hired. Perhaps he thought a foreigner would be more difficult to trace back to him.”
“Or easier to dupe,” I suggested mildly, suspecting I knew where this was going. The fool.
“Yes,” Suraya said, “he wasn't scrupulous about paying back his debts. Few had the will — or the might — to challenge him. It made him confident.”
“Until he met Adrian,” I posited.
She nodded fiercely. “When Mr. Callaghan found out my boss had no intention of paying his debts, he tortured
“No,” I said slowly. “I imagine not.”
“Can you really, though?”
I thought of my gang in Louisiana. I thought about how it felt to be invincible. To be feared. My world had consisted of a few run-down buildings in the French Quarter and a couple of shady back alleys, but it had been mine. I didn't have to pay taxes or fill out forms. I could wake up when I fucking felt like it, and answered only to the gang leader and myself.
And why had I turned to the gangs in the first place? Because the government doesn't have two shits to rub together for the poor, dissolute children who slip through the cracks of the litigation system. I'd seen what happened to kids like me, kids who tried to play by the rules and ended up bent over scrubbing toilets while Uncle Sam fucked them up the ass — if their foster father hadn't already beaten him to it.
I continued to meet Suraya's gaze. At first, working in the IMA had seemed like the answer. Power. Money. Women were harder to get; for them I had to pretend to be someone other than who I actually was. It was ugly work, but had a lot of pretty perks. Until one day, I was forced to look at the life I'd built and realized it wasn't worth it. I'd almost been killed before having that epiphany.
Had Suraya had a similar epiphany? Her story was tragic, but it's easy enough to spin a convincing sob story: hundreds of fiction writers do so every day.
No, the pressing question was, could Suraya be counted on? I knew Christina didn't trust her, and while I had blown off her doubts — publicly, at least, trying not to appeal to any outward sense of favoritism in spite of what Angelica believed — I considered her to be a fair judge of character.
“So,” I said. “You got involved with the IMA.”
“One of my bosses had dealings with them, yes.”
“How did you get involved?”
“I went with him on one occasion — he was illiterate … although his vanity spurred him to go to great lengths to hide it. I was a secretary of sorts, and part of the deception.”
“Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain,” I murmured.
“Yes.” It wasn't clear if she understood the reference. “He would have me look over important documents on the pretext of reviewing them in order to gauge their importance. Then, later, he would have me read the documents to him in private so he could make his own decisions.”
“As fascinating as this all is, I don't care about your idiot boss. Get back on topic. How did you get involved with Callaghan?”
“We had one meeting that was of particular importance, and rather than risk losing face in my absence, he brought me with him on the pretext of an apprenticeship. We were meeting the head of a Western organization that he wanted very badly to impress. An Irishman. Ruthless, but very, very powerful — and rich. That was how I met Mr. Callaghan for the first time. He was that man.”
“How did you learn to read?”
“My mother was educated.”
The answer was evasive, and she knew it. Her eyes dared me to press for more details; it was insulting that she thought I would fall prey to such easy bait.
I changed tactics. “Did you know the nature of their dealings?”
She bit her lip. I wondered if that was intended to distract me, too. “My boss at the time had requested to have some fairly powerful competitors killed. I never understood why he sought outside help — there were plenty of locals he could have hired. Perhaps he thought a foreigner would be more difficult to trace back to him.”
“Or easier to dupe,” I suggested mildly, suspecting I knew where this was going. The fool.
“Yes,” Suraya said, “he wasn't scrupulous about paying back his debts. Few had the will — or the might — to challenge him. It made him confident.”
“Until he met Adrian,” I posited.
She nodded fiercely. “When Mr. Callaghan found out my boss had no intention of paying his debts, he tortured
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