Free Armed and Dangerous (The IMA) by Nenia Campbell Page B

tried.
    Michael could , I thought, surprising myself. He had been fighting against the IMA in his own way since he was first recruited. Michael knew what bugs looked like and where to look for them. Michael would know what to do, where to go, and when to run.
    In the face of my survival I had taken his abilities for granted, but really, when it came down to it, he was the main reason I was still alive. Yes, he had gotten me into this mess in the first place, if not personally then by proxy, but he had also been the one to defy the odds to get me back out. That had to count for something.
    I could talk big, stall, even run and hide — but Michael knew how to fight. And it was starting to look like the IMA was demanding one.
     
    Michael:
    When the plane landed my armrests bore divots in the leather from my fingers. I'd half-expected the plane to blow up. Rookie fear, I know, but that would be just like the bastard — to take a bunch of innocents down along with his target and then blame the act on terrorists.
    Callaghan liked that, lulling people into a sense of false security and then catching them with their pants down. I knew I had a limited shelf life — I'd come to terms with that a long time ago — but for now, I was alive. I hadn't yet outlived my usefulness. I just needed to keep it that way for a little while longer.
    My luggage had disappeared again, not unlike the Scotland trip, so I wasn't surprised, either, when I got pulled aside for another “random” security check. By the time I got out of the London airport I was an hour and a half behind schedule.
    Those assholes had no respect for me or my time.
    I had been set up in an over-priced, under-furnished hotel. Crystal chandeliers, red carpet, rococo wallpaper. Suitable for a hot-shot who judged things by cost and not quality. This kind of place was a trap for bourgeois tourists. It was even called La Chançard — 'the lucky fellow.'
    Someone appreciated their own sense of irony.
    I strolled up to the concierge's desk. I could see him around the corner, talking into the phone, but I was getting into the swing of my role and found I was developing a taste for being a dick. I slammed the bell, gratified to see him jump. The annoyance left when he saw my suit.
    “ Yes? What can I do for you?”
    Fake posh accent and everything. Now that was class.
    “Mr. Agnew,” I said. “I believe I called earlier on about a room.”
    The concierge studied my ID for a long time. I watched him glance from me to my driver's license as though memorizing my features. I suspected he was trying to get the measure of me, so I stared right on back. I was better at this game and he knew it. We both did. When he handed back my license, he didn't meet my eyes. “It's two-hundred pounds a night. That includes a continental breakfast.”
    “Great.”
    “ How long will you be staying with us?”
    I eyed him. “I'm roughing it.”
    He seemed to accept that. Of course he did. “Form of payment?”
    “ Credit.”
    “ Very good.” He slid the card through the scanner and then handed it back with a key. The key was dull brass and hung from a tooled leather fob. “Three thirty-seven is your room, sir. Please enjoy your stay at our hotel.”
    I waved my hand in thanks.
    The room turned out to be on the third floor. Not my preference. I preferred lower floors. Easier to escape that way in a pinch. Something I'm sure Callaghan took into consideration when making the arrangements. He probably put me as far from the fire escape as he was able, as well. At least it had a view. I could see the London skyline, occluded by a shroud of misty vapor and air pollution. Sulfur-colored skyscrapers. I closed the blinds, tossed the keys and luggage on my bed, shrugged off the suit-coat.
    Better already.
    I unpacked the gun from my suitcase, removing it from the special holster. The holster was made of lead and special computer cloaking technology that scrambled the readings of the x-ray and scanner