Armed and Dangerous (The IMA) Read Free

head, but all were present and accounted for. I was surprised Callaghan had only sent five. There'd been a time when it would have taken at least ten. I guess the IMA had its respect for me.
    I squinted. The leader was a man I'd seen around the base a handful of times. He'd never been important enough to bother learning his name, just a grunt, though if he was here now that must have meant he'd been promoted.
    Jesus, what is this? The off-brand recovery team?
    From the look on their faces, the disappointment was mutual. “Michael Boutilier?” From the look on his face, it looked like he kind of wanted me to say 'no.'
    “Who's asking?”
    “ It's him,” the leader said. “Michael Boutilier, you are coming with us.”
    “ That right?” I saluted with the tumbler. “At least tell me your name before we fuck.”
    He pointed his pistol at me. I heard the safety click off. “Don't make me shoot you, Mr. Boutilier. I'd hate to have to explain to Mr. Callaghan why we brought you in dead.”
    “ Alohrs pas . He doesn't like failures.” I set down my glass. The liquid sloshed over the edge. “Why don't you passe on the hell out of here, before I passe you a goddamn ass-kicking?”
    “ He's drunk,” the same grunt from before said.
    “ You're drunk,” the leader said to me.
    “ You don't say. They teach you to tell that in spy school? Cho -fucking- co . Sure is nice knowing the American tax dollar is being put to good use, eh?”
    The guard set his teeth. “Boutilier, I'm warning you.”
    “Fuck you, chure . Kill me if you want. I don't care.”
    “ We aren't going to kill you.”
    Something smashed into my head. It took me a moment to realize it was the rum bottle. It took me another moment to realize that one of his men had crept around behind me to brain me with it. Glass shattered. Liquid splattered. Aw, hell . That was good rum .
    “ But by the time this is over,” the guard continued, “you might wish we had.” His voice was throwing off shimmery echoes. I had time to think, Oh shit .
    And then everything went dark.
     
    Christina:
    My father's house was only about fifty miles away from my mother's. It felt like a different country. He lived in one of those cottage homes from the 1920's. Small, cozy, not really room enough for three. The second being his new wife, Emily “just call me Aunt Em” Parker nee Rutherford.
    Emily — sorry, Aunt Em — had a degree in Library Sciences and had first met my father when he had been returning some overdue programming manuals. He had argued with her about the due date. She couldn't locate him in the computer system when she attempted to double-check the library's records. My dad helped her update the backed-up files and she looked the other way while he quietly wiped his fines in lieu of payment. The two of them then went out to dinner, and the rest, as they say, was history. It was a cute enough story but one I'd heard far too many times. I didn't like the way Aunt Em told it, either, which was in a theatrical, overblown way far too reminiscent of my mother's.
    Thankfully their shared penchant for drama was the only attribute they had in common. Apart from that one trait they had in common, Mamá and Em were different in both looks and personality. Mamá, in her cruel and cutting way, had even christened Aunt Em La Ratona because of her mousy looks and nervous gestures.
    The one instance they had met was when my mother had come by to pick up some of her things from our old house. The meeting had been catastrophic. Obviously. I hadn't been there since I'd been touring college campuses on-site, but from what I'd gleaned from the various sides to the story (and there were many), my mother had called Em a “dried up old hag,” and Em had retorted that at least she wasn't an “aging cougar who still thought herself a sex-kitten.”
    I imagined the look on my mother's face was priceless.
    It was only eight-thirty when I pulled up in their driveway and their lights