Codename: Nightshade (Deadly Seven Strike Force)

  S.E. ANDERSON

  Copyright 2015 by S.E. Anderson

  All rights reserved.

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Case File

  Preface

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  Acknowledgements

  This book is dedicated to Sebastian Stan. You may never read this, but your badass strut and metal arm swinging inspired it. So thanks.

  Beware the Daeva, young one.

  Not all that glitters is gold.

  Not all that sounds lovely is true.

  Not all ghosts are dead.

  “You’re avoiding my question.”

  Nikolai rolls the stem of his wine glass between his forefinger and thumb. The red liquid looks like blood as it swishes around. He stares at the wine and not me as he speaks. “I already told you my decision, Poppy.”

  Poppy. Damn. He knows that pet name gets to me. “Don’t play the ol' I’ll-melt-her-panties-along-with-her-mind trick on me,” I say. “Answer my question.”

  He puts the glass down, smoothing his hands along the pristine white tablecloth. His steak and potatoes with fresh garden vegetables has gone untouched since the waiter delivered it thirty minutes ago. The silverware isn’t even out of place.

  A heavy sigh escapes his lips as his eyes finally meet mine. “I’ve told you I’m going. Told you what my mission will be. This is my decision. What more answer do you require, Penelope?”

  Penelope. Now he’s using my name as a taunt. Not cool. “Nothing, General Zolkov,” I say, shoving my chair back for a dramatic exit. “Enjoy your mission and your decision.”

  He shouts my name across the small restaurant, is still shouting it when he follows me into the street. A blast of freezing air slaps me square in the face, and my high heel hits a slippery patch of ice, making my retreat less than as flawless as I had hoped. A strong hand grabs my elbow before I fall face first onto the dingy cement.

  “Poppy.”

  Damn him and his smooth Russian accent that caresses my skin as his arms wrap around me. I’m tough. I’m a fighter.

  I don’t need him.

  He exposes the side of my neck to the same icy air that’s making my spine shiver. Maybe that’s not the wind. Maybe it’s him. I never feel weaker than when I am in his arms. Ironic, since he’s the one who trained me to be so strong.

  I feel the burning warmth of his breath against my skin a second before I feel his lips. It’s a stark contrast to the harsh winter weather around us. He presses pleading kisses over and over into my flesh, whispering apologies and saying Poppy as if somehow that’s going to make this all better.

  “You’re leaving me,” I say, silently cursing the tears blurring my vision.

  “Only because I have to.”

  I shake my head. I’m out of words, out of a legitimate argument as to why I think he shouldn't go. He told me everything about the mission. It’s not an actual assignment so much as it is a favor. His friends back home in Russia need his help fighting some new invisible threat. I know this hits him hard, square in the chest. I know he believes this is his responsibility to fix.

  And I know that he won’t back down from any fight he believes he can win.

  But I've got a bad feeling about this.

  “Let me come with you,” I offer, anticipating him shooting down the idea as soon as it’s from my lips. “I can fight, too. I can—”

  “No, Poppy,” he says, forcing me to turn and look at him. “I need you to stay here. Stay safe.”

  He’s a tough bastard, Nikolai Zolkov. Hardened soldiers shudder under his cold, calculating stare. He stands nearly seven feet tall with a frame that dwarfs me in comparison, but as he looks into my eyes right now, he’s small, vulnerable.

  Damn him and his I-trust-you-with-my-vulnerabilities bullshit. He knows I can’t fight that.

  He brushes his thumb against my cheek. His black eyes travel the features of my face, lingering on my lips so long they part with anticipation of his kiss. A smirk turns the corner of his mouth as he returns his eyes to mine. “I need to know that you’re safe, or else I won’t be able to fight this war.”

  “But I’m a solider, too,” I argue, pressing my cheek into his touch. “You trained me well. I’m the best in my class—”

  “You are,” he agrees, cutting me off again. “And I have no doubt that you’ll annihilate any threat that comes your way. But just this once, actually listen to your teacher.” He smiles as I groan, bopping his finger against my nose. I hate when he does that. “Don’t go looking for a battle to prove yourself, Poppy.”

  “This isn’t about that.”

  He arches a condescending brow that I want to smack off his face.

  “This isn’t just about that,” I amend. “You say you can’t fight knowing that I’m not safe, and I need you understand it kills me to know you’re in danger and I can’t do anything to help protect you.”

  His eyes tell me he understands, but he’s out of words, too. So instead of responding, his lips press against mine, and time, for the moment, slows down.

  I’m reminded of the first time we kissed. I still contend that it was an accident on his part. He claims I had finally worn him down.

  We were in the barracks, training. He’d kicked me so hard that I was doubled over, trying to catch my breath. He didn’t do it often, but that time he broke his hard façade to ask if I was okay. I exploited the moment of weakness and grabbed him around the neck, tackling him to the mat. He laughed, tumbling our bodies around until I was pinned beneath him. In ten seconds flat, I went from almost winning to being trapped.

  “How did you do that?” I grumbled with a full-on childish pout. “I had you.”

  He bopped his finger to my nose with a smirk. “You hesitated.”

  I wanted to dispute it. I never hesitate. But then this thing happened. A force passed between us. Electric and exciting, I felt his weight pressed against me and our shared humor melted into something else. He leaned down just as I tilted my head up and our lips met.

  I’ve been his ever since.

  I’m under him again now, his hot lips moving in tandem with mine, his hips thrusting in a rhythm that’s driving me insane. I don’t know how we got back to the hotel, don’t care what concession I’m making by doing this with him now.

  Damn him. Damn what he does to me.

  He’s taught me how to disarm every other opponent. I can resist anything except for his touch. His words whispered between pants of pleasure are the only words I can’t dismiss as lies. His fingers slide along my body, dipping between us at just the right time to send me over the edge.

  How does he do that? How does he know me so well?

  I might as well be the gun he carries on his missions. He knows how to strip me down to my soul, take me apart, and put me right back together. He can aim me, never missing his target, as he controls me with his skilled fingers.

  “I love you,” I confess.

  He stops, still buried deep inside of me. His heart is racing against my fingertips. I caress the red flower tattoo on his chest. I can smell the red wine on his breath.

  He stares at me then. Hard. His eyes are pools of darkness. So much focus and intensity is in his gaze that my throat goes dry. He doesn’t say anything. He just rolls over, taking
me with him so I’m on top.

  It’s a symbolic gesture that I recognize. He’s giving me the upper hand, giving me all the power in the fight. It’s not surrender, but it is a stolen moment of weakness—hesitation.

  I know this doesn’t change anything. I know his mind is set. I fell in love with a stubborn man, and I wouldn’t want him any other way, to be honest.

  I take what he offers, take every inch of him. My lips, my words, and my touch make him come undone. I hear it in the abandon of his moans; I see it in the strain of his sculpted muscles.

  We make love until neither of us can move and then we stare into each other’s eyes until unconsciousness claims me.

  He’s gone when I wake. A lone red flower, a poppy, lies on his pillow.

  A promise.

  He’ll be back.

  A confession.

  He loves me, too.

  It’s barely three months later, while I’m sitting at that same restaurant, ignoring another plate of steak, that I get the call.

  A strike attack in the dead of night. They didn’t see it coming. No warning, no fight.

  Every soul was lost.

  My glass of red wine topples over, staining the white tablecloth as I drop my phone. I stare at the empty seat in front of me as a terrifying numbness sets in.

  The man that could face any enemy and survive…

  The man who always seemed more legend than human…

  The man I love…

  Dead.

  1

  The desert.

  Hot, dry sand up my nostrils and the sun pressing down on me like a boot in my back in the middle of basic training… it’s a relentless terrain that I only visit when forced.

  The Humvee rattles so loud that I can’t think straight as we navigate the barren landscape. The Private driving keeps shooting me murderous looks. He should thank me, honestly. Playing chauffeur for me is keeping his ass alive for the time being. The boy shouldn’t be so eager to die.

  Although a cease-fire has been called, most of us know it won’t last. When guns stopped firing six months ago, the government called it “peace”. But I’ve seen enough of the world to know that peace isn't a concept that humanity wants to embrace. I’m wearing a three-piece black suit with a jacket that hugs my curves a little too tightly, thanks to the Kevlar vest I strapped to my chest.

  Peace is an illusion.

  There’s always war somewhere.

  A dark blob appears in the distance, more substantial than the mirages teasing me for the past hour.

  “There,” I say, tapping the kid’s arm and pointing like he might be distracted by all the goddamn sand and miss the only building for miles around.

  “Yes ma’am,” he says.

  For the life of me, I can’t remember the boy’s name. “What’s your name again, Private?”

  He hides his annoyance by shifting gears, but I know how to read people. I can tell by the sudden tension in his shoulders and the way his right eye twitches that it pisses him off to be my grunt. I don’t take it personal. Most army guys don’t trust the intelligence racket. I used to agree with them.

  Then he walked into my life and changed my mind.

  “Holt,” the Private says.

  I’m lost down memory lane, confused by his response for a second. “What’s that?”

  “My name,” he clarifies, shouting over the whine of the jeep’s engine. “My name is Holt, ma’am.”

  Holt. I can’t place the name. I’ve read so many profiles in the past twenty-four hours that I’m sick of names. I’m suddenly of the opinion that Prince was onto something by going by symbols instead of a name. Holt isn’t red flagged for anything, though. I’d remember if he was.

  I kill the conversation there before it begins. I just have a thing about details. I don’t want to know anything more than that about him. Smalltalk is only something guys with brass on their shoulders do. The rest of us would rather not get to know each other. We prefer the no bullshit approach.

  It’s another ten minutes until we reach the outpost and a handful of minutes later before we’re showing ID at the security gate.

  “What business do you have here?” the guard on duty asks. He reads my badge and his eyes widen. I don’t even have to say a word. “Sorry to delay you. Please.” He waves toward the large black building, “Director Mohin is waiting for you.”

  Holt shoots me a look when he hands me back my badge. It’s quick and subtle, but I roll my eyes. Some people in my line of work get off on the whole rep preceding them thing. Hell, even I have to admit there is a certain thrill in seeing someone take a cautious step back whenever they hear my codename. But this isn’t that, and even if it were, I wouldn’t bother giving Private Holt the backstory of my life.

  A legion of employees is melting under the brutal afternoon sun as we pull up to the front steps of Mohin Enterprises. The director of the company stands in the middle, a subtle peacock dressed in a bright white suit and matching fedora.

  Hassan Mohin, eldest of oil baron Cyrus Mohin's three sons. Hassan poured a drop of his inheritance into his corporation at the age of fifteen. He doesn’t own the biggest, or even a sizable company in Saudi Arabia, erecting this monstrosity of a building in the middle of nowhere simply to house his ego. He calls it an enterprise and plays civil with anyone who wants to see the fictitious research that goes on in this place, but most of us know the truth.

  He’s the used cars salesman of the warfront—a black-market arms dealer.

  Every single person in the intelligence community knows him intimately—it’s often joked that we should have a class devoted to dealing with him our first year in training. If you want any information of dirty deals about to go down in the desert, Hassan is the man to talk to.

  Just make sure you have something he wants in exchange.

  He’s clapping his hands and waving as if I’ve arrived at the end of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade, sporting a damn red suit.

  Holt stays stock-still behind the wheel of the jeep. I’m half tempted to tell him he has to stay, but I assured the commander on base I only needed a ride to the building.

  “Thanks for the lift,” I say, hopping out.

  I hold my breath to keep dust out of my lungs as the Humvee tears off.

  “Your friend did not want to join us?” Hassan asks, making his way down the steps.

  I shrug a shoulder. “He’s kind of over the whole exotic cuisine thing.”

  Hassan wags a finger at me. His left upper canine is gold capped, and it catches the sun as he smiles. “You should have told him he has not tried our food yet.”

  “Well, let’s be real… you can only ingest so much turmeric in one lifetime. From here or from the shitty little street stand near base, what’s the difference?”

  His jaw tightens, and I see annoyance in the corner of his winning smile, but he just laughs at my sarcasm. “I often forget how sharp your tongue is.”

  “And I often make a point to block memories of your fashion sense from my mind.”

  He’s on level ground with me, practically eye-to-eye. I’m barely five-five, and the flat boots that I’m sporting aren’t giving me any extra height. Hassan’s not a tall man. Maybe that’s why he wears hats. He clasps my shoulders between his ring-covered fingers and leans in for the customary kiss on each cheek.

  I humor him. The last thing I need on my record right now is a diplomatic incident thanks to my impatience with this man.

  “What do you want?” I say before he’s fully pulled away from me.

  He keeps his grubby hands on my arms, working his thumbs into the thin shoulder padding of my jacket. “Can I not just want to see you every now and then?”

  I make a face that he finds funny.

  “You look like your mother when you do that.”

  “Not even here five minutes. We haven’t even made it in the door and you have to bring her up.”

  He shrugs, and I have no doubt that’s exactly how I look when I do
it. “She left an impact on my life, my child.”

  “Funny,” I say, stepping out of his clutch and heading up the steps, “she pretty much forgot you as soon as she got home.”

  The sea of employees, dressed immaculately in dark blue suits, parts for me to pass. He yells at them in his native tongue. I’ve been told by many commanding officers, ordered by a few even, that it would benefit me to learn that language.

  I’ve told every single one of them to fuck off.

  I’ll be able to speak to Martians before I’ll understand what that man is saying. Subsequently, I’m not sent on too many missions in this part of the world.

  Go figure.

  “Would you like a tour of the building?” he asks, catching up to me effortlessly.

  “I want to do whatever it is that I have to do in order for you to let me leave as soon as possible.”

  “You are not a prisoner here, Penelope.”

  Conditioned, cool air swarms me as I step into the lobby. Tall columns of marble line an open room. A large wooden desk sits in a far corner. Hallways lead to a bank of elevators and to rooms I’d rather never enter. The flooring is new, knowing Hassan. Every time I visit this place it’s renovated and new to the tune of brand-spanking.

  “You know, you could donate the amount of money you spend updating this shithole to charities. Help people.”

  He purposely scrapes his shoe across a bright white tile, leaving a dark black smudge. “I help people who help me.”

  A few of the women who were standing outside rush in to grab cleaning products as I look down the nearest hallway. “Give me the quick tour.” He beams, and I add, “But don’t fool yourself into thinking I give two shits about any of it.”

  “God forbid,” he says, motioning for me to walk in front of him.

  I stand still, waiting for him to lead. I don’t trust him not to stab me in the back.

  His shoes are hard leather that click against the floor.

  Mine don’t make a sound.

  “We launched a new sector this past summer,” he explains. He likes to hear himself talk. “Synthetics and chemicals.”