Codename: Nightshade (Deadly Seven Strike Force) Page 2

  “You making condoms and lube now?” I ask, noting the lack of employees roaming the hall that he takes me down. It’s not an area of the building I’m familiar with… not that I’ve been here enough to feel at home.

  He lets out a sharp snort. “No. I believe keeping our people from reproducing is more the agenda of the country of your false allegiance.”

  My cheek twitches, but I don’t take the bait. He likes to push that button. “What are you developing with synthetics then?”

  We lose momentum as he stops, a smile on his face that I want to smack off. “Are you actually interested in my affairs?”

  I look away, my sight landing on a pile of wide, short wooden crates with the letters DMG branded into the side. I recognize the seal. Damn.

  His eyes are sparkling when I return my attention to him, but I don’t take a bite of that apple, either. “I’m interested in keeping my country safe from assholes like you.”

  He laughs. The sound grates on my skin. I want to believe it’s fake, but there’s something about his amusement that always sounds authentic. Like he’s in on some joke no one else has heard yet.

  We bullshit some more and he introduces me to businessmen I don’t need to be told the names of. They’re already on my watch list.

  An hour later, I find myself seated next to Hassan at an elaborately decorated dining table, ignoring the lavish spread he’s had prepared. He says it’s a meal to celebrate my visit. I suspect it might be poisoned.

  “I told your uncle you’re in town,” he says, pouring himself a second liberal amount of wine.

  “I don’t have an uncle.”

  He holds up two fingers as he slurps his wine. “You are correct. You have two.”

  I sit back in my seat with a sigh.

  “What will it take for you to admit that you are my flesh and blood?”

  His gold tooth winks at me, and I keep my face clear of any emotion. Doesn’t matter, I know. He’s narrowed his focus on my eyes. My eyes always give me away.

  You wear your heart in your eyes, Poppy. Work on that.

  “Give me a gun.”

  Hassan sputters, spitting the mouthful of current wine he’s drinking onto the beige tablecloth. “A gun? Are we going to have a duel at sunset?”

  Cute. Tempting.

  I fabricate a half-ass smile. “No. I want a short range sniper rifle… and a .35 desert eagle.”

  Hassan licks his teeth, his tongue lingering over the gold tooth for an extra second. He tries to figure out how to ask, but not ask me what I want the equipment for. “What makes you think I have such here?”

  He sits back in his chair, waving his arms around like Vanna White.

  “You walked me past those crates in the hall for a reason,” I say, crossing my arms in front of me and leaning my elbows on the table. I have the upper hand in this negotiation right now. He didn’t realize I was in town for any reason other than humoring him. I have gossip for him to spread.

  I have a secret he desperately wants.

  He mirrors my posture, rubbing his hands in front of him as he peers at me. Humor is dominant on his face. “Who says there are guns in those boxes?”

  “The stamp on the side does. DMG specializes in one thing and one thing only—high level munitions for military grade artillery.” For terrorism.

  He makes a sound between a snort and a sigh. “High level munitions sounds so… sleazy.” He makes a face as if he’s finally found something about this meal distasteful. “I just have a few guns, maybe a grenade launcher… or five. Nothing that threatening.”

  He adopts a look of innocence that I want to laugh at, but he’s doing it for a laugh, and I won’t be paying into his pander.

  “Then you won’t miss a rifle and a handgun.”

  He moves again, propping one arm lazily over the back of his chair, the elbow dangling over as his hand clings to the top. His other hand fiddles with his untouched butter knife.

  I remain still but my senses heighten. I recall every man stationed in the room, down the hall, all the way back to the front door. I feel the temperature in the room—a cool, yet muggy seventy to seventy-two. I’m acutely aware that he has three knives within his reach, two forks, a spoon, and two burning candles. I have all of those within my reach as well.

  Should a fight break out, I’ll go for the candles first.

  Burning wax to the eyes would immediately eliminate over ninety percent of his attack.

  He stares at me so long I want to fidget before he leans forward and blows out the candles.

  Bastard.

  “Why have you never bothered joining Mossad?”

  The muscles in my neck tense, but keep myself in check. “I’m already in an army, one that I am extremely proud to serve.”

  He blows out an annoyed breath and waves away my words like a stinky puff of smoke. “If you joined the army out of loyalty and a desire to serve your country, then you did it wrong, my dear.”

  I don’t want to have this conversation. We’ve had this conversation repeatedly since I was sixteen and started receiving attention for my gift with encryption decoding. “I’m not a mercenary. And I’m not in this for the thrill of hurting people with power.”

  He picks up the knife, pointing it at me, and I react.

  My hand grabs the knife from him, and I’m on my feet, swinging it at him before I’m fully aware of what’s happening. Two guards are on me instantly, flanking me with Taser guns, firing them without hesitation. The pain isn’t so bad. I've damn sure felt worse. But the stunting of my nerves annoys me like a son of bitch.

  I let go of the knife as I drop to my knees.

  Hassan is shouting at the men in his native tongue. The words don’t sound nice and the way they back off tells me he might have even threatened them.

  “Are you alright, daughter?”

  I slap his hand away when he tries to help me to my feet. “Give me the guns.”

  He picks up the knife from where I’ve dropped it and once again points it at me. “You’re wrong about not liking power through force. All soldiers value their strength above everything else.”

  I knew a guy once who would have ripped his tongue out for saying that. That guy could have snapped the guards in two with his bare hands—and that guy valued his compassion more than his strength.

  That guy is dead.

  “Are you going to give me the guns or not?”

  He tosses the knife onto the table and nods to his guards. The men march from the room and return a few minutes later with what I’ve requested.

  “Do you require bullets?” one of the men asks.

  I shake my head. I provide my own brass. I don’t tell him that. I just take the guns.

  Hassan sits on the edge of the dining table as I inspect the weapons. The scope on the rifle is weak. Thankfully, I have excellent eyesight.

  “Can I expect a return on this loan?” Hassan asks. I glance up from the desert eagle as I get used to the feel of it in my hand. I don’t say anything, but he laughs, knowing my answer. “Ah, well, luckily I didn’t have to buy them in the first place.”

  “Luckily,” I echo. “You got a phone I can use?”

  “Do you not carry one?”

  I flex my trigger finger, keeping my eyes on the gun. “No.”

  “Who are you going to call?”

  “The Ghostbusters,” I say, glancing up at him again with a sigh. He’s unamused by my sarcasm. “I need a lift.”

  He looks over my shoulder, nodding to someone. “Jumal will drive you back to the base.”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  It’s a battle of wills then. A standoff with just our eyes. He’s trying to riddle out what more I could need, and I’m burying everything I know behind a tight mask. I don’t want Hassan’s men to do recon on the base or me.

  He gives in first, producing a cell phone from his pocket.

  I snort. “No.”

  “You had to get your stubbornness from me,” he mutters,
snapping his fingers.

  The three guards closest to me hold out their phones, and Hassan waves to the door. “You can use theirs, or use the lines in the lobby. I make no apology for the fact that every single one will be monitored and traced.”

  I’m not surprised that’s the case, and frankly, I don’t care. I only turned down his cell phone because it was his.

  I grab Jumal’s phone and dial a direct line to my contact on base. The number is scrambled on an hourly basis, preventing Hassan from doing much of anything with his knowledge.

  “This is Vincent,” I say when the line picks up. “Wings in twenty.”

  “Wings?” Hassan asks as I hang up and hand the phone back to Jumal.

  I don’t entertain his question. I’m done. I collect my new weapons and leave the room, keeping a fast paced stride as I exit through the lobby.

  The heat is harsh once I’m outside. I take a second to draw it in. All of my pores open at once and my body’s coated in sweat.

  “Leaving without saying goodbye?”

  I sling the rifle over my shoulder, sliding the handgun into my pants pocket. I look to my right, to where Hassan now stands. The sun is so bright, reflected off his white suit like he’s made from a flare of the damn thing. I almost go blind. I blink a few times, turning my focus away.

  “I didn’t want to see you in the first place.”

  “Well, then… thank you for the sacrifice that your presence required.”

  I shake my head, done with talking to him for at least another year.

  The base is a good two-hour drive through the hot desert sand. But we stand on the steps for only a handful of minutes before I can make out the dark ball in the sky, heading our way.

  “A helicopter.”

  I make no noise or movement to indicate that I even heard him speak.

  “Where are you off to in such a hurry, my dear? And with your shiny new toys?”

  Again, I stare straight ahead, ignoring him.

  “The next time you visit we should play poker, Penelope.”

  I shoot him a sidelong glance. “Who says I’m ever coming back?”

  He smiles and that damn gold tooth shining in the sunlight.

  There’s plenty of room for the chopper to land inside the gates of his compound, but for some irrational reason I don’t feel like it’s safe. I heft my ass down the stairs and across to the security booth.

  I don’t say goodbye.

  But then I don’t know that I ever told him hello, either.

  Nighttime in Doha, capital city of Qatar. The tall buildings are alight with different colors that reflect on the surface of the water that runs along the beach. I’m standing on the roof of the Museum of Islamic Art, pretending to nurse a flute of champagne I was reluctant to take. The colorful lights keep drawing my eye.

  A bulbous little man with a high-pitched voice stands to my left, telling an animated story that I’m not paying any attention to. He has bits of the crab puff appetizers stuck in his long, black beard. I can tell the three people crowded around him notice it, but no one points it out.

  It would probably be the last thing any of them said if they did.

  Shapur Pishkar, the newly elected president of Qatar. His dossier subconsciously plays out in my mind. When the established monarchy of Qatar was eliminated during the bloody rebellious war that started three years ago, Pishkar rose quickly through military ranks to claim the head of the nation. He’s been at the center of the fallout, playing the noble leader who negotiated peace with the rebels and the cease fire that the world has deemed the calm before the storm. CNN is doing their damnedest to spin the situation as a celebration of the birth of democracy in the region, but even they have to know this wasn’t needed. Not here. Qatar has been the world’s richest country for decades, with a thriving government and society.

  Pishkar acts as if his new title is a surprise, and yet he was sworn into office less than twenty-four hours ago while this party has been scheduled for nearly six months.

  I give up the illusion of caring about anything except for the view, leaning fully on the railing at the edge of the roof. I sense movement to my right, catching a hint of a penguin suit in my peripheral. I keep my stance casual while planning out exactly where to plant enough force to shove the guy over the ledge if need be.

  I catch a scent on the air—cinnamon. I relax.

  Ace.

  His shoulder is two inches above mine when he stops beside me. He leans his ass against the railing, snagging my champagne without invitation. “Really wish you’d take me up on that offer to get naked.”

  His voice is low enough that only I can hear him. Even so, I’m glad I’m not facing the crowd at the party. My cheeks grow warm with a blush. “What have I told you about mixing business with pleasure?”

  “This is about business,” he says, exchanging the now empty glass for a refill as he flirts with the waitress.

  I roll my eyes. “How is us getting naked business?”

  “I want to see the brass fucking balls you’ve got to have tucked back under that dress.”

  I break protocol and glance at him. He smirks. He’s almost too pretty to look at with his russet colored skin and playboy styled black hair that fans across his forehead like he’s waiting for a cover shoot with Vogue. He’s wearing sunglasses… at night. They’re lightly tinted and oversized, like something out of a 70s porno. I’m often of the opinion that he only became a soldier to work undercover missions like this and pretend he’s a model.

  I give him a look that warns I’ll slap him if he doesn’t stop teasing me. He knows I won’t, that’s why he’s taking the chance. I’m less than a foot away from Pishkar. All eyes on him have an opportunity to also see me.

  I’m a covert agent. Being seen isn’t in my job description.

  “Boss said locate the target,” I say, stealing his glass. I enjoy every bit of his stunned look as I down the alcohol. I have a low tolerance for it. I hate to drink, especially on the job, but the hour’s getting late, all the pieces are in play, and adrenaline is already pulsing through my veins so hot that my muscles are vibrating. “I located the target.”

  He takes the empty glass from me and smiles wider. I turn and fade into the crowd before he can say another word. Now’s not the time for small talk. His appearance was planned. I have a schedule to keep.

  I don’t make eye contact with anyone, but I make sure just about everyone gets a glimpse of my skin-tight red dress. I cut across the rooftop and work my way down the right side of the oval staircase that leads into the main lobby. So many people are crammed into every level of this building that my anonymity is secured. People might recall my attire, maybe even remember the way my black wig flows over my shoulders, but they won’t be able to describe anything unique about me. I’ve got Hassan’s tanned skin and sharp looks. I blend in with everyone else invited tonight.

  I float around the exterior of the group in the lobby, stalling when I hear a familiar voice.

  “The only good oil is that in a man’s palm and not in the ground,” Hassan says. “Find a woman and rub her down, gentlemen. Let the politicians drown in their wells.”

  Damn. I talked up the Devil.

  I change course, ducking behind a flower arrangement. If Hassan’s here, that means his guards will be roaming the perimeter. I don’t anticipate altering my plan, but this situation just became trickier.

  I cut through an empty exhibit hall, to a service closet, finding the duffel bag stashed by Ace earlier in the evening. My blood is spiked with energy, but my heart rate remains steady.

  Keep this in check, Poppy. Your heart commands your body. If it’s out of control, then so are you.

  I take a measured breath as I lay every article from the bag on the ground in front of me. I take a rapid inventory and begin to strip. My shoes, wig, and dress go into the bag before I stash it back under the cleaning supplies. The harsh sting of ammonia burns my nostrils, and for a moment I lose all other scents exce
pt for the chemical. I slide on a black wet suit and lock the small breathing apparatus to my collar. Goggles, gloves, and flippers in hand, I make my way out the back and around the side of the building.

  The museum is an island. Armed guards patrol the narrow walkways between the walls and the water, with two boats circling the bay. I check my watch.

  Eight minutes.

  After slipping on the goggles and flippers, I wait for the nearest guards to move out of my eye-line before sprinting to the water and diving in. The water’s shallow but quickly flows into the deeper levels of the bay. I have my strokes timed with speed of the boats that I’ve watched all night, so I pass through their perimeter unnoticed.

  Five minutes.

  Halfway between the island and the mainland, I swim to the dead center of the blue light reflected in the water—to a black rubber raft I tethered to the shore earlier in the day. I knew the current would naturally draw it out to this point and counted on the fact that the patrols would be pulled closer to the museum due to the party. One lone raft without any passengers would be overlooked for one night.

  I ditch the goggles and flippers in the water as I tumble into the raft.

  Two minutes.

  The rifle is tucked under a tarp, already loaded and primed. A drop of water runs down my cheek and I ignore it, lining my sight to the roof as I brace my elbows on the rim of the raft. Through the scope, I spot Ace first. He scratches the stubble along his jaw. He’s speaking to a woman I don’t recognize… flirting with her, according to the blush on her cheeks and the way her lips keep parting as she gazes at him.

  I move the sight to the right, to where Pishkar stands near Ace.

  One minute.

  Sixty seconds, Poppy. It might seem like no time at all, but everything can change within it. Make it count.

  I draw in a slow breath, keeping the scope lined with the back of Pishkar’s head.

  Forty-five seconds.

  My heartbeat’s steady. I flex my trigger finger.

  Thirty seconds.

  Pishkar turns, taking one step out of my sight. Ace steps into my shot, grabbing Pishkar’s attention to draw him back to the target zone. I don’t know what Ace tells him, but the man is slapping Ace’s chest, drunk and overly animated. Not good. Ace leans ever so slightly in my direction.