Codename: Nightshade (Deadly Seven Strike Force) Read online

  Twenty-two seconds.

  They turn around so Pishkar’s back is to me once more. Still bad. Ace is now lined in the shot along with Pishkar. The bullet will pass through the target and hit him square in the chest. Over the old man’s shoulder, I see Ace raise his glass of champagne. Everyone around him assumes he’s toasting the man of the hour, but I can see his eyes—or his sunglasses, rather—are fixed toward the water… toward me.

  You damn well better duck.

  Ten seconds.

  I can hear the crowd begin to count down. I see the boats stop in the distance between my position and the target.

  Nine seconds.

  Eight seconds.

  Seven seconds.

  My focus narrows to one patch of hair on the back of the man’s head.

  Six seconds.

  Five seconds.

  Four seconds.

  Can you kill a man, Poppy? Can you take a life?

  Three seconds.

  Two…

  Don’t hesitate, Poppy. Hesitate and your life is the one that will end.

  One.

  The world slows to a standstill. All exterior sounds and sights fade away. I become the gun, squeezing my finger with just enough force to unleash the bullet. My heart beats three times before I see Pishkar’s head explode. I clear my brass, tucking the spent casing in my suit, and toss the rifle right into the water. Only then do the explosions overhead ring in my ears. The sparkling lights float and swirl above me, glittering reflections twinkling in the water.

  Fireworks.

  I lie down in the boat and crank the motor on, flying back to shore in two minutes flat. Cutting the line to the anchor, I release the boat in the current and race toward a car parked down an alley a few feet from the water.

  Chaos has already erupted. Trucks swarm the streets, sirens blaring as the world discovers the new president has just been assassinated. I climb into the backseat of the Buick I stashed in the alley. Another black duffel waits for me. This includes another change of clothes, a passport, the desert eagle I acquired from Hassan, and a cover story to get me out of the country.

  I strip out of the suit and stuff it in the duffel. The tan pants, dark red shirt, and black leather jacket fit me perfectly. A pair of flat sneakers finishes my outfit. The kit also includes a pair of glasses and a wig. I tuck my wet brown hair under the short black wig, ruffling the false hair with my fingers. The glasses have a slight magnification to them, and I blink a few times to adjust my sight. I shove the passport in my pocket and grab the duffel, ditching the car where it has been sitting for the past twenty-four hours.

  I walk two blocks and toss the duffle in a trash bin along with a lit match. People run this way and that, screams and gunshots peppering the air. No one is concerned by the suddenly burning trash.

  I walk, never once running, keeping to the shadows as I work my way to the edge of town. Border checks are already tight, but I don’t worry.

  I have a way out of town.

  A bus is parked four vehicles from the checkpoint. I strut straight to the door and tap on the glass. The driver gives me an odd look but presses the release to open the door.

  I hold out my passport, and he nods when he sees my cover.

  “Sorry, got lost,” I say with an innocent smile. I bend my words with a proper British accent to sell the fact that I’m speaking English and not a local dialect.

  He shakes his head, motioning toward the seats.

  Twenty other people are on the bus—college students who visited the city for the historical presidential address this afternoon. I ease into a seat next to a young man who’s crying. He’s holding a worn and faded card in his hand. The image on it is of a young Pishkar.

  I keep my head down, making no eye contact with anyone else. My passport says my name is Mylia Azar and that I’m from a town just outside the city. I look the part. So long as no one speaks to me and expects me to answer in the native tongue, I’m home free.

  The bus bounces and sways as we move forward, one car, then another, and finally another. We’re next for inspection. I know no one saw me in the water. No one found me before I ditched the raft. I highly doubt they’ve had time to narrow the gunshot to the bay at all at this point. Even so, my heart jerks once in my chest.

  Keep it in check, Poppy.

  Lights shine through the windows. The boy beside me covers his eyes with his arm. I hear the creak of the door hinges a second before an armed soldier steps onto the bus. I tell myself to look afraid. Everyone around me is cowering, nervous. For the first time tonight, I let myself feel a twinge of what I’ve been cutting off. I realize how close I stood to the man I killed.

  A life ended tonight because of me.

  When the soldier reaches me, my eyes are on his boots, as tears drip from the tip of my nose. He shouts something that I don’t need a translator to understand is a threat. The faintest gasp leaves my lips.

  “Be at peace,” the boy beside me says, reaching over to hold my hand.

  He has no idea who I am. He has no idea what I’ve done. He’s comforting the person who just caused him pain, and yet to him, he’s simply comforting someone in need.

  I hate myself.

  The soldier shoves back down the aisle then and gets off. The vehicle rumbles and rocks as we drive across the border.

  I squeeze the boy’s hand. “Thank you.”

  I can’t stop myself from looking at the picture again, and he catches me this time.

  He gives me the card. “I met him when I was just a boy. He is the reason I went to University and did not become a solider.”

  I turn the card over in my hand, breaking my own personal protocol to look the boy in the eye and speak to him. I refrain from talking about Pishkar's death. I don’t know how fast word has traveled. Having any information about the event possibly implicates me as knowing more than I should. “What did you think of his speech today?”

  The boy is young—eighteen, nineteen at the most—but I can see a lifetime in his eyes as he frowns. “I think I made the right decision.”

  I don’t hear whispers from anyone around us. No anger or other tears. “Why is that?”

  “Because he is still the monster I met as a child.”

  I look back to the card. “A monster?”

  “He killed my father.” I blanch at his candor, but I realize to the young men and women on this bus, his words are simply reality, not a dirty secret. Soldiers raiding buses, guns in their faces, death… it’s just another day for them. “My mother was sick, too sick to care for us, so my father defected to take care of us. Pishkar found him. Took the time to raid the village we were hiding in just to find my father and kill him. He turned the gun on me, pulled the trigger, but he had emptied the clip. I told myself that day that I would not become his slave. I would educate myself and defeat him instead.”

  I drop the card on the ground, taking the boys hand in mine again. “I think you made the right choice, too.”

  “Does not matter now. He is king and we are all his slaves.”

  I squeeze his hand again. “Don’t worry. False kings easily fall from their thrones.”

  “Says who?”

  I smile, whispering, “A man I used to know.”

  It’s two o'clock the next afternoon when my plane finally lands in Germany. I took the redeye under yet another alias, getting through with my less-than-American looks. A black Suburban is waiting for me at the curb outside of the airport. A tall bald man wearing a penguin suit and an earpiece holds the back door open for me.

  Why don’t they just paint a sign on my ass that says I’m a spy?

  I climb in, assessing the three other people in attendance. A woman I’ve seen a time or two here. She works in logistics, I think. Next to her sits a man with dark red hair and a cocky smirk—Claymore, a fellow agent.

  The fourth, the man I sit next to, is older-looking, with a buzz cut and a sneer. Commander Justice. He glares at me like a disgruntled parent. “Ms. Vincent,
are you hard of hearing?”

  Commander Justice sounds as if his voice is pinned down at the back of his throat by a mountain of tobacco. It’s pinched and hard, forced from his lips like the bark from a dog.

  I’ve been awake for over seventy-two hours, endured lunch with Hassan, set up and executed a flawless assassination of a horrible dictator before he had the opportunity to make one move in office, and I didn’t pee the entire time I was on the six-hour flight from Qatar. I resist the urge to punch him for that question. “No, sir.”

  “Then perhaps you are unfamiliar with the English language?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then enlighten me, Ms. Vincent, on how it is, when you were given a direct order to keep this mission covert, that you decided a bullet through the target’s head in the middle of a crowded party was subtle.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Claymore try to hide a laugh behind his hand. I make a mental note to punch him the next time we’re alone.

  “I was presented a secondary opportunity, sir.”

  “Secondary opportunity?”

  The woman takes notes on a digital tablet as we drive through the streets of Frankfurt. I’m familiar with the direction we’re heading, so I ease back in my seat.

  “Commander,” I say, trying to keep the defensive edge out of my voice, “I believe the DMG is supplying Saudi rebels with munitions.”

  “You believe,” Commander Justice says. I’m not sure his lips can do anything but sneer.

  I open my mouth to explain, but he holds up a hand to stop me.

  “Save it, Ms. Vincent. You have the council to appeal to, not me.”

  I turn away from him and watch the buildings fly by outside the car window. Movement in my peripheral draws my eyes to Claymore. He’s watching the streets, too, but he absently occupies himself with twirling his pocketknife in one hand. It’s old school, with two ivory handles that fold open to a four-inch blade. He flips the handles open and tosses the thing in the air, catching the safe side effortlessly each time. He’s done that for as long as I’ve known him.

  He has a gift with the blade.

  The car stops at a security booth before entering an underground garage. People always think being a spy and seeing inside covert operations would be fascinating. I figure that’s because they’ve never done it. It’s actually rather boring. All check points and ritual. We’re so careful to be meticulous and routine, to ensure nothing is overlooked or forgotten, that we’re all just a bunch of boring asses going through motions most of the time.

  Justice and his secretary hop out first. He barks orders for Claymore to report to the main office with me so I can be processed for the council meeting at four.

  Claymore jumps out next, holding the door open for me with a gentlemanly bow. “M’lady.”

  His Scottish accent would be charming if I didn’t see his smartass smirk.

  “Asshole,” I mutter under my breath.

  He hears me and laughs. He’s still twirling that damn knife as we wave our security badges in front of the sensor for the elevator doors. “So you have a problem with sticking to the plans on every mission, do ya?”

  I stick out my tongue, punching the number twenty button.

  He lets out a dramatic sigh. “I don’t recall him saying you were to push the button.”

  “I haven’t had a man push my button for me in over a decade, MacNeal,” I say, dropping formality to call him by his real name. “And I can promise you that when I do want a man to do it, you won’t be the one I call.”

  His laughter is booming, echoing in the small space of the elevator. “Oh, I know well about your buttons, lass. And allow me to say ditto.”

  I exit the elevator first and make a sharp left that Claymore’s not expecting.

  “Where’re you going?” he whines, trailing after me like a lost puppy.

  I point to the restrooms sign and enter the Ladies’ without waiting for him to catch on. I suddenly can’t remember the last time I used a toilet. It’s an odd thought to have, one I only entertain because staring at the back of the bright blue metal stall door is boring otherwise. While deployed on a mission, I don’t think about my body’s needs. Starvation, exhaustion, the total removal of basic comforts… none of it registers with me. But I’m not on assignment right now. I get to enjoy things like seat covers and soft tissue paper.

  My toe taps along to the beat of the pop song playing over the loudspeaker.

  The bathroom door opens and closes and a head pops under my door. I scream, kicking at Claymore’s face. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  His laugh bounces off the walls as he moves away. “I was told to keep my eyes on you.”

  “Well keep them above my waist, you pervert!”

  “Don’t get your pastel purple panties in a twist, lass,” he says as I finish up and exit my stall. “I didn’t see anything.”

  “You saw my underwear,” I say, washing my hands. My cheeks flame, and I want to knee him in the crotch so hard right now.

  “Aye, but my eyes stopped there.” He holds up three fingers. "Scott's honor."

  There’s this thing about being female in the military that I never understood until I was recruited. That whole you’re-one-of-the-guys thing. I’ve met my fair share of assholes who really do look just because they feel entitled. And I’ve beat those bastards into a pulp. But for the most part, I really am just one of the guys. Claymore would have done that to Ace just as easily as he did it to me. I’ve walked around naked through the co-ed barracks before. It doesn’t faze me. I’m not blushing right now because he saw my pants down.

  I’m blushing because I don’t like being caught off guard.

  “I do have to say I’m rather impressed, though,” he says, further digging his own grave when we exit the bathroom. I don’t acknowledge his taunt, but he’s undeterred. “I’m shocked you pee sitting down.”

  That’s twice now in the past twelve hours that these men have told me they figure I’m carrying a dick. I take it as the compliment it’s meant to be.

  He escorts me to the main office. I let him talk to the man with a clipboard who will work up the report for the council meeting. My attention is drawn to the television mounted on the wall as CNN plays. It’s hard to believe I’m looking at the same city I was standing in a few hours ago. Doha has erupted in hysteria. Buildings are on fire and people are running in the streets, ducking for cover from bullets.

  Rebel groups have seized the opportunity, taking advantage of Pishkar’s death. I recognize the guns clutched in the hands of the men chasing innocent people into the doorways of the tall buildings that make up downtown.

  I held one of those guns recently.

  “Do you have anything to add?” the man with the clipboard asks, and Claymore elbows my side when I don’t respond.

  I shake my head. “I’m sure he got it all to the letter.”

  We sit in a pair of green plastic chairs as we wait for the time to roll around to four o'clock.

  “You really think this was better for the people?” Claymore asks. His knife is back out, spinning and flipping in the air between us.

  “I think the man deserved what he got. A heart attack was too merciful.”

  Claymore snorts. “Look at you being all Hand of God and the like. It’s not our job to deem how they go, just to get them there.”

  Spoken like a true soldier. And I agree with him entirely, but I have no doubt that in a little over thirty minutes, the council will be thanking me for my decision.

  We sit, and I continue to watch the scene unfolding in Doha. I wonder what that kid on the bus last night is doing today. I hope he’s safe.

  “The Commander’s in a right mood today, as you’ve seen.”

  I nod. “The man’s name is Justice. He was born in a mood.”

  “Aye. I sometimes wonder how he would have handled the Comrade. He wasn’t one for the paperwork, either.”

  Comrade. My heart hurts at the mention of
that name, but the clearing of a throat distracts me.

  “The council is ready for her,” the man at the counter says.

  We walk down a bright white hallway. The buzz of fluorescent lights hums overhead. I’ve walked down halls like this one too many times for me to count. The first time was at the age of seventeen, when a total stranger walked into my life and changed it forever.

  Nikolai Zolkov—codename: Comrade.

  He recruited me personally, assuring the council that my age and immaturity wouldn’t play any factor in my training. He told them I had the right stuff.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Claymore assessing me. He might question my thought process, but I know he believes what Nikolai believed.

  I’m meant for this job.

  Claymore’s not invited to the meeting. He stops at the door, waving for me to go. I offer him one last glance before opening the door.

  The council is made up of strategic and defense supervisors from seven nations—The United States, Great Britain, Russia, South Africa, France, Israel, and Japan. A UN sanctioned entity that oversees delicate defense operations independent of any other organization in the world. Established fifteen years ago, the group has financed, organized, and executed more direct missions than all of their countries’ militaries combined.

  Twelve years ago, they officially assembled an elite team of agents, trained in all levels of covert affairs, including but not limited to assassinations. This team was built of one agent from each nation represented in the council. Seven agents deployed on various missions throughout the world at all times.

  Seven agents constantly up for review with the council, because they fear we’re a bunch of miscreant mercenaries with no one to report to.

  A German soldier, dressed in causal fatigues, steps to me. He holds a worn copy of a King James Bible. I place my left hand over the book and hold my right in the air.

  “State your name and rank,” the soldier says.

  “Vincent, Penelope. Agent first class for The Deadly Seven Strike Force.”