by Anderson, S
It could also be that fact that he’s right that’s getting to me.
“I’m highly trained in all forms of combat, sir.” I hear the formality in my voice and know that I’m slipping into the submissive recruit that Nikolai beat out of me ten years ago. I fucked up. Big time. “Representative Veltriv has never been considered a high risk asset.”
“That sounds an awful lot like excuses, Agent Vincent.”
Marko told me to take the night off. The words are on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow them back. Marko wasn’t in charge of his safety. I was.
No one to blame, but yourself, Poppy.
“I made an error in judgment,” I concede. “I assessed the situation as safe and take full responsibility for my actions.”
“This isn’t the first time you’ve allowed your personal affairs to affect your work, is it?”
I flinch. “Sir?”
“Ten years ago,” he says, quoting the facts like he’s memorized my life. “You were on assignment in Norway. It was your responsibility to keep Duke Sandvik safe, to transport him from one end of the country to the other without incident. What happened on that mission, Agent Vincent?”
My life ended, you son of a bitch.
“A colleague and close friend had just died—”
“Did you have an intimate relationship with that man as well, Agent Vincent? Did you allow your relationship to dictate your actions then, too?”
“No… I… yes, I cared for General Zolkov… he was our leader… my mentor…”
“You’re avoiding my question,” he says.
I feel like I’m back at the dinner table with Nikolai. He’s pushing my already exhausted mind. Reality is starting to slip out of my grasp. This secret I’ll never give up. This one I get to take to my grave. Nick and I are no one else’s business.
“What happened to Duke Sandvik, Agent Vincent?”
My hand shakes, and I clench it into a fist. “He was assassinated two days before we reached our destination.”
I recite the facts, feeling my control slip further and further away.
“And why was that? Where were you?”
“I… I…”
Keep it under control, Poppy.
I can’t.
“You were catatonic in a hospital in Oslo, weren’t you? You were hysterical to the brink of needing sedation, weren’t you?”
My heart beats rapidly in my chest. I can’t breathe. “They are two separate incidents.”
“What about Doha?”
I blink, confused by his sudden change of topic. “Excuse me?”
“What made you stray from your command in Doha? Are you only able to keep control when you’re violently ending a life, Agent Vincent? Are you incapable of following your commands or respecting any sense of order?”
These aren’t facts. This is defamation that’s coming straight from the man in the corner. I want to argue, to fight, but my mind is panicked. My thoughts are flying in too many directions. I nearly got Marko killed. I let my heart get in the way.
“Do you have a God complex, Agent Vincent?”
It’s not the first time I’ve been asked that. My answer is always the same. Anyone who thinks they have not only the ability but also the right to take a life believes themselves some sort of God.
I’m not going to give him the benefit of that answer, though.
“I made a qualified decision and it was a mistake,” I say, enunciating each word slowly.
“And you expect the United States government to put their security in your hands after such a mistake?”
“I don’t answer to you,” I say, detaching from everything. “I answer to the council. It’s not up to what I think, or what you think. It’s up to them.”
I don’t wait to be dismissed. I stand and shuffle toward the door. The MP escorts me, but I catch a glimpse of Justice on the way out. He’s still smiling.
My skin crawls.
It’s only a handful of hours later when I’m startled awake again, this time by the sound of sirens.
“Security breach on floor fifteen,” a voice announces on a loudspeaker.
The guard is still stationed at my door. He blocks most of the rectangular window, but over his shoulder, I can see the hall. Uniforms are running from the elevators past my door. A sign on the wall near the door tells me I’m on floor fifteen.
“Security breach on floor fifteen. All available security report to room 1582.”
I’m in room 1587. Who, or what, is in the room five doors down?
I knock on the door until the guard finally cracks it open. “What’s up?”
He’s young, so young I wonder if he forged his birth certificate to enlist. “Someone’s missing.”
Someone’s missing.
Room 1582.
Someone on the same floor as me. “Who else is being held on this floor?”
The guard shakes his head. “None of your concern.”
None of my concern. I’ve been told that a lot since I woke up here. It’s starting to annoy me.
The guard shuts my door as another uniform runs by. This one is shouting at him, telling him to lock my door and join them.
I protest as he turns and locks me in. His eyes meet mine from the other side of the glass, and even though he’s not my favorite person right now, I understand. He’s just doing his job. I can’t fault him for that.
“There has to be some sort of rule about this,” I shout, slamming my hand against the door when he runs away. “What if my room catches on fire?”
What if I set my room on fire?
I dismiss the thought as soon as I have it. I’m in enough trouble as is. I don’t need to add arson and endangering a hospital full of patients to my rap sheet.
I’m still dressed in the clothes Justice provided—an oversized pair of teal scrub pants and matching shirt. I’m barefoot, still going commando, and I’d give both my tits for a long, hot soak in a tub right about now.
The sirens are still ringing, and muffled voices echo on the other side of the thin walls around me. Restless energy is building inside my muscles. The longer I’m awake, free of the drugs they pumped through my system to help me rest and heal, the more I recall from the attack and the harder it is to sit still.
I have to figure this out. Marko could still be in danger. Justice is focused on seizing the opportunity to punish me. I have to find a way to use that attention to help solve this case.
I busy myself with inspecting my room. I peel a rubber band from around a set of tools in a drawer and use it to tie my hair up into a ponytail. It’s crunchy and matted. I want to shave my head the instant I feel it.
My fingers drum on the small counter as I survey the supplies in the one cabinet in the room. They don’t store much in it—bandages, tape, cotton balls. There’s a portable urinal that makes me suddenly feel sorry for the plight of nurses. I close the glass door, catching the faintest movement in the reflection, sensing someone behind me.
The sun’s setting on the opposite side of the hospital. The neighboring building is highlighted by moonlight that refracts on the window of my room, casting everything behind me in dark shadows. I hadn’t realized until now that the lights are off in my room. The switch is a foot to my right.
I debate whether I should try to reach for it or just react.
My decision’s made for me when I hear the creak of something tightening. I drop low, spinning as I kick my left leg out. My foot connects with something solid.
A boot that kicks my foot away.
I hiss at the intense pain that shoots up my leg. I’m already operating on empty. Couldn’t this guy take pity on me and just shoot me?
I roll onto my ass, hands braced behind me so I’m a backward crab. The shadow in front of me moves. A hulking form wedges between the light from outside and me, and I catch a glint of metal in his hand.
A gun.
Fuck that, I was just kidding.
I grab the first thing my hand lands on,
a bedpan left on floor, and launch it at him. His gun has a silencer, but I hear the faint snick of sound as he shoots. The pan derails his target, and the bullet hits something to my left and up high.
I scramble to my feet, using the bed to help stabilize myself. He kicks me again. My right side is on fire in an instant, and I’m gasping for breath.
I think he’s cracked the only rib that hadn’t broken the other night.
Before I can recover, while I’m still heaving for breath, strong hands grab my collar and yank me off the ground. I know I can shop in the petite girls’ side of the store, but I’m no little waif. The guy throws me like I’m a sack of flour. I land hard against the glass cabinet.
I’m sincerely curious why so much crap is still made out of glass these days. Didn’t we have an industrial revolution? Aren’t plastics more durable as a substitution?
My face stings, as do my hands and forearms. I’ve got cuts all over, some with shards embedded in them. I crawl, dragging my left leg that has gone limp from the impact.
Think, Poppy. You’re alone, unarmed, and you’re attacked. What do you do?
Assess the weapons at my disposal.
My greatest asset is the hoard of officers filling the hallway right outside my door. But the sirens are still blaring, eradicating any other sounds. I’m locked in my room. And at this point, I’m not entirely certain anyone would help me.
I’m surprised he hasn’t shot me yet. I assume he dropped the gun when I hit him with the bedpan. That’s a point in my favor.
Except I hear his boots marching straight for me. This guy doesn’t give up.
You’re not always going to be lucky. You’re not always going to have ideal conditions. And you’re not always going to be facing me. I won’t kill you, Poppy. The guy who catches you off guard will.
I close my eyes and give myself one deep breath to pull my shit together. I tell my leg it’s going to do what I tell it to, whether it likes it or not, and I tell my body tonight is not the night we die.
When he stomps his boot down, I spin away, jumping to my feet. I yank the drawer from the counter out, swinging it and its contents in his direction. He blocks the shot easily, snatching the drawer from my grasp. I brace myself on the counter, realizing now that I’ve got a huge piece of glass wedged in my leg that’s killing my ability to move it. I throw the canister of cotton balls, the bandages, even the plastic urinal at him.
He just keeps coming.
I throw myself toward the light switch, slapping it on. Bright light invades every corner of the room. I slide down to the floor, propping my back on the door.
It’s okay. At least I’ll get to see him soon.
I’m shaking, and yet I’m so removed from my body that I don’t know why I’m shaking. Shock, maybe?
The calculated footsteps of heavy boots take me back. How many times did Nikolai kick my ass like this? How many times did he drill into me that this was exactly what I was training for?
Twice in one week, I’ve failed him.
I used to think he was the only person I couldn’t defeat. I’m wondering now if I’m sabotaging myself.
My assailant finds his gun. I know, because I hear him check the clip.
Get up and fight, Poppy.
I shake my head. I’m all out of ideas.
“Do svidaniya.”
Oh God, that voice.
I know that accent. I know that voice.
I glance up. Everything stops. My heart. My brain. The world isn’t spinning, and every sound is gone except for the echo of his goodbye.
I look past the gun, past the black leather gloves and the black combat gear. His hair is longer, curling at the tips of his ears. He’s got an ugly scar that curves from the side of his neck to the center of his left cheek. But it’s him.
It's him.
“Nick?”
My voice is so soft I don’t hear it. Maybe I don’t say anything. Maybe I’m just thinking his name.
Maybe I’ve finally gone insane.
His black eyes narrow, and he aims his shot.
“Nikolai, is that… is it you?”
He stalls. This time I’m pretty sure I spoke. I still can’t hear the sirens over the furious beat of my heart, but I did hear myself say his name.
He cocks his head ever so slightly to the right. The corners of his eyes tighten.
“It’s me,” I say. I’m crazy. I have to be crazy. “It’s Pop—”
A loud crash over my head shuts me up. He falls back a step and I see the tear in his shoulder a second before he bolts right for the window.
I’m stunned, frozen in place. He moves like he always did. His big frame is lithe, and he leaps through a hole I never saw him make in the window.
It’s not until he’s gone that my senses rush back like a snapped band. Sounds assault me, and I feel the door behind me beat against my back.
“Move!” a female voice shouts.
I crawl forward far enough to allow them in. Countess rushes into the room and straight for the window. She fires off two shots through the hole before she curses in Russian.
“What the hell—?” Her words trail off as she takes in the sight of me, of the state of my room. She slides her gun into the holster on her hip, walking over to help me into the bed. “What happened?”
“That was him,” I’m saying over and over. “That was him. That was Nikolai.”
Countess doesn’t have to say anything. Her eyes tell me I’m insane.
Maybe I am, but I know what I saw. I know those lips and those eyes better than I know my own.
Chaos descends on my room. Lights shine directly into my eyes as questions come at me in rapid fire. I explain what I can, but I don’t care about any of it. The hows or the whys. I don’t give a shit.
I’m focused on one and only one thing.
Nikolai’s alive.
It’s cold and wet. Winter snow melted into rain overnight. Most people are saying it’s sad. I kind of like it. The sky is crying. That’s comforting. I haven’t been able to stop crying since I got the news.
Well, that’s not true. I spent the first few days sedated in a hospital in Norway before Ace and Claymore retrieved my ass and brought me home. I don’t know if I was crying then.
We’re sitting in Nikolai’s office now, the six of us. The six people he personally selected and molded into the best agents in the world.
“There won’t be a funeral,” Ace tells us. “He signed on like the rest of us. He was never there.”
“I didn’t know it was a real mission,” I say, picking at the nail on my right index finger—my trigger finger. “He told me it was a favor he was doing for a friend.”
“Aye,” Claymore said. “But that friend is Representative Kulzkoff. He’s in line for the Minister of Defense position. Did you know?”
I shake my head. I didn’t know. Nikolai pays attention to stuff like that, not me.
“Has anyone read the mission details?” Viper, the Japanese operative, asks.
Ace lets out a heavy sigh. “You know if we’re not involved in the mission, we’re not shown the details.”
We all nod. Standard protocol. Only the operatives in play are aware of the game. It keeps the rest of us alive. None of us can be captured and tortured for information about what our colleagues are up to if we don't know.
Vixen, the French operative, the first one of us to be recruited by Nikolai, walks over to the file cabinet on the far wall. She unlocks it and retrieves a bottle from the bottom drawer.
Vodka.
Nikolai is… was… a man of few vices, but Russian vodka was one of them. I hate the stuff.
Ace pulls six cups from the water cooler dispenser, and they pour a shot for each of us.
The scent of the alcohol is harsh and stings my nostrils as I hold the cup to my lips.
“To the Comrade,” Viper says, holding his cup up.
“To the Comrade,” we all echo.
To my lover. I keep that to myself. No
one knows what Nikolai and I were to each other. No one needs to know. He would be painted as something he wasn’t because of my age, because of the circumstances of our careers. Our relationship was never about the sex. He was my partner in every sense of the word. The rest was just a bonus.
I ache all over. I wonder if that’s selfish. He’s gone, and I’m focused on my pain.
Remember what I’ve always told you, Poppy. His words wash over my mind as crystal clear as they were in person. If you aren’t secure, you can’t secure your mission. Get your shit together.
I reach for the bottle and pour myself a second shot. I don’t care that we’re back on US soil and I’m technically underage. They let me slit men’s throats for a living. They can let me get a little drunk.
Today of all days especially.
Claymore puts his arm around me, and I lay my head on his shoulder. “You were his favorite,” he whispers in my ear.
Nikolai didn’t play favorites. He knew each of us had special skills that made us powerful assets when joined together. But I’d be lying if I said he didn’t spend more time with one-on-one training on me. He never gave up on me.
Never.
“What happens now?” Panther, the South African operative, asks. He’s taken only a small sip of the shot, and he sets the cup down without finishing it. It’s not meant to offend. His religion tells him it’s a sin.
I stare at his hand. His skin is dark brown with a faint hint of rusty red mixed in. The backs of his hands, from the knuckles to the wrists, are dotted with scars arranged in patterns. Patches all over his body are spotted with bumps like that. He told me the name of it once and for the life of me I can’t recall what it is, but it’s beautiful. It’s like braille coded into his flesh.
I wonder what story it tells.
He catches me staring and taps his hand to my knee. I put my hand over his and squeeze.
I’m the youngest member in the room. Everyone else is closer to Nikolai’s age. They all treat me like their little sister.
“They’ll select a new recruit for the Russian post,” Ace says, pouring himself a liberal third glass of vodka. He shoots it back all in one gulp, and my insides recoil from secondhand anticipation. That has to burn like a son of a bitch.
