by Anderson, S
The bulb I wrap in one of the pillows and smash. I scatter the broken pieces in front of the door. It’s the only entrance to the room, so anyone coming in will alert me by stepping on the broken glass.
I collapse in bed, exhausted. I know sleep will take me eventually, but I’m not exactly sleepy. I’m just bone-dead.
Nikolai drilled in to us that this was what we trained for. We didn’t need practice in things going right. We needed to learn how to handle when everything went to shit.
Nikolai.
Alone with my thoughts, I’m second-guessing what I saw in the hospital. I’ve been through a lot. I’m repressing my panic that Marko almost died and is now missing and it’s entirely my fault. More than anything, I keep thinking how disappointed Nikolai would be in me.
That has to be why I saw him.
But the flower.
Poppies are used as a symbol of remembrance of fallen soldiers. Maybe someone knew I was in the limo. Maybe they saw the MPs on the investigation detail. Maybe it’s just getting closer to November and the veterans are being honored.
I see the moment in the hospital all over again in my mind. It’s slowed down to half time. I was fucked up pretty bad by then. The crash had taken a lot out of me. The meds had to still be in my system. Doctor Stevens worked one over on me. And then Nikolai… the guy in the room kicked my ass so hard my head was spinning.
I can’t trust my eyes.
Beware the Daeva, young one. Not all ghosts are dead. Hassan’s voice is in my head. I don’t want it there. I think about the woman locked in her house and look around the closed off room.
Maybe Stevens was right. Maybe I’m having a mental break. For a normal mind that means doing shit I do on a regular basis. I feel sorry for the world that has to deal with me out of control.
I miss him.
I let myself feel that.
It’s different than what I feel with Marko. With Marko, it’s a lie. I want to think Nikolai is back, and for a second, I have a chance to be happy again. I don’t mind the crash after. It’s the way of the junkie. You have to get some masochistic thrill out of the lows to really relish the highs.
But right now, free of Marko’s balm, free of Claymore’s sarcasm, even free of Stevens’ judgment, I face the fact that I’m lonely. Only one person in my existence has ever known me. He understood me better than I do. And he let me see him in the same way.
It couldn’t have been him. It’s been ten years, and the face I saw wasn’t a minute older than the Nikolai who said goodbye to me in Norway. That’s not possible.
I saw what I wanted to see.
Saw my memories and not the truth.
I curl onto my side and close my eyes.
Would Doctor Stevens add obsessive to my laundry list of character flaws? I am obsessive. I can’t let him go.
That’s something Nikolai and I shared.
I know.
I remember.
“Are you okay?” he asks. “Did it hurt too much?”
“I’m good,” I say around strained breaths. “Gold star for you.”
I’m lightheaded, and he must be, too, because we both laugh.
I always figured sex would be awesome. Second base with Nikolai a few nights ago had been the best thing to ever happen in my life, so I figured this had potential.
And it lived up to the expectation.
I’m not saying I’m not in pain. He’s big, and I feel like walking straight isn’t in my near future. But this man has brutalized my body in far worse ways over the past two years. This is a good pain.
We’re both sweaty and spent. I wobble every time I move. I give up trying to move, flopping on top of him like a fish. His tattoo is inches from my face, and I’m reminded of the same question I’ve wanted answered since my eighteenth birthday.
“Why do you have this tattooed to your chest?” I ask. “It’s bugged me for almost a year.”
He has no other marks except for a few scars that he’s accumulated over his years in service. I’m curious what would push him to get a flower etched in his skin permanently.
Nikolai smiles as he draws my hand to his lips. “It’s in remembrance.”
“Remembrance? Like the ones the vets hand out?”
“Sort of.”
“Did you lose someone?”
“Yes… and no.” He presses kisses into my palm. “It started out as a remembrance for a friend, and now it’s more a reminder of all the lives I’ve taken. It’s to honor those I’ve stolen a life from.”
I touch my lips to the flower. “You’re such a sentimental bastard.”
He snorts. “Says the heartless bitch.”
I bite him.
His laugh is breathless and shakes us both.
I keep caressing the flower. “When did you get it?”
“I think I mislabeled your specialty on your score card,” he says. I raise a brow in question. “I said you were a Grade A assassin, but I think interrogation is really more your racket.”
“Stop teasing me,” I say, and he doesn’t listen.
The smile on his lips is devious. “I got it my first year in the army, in Russia.” He says the name of his homeland the same way he says my name. His accent gives me chills.
I realize though I’ve spent nearly two solid years in this man’s company, and given him the most private access to my body and soul, I know very little about his life. “When did you join?”
“I was like you,” he says, his eyes on the wall, distant with memories. “I was recruited when I was fifteen. I had a gift of breaking into government facilities and stealing supplies.”
He side-eyes me, and I grin. “You little juvenile delinquent, you.”
“Guilty.”
I rest my cheek against the poppy and listen intently. I could listen to him talk for the rest of my life.
“I spent most of the first year trying to defect, but then I met a general who taught me how to be a soldier, how to be a man. He gave me respect.” He pauses, and I see ghosts in his eyes. It makes my chest ache. “You have no idea what it’s like to never know a second of respect and then suddenly have it.”
“Yes, I do.”
He looks to me. I see the same confused kid I’ve always felt was inside me in his eyes right now.
And I explain, “My mother loves me, but she’s always thought of me as weird. She doesn’t say it out loud, but I know it. We have nothing in common, no middle ground. She never even punished me for things I did, because she knew I was smart enough to know what I was doing was wrong to begin with. My teachers hated me.” He chuckles under his breath, and I ignore him. “They didn’t know what to do with me. And making friends was impossible because I was just…”
“Weird,” he finishes, running his hand up the side of my neck. He cups my cheek, angling me so I can’t look anywhere but into his eyes. “I like your weirdness, Poppy.”
I cover his hand with mine. “You’re the first person who showed me what respect really was. So I get it.”
He nods. “General Grekov. He was a mean old bastard.” It’s my turn to laugh at him. He pinches my side in response. “But when he told me to hold my head up high, because I was one of the best…” His eyes fill with tears, and he looks away. “We were on assignment, helping a small countryside village recover from a winter storm and a boy, a kid a few months younger than I was, pulled a gun on him. Grekov tried to reason with him, help him, but the boy was too angry. He shot him. Right in the forehead. Right in front of us.”
My throat’s gone dry, and I can’t swallow. “I’m sorry.” His jaw twitches as he bites back his emotions. “What happened to the boy?”
“I shot him between his eyes.”
There’s no remorse, no apology in his voice, and I don’t expect any. I would have shot the kid, too. I would have shot him before he could harm my commander.
“I was already being groomed for a transfer to America. I was eighteen and being watched by the figureheads who would later bui
ld the council. Secretary Williams visited our base in Moscow. He wore a red flower on his lapel.”
“A silk poppy,” I say. I remember getting those in the mail every November.
“He told me he wore it for General Grekov. That it was the highest honor for fallen comrades.”
“So you got it tattooed to your chest.”
He nods. He’s done with his story. I can tell by the way his face hardens.
I press my lips to the flower. “Maybe I need a new nickname.”
He stares at me like I’ve lost my mind. "Why?"
“It was a joke, Nick. We were just flirting and fooling around.” I feel sick to my stomach all of the sudden. I tap my finger against his tattoo. “I’m not worthy of this.”
I’ve seen just about every look the man has. I’ve seen him pissed. I’ve seen him happy. I’ve seen him in ecstasy, and I’ve seen him depressed. This look is a new one. He’s gone pale. His eyes are hollow shadows. And his lips keep opening and closing like he can’t think a full thought.
It’s intense.
“Nick?”
He sits up, taking me with him. His hands hold my face captive, the emotions in his eyes leveling every one of my defenses. “You’re everything, Poppy. Nothing means more to me than you.”
I feel strange. I’m overcome with too many emotions to process. I don’t know how to define what’s been going on between us, and I don’t know if it’s just losing my virginity tonight to him, or his story, or I don’t know. But I feel like he’s just shoved a knife in my chest and filleted me. I’m wide open. All my guts are rushing out, and I’m shaking.
Is this love? If it is, it’s a scary thing.
“Thanks?” I say… I ask? I don’t know.
I’m so confused.
The new look melts into pure playful Nick. This one I know. This one is my favorite. He kisses me, and my emotions relax back into the desire that brought us here tonight.
He rolls us over so I’m under him. His lips travel down my body in a hot, sensuous trail. I moan when his tongue dips around my belly button. Lower and lower he goes, pushing my legs apart. He spreads me, curling his tongue up as he licks slowly.
The sound I make isn’t human.
“You’re welcome.”
5
The faint crunch of glass pulls me out of light slumber. I’m alert instantly, but I remain still. I didn’t hear any commotion from the living room. Maybe it’s just one of the agents coming to check on me.
The next step is even softer, no crunch this time.
Not one of the agents. This is someone trained to sneak up on me.
I have no way to gauge how long I’ve been asleep. No window in the room. No clock on the nightstand. No watch or phone at my disposal.
Whoever this is has made sure no light followed them into the room. It’s total darkness.
I blink my eyes a few times, trying to gain some focus.
I feel the air shift as warmth nears me. My hand closes around the neck of the lamp.
Something touches my arm, and I react. I swing the lamp, connecting with something solid. The visitor tips forward, and I land a hard kick to their side.
“Bloody hell, Shade!”
That stops me. “Claymore?”
I give him a shove, and he slides over onto the bed. I feel along the wall until I find the light switch. The pitch-black room is illuminated with bright light that makes both of us cringe.
Claymore lies on his back at the edge of the bed. He’s dressed in black slacks, black boots and a black t-shirt. He’s got black gloves on his hands.
“Have you taken up a life of breaking and entering since I last saw you?”
He rubs his head with a groan. “Aye, I’m here to steal your ass.”
Questions are on the tip of my tongue, but he puts his finger to his lips, motioning for us to leave. I trust him. I keep telling myself he’s never given me a reason to not trust him.
I lead us down the hall, stopping when I see both agents passed out on the living room floor. I squat down, pulling a tranquilizer dart from Agent Munroe’s neck.
“You found the safe house and tranq-darted both agents?”
He snorts. “What? Like it was hard?”
He has a good point. Nothing is easier to track than CIA operatives. They’re all about procedures and paperwork, hiding in plain sight. If you want something deep-sixed take it to… well, the mafia. They’re actually the most effective at hiding shit. But second to them would be us.
Again, I have a billion questions for him, but he points to the back door that’s through the kitchen, so I know now isn't the time for it. I follow him. I’m restless here, and I need to get to the bottom of what’s going on.
I can always overpower him if this turns out to be a mistake.
Stay on your toes, Poppy. Flat feet can be tracked.
He leads me through a small backyard to a wooden fence. “You need help?” he asks, reaching out with his hands linked together.
I answer his question by jumping and catching the edge of the fence. Any other day, no problem. I’d yank my ass up and flip over the top like it was a toddler step. My arms are weak. I can’t recall the last time I ate something. I haven’t gotten more than a few hours of less-than-restful sleep in the past week, and I got my ass kicked so hard last night that I’m pretty sure he broke my actual ass.
I try. A few times I get as far as bending my arms. But mostly I just hang there pathetically.
“Wow,” he says, leaning his hand against the fence beside me. “You’re shit at this.”
“Bite me. I’ve kind of been through the ringer, you know?”
“Aye.” He gets his shoulder under my legs and helps me over. He flips over effortlessly on his own a second later.
A busted Chevy truck sits idling a few feet down the alley we find ourselves in.
“You left it running?” I ask as I climb into the passenger side.
He shrugs. “It’s not like it was going to take that long. Would have been out sooner if your pansy ass could jump.”
I slap his arm. “Talk. I need some information that only you can provide.”
“I love it when you talk technicalities.” He takes mostly back roads and alleyways, moving as if he has the entire town memorized. His eyes are always scanning, the mirrors and out the windows. He’s worried we’ll be followed.
“Talk.”
He sighs. “Well, as you can tell, I didn’t take Justice’s advice and leave the country.”
I nod. “Why is that?”
“It didn’t add up.”
I remember him saying that few times in the hospital. “What’s not adding up?”
“First of all, did you notice anything weird about pretty boy?”
I think back to the few moments Ace and I hung out in the hospital room. Nothing felt weird to me. He was missing his glasses, but that’s not what Claymore’s looking for. “No.”
“No?” He shoots me a look of shock. “Really?”
“Help me out, MacNeal. I’ve been mostly unconscious for the past four days.”
“Aye, well, I figured the girl who nicked his cheek with a bullet would’ve noticed that he wasn’t injured.”
Ace’s face is in my memory again. I remember thinking his face was perfect, nothing wrong or out of place. “They lied about me injuring him? Why?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “I figured it was true with how everyone was going on around HQ.”
“Then what the fuck?”
“I don’t know, but that’s really at the bottom of my list. First off, why was he in New York? There was no reason for him to be in New York.”
“There was technically no reason for you to be in New York either,” I point out. “As you told me the other day, we can all have lives.”
He snorts. “I was being facetious and you know it.” I do. “That’s not the only thing, Shade. It rubbed me wrong. The whole damn attack. Marko Veltriv is nobody in the grand scheme of anything.
No one would waste a bullet on him, and damn sure no one will expend the man power it would take to do what was done.” He stops at a red light and stares at me till I look back at him. “Not on him.”
“Your point is flying over my head.”
“Aye.”
He reaches into his pocket and hands me a phone, then points to the glove box. A sweet Glock is stashed between road maps and packets of facial tissues. I look to him.
“It’s for you. Check it out.”
I check the clip. Loaded. I lock it in place and lay the gun in my lap, turning my attention to the phone.
“Dial the access number and listen to the message saved under mailbox 515.”
I follow his instructions, keeping an eye on the route he’s taking while I listen to the prompts on the phone. 515 is his personal mailbox. Why am I listening to one of his personal saved messages?
“This is Countess. Am under attack. Assignment cover is compromised. Repeat Countess. Assignment compromised, under attack. Prizrak. It is prizrak.”
Prizrak. Ghost.
The line goes dead, and I stare at the screen until the phone hangs up on its own.
“What do you think it means?” he asks.
“Ghost.”
“Aye, I know what the word means in Russian. What do you think compromised her?”
“I honestly have no clue.” It’s not a code word we’ve ever used. I rest my head back on the seat, staring out the windshield. The streetlights are casting a blue glow that’s mingling with the rays of daybreak. “What was her mission?”
“Dunno. If we’re not assigned to it—”
“We aren’t briefed on the details.”
“Aye.”
“Why do you have this saved on your personal messages?”
“I do that automatically when a distress comes in,” he explains. “No one else reported in. No one offered to go help her. I checked back ten minutes later, and it had been cleared from the call log almost immediately.”
“Then someone else did report in.”
