Codename: Nightshade (Deadly Seven Strike Force)

by Anderson, S

  “I remember wishing there was something I could have done to prevent it,” he says.

  “You can only prepare for so much, and then it’s out of your hands,” I offer, feeling stupid.

  “That might be true,” he says, “but I made my mind up that day that I would do everything in my power to not let it happen again.”

  That’s a noble cause, I suppose, but I don’t see what it has to do with me.

  “Do you play chess, Penelope?”

  “No.”

  “In chess, you have to anticipate not only your opponent’s next move, but also your own. You only win if you can see how the game will play out from the start.”

  “Sounds complicated.”

  He finds that funny. I didn’t mean it as a joke. “It is. It requires making moves that don’t make any sense to even yourself to gain the outcome you desire. I’m assembling a chess club of sorts, Penelope, and I want you to be on it.”

  I’m not an idiot. I can piece together that I’d be joining some sort of special force team, the kind that ends up on that wall downstairs.

  I break out in a cold sweat. “Sir, that’s a nice offer, but I’m only seventeen, and I’d really like to just do my stint in prison.”

  “Prison?” He looks truly shocked at the mention of that. “Did he tell you we would incarcerate you if you didn’t join?”

  “Not in so many words, but it was implied that this cleared that off my record.”

  “He shouldn’t have told you that,” he says. “This isn’t something I want to strong-arm you into, Penelope. It’s going to take a major commitment, and I want you to choose it, not feel like you were forced to do. No matter what you choose, your record will be expunged.”

  Expunged. I can say 'no, thanks' and walk out of here free and clear. Why does that thought make me feel sad?

  “I want you to know, though, that what you did is nothing compared to what you’ll be encouraged to do with this team. If you feel lost, maybe this will be a solid track for you.”

  Solid track. I’m reminded of the train that runs behind my mother’s apartment building. I like trains. That’s a stupid reason for agreeing to this, but I’m leaning toward saying yes.

  What the hell else am I going to do with my life? I’ve never planned a future. Why not try this one?

  “I’m guessing a trial period is out of the question?”

  His smile is filled with understanding. “Sadly, it’s an in-or-out thing.”

  “Sure,” I say, throwing the rest of my good sense to the wind.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “That’s a yes?” he asks, excitement in his gentle eyes.

  “Yes.”

  Definitely going to puke.

  “Wonderful, welcome to the team!”

  He holds out his hand, and I shake it.

  I’m already regretting this decision.

  He jumps up, opening the door. “General Zolkov, great news! Miss Vincent has agreed to join the team.”

  Nikolai stands in the doorway with a smug smile. “Wonderful news. Welcome to the team, Recruit Vincent.”

  Recruit Vincent. I might have made a mistake.

  “General Zolkov will catch you up on all the specifics and help you move into the barracks. He’s your CO from here on out.”

  CO. He’s my commanding officer. Him?

  The smug look makes sense now. The bastard knew the entire time that he would be my boss.

  He pops his knuckles as I get to my feet. “I’m looking forward to this.”

  Yep. Definitely made the wrong choice.

  7

  The Pentagon.

  Five sides. Five floors. Five corridors that circle the building per floor. It’s the heart of U.S. defense, and the one place I never dreamed of breaking into.

  Not because I couldn’t do it, but because of the respect that I have for the building.

  I walked through those doors as a scared, confused teenager and walked out a full-fledged member of a team.

  I sit in a motel room in the outskirts of Richmond, Virginia. We drove nearly seven hours, ditching the Toyota alongside the highway and walking to the nearest motel. Claymore took off almost immediately to round up some supplies. I didn’t argue to go with him.

  I’m drained and need a minute alone to think.

  I keep seeing the attack in the hospital, seeing Nikolai’s face when I said his name. If it weren’t for the sting in my hip every time I move my left leg, I might be able to convince myself it never happened, but it did. It did, and yet, it didn’t.

  I was attacked, but not by Nikolai.

  Beware the Daeva, young one.

  I strip free of the ninja suit. The clothes need to be burned. The shower is small, cracked in a few places, and the hot water is little more than lukewarm, but I take it. I scrub my body down, moving to my hair when I hear something in the bedroom.

  I didn’t set up safeguards, knowing Claymore would be back eventually, but suddenly, I’m feeling even more naked than just being without clothes. I left the bathroom door ajar and left my gun in my backpack by the bed.

  What am I going to do with you, Recruit Vincent?

  I might as well be a rookie with all the fuck ups lately.

  I hear another noise, like a soft bump, and I know I’m not alone.

  It’s not Claymore. He’d make his presence known. The shower curtain is solid white. Though it might help conceal me, it’s not helping me see the intruder.

  I slip around the curtain, leaving the water running. I’m naked and soaking wet, but that’s secondary to my main problem. The noises are more frequent and loud now. I peek through the opening.

  A hulking body, dressed all in black, is tearing through the drawers. I don’t have to see his face to know this is Prizrak. I’d know those shoulders anywhere.

  He moves without concern for being heard, which tells me he either thinks the shower is a decoy and I’m not here or else he’s confident he can kill me once I enter the room. He’s focused entirely on searching every corner.

  What are you looking for?

  He yanks the covers away from the bed, finding my backpack. He tosses the gun out as if it’s a pack of playing cards and rifles through my possessions like some hidden secret is in there he’s desperate to find. I try to not let that distract me.

  Assessing my options, I have only the element of surprise on my side. He’s within reach of my gun, and I have no doubt he has at least one of his own. Charging straight for him will only get me shot.

  He sits down on the bed, keeping his back to me. I take the advantage to silently crawl out of the bathroom. I make sure the door is in the exact position it was before I move closer to the bed. He’s not moving, his search over for the moment.

  I pause, listening.

  Thirty seconds pass.

  Then I hear a tinkling that I instantly recognize. He’s found my shells.

  I hold my breath. I don’t like anyone touching those.

  I ease up on my knees, peering over the edge of the bed. He has two shells in his hand, and he’s staring at them like they're some magic entity. Slowly, I glide my hand over the mattress. My gun is just a few feet away.

  Almost there.

  He twirls the shells, his lips parting as he says, “Poppy.”

  My heart stalls in my chest, every other noise in the room vanishing into silence as that word echoes all around me.

  Poppy.

  Impossible.

  I hesitate. I don’t have an explanation for it, but I stop right there and stare at him. I could have picked the gun up and shot him in the back of the head without him even realizing I’m here.

  But I hesitate.

  “Nick?” I hear myself say.

  That breaks the spell.

  Intense rage comes over him as he turns and grabs my arm, yanking me across the bed. I reach for my gun, missing it as he throws me on to the floor. The carpet scratches my skin, making me acutely aware tha
t I’m naked. Doesn’t matter, though. I don’t need clothes to fight.

  I roll away when he moves to stomp on me. This won’t be a repeat of the hospital room. I’m healing and rested and about to show him all the moves the man whose face he stole taught me.

  I leap to my feet, deflecting a punch, and jam my elbow into his sternum. He barely flinches. He grabs my arms, holding me against him. I slam my head back into his face. He lets go instinctively, and I turn, bringing my knee up hard against his stomach. He staggers back, reaching behind for his gun, but I don't give him a chance. I spin, kicking his face. He catches my foot and twists my leg.

  Damn, that hurts.

  He throws me to the ground, and I roll until the end of the bed stops me, my gaze meeting his. Okay, maybe this will be a repeat of the hospital. I’m in pain, on the floor, and he’s got a gun aimed right at my face.

  I wait for the shot, staring straight into his eyes. I’m not one for pleading for my life. When death is something you easily give someone else, you embrace the fact that you, too, will die one day.

  He stands there for too long. His eyes don’t leave mine. He doesn't pull the trigger.

  For some reason, he hesitates, too.

  Talking is senseless, but when it comes to the man he looks, like I’ve always been a little stupid. “Who are you?”

  His head tilts, eyes narrowing.

  “I know you’re not him,” I say. “You can’t be him.”

  The scar on his cheek twitches, and I know he’s done hesitating.

  He lines the shot just as the motel door crashes open. Claymore enters with a gun raised, and I scream. I don’t know which man I’m warning.

  Claymore shoots, and Prizrak hits the floor instantly. I crawl over to him, yanking a small dart from his neck.

  “Do you carry a mass quantity of tranquilizers up your ass at all times or something?” I say, tossing the spent round at Claymore.

  He shrugs. “I find shooting an enemy limits your ability to ask him questions.”

  Good point.

  I return my attention to the enemy at hand. He’s sleeping, but he still has this ferocity about him. I wonder if he dreams about killing people, too, or if he finds peace with his eyes closed.

  “Shade?”

  “Yeah?”

  A shopping bag hits my leg. “Get dressed.”

  Claymore shuts the motel door, as I dress right there in the middle of everything. He bought me underwear, a bra, and stockings.

  “Uh, am I going for a hooker look?” I ask as I glide on the stockings.

  “Aye. I thought I could be one of the Village People and you could be Madonna.” I side-eye him and find him holding out a garment bag. “Got you a skirt suit.”

  Unzipping the bag, I decide he has good taste in clothes. It’s only then that I realize he’s changed his outfit. He’s now wearing a dark gray, almost silver three-piece suit with a dark blue tie. I slide on the skirt as he handcuffs our guest to the legs of the bed. Prizrak sits on the floor with his back propped up against the end of the bed, his head lulling forward as he continues to sleep.

  Claymore crouches next to him, grabbing a handful of his hair. “Bloody hell, I see why you were going mad. Is it a mask?” He pokes his cheek. “Or plastic surgery?”

  The adrenaline from the fight is easing out of my veins. I button up my blouse and put as much space between me and them as possible. My hands are shaking, and my heart is running a mile a minute. “He’s a ghost.”

  He traces the scar on Prizrak’s left cheek. “What’s this?”

  I can’t do anything but shake my head. I wanted this to be a trick of my mind, sleight of hand, a lie. I don’t want to accept this.

  He said Poppy. He can’t be real.

  Nick isn’t alive.

  “He hasn’t aged a day,” Claymore says. “It can’t be him, aye?”

  He looks to me, and I’m still shaking my head.

  “Hey,” Claymore says, walking over to me. He puts his hands on my shoulders. “You did good. You didn’t die. We’ll figure this out. Aye?”

  “Yeah,” I say, not fully believing myself. Claymore sees Nikolai in that face, too. That might mean I’m not crazy, or it could mean he’s about to end up like the rest of us. “I’m only alive because you shot him. Just like Countess did at the hospital.”

  “Hesitation is normal when it’s someone you know,” he recites. “That’s why they gave him that face. I wouldn’t have fired so easily if I hadn’t been worried about you getting hurt.”

  “Thanks.”

  He slaps my arm to say 'don’t mention it' and turns back to the prisoner on the floor. “Where did she shoot him?”

  “Right shoulder.”

  He inspects the area, finding a hole in his shirt. “Son of a bitch.”

  “What?”

  “He’s got a tear in the front,” he says, moving his hand to the back of his shoulder, “and the back of his shirt, but there's not even a scratch on his skin.”

  “How’s that possible?” I ask, stepping to them and surveying the damage myself. If he had been wearing protective armor, the bullet wouldn’t have exited the back of his shirt. Furthermore, I saw the blood. Even if the bullet just nicked him, it hasn’t been long enough for him to heal completely. I poke my finger through the hole in the front, feeling his smooth skin underneath.

  My fingertip tingles.

  I snatch my hand back. “That’s not possible.” I still feel every tear, stitch, bruise, and break in my body right now. “Unless he can magically heal overnight…”

  We jump back as he wakes with a startled roar. He snaps his teeth at us, kicking his legs until we’re both far enough away that he can’t reach us.

  “Bloody hell,” Claymore says. “That dart should have knocked him out for a good six hours.”

  It hasn’t even been six minutes.

  “Okay,” I say with a decisive nod. “He has magical healing abilities.”

  “You make it sound like he’s a goddamn X-man.”

  “Well…what else could explain that?”

  “His metabolism is probably working at a faster rate than normal.”

  Prizrak snarls, yanking on his restraints.

  “Who are you?” I ask him again.

  He blinks as if he didn’t hear me, staring straight ahead. His lips are a hard line sealed shut.

  “Hey!” Claymore kicks his boot. “The lady asked you a question. Who are you?”

  Prizrak growls… literally growls, like a beast… but he says nothing.

  His eyes scan the room before landing on me. He stares so hard it's unnerving. No one since Nikolai has ever looked at me like that. I can only stare back.

  Seconds pass with no one saying or doing anything but staring.

  Finally Prizrak tilts his head and whispers, “Poppy.”

  I look away just as Claymore turns to me. “Should I leave you two alone?”

  “It’s not him,” I say, though who I’m trying to convince more, I can’t say.

  “It looks like a duck, it’s quacking like a duck,” Claymore says. “Maybe you can turn it into a Swan Song or something if you're alone.”

  I’m nervous all of a sudden. “Interrogation is your thing, not mine.”

  “No time like the present to learn,” Claymore says, slapping my back before heading for the door. “I’ll keep watch on the perimeter. If he found us, damn well bet we need to get moving soon.”

  I agree. This guy isn’t an agent. He’s a weapon. He’s unleashed on his target but he’s not operating on his own. His team won’t be too far behind.

  I press my back to the door once we’re alone. He’s still watching me, blinking only when his eyes force him to. I feel like I’m back in the police station. I’m seventeen again, and Nikolai is just some guy who probably spells trouble for me.

  “Let me guess,” I say, unable to keep from rambling. “They found you somewhere… prison, maybe. They stripped your mind and gave you a new face. They taught you
how to be as close to him as possible, and now they send you in to kill us when our number’s up.”

  It’s a solid theory, really. The Deadly Seven are in the business of fucking with people’s minds until we end their lives. The only way to kill us is to return the favor. Although, it doesn’t really hold up with Countess, considering she never knew Nikolai.

  He tilts his head. I wish he’d stop doing that. He looks like a damn lost puppy when he does that.

  “Poppy,” he says.

  Anger flares with a burst of acid in my stomach. “How do you know about that? No one knows about that.”

  He shakes his head, turning away.

  “No.” He’s not going to shut me out like that. I crawl onto the bed, grabbing a rifle shell. I’m in his face, shoving the shell so close it nearly pokes him in the eye. “How do you know what this? What it means to me and him.”

  He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes tell me the truth. He recognizes it, just like he recognizes me.

  “That’s not possible,” I say. “He’s the only other person who ever knew. I never told anyone who gave these to me.”

  “Codename: Nightshade,” he says, his eyes roaming the lines of my face. “Primary target.”

  “No.” I can’t believe it. No one knows my face. No one knows my identity except for my team members and the council. "This isn't right."

  “Codename: Nightshade,” he repeats. He’s not paying attention to me. He’s a broken record, trying to get back on track.

  “No,” I say, grabbing the front of his shirt. “How do you know these things? Who told you?”

  I shove him against the bed, and he just keeps repeating my codename. Nightshade.

  I unlock him from the handcuffs and attempt to drag him to the bathroom. He’s big and heavy. He’s not putting up a fight, whatever loop his mind is caught in has neutralized that for the moment, but it takes me damn near ten minutes to get his ass into the bathroom where the shower is still running. It takes more muscle to pull him into the tub. Once he’s in, I hold him down with his face under the spray. He coughs and gags as his mouth fills with water each time he tries to say my name.