Codename: Nightshade (Deadly Seven Strike Force)

by Anderson, S

  “Who are you?” I shout. “How do you know who I am?”

  “Codename: Nightshade.”

  I backhand his cheek. “Who are you? How do you know about Poppy?”

  That seems to do the trick, breaking him out of his trance. He blinks three times before focusing on me.

  His hands are around my neck the next second. We’re both wet, and the floor is slippery. We roll around, trading jabs, until I manage to get the upper hand and trap him beneath me. I pin his hands above his head, but he keeps struggling. My skin’s too slick and he uses that to wiggle free. He’s simply too big for me to overpower a second time. He flips us over, trapping me beneath him.

  His hands are around my throat again. Raw rage contorts his face. That beautiful face. Darkness is creeping in around it as I start to choke.

  I don’t know if I’m just done fighting, or if I’m convincing myself to believe the lie. Maybe I’m just ready to die, I don’t know. Maybe he’s my Daeva after all—my beautiful ghost. He’s squeezing the life from my body, but it feels wonderful. I’m back in the training room, fighting with my general and he’s touching me.

  I want this to be Nick. I want to be nineteen again. I want to go back and hold him tight, make him stay with me and not rush off into danger.

  “I loved you,” I whisper, lost in a memory, in bed with my ghost.

  He stops. Everything stops.

  The grip against my throat eases. A thousand different emotions cross his face. Shock is the one that takes hold. “Penelope.”

  I thought hearing him call me Poppy would be my undoing, but my name on his lips cracks open the last wall around my heart. “Nikolai.”

  I don’t think. I just react. My arms are around his neck, my lips meeting his. For one infinite second, everything is as it was. He feels the same. He tastes the same. Everything since the last time I was like this with him becomes a distant nightmare.

  That is, until I realize he’s not kissing me back. He yanks away. His eyes are wide, fear and confusion mixed with a healthy dose of anger reflecting in them.

  Something slams behind me, and without warning, Nikolai falls limp on top of me.

  Ugh. Still as heavy as he always was, too.

  I pull the dart from his shoulder and offer Claymore an upside down glare. “What the hell was that for?”

  “What the bloody hell are you doing, Shade? I said interrogate him, not have a wrestling contest with him in the bathroom.”

  I groan, shoving Nikolai off of me. “I think this is more complicated than we originally thought.”

  He helps me up. “How so?”

  “I don’t know how or why, but this really is Nikolai.”

  “You know that’s insane, aye?”

  If I had a nickel for every time someone validated that my thoughts were insane, I would be rich. I don’t point that out to him. I just nod like a toddler being scolded.

  “Even if this is him, which I’m not agreeing it is.” He wags a finger at me to emphasize that. “And he forgot who he was, which is ridiculous, because he’s not Zolkov.” Another finger wag. “You can’t expect that a man remembers ten years of suppressed memories after just a few seconds of alone time with you. You’re good, lass, but you ain’t that good.”

  Ouch. Way to kill the dream, MacNeal. “You know if this whole agent thing doesn’t work out, you have a bright future in writing romance novels.”

  He offers me a flat look in the rearview mirror. We’re in another stolen car—this time, an SUV. He’s driving, and I’m in the backseat with Nikolai’s head cradled in my lap.

  It might be completely bonkers, but I’m convinced it’s him now. I don’t know what was done to him. I can’t explain why he looks like he hasn’t aged in ten years. And I don’t care.

  I do, however, have his wrists and ankles secured with plastic zip ties. I’ve learned my lesson.

  We’ve abandoned the plan to hit the Pentagon for the time being. After a thorough search of Nikolai’s suit, which produced nothing but a handful of weapons, Claymore hit him with five darts and said we needed to get mobile. We left nothing behind in the room that could be traced. I’m wearing the clothes he got me, and my backpack is on the floor by my feet.

  As far as anyone is concerned, we were never there.

  It’s been ten minutes since we left the motel, and Nikolai is snoring softly. I run my fingers through his hair. I don’t give a shit if he wakes up wanting to rip my throat out. I’ve wished for a decade to be able to do that again.

  “So no tracking device on him,” I say.

  “That we could find. Doesn’t mean there’s not one in him.”

  That’s true. A lot of us are deployed with monitor chips much like the ones implanted in the family pet these days. The Deadly Seven, to my knowledge, don’t have implants, but that doesn’t mean they haven’t offered them to us. It’s a Catch-22. If you’re ever rendered incapable of contacting base, taken prisoner without warning, or just plain lost, the chip can be activated to find you no matter where you are. But then, the chip can be activated to monitor you no matter where you are or what you’re doing, without your consent or knowledge.

  “Well then, we need to find someplace that will help neutralize any signal, just in case.”

  “Aye.”

  He drives two hours away, to George Washington forest. The elevation mixed with the isolation of trees will help confuse the signal a little. I don’t know if the tranquilizers were too much for his system, or if he was actually just exhausted, but Nikolai stays asleep for the entire trip.

  “He’s faking it,” Claymore says, turning around in his seat to glare at him. “He’s hoping we give something away because we think he’s asleep and can’t hear us.”

  I want to tell Claymore he’s just suspicious of everyone, but I can't. It’s a technique we all use.

  We’re parked in a remote part of the forest, nothing but trees all around us. “Did you bring camping gear?”

  “No," he says as he climbs out. "We won’t be staying that long.”

  His door slams shut, and I run my fingers through Nikolai’s hair one more time. “This is gonna hurt you a lot more than it does us.”

  Claymore opens the back door and waits for me to indicate that it’s okay for him to remove our visitor from the seat. I follow him to a close cropping of trees, keeping watch as he ties him to the trunk of a giant fir.

  Nikolai’s head hangs forward as he continues what's most likely a charade. His hands and feet are still bound by the plastic strips.

  “It’s admirable that you’re able to stick to your methods,” Claymore says, flipping his knife in the air in front of him.

  A cold chill runs down my back. I try to ignore it. Interrogation is a nasty business… something I’m only mildly skilled in. The best in our group has always been Claymore. He has an uncanny knack for reading people, and he doesn’t have a problem making someone bleed for answers.

  He kicks Nikolai’s boot. “I’m counting to three and then doing my thing, mate. You’ll do yourself a favor to wake up now.”

  Nikolai remains motionless.

  “One.”

  My heart jackhammers in my chest. Get it under control, Poppy.

  “Two.”

  The knife spins three times in the air.

  “Three.”

  Claymore catches the knife and plunges it into middle of Nikolai’s right boot. He jolts awake with a roaring shout.

  I make a noise. I’m not sure if it's fear or just anticipation, but it earns me a peculiar look from Claymore. “You alright?”

  I assure him I am.

  Nikolai spews curses in Russian.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Claymore says, yanking the knife back out. “I already know I’m going to Hell, mate. No need wasting your breath trying to curse me there.”

  Nikolai clenches his teeth, murdering both of us with his glare. His eyes linger on me for a beat too long, and I see a shift in them.

  He still remembers me. />
  “Who are you?” Claymore asks.

  “Otvali!” Nikolai shouts.

  Claymore looks to me. "Alright, I know a lot of Russian, but I ain’t familiar with that one. Translation?"

  “It’s not nice,” I tell him.

  Claymore’s brow arches. “Not nice?”

  I shake my head, and he smiles. It’s not a happy smile. It’s the kind of smile that I get on my face just before I pull the trigger. I close my eyes and cringe when Nikolai cries out again. I look back as Claymore wipes blood off his knife. He’s tossing it in the air between them, having a 'the good, the bad, and the ugly' moment with Nikolai.

  “Who are you?” he asks again.

  Nikolai falls into his repeat mode. “Codename: Nightshade. Primary target.”

  Claymore points the knife at me. “No, that’s her name. I want your name.”

  Nikolai’s eyes follow the direction of his hand, watching me. “Codename: Nightshade. Primary target.”

  I keep my focus trained to those eyes, feeling his pain when he cringes again. “This isn't working.”

  Claymore stands up, still twirling the knife. “I’m just getting started, Shade.”

  “You’re hurting him.”

  “He tried to kill you. A few times.”

  “I know, but this isn’t right.”

  “She’s got a kind heart,” Claymore says, talking to Nikolai. “Amazing, since the bastard you look like broke every bone in her body at some point in the past.”

  “MacNeal,” I warn.

  He crouches down, leaning in only a few inches from Nikolai’s face. “You can’t kill her, mate. That bastard Zolkov tried. Again and again. He drowned her. He shot her. He beat her black and blue.”

  What in the hell is he doing? Memories are flashing in my mind, moments I’d rather not think about right now.

  “But he couldn’t kill her.” He holds the blade against Nikolai’s throat. I feel my pulse racing in my own throat. “Who are you?”

  Nikolai’s watching my face. His eyes widen as I start to shake. His mouth opens, and I expect him to recite his 'primary target' nonsense, but instead, he lets out a gasp. “Get out of here, Penelope.”

  I flinch.

  Did he just say that?

  Claymore looks to me, so shocked he actually drops his knife, and I know I didn’t imagine it. “What are you—?”

  “Get out before they hurt you! I won’t let them hurt you. Get out!”

  Claymore waves his hand in front of Nikolai’s face. He doesn’t even blink. He’s not really seeing me or the forest around us. He's somewhere else.

  “What’s going on?” I ask, moving closer.

  “Hey.” Claymore snaps his fingers in front of Nikolai’s face. “Mate.”

  “No,” Nikolai says, his entire body taut as he struggles against his binds. “No! Don’t hurt her! Don’t you dare hurt her!”

  He screams until his voice goes hoarse, screams until he’s out of breath.

  “What’s happening?” I whisper to Claymore.

  “Conditioning by way of torture,” he says. “The combination of seeing your face and being tortured probably unlocked this loop inside his head.”

  Nikolai sags against the rope around his chest and takes a deep breath before launching into the same nightmare again. “Get out of here, Penelope.”

  I plop on my butt in the grass, my knees suddenly weak. “That has to prove it, right? It’s him.”

  “It proves they convinced him he's Zolkov, and they tortured him into submission with memories from Zolkov’s life. Nothing more.”

  “Why are you so resistant of this?”

  “Because you’re buying too deep into this shit too fast, Shade.”

  “I am not.”

  It’s a lie. I know it is.

  He grabs my hand. I don’t even realize I’ve been rubbing Nikolai’s calf.

  “You think he’s our old friend?” Claymore asks. He bunches the sleeve of Nikolai’s shirt up, exposing his left arm. Without warning, he slices his knife through the skin.

  Nikolai is on the verge of tears, still screaming my name. It hits me square in the chest. I can’t watch.

  “Nuh-uh,” Claymore says, clutching my chin in his hand and forcing me to look at the wound. “Watch.”

  The blood congeals almost immediately and forms a wall within the cut. The two pieces of skin merge back together in a matter of seconds. I touch the spot, amazed at what I just witnessed.

  Claymore lets go of me. “He’s not even human, Shade.”

  His skin feels warm and rough, just like it always did.

  “What do I have to do?” Nikolai asks in a hollow voice. His eyes are pools of darkness—a night sky with no stars. “What do I have to do to keep her alive?”

  I pride myself on having few emotions. I feel all of them, but I don’t allow any to reach my heart. The look on Nikolai’s face, knowing he’s telling whoever is torturing him that he’ll do whatever they want to keep me safe…

  A tear slides down my cheek.

  “He’s more human than either of us,” I say, stumbling to my feet and walking away.

  “Isn’t it wrong, sir?” I ask, staring through the scope at the outline of a head. It’s just a flat paper target, but I’m picturing a person in its place.

  General Zolkov stands behind me, leering like the giant gargoyle that he is. “Taking a life is a sin, yes.”

  “Then why do we do it, sir?”

  “Just because you don’t want to commit a sin on your own soul doesn’t mean your soul is free from anyone else’s sin.”

  I roll my eyes. He’s full of that shit, spouting off wisdom like the damn underside of a Snapple cap.

  I pull the trigger, and the bullet rips through the center of the target, impaling the imaginary victim’s brain, less than a second later.

  “You’re gifted with the gun, Recruit Vincent,” he says.

  I’ve been here two months, and that’s the first time he’s given me anything near a compliment. I feel sick to my stomach as I say, “Thank you, sir.”

  “Don’t look so worried,” he says, shoving my gun so I’m aimed at the victim’s heart. “You’ll learn to like sin. I promise.”

  8

  Hours later we check into another motel, now in some obscure place in Ohio.

  Nikolai has gone into some sort of comatose-type mental break. His eyes are open, but he’s not seeing anything. Every now and then, he whispers, “What do I have to do?”

  He’s now handcuffed to the bedposts. Claymore and I sit at the tiny table in the corner, eating Chinese food out of takeout containers. I dip my eggroll in some soy sauce, casting my sight everywhere but on the two men. I can feel Claymore’s glare every now and then. He’s regretting helping me. I know it.

  “I’m going to go find an electronics store,” he says, tossing his chopsticks onto the table. “We need to check him for a chip, just in case.”

  I swirl my eggrolls in the black sauce, never once looking up at him. I can hear the judgment in his voice. He wants us to dump Nikolai. We aren’t going to get any information from him and keeping him with us is like painting a target on our backs.

  “Aye, right," he mutters, walking away from me. "See you soon.”

  He storms out the door. I cringe when it slams behind him.

  “What do I have to do?”

  I throw some broccoli beef on a plate with the last eggroll as I debate. The pendulum controlling my emotions has swung back around to logic. I can’t explain any of it—why he heals so quickly, why he hasn’t aged, or why he’s even alive to begin with. We’re in the middle of a race to stay alive, and he’s a speed bump meant to stop us. I know I need to cut him loose and keep moving forward.

  He taught me that.

  I walk over to the bed, sitting down on the edge by his side.

  He cowers and shakes, closing his eyes. “Please don’t hurt her. I’ll do whatever you want.”

  A big part of me hopes to hell this isn�
��t Nikolai. I don’t think I can survive the guilt of knowing he’s allowed himself to become this for the sake of protecting me.

  “Are you hungry?” I ask, stabbing a piece of beef with a plastic fork.

  “What do I have to do?”

  I hold the meat an inch from his lips. “Eat.”

  With his eyes still closed, he sniffs the offering a few times before giving in and taking a bite. He chews twenty times and swallows. I keep the fork in front of his face and prompt him to eat again. We repeat the process until the plate is empty.

  He isn’t any less agitated with a full stomach. Something in the set of his jaw warns me that he doesn't trust my kindness.

  “It wasn’t poisoned,” I say. “If I was going to poison you, I wouldn’t waste good broccoli beef with it.”

  I wipe the napkin over his lips.

  “You sound like her.”

  The words are so soft that if my hand hadn't been touching his lips, I probably wouldn’t have realized he spoke.

  “I am her.”

  He doesn’t say anything else. I take that as my cue to head back to the table.

  Claymore returns an hour later with enough electrical devices to open up his own Radio Shack. He sets up a mad scientist rig in the bathroom, taking most of the stuff apart only to reconstruct it all as something else. I have to admit that though I can make just about any computer program my bitch, I don’t know much about the physical components of a computer. I know the basics, but I couldn’t do what he’s doing right now.

  “I’m building a small EMP emitter,” he says when I join him.

  EMP. Electromagnetic pulse. The emitter will send out a wave of electromagnetic energy that neutralizes all electricity within a certain radius of the device. Militaries have hard-ons for them in the field. It’s easy to guess why. Kill your enemy’s ability to communicate, their ability to drive, and even eliminate more sophisticated weaponry with just a click of a button. In a matter of seconds they go from Twenty-First Century to Fred Flintstone.

  I close the toilet lid and sit on it. “Is that going to kill the possible chip?”