Codename: Nightshade (Deadly Seven Strike Force) (14 page)

“I’ll help,” Ace says, shooing the agents away far enough to close the curtain that circles my bed.

He helps ease me to my feet and unzips the bag. I want to make out with whoever packed this bag the second I see the bra and panties.

I give Ace a look, and he holds his hands up, infuriating sexy smirk on his lips. “I won’t peek,” he promises, turning his back on me.

It’s tough to negotiate, and underwear is probably the one damn thing I need help putting on, but I manage it as awkwardly as possible. I get the bra in place and tell him to get the hooks.

His fingers are warm against my back. “I don’t know that I’ve ever been asked to help a girl put one of these
on
.”

I’m about to thank him when he snaps the right strap. It slaps my skin, and the sting mixed with his laughter makes me want to maim him.

“Sorry, I’ve always wanted to do that.”

I resist the urge to hit him as I hand him my pants. They are black leggings that fit me so snug they make me highly aware of every scrape on my skin. He tucks a pair of black socks on my feet and laces up a pair of black combat boots—a size too big for my feet, but I’ll make do. Next is a fitted black turtleneck that he slides down my body without taking advantage to fondle me.

He stands back when he’s done, nodding.

“What?” I ask, smoothly my hands down the tight pants.

“Nothing, just impressed you really aren’t packing downstairs.”

I smack him halfheartedly, and he’s amused.

“All you need now is the mask. You are going as a ninja for Halloween, right? Cause only ninjas dress like this.”

I shake my head. I have to admit I agree with him, but I’m not one to look a gift pair of underwear in the mouth.

“Are you ready?” the agent who gave me the duffel asks, leaning inside the curtain.

I nod. “Yeah.”

He says something to his partner, and I turn to Ace.

We’re having some lovers-on-the-train-platform kind of moment that makes me feel sick to my stomach.

“You’ll be fine,” he says, kissing my cheek, rubbing the stubble on his chin against my skin. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

My heart squeezes. “Just figure out what they wanted with Marko… shit… and where Marko is.” I knock my forehead against his chest. I’m a horrible agent and an even worse girlfriend… though, in honesty, I’m not Marko’s girlfriend. Fuck buddy?

I’m a horrible person.
Period
.

“Don’t worry about anything but staying alive, Pineapple,” Ace says, handing me over to the agents. "Let us worry about the rest."

They don’t tell me their names or where we’re going. I don’t bother asking. I know enough about these things to know talking doesn’t come with the territory.

I’m sitting in the backseat of a black SUV. The CIA must get a company discount on these things. I don’t mind it so much. There’s plenty of legroom.

I watch the shadowed buildings move by at a sensible pace. It’s been a long time since I was in Manhattan and able to just sightsee. I realize not much has changed on the other side of the window since then. New York is still New York.

We turn down 34
^th
Street. The sign reading,
Empire State Building Entrance
, catches my eye. I scoot closer to the window and try to look up. From this angle, you can’t see much more than the top of the drugstore located at its base. The building is a staple, an icon of the city. You can see it miles out at sea, and you can identify it from an airplane. But when you stand at street level and look up, it looks like every other tall building around here.

Déjà vu takes over. Despite what the head shrinker back at the hospital wanted to imply, I’m a big believer in facing my traumas. Not the bad stuff I do—I don’t find that as bad as others might. I have a thing about failure. I hate it. I beat myself up about it, and I let it cripple me if I don’t take it head-on and bitch slap it away.

I don’t let the fact that this route is the one we took in the limo bother me. This time my eyes are wide open. I know both agents in the car with me are carrying weapons. If need be, I’ll just take one of theirs. Problem solved. The probability that I’ll fail again has been drastically reduced.

We near turn off for the George Washington Bridge, and I realize they’re taking me to Jersey. I also see a familiar block approaching.

“Turn left here,” I say.

The agent sitting in the passenger seat eyes me in the rearview mirror. “We know where we’re going, Agent Vincent.”

“Gold star for you,” I say, “but I want to inspect the crash site, and it’s down this next street to the left.”

“We’re not on investigation detail,” the driver says. “Plenty of other crews are.”

I make an aggravated sound and count to ten, talking myself out of knocking both of them unconscious just so I can liberate myself. I’m not under arrest, but if I attack two CIA agents and go AWOL, I certainly might face some jail time.

“Look, the guy you’re hiding me from was at the crash site. Maybe if we go back, I can find some clue to help us know what we’re running from.”

Passenger Joe shakes his head. “Not our concern, Agent Vincent.”

I flop back in my seat with a pout.
Bastards.

We drive past the turn off, and I feel like I’m watching Nikolai walk away again. I can’t let him go this time.

In a moment of pure automatic reflex, I try the door handle. I expect them to have some sort of safety feature, like child locks or something, but my door swings right open.
Score
! I hear them shouting my name as I tuck and roll.

I land hard on the asphalt of the all but empty road. I wasn’t worried about traffic. They wouldn’t be escorting me through overly populated streets, wanting to avoid being seen. My body is running on adrenaline, excess desire more than actual energy. My feet are heavy and clunky under me, but I manage to run.

The screech of tires down the block warns they’re following me. I dart across the street, turning toward the waterfront. They can catch up to me. I don’t care. I want them to find me a place to stay, in fact, but right now I just want to see the crash site.

Skid marks on the asphalt are highlighted by the full moon light. I can make out three sets of tracks. Two belong to the same car—Nikolai’s SUV. Another SUV is gunning for me right now and I take it as another opportunity to face my failure. I have only a few seconds, maybe a handful of minutes, before the agents are on me.

They’ll remember the child locks this time.

I follow the tracks to the embankment, where the dirt and grass is dug up. The limo put up a fight that night, not going over on the first push.

The car is gone, and the glass and debris has been cleared away, but I can still hear my own screams, feel the crunch of glass under my boots as I survey the area. I don’t know what I’m hoping to find. Several crews have been over this spot like a pack of dogs on a three-legged cat. They’ve picked it clean.

And Nikolai wouldn’t leave any evidence for them to find, anyway.

I inch my way to the ledge. I’m not afraid of heights or falling. I know I can survive a dip in this river. But my skin jumps the closer I get to the edge.

Trauma
. It’s a funny thing.

I crouch low, pressing my palm to the disturbed dirt. I’m thankful it’s not on top of a grave for Marko. This could have been the end for both of us, but somehow I managed to keep us alive.

Nikolai trained you to do that.

Tires squeal, and two car doors open and slam shut. “Agent Vincent,” one of the agents shouts. “You do understand that we’re here to help you, don’t you?”

I make a face. I don’t need a second mother.

“Yes, Agent… whatever your name is,” I say, brushing the dirt off my hands as I stand. “I haven’t had a chance to see this spot since the attack. I apologize for scaring you.”

There’s nothing distinguishable between the two men. They’re both average height, with balding brown hair that’s graying at the tips by their ears. They wear the same clothes, stand with the same posture, and even have the same amount of scruff on their jaws.

Is there a kit the CIA hands out for that shit?

One of them—the one who was driving, I think—steps forward. “You didn’t scare us.”

Oh, you’re just out of breath because you’re not used to running.

“If you do that again, we’re officially washing our hands of you,” the other one says. “We have plenty of other people who
want
our help.”

“Aw, boys, please don’t tease.”

“Did you find what you want?” the driver asks, waving around. I half expect him to turn into my mother and warn that we’re not coming back if I forget my toys.

“Not exactly, but I’m satisfied.”

“Good. Get in the car.”

I salute him and walk toward the SUV. I open my door, but he stops me, reaching down to flick the child safety lock in place. We make eye contact, and I resist the urge to stick my tongue out.

A flash of color catches my eye as I climb in and shut the door. I roll my window down, narrowing my focus to a brightly lit patch of dirt under a streetlamp.

Something is there—a flower. A red flower propped up against the base of the lamp as if someone had left it there to be found.

A poppy.

The agents pile in, and we’re in motion before I can tell them to stop.

I tell myself I imagined it. It couldn’t possibly be what I thought I saw.

I’m seriously losing my mind.

“Got you something today,” General Zolkov says.

I’m sitting on the black mat in the training room. All the other lights in the building are off, and I’m ringed in a weird spotlight.

“What for?”

He laughs. “Your birthday.”

I check my watch—sure enough, half past midnight. How does he do that?

“I think there’s a rule against COs buying their recruits birthday presents.”

He tosses a small box to me. It’s covered in bright pink paper and topped with a squished bow. I can tell he’s had it shoved in his jacket pocket all day. The contents rattle when I shake it. “What’s in it?”

“I’m confident you can figure out how to answer your own question, Recruit Vincent.”

He’s teasing me. My skin itches when he teases me.

Against my will, the memory of him kissing me rushes back, and for a second, I just stare at the box. I’m so confused.

“It’s not going to bite you,” he promises, taking a seat across from me on the mat. “Open it.”

I peel the paper away on one end and pull open the latch on the cardboard box underneath. Six bright gold, empty rifle shells fall into my lap.

I give him a questioning look.

“Sniper shells,” he says, snatching one. “Most snipers favor a particular round. They’re meticulous about always using the same brass for every kill. It’s like a calling card.”

“How very serial killer of them.”

He laughs. It’s not the laugh he shares with other people. It’s the one that makes my insides shiver. His eyes absorb the light, and I feel like I’m tipping forward in the space when I look into them.

“I think you’ll like these. They’re interchangeable with most short range rifles and allow for damn near hundred percent accuracy every time you fire them.”

I inspect one of the shells, rolling it around in my hand. “Short range? Isn’t that risky?”

“Risk is what people with fear call a challenge.”

My lips twitch, and I try not to smile. “Well, then, isn’t it more challenging to shoot so close?”

He tosses the shell he holds in the air, and I catch it. “Don’t doubt your skill. You’re the best.”

I want to laugh. I even do a little. “There are better snipers in the world than me.”

He watches me with narrowed eyes. I feel like he’s got a scope trained on me. I wonder if a red dot travels over my skin, tracking his sight. “Just take the goddamn compliment, Penelope.”

I blush. He can call me Recruit Vincent all day, even call me names that are meant to belittle, but nothing makes me feel like a scolded child faster than him using my name.

“Thank you, sir,” I say, tucking the shells back into the box.