Codename: Nightshade (Deadly Seven Strike Force) (21 page)

Whatever the reason, I’m not going to take a chance on sticking out like a come-and-find-me sore thumb.

We each boot up a computer.

“You got the chip?”

He tosses me a USB that I plug into the CPU. It’s a fun fact most people don’t consider about public technology. The servers used by most libraries and other public access computers have to be able to handle high volume traffic. As such, the internet routers aren’t monitored as closely as a personal router might be. Too many variables and unknown users to track.

Hence the weird guy with no kid using a computer in the middle of the day at the children’s library is probably up to shit that would land him on a tracking list with the FBI.

I glance up at Claymore and laugh.

“What?”

“Nothing,” I say. “Just reminding myself why we didn’t do this during the day.”

I decrypt the computer’s software to allow me to run the firewall program on the USB. It’s a safeguard that will keep me cloaked while I do what I’m about to do.

“What am I looking for again?”

I install the program and wait for the prompt screen. “You’re looking into whatever might be out there on Countess. And see if you can find any news reports from around the time Vixen died.”

The prompt screen loads, and I slip into binary code like it’s my first language. Maybe it is. I’ve always had an easier time talking to computers than to people. I fly through the firewall and lower level encryption of the council’s database, knowing full well that the upper levels are more difficult.

After all, I’m the one who designed them.

“They’re saying Countess has been instigating government protests for the past three months.”

I peek over the computer at him. “Really?”

“Aye.
Mila Novosad,
” he recites. “
Former soldier for the Russian army was pronounced dead today in Moscow. Novosad has been linked to over a dozen displays of civic unrest, culminating in the bombing of a state building this afternoon. It is believed Novosad was a member of the global terror network known only as DMG.
”

He looks to me, and we both pause.

I frown. “DMG? Countess was one of the leading members actively seeking them out. That doesn’t make any sense.”

I implement the backdoor program I wired into the council’s system. “I’m in.”

“Where are you looking?”

“The council’s mission log database.”

“You’re going to look up what she was really doing?”

I nod. “That, and I want to see if they’ve ever approved the use of psychochemical weaponry.”

“I know I’ve never been briefed on any,” he says.

I haven’t, either, but that doesn’t mean one of our teammates isn’t secretly skilled in it. “Plausible deniability,” I remind him.

The files are encrypted, and I work my magic to clear it, but each line of the screen has to be worked on a separately.

“You find anything on Vixen?” I ask.

“No. No reports including her name. They didn’t burn her. Maybe whatever happened to her isn’t connected.”

Possible.
If two strings are the same color, chances are they were once a solid rope, Poppy.

The screen is halfway unlocked, and I began to read Countess’ last mission report. “She was under as a nursemaid.”

“No shit? Who was she watching over?”

Nursemaid is a deeper form of security detail than what Claymore and I do playing bodyguard for the government biggies. When you nursemaid a delegate, it’s to keep a person who is suspected of wanting to from defecting when they travel abroad.

More of the screen unlocks and I read on.
Roman Veltriv.
“Marko’s dad.”

“Marko’s father was planning on defecting? That’s not something he told his son about.”

Before the last bit of the page can load, the part that would usually contain a summary of the mission completion, the screen goes dead.

“Shit.”

“What?”

I eject the USB and yank the DSL cord from the back of the CPU. Claymore doesn’t waste time asking me what’s going on again. He just follows my lead.

Whether it was just a reaction to me triggering the back door, or if the monitoring team realized I had hacked into the system, it won’t take them long to figure out the hacker's location. We don’t bother with the window. The alarm system is off, so we unlock the front door and stroll outside as if we were supposed to be in the building.

Claymore checks his watch. “We’ve got about ten minutes before they deploy a team with a helicopter.”

I know that, but I save my breath pointing it out to him.

We keep a casual pace down the block. It’s a residential area, still in the middle of Englewood. His truck is parked a few blocks up and around the corner.

Not going to make it there before the team shows up.

He throws his arm over my shoulders as we cut through the parking lot of a gas station. I’m scanning the block for the first viable vehicle to take. Anything at the gas station would be noticed too soon, not to mention be caught on camera.

We turn at the corner, and I point to a burgundy Chevy Spectrum.

“That thing looks like it was made the year I lost my virginity,” he says.

“I’m sure it’s newer than that.”

It’s an old school model with keyholes in the doors. He picks the lock for the driver’s side and climbs in, searching the door for a solid minute before he realizes nothing in the thing is electronic. Leaning over, he unlocks my door and gets set hotwiring the starter.

“Did you lose your virginity in 1987?”

He shoots me a flat look. “A
few
years after that.”

The engine comes to life and we pull away from the curb slowly to not draw any unwanted attention. He takes us up the street, crossing by the block we just left. A searchlight illuminates the US flag in front of the library. Two S.W.A.T. officers are standing in the ring of light, aiming guns at the windows.

“Shit,” I say, scooting down in my seat.

“Aye. This is deep six shit, Shade. What do we do?”

What do we do?

The honest answer is I have no clue. I have a bunch of rhetoric that I tell myself in the way of Nikolai’s memory. I have bullshit that I can keep stringing along.

But I have no idea who to trust or what to think anymore.

Claymore stares straight ahead as he drives, waiting for me to come up with the plan. He doesn’t just trust me, he also believes in me. He has that last drop of faith in my ability.

“Go to Grand Central.”

“What’s there?”

“My life.”

Grand Central Station.

I have a thing about trains.

The whistles, gentle rocking back and forth, even the terrifying connection between cars that make me feel like I’m defying death by walking through them are all happy places for me.

I’ve been traveling most of my life, living out of the back of my mother’s Honda hatchback for the first couple years of it. Can’t count the number of planes, cars, or even buses I’ve been on, but I never forget a train ride.

There’s something comforting about knowing it’s on a track. That you can’t get lost on the way to your destination. Some might say that’s limiting, controlling, and just plain boring.

But I don’t care.

I have a thing about trains.

It’s six in the morning when we park and head into the station. Doesn’t matter how many times I enter this place, I’m always taken aback by the sheer impressiveness of its size. It’s the biggest train station in the world, and you feel it the second you step inside.

It’s a Saturday morning. Even so, there are plenty of commuters rushing through the lobby. That’s probably my second favorite thing about trains. Watching families reunite at stations, seeing people interact and guessing about their lives.

I lead the way to the baggage lockers, needing no help finding the one I’m looking for. It’s an old school version, no key required. The combination is welded into my brain. I spin the dial, slamming my fist against the door when it sticks.

Claymore doesn’t bug me for information. Any question he might have is answered when I pull out the well-worn army-green backpack.

My life.

Agents can have covers, legends, and a handful of places in the world where they feel comfortable to rest their heads a few weeks out of the year, but we’re not allowed to have lives. When your job is figuring out how to exploit every habit someone has, you become a little obsessed with having none of your own. We don’t do relationships. We don’t have homes. Most of us have distanced ourselves from what little bit of family we have left.

And each of us has a bag just like this stashed somewhere.

I sling the pack on my right shoulder and close the locker.

“You hungry?” I ask.

“Aye.”

We head down to the lower level concourse and to the only place open at this hour of the day. It’s a bakery with the smell of fresh doughnuts and coffee piping straight from its doors. We grab sustenance and find a place to sit away from the bulk of traffic.

I can’t remember the last time I indulged in a doughnut. This one is chocolate with cream filling. Sometimes I forget how much I like sweet things. I’m always trying to avoid them to stay in shape.

You deserve sweet things in life, Poppy. Don’t deny yourself that.

I demolish my doughnut in record time and lick my fingertips before opening my bag. It’s a pathetic legacy, in all honesty. I have a beat up comic book, ticket stubs from movies and other mementos from dates with Nikolai tucked between the pages, a box of rifle shells, a pair of sunglasses, a few changes of clothes, the desert eagle I took from Hassan with a spare clip full of bullets, and five different cover IDs complete with passports. I don’t hold on to anything else. I have my bank accounts memorized and often just pay cash everywhere I go. Clothes are left behind once I’ve changed out of them.

Although I
will
start packing extra underwear now.

“What are you looking for?”

“Just making sure it’s all here,” I say. One of the shells is loose—the one I used to shoot Pishkar. I tuck it back in the box. “Never should have shot that asshole.”

Claymore is mid-drink, his cup still pressed to his lips when I look up. His eyebrows are raised in surprise.

I glance around. “What?”

“Are you saying you … made a mistake?” I hear the humor in his voice, and I count to ten in my head to keep from punching him. “That you, Penelope Vincent, are capable of an error in judgment?”

“I’m human.”

“Really?” He pokes my arm. “I always thought you were a God.”

I slap his hand away. “Knock it off.”

I lean back in my chair, contemplating our next move.

“So why are doubting… wait, who are we talking about you shooting?”

It says a lot about me that my closest friend needs clarification on which dude I regret killing.

“Pishkar. I should have gone with the original mission.”

“What was the original mission?”

“Cyanide in his champagne.”

“Sounds like the title of a bad mystery novel.”

I laugh. “Yeah, but they made the mistake of having me as back up detail.”

“They tell you why?”

“Nope and it’s—”

“Not our place to ask, just to do,” he finishes. “So, Ace was supposed to poison the fucker and you decided to shoot him instead.”

There’s no judgment or accusation in his voice.

Even so, I feel the need to elaborate. “Hassan had crates full of DMG weaponry.”

That gets me a second eyebrow raise. “Did he now?”

“Yeah.”

“How many?”

“Crates?”

“Guns.”

I close up the backpack, dropping in to the floor by my feet. “I don’t know.”

“You said the crates were full. You didn’t get a good look at how many per crate?”

I’m reminded as to why I stopped eating sweets. The sugary acid eating at my stomach right now is making the sinking feeling worse. “I never looked inside the crates.”

“Bugger that.”

Bugger that.
He rarely says it, but I know it means I fucked up royal.

“You mean you only shot Pishkar because you
thought
the gun you were using was from the DMG?”

“It was. It was identical to the ones used in the rallies the next day.”

He pushes on like I haven’t interrupted. “And you don’t even know that the gun Hassan gave you was from them or from
him
.”

My defenses flare up. I’m cranky and exhausted and getting damn tired of being told I’m a fuck up. “The council already ruled that I made the best move. The guns were deemed DMG by formal investigations from teams in Doha. And fuck you. I’m not a child.”

He still looks disappointed, but his voice is softer when he speaks. “Shade, you know that sounds an awful lot like a setup, aye?”

I bite my bottom lip.
Hard
. The deepest wound I have, the one I won’t even let myself admit exists, tears open again at his words.

Hassan used me.

“I knew he showed me the crates for a reason,” I say. “I just assumed it was bragging. He wanted me to know he knew where the monsters we haven’t been able to track down are.”