Codename: Nightshade (Deadly Seven Strike Force) (5 page)

I’m blushing because I don’t like being caught off guard.

“I do have to say I’m rather impressed, though,” he says, further digging his own grave when we exit the bathroom. I don’t acknowledge his taunt, but he’s undeterred. “I’m shocked you pee sitting down.”

That’s twice now in the past twelve hours that these men have told me they figure I’m carrying a dick. I take it as the compliment it’s meant to be.

He escorts me to the main office. I let him talk to the man with a clipboard who will work up the report for the council meeting. My attention is drawn to the television mounted on the wall as CNN plays. It’s hard to believe I’m looking at the same city I was standing in a few hours ago. Doha has erupted in hysteria. Buildings are on fire and people are running in the streets, ducking for cover from bullets.

Rebel groups have seized the opportunity, taking advantage of Pishkar’s death. I recognize the guns clutched in the hands of the men chasing innocent people into the doorways of the tall buildings that make up downtown.

I held one of those guns recently.

“Do you have anything to add?” the man with the clipboard asks, and Claymore elbows my side when I don’t respond.

I shake my head. “I’m sure he got it all to the letter.”

We sit in a pair of green plastic chairs as we wait for the time to roll around to four o'clock.

“You really think this was better for the people?” Claymore asks. His knife is back out, spinning and flipping in the air between us.

“I think the man deserved what he got. A heart attack was too merciful.”

Claymore snorts. “Look at you being all Hand of God and the like. It’s not our job to deem how they go, just to get them there.”

Spoken like a true soldier. And I agree with him entirely, but I have no doubt that in a little over thirty minutes, the council will be thanking me for my decision.

We sit, and I continue to watch the scene unfolding in Doha. I wonder what that kid on the bus last night is doing today. I hope he’s safe.

“The Commander’s in a right mood today, as you’ve seen.”

I nod. “The man’s name is Justice. He was born in a mood.”

“Aye. I sometimes wonder how he would have handled the Comrade. He wasn’t one for the paperwork, either.”

Comrade
. My heart hurts at the mention of that name, but the clearing of a throat distracts me.

“The council is ready for her,” the man at the counter says.

We walk down a bright white hallway. The buzz of fluorescent lights hums overhead. I’ve walked down halls like this one too many times for me to count. The first time was at the age of seventeen, when a total stranger walked into my life and changed it forever.

Nikolai Zolkov—codename: Comrade.

He recruited me personally, assuring the council that my age and immaturity wouldn’t play any factor in my training. He told them I had the right stuff.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Claymore assessing me. He might question my thought process, but I know he believes what Nikolai believed.

I’m meant for this job.

Claymore’s not invited to the meeting. He stops at the door, waving for me to go. I offer him one last glance before opening the door.

The council is made up of strategic and defense supervisors from seven nations—The United States, Great Britain, Russia, South Africa, France, Israel, and Japan. A UN sanctioned entity that oversees delicate defense operations independent of any other organization in the world. Established fifteen years ago, the group has financed, organized, and executed more direct missions than all of their countries’ militaries combined.

Twelve years ago, they officially assembled an elite team of agents, trained in all levels of covert affairs, including but not limited to assassinations. This team was built of one agent from each nation represented in the council. Seven agents deployed on various missions throughout the world at all times.

Seven agents constantly up for review with the council, because they fear we’re a bunch of miscreant mercenaries with no one to report to.

A German soldier, dressed in causal fatigues, steps to me. He holds a worn copy of a King James Bible. I place my left hand over the book and hold my right in the air.

“State your name and rank,” the soldier says.

“Vincent, Penelope. Agent first class for The Deadly Seven Strike Force.”

“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, so help you God?”

“I do.”

Commander Justice is a tagalong advisor to the Secretary of Defense. He’s seated at a microphone, ready to pounce as soon as I’m sworn in. “Ms. Vincent—”

“Agent,” I say, correcting a mistake he’s made from the moment I met him three years ago. I’ve never bothered pointing it out, but then I’ve never had the opportunity to go toe-to-toe with him in front of the council.

The old man blusters, and I clarify for him. “My name, my title… my
rank
is Agent. You’re
Commander
Justice and I’m
Agent
Vincent. I’ve earned my rank, Commander. Please use it when you address me.”

His jaw flexes. “
Agent
Vincent,” he grounds out, “please inform the council what your instructions for Operation Usurp were.”

Operation Usurp
. Who comes up with these names?

I sit in a chair facing the seven council members. An empty glass sits next to a jug of water in front of me on the table. I don’t pour myself any. I don’t anticipate staying that long.

“I received instructions seventy-five hours ago that I was to fly to Qatar and help Agent Faher, codename: Ace, with the eradication of President Pishkar.”

Commander Justice waves his hand as if I am a well that has suddenly stopped producing oil and he can coax more from me with just his will. “And what were the terms of the eradication?”

“Death by lethal overdose of cyanide to induce what would appear to be a natural heart attack.”

Minister Kulzkoff of Russia sits forward in his seat. His voice is thick with his accent as he asks, “You are aware as to why those were the terms set by the council, are you not, Agent Vincent?

I nod. “Yes sir. It was believed that though Pishkar should not be allowed to take office, no formal threat should be perceived as to avoid upsetting the peace treaty.”

“Exactly,” Commander Justice interjects. “You’ve created a goddamn incident with the need for an adversary.”

“Worse,” Minister Kulzkoff says. “You have made him a martyr. He is a monster and now he has followers who will likely take his place!”

I once again think about the boy on the bus, remembering the sheer terror on the faces of all the students that surrounded me last night. “No one will believe him a martyr.”

It’s a bold statement, and it strikes the room like a sonic boom, reverberating in whispered arguments all around the table.

Commander Justice looks ready to fillet me from head-to-toe.

Minister Kulzkoff continues, “Agent Vincent, this is not the first time you have been under review for rash decisions while on assignment. Your actions not only present further issue now with the situation, but Agent Faher was injured in the shooting.”

Damn
. I was worried he'd been standing too close. “How bad was he hurt?”

I haven’t had a chance to check in with anything. No report of the actual shooting has made it to the national news. I was afraid Ace was hit by the bullet, too, and this confirmation digs at my insides.

“It’s a superficial injury,” the minister says. “But it is evidence that you take too many liberties while in the field. I will not dispute that you always get the job done, but I will go on record as stating that you need to be disciplined for your insubordinate behavior.”

“I second that,” Commander Justice says.

“You’re not on the council, Jim,” Secretary Williams of the U.S. says. He glances up at me through his black-rimmed glasses. Secretary Williams has held his office since a few years before I was recruited. He’s the only member of the council who’s been here from the beginning. He holds up an electronic tablet that he’s been focused on since I walked into the room. “I just received this report from NATO. Local findings from Doha are pointing the finger of this thing to one source.”

He stares at me until every eye in the room turns my way.

“I’m guessing you’re referring to DMG?” I say.

Secretary Williams smiles. He tosses the report as well as his glasses on to the table in front of him, easing back in his chair. Instantly, the tension evaporates from the room. “How did you do that, Agent Vincent?”

“I don’t understand,” Minister Kulzkoff interrupts. “How can DMG be implicated in this? We haven’t had any reports of their movements in months. The last we had indicated they were moving further east.”

“Because I used a rifle supplied by DMG intended for Saudi rebels,” I explain.

“And where did you get
that
?” Commander Justice asks.

“That will be all, Jim,” Secretary Williams says, tapping Justice on the shoulder, dismissing him without waiting on my response.

The old man grudgingly leaves, saluting the council and glaring at me. I catch a glimpse of Claymore in the hallway. He’s twirling his knife but gives me a thumbs-up until the door slams shut again.

Secretary Williams launches into a rapid-fire game of twenty questions after that. “Where was the gun obtained?”

“From Hassan Mohin.”

“Was he made aware of what you would use it for?”

I shake my head. “No, sir.”

“But he knew that you had the gun in your possession?”

I nod. “I obtained it from him yesterday morning.”

Minister Kulzkoff cuts in, asking, “What business did you have with that man yesterday?”

“I knew that he would know I was in the area and would insist I visit. It was best I humor him and not create further complications in the event he tried to locate me during the assassination.”

“Why would he insist on you visiting?” Minister Kulzkoff asks.

Secretary Williams answers for me. “He’s her father.”

I try not to cringe at that truth.

“Will he give anyone this information?” Minister Kulzkoff asks.

I shrug. “I highly doubt it. The secret serves him best if he’s the only one who knows.”

Secretary Williams slips his glasses back on and makes a few notes on his tablet. “I move to strike the disciplinary action suggested by Minister Kulzkoff from Agent Vincent’s record and add a recommendation for an award in exemplary fieldwork.”

“Seconded,” Minister LeFevere, of France says.

“Third,” Minister Himura, of Japan says.

“That’s final,” Secretary Williams announces.

An award in exemplary fieldwork. Five minutes ago I was a disgrace who broke protocol for my own selfish desires. Now I’m being awarded for my quick thinking.

Life’s funny that way.

“If there are no further topics,” Secretary Williams says, glancing around the room. All representatives shake their heads. “I call this meeting adjourned.”

“Agent Vincent,” Secretary Williams says once everyone is dismissed.

I walk over to his side of the table. “Sir?”

He’s speaking to the Minister from South Africa. They shake hands before he turns to me. “You took a big risk with that one.”

“I had anticipated sticking to the original plan until I found the weapons, sir.”

His eyebrows rise. “You mean you set up the entire assassination in less than ten hours?”

“Five to be exact,” I say. “Though I had my escape routes and aliases already in play for either event.”

He takes his glasses off, pinching the bridge of his nose. “There are days I wonder what we’ll do if we ever lose you, Penelope.”

I’m not sensitive to his statement. I deal in death. My job is war. My own mortality is something I came to terms with long ago. “I’ll try to make sure that day never comes, sir.”

“You do that.” He holds his hand out, and pride swells through me as I shake it. I don’t seek the approval of many people in this world, but this man’s means a lot to me. “I think you’ve earned the weekend off, Agent Vincent. Go get some rest.”

“Sir.”

Rest
. There’s no rest for someone like me.

Claymore is waiting in the hall, still twirling his knife. A big cheesy grin is planted on his face. “And there’s the little instigator.”

He pinches my cheek, and I slap his hand away.

“Where are you taking me?” I ask.

“Taking ya?”

“Yeah, you’re buying me a drink,” I inform him as I stop at the front desk. The secretary hands me a secure cell phone.

Claymore throws his arm over my shoulders and walks us to the elevator. “Ah, then we’ll be hitting
der Umkleide
.”

“
der Umkleide
?” I repeat. “Sounds like a disease.”

“It’s a bar around the block. Frequented by boys in uniform.”

“Oh, good, something I haven’t seen in ten minutes.”

“Tell the truth,” Claymore says, slamming his empty pint on the bar. He lets out a deep belch before finishing his thought. “You actually just wanted to shoot Faher, didn’t you?”