Codename: Nightshade (Deadly Seven Strike Force)

by Anderson, S

  He is nothing if not accommodating. I hear the rough, fast opening of his zipper and the distinct tear of a condom wrapper a few seconds before he plunges into me from behind. We moan in unison. Every muscle in my body tightens. My guard is down, my defenses haywire. My emotions are flowing free, and I’m suddenly confused.

  I’m glad I face the other direction. Each time he pulls out and pushes in my heart jerks in my chest. I press my forehead to the cool metal wall and try not to cry too hard.

  I remember that last night with Nikolai. The feel of his body beneath me. The taste of the wine on his lips. To this day I can’t even smell red wine without thinking of the man.

  I told him I loved him that night.

  I never should have let him go.

  Marko quickens his pace, thrusting into me so hard I slide on my heels.

  “I’ve got you Poppy,” he says, wrapping his arm around me and holding me.

  Just like Nikolai did that night. I almost fell, and he caught me.

  A scream is caught in my throat. Stop. No. Not like this. The words are on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow them back. I don’t want to enjoy this. I can’t. I need him to pull it from me. I have to purge it from my system.

  Nikolai is dead. He’s been dead for ten years.

  But he’s still alive in me.

  I groan. It’s a tortured sound full of my tears and hate. I’m so frustrated, so hurt. I can kill everything except this need to have Nikolai back in my arms.

  Marko isn’t fazed by my hysteria. It’s what I do. It’s what I need. I picture the look of abandon he gets on his face when I’m beating him. I imagine that’s in my eyes right now.

  Right here, only here, I let myself feel it. I let myself admit he’s gone, and he’s never coming back.

  And I can’t do a damn thing about it.

  Somehow, in some twisted way, my body builds with pressure. I can’t be getting off on this, can I? I’m sick if I am, aren’t I?

  He rubs my clit with his free hand, pounding into me so hard I have to lean back to keep my forehead from knocking the metal wall.

  “That’s it, Poppy,” he says. “Fall apart for me.”

  Fall apart. I’m a fucking mess of pieces that I’m going to need a gallon of paste to force back together. I’m already apart—split down the middle into the cold-hearted assassin and the broken-hearted little girl.

  He rubs my clit hard, and I scream as orgasm consumes me. My body seizes, and I can’t breathe. For a second, I imagine I’m dead. I believe Nikolai is holding me, and we’re dead… together.

  And everything is perfect.

  Then my lungs contract, and I inhale sharply. I collapse back against Marko’s chest.

  “Fuck, Penelope,” he says, pressing a kiss into my hair. “It’s been too long since I’ve had you all to myself like this for a whole night.”

  We take a few minutes to catch our breaths and readjust our clothes. He tosses his used condom in the toilet, flushing as I splash some water on my face at the sink.

  I sneak out first, waiting at the end of the hall for him to exit.

  “I’ll get us something to drink,” he whispers in my ear, and I nod. He won’t wander so far away that I won’t be able to react if something happens.

  And I need some space.

  This past week has been a deeper, darker Hell than usual. It always is when I’m asked to kill someone. I’m thankful the Russian consulate decided a peace summit was needed, ironically, in response to Pishkar’s death. I needed a night with Marko. He lets me drop all my walls. He lets me remember.

  I scratch my neck, scanning the room. My eyes land on each face for a second. I see that the Minister for Foreign Affairs, and even Minister Kulzkoff are here. I find Marko’s parents easily enough. Marko’s mother is every bit as gorgeous as her son—he clearly inherited his looks from her.

  My eyes keep moving, my brain two seconds behind. Young men are introducing young women to their would-be bosses. There’s a mix of English and Russian words infusing the air. If I hadn’t entered from Park Avenue, I might think myself in Moscow and not New York City.

  I stand out like a sore thumb—tanned skin in the midst of so much pale flesh.

  The sun doesn’t like Russia, Poppy. You were built to blend into warm sand. My people have only ice and snow.

  I see similar features on every face around me. Sharp lines, severe expressions, dark hair and eyes… everyone is undoubtedly Russian. My eyes bounce from the tiara worn by some old lady in lace to a pair of black eyes.

  It’s only a second. I’ve looked away before my brain registers what I saw.

  “Nikolai?”

  When I look back, he’s gone.

  The face was a good twenty feet away from me. I search through the crowd, but I don’t see him again. An uneasy feeling crawls under my skin.

  I’m going crazy.

  It couldn’t have been him.

  He’s dead.

  My imagination is playing tricks on me.

  Beware the Daeva young one…

  I realize it’s been several minutes, and Marko hasn’t returned with drinks. I make my way to the bar.

  “Have you seen Representative Veltriv?” I ask the bartender.

  She points toward the bathrooms, and I thank her. I assume he actually had to pee this time, but it’s been too long since I’ve laid eyes on him.

  And seeing a ghost is putting me on edge.

  I walk into the bathroom, stalling in the doorway.

  Four men I’ve seen with Marko before are huddled around the sinks. Each of them might as well have Idiot 1 through 5 painted on their backs. They’re all young, too wealthy and bored to give a shit about getting any older.

  The man furthest from me is rubbing his teeth with his finger. The three others between him and Marko are washing their faces. Marko is hunched over a small square of glass.

  Snorting lines of coke.

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

  All five men jump at the sound of my voice. Marko rubs his nose, sniffing the last of the drug into his system. I can tell he’s been gone longer than I realized. His pupils are already dilated, and he has a look in his eyes that warns he wants a second round in this room as soon as possible.

  “Thank you so much for visiting Representative Veltriv this evening, gentlemen,” I say. “But he’s on a tight schedule that doesn’t include any further activities with you.”

  The men pack their supplies, giving me 'uncool mom' looks as they exit. Marko leans against the sink, grinning like an idiot.

  “If you wanted me all to yourself tonight, you only had to ask, Poppy.”

  “Don’t call me that when you’re like this,” I say, clutching his chin in my hand to inspect his eyes. “You do realize that someone can slip you bad shit, right? You do get that there is a reason I’m assigned to protect you, don’t you?”

  He shoves my hand away, sniffing when the faintest line of blood drips from his right nostril. “You do get that we just fuck each other, yeah?”

  His words are meant to be harsh, but I have thick skin. “No, we don’t. You do, but I have a job to do. And you willingly killing yourself isn’t going to happen on my shift.”

  He makes a sound that I assume is a laugh. He’s so stoned that nothing I say will bring him down to reality. He’s untouchable. I hate him like this. “You take your job too seriously. You have it easy. Stand guard and carry a gun and no one cares.”

  He’s rambling, and it’s grating my nerves. I remind myself he thinks I’m just a security guard for the government. He thinks I’m a step down from Secret Service. He doesn’t know my codename is Nightshade.

  He doesn’t know I kill people for a living.

  I know how easy it would be for someone to slip in and end his life.

  “No one is going to kill me, Penelope. I’m not worth the bullet.”

  I wish I could agree with him. His father is more the political target, but the best way to get someo
ne to do what you want is to use the ones they love against them.

  Nikolai taught me that.

  “That doesn’t matter. I’m supposed to keep you alive.”

  “Alive,” he shouts, waving his hands around like a lunatic. “That’s the point. I live. I have a life that you’re not a part of. This shit,” he says waving toward the sinks, “is nothing. I’ve been using since I was sixteen. You know that. You’ve seen me do it before. Why are being such a bitch about it tonight?”

  I honestly don’t know. His addictions aren’t a secret to me—or to anyone else in the world, really. Maybe that’s why. I’ve seen him snort and smoke just about everything he can get his hands on, true, but he’s always done it in the privacy of his hotel room and with just me in attendance.

  He’s never been this openly reckless before on my watch.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, even though I’m not. Part of me hopes someday he shoves shit up his nose that someone poisoned. It would certainly prove my point. “I’m just on edge and… I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

  His lips vibrate as he exhales. His shoulders are slack, and his eyes are glassy as he steps toward me. He takes my hand, pushing the end of his sleeve up to reveal the purple bruise settling into his skin. “I like getting hurt,” he whispers in my ear.

  Warmth spreads along the base of my spine.

  That settles it.

  I’m sick.

  “You know what would be awesome?”

  We’re in Marko’s limo, heading back to his hotel. The party ended an hour ago, but Marko convinced the band to keep playing so he and I could dance privately for a while.

  There’s seriously nothing the man can’t get if he wants it bad enough.

  “What would be awesome?” I ask, slurping from my twenty ounce soda. He made his driver find the closest Burger King and order us burgers and fries for dinner.

  We sit on the floor of the limo, the food spread out between us like a picnic.

  He chows down on his second Whopper while I dip some fries in buffalo sauce. “If they remade King Kong.”

  I choke on my fries. He slaps my back, laughing at me more than helping.

  “They remade it a few years ago, remember? That horrible version that the guy who made Lord of the Rings directed.”

  He steals my buffalo sauce and gives me a look. “How does a woman like you have time to keep up with movies?”

  I shrug. “I spend a lot of time in hotel rooms. I can charge my rentals to work.”

  “And you waste time watching that garbage and not porn?”

  I throw two fries at his face.

  He picks them up and eats them before polishing off the rest of his burger.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” I say. “Why would remaking a movie that’s already been remade be awesome?”

  He steals my soda and gulps some down before answering. “Because we just passed the Empire State building, and my brain works like that sometimes.”

  He shoots me a mischievous grin, and I know he’s working his way up to a second beating once we get back to the room.

  The man’s insatiable.

  At some point in the night, I gave up the uneasy feeling and just let him lead me around. I also stole his jacket… might have let him get me drunk… might have also let him finger me behind curtain of the DJ’s stage… but my record says I’m exemplary in the field still so I don’t care.

  My shoes were lost somewhere between the last dance and the limo. I shove the sleeves of his expensive Armani coat above my elbows and offer him the last half of my burger. He takes it, greedily.

  “I think you were a wolf in your past life,” I tease.

  “You believe in past lives?”

  “Not really. I believe the past stays in the past unless we force it to become our future.”

  He’s mid-drink and draws the cup away from his face to stare at me like I’ve just switched over into speaking Japanese. “I’m too high to understand that, but I think it’s deep. Write it down and tell it to me tomorrow.”

  I laugh. I don’t have to write it down. Nikolai used to say it every day during my combat training. He conditioned each of us to release who we were before we joined The Deadly Seven. He told us if we fucked up because of our past then we had no one to blame but ourselves.

  I swallow, and the food travels slowly down my dry throat. I’ve thought a lot about Nikolai tonight. It has to be my nerves. They’re raw and frayed after the events of the past week.

  Your past is in the past unless you force it to become your future.

  Marko finishes off what’s left of the food, and I crawl into the side seat. “Did you say you saw the Empire State building?”

  “Yeah.” He sucks sauce noisily from his fingers. “Why?”

  It’s a clear autumn night. I can see the faint twinkle of stars high above as we head away from dense collection of buildings.

  We’re going the wrong way.

  “Is that the same driver from earlier?” I ask softly, keeping my eyes fixed out the window.

  The limo is moving at a standard pace. I wouldn’t have caught on that anything was wrong if he hadn’t mentioned the Empire State building. It wasn’t on the route to the party. I know we took a detour to get food, but we’ve headed back downtown instead of moving toward our destination. Marko’s driver went over the route with me before leaving the hotel. He told me if I felt a threat was eminent that he could alter the directions easily, but otherwise he would take the path we discussed. Those of us in the protection business are meticulous with our routine. We find the most efficient, safest path, and we stick to it.

  I never expressed a threat.

  Marko’s fingers slip under the strap on my shoulder. “No, Mickey got off at midnight. This is the new guy.”

  The new guy.

  The words don’t sit well with me. New means variables I haven’t been allowed time to consider. I silently berate myself. I let my guard down. I let myself ignore my responsibilities. I hindered my reflexes and responses with alcohol and a liberal dose of Marko.

  Not good.

  I keep repeating to myself that Marko’s nobody, really. He’s rich, sure, but the amount of effort kidnapping him would take, the planning and capital to get the upper hand on government security details, wouldn’t be worth it. Kidnap a local politician’s kid. It’s much more cost effective.

  Unless it’s one of his father’s opponents.

  Scenarios are playing out in my mind as I memorize the streets we’re driving down. Mickey got off at midnight. We were supposed to leave the party at eleven. Instead we strolled out the doors at two a.m.

  Sloppy work, sloppy results, Poppy. Fine when you’re sweeping a floor. Less okay when you’re washing dishes for a family dinner. Death when you’re dealing with protecting someone’s life.

  The new guy.

  “What did he look like?”

  Marko shoves the strap aside, pressing his lips into the curve of my shoulder. “He looks like a man who drives cars for a living.”

  Idiot. This man doesn’t make eye contact with his servants, let alone commit their facial features to memory. That damn clown from It could be driving the car, and Marko wouldn’t bat an eyelash.

  I’m not carrying a gun. I wouldn’t have been able to get past security at the party, and I figured if a threat did present itself, I could eradicate it with my hands and whatever is around me.

  I assess the inventory inside the limo, looking for a weapon in case this goes bad. I no longer have my shoes. I’ll be able to run faster, but the heels would have been excellent for stabbing. I have a half empty champagne bottle, two glasses, and a cigarette lighter at my disposal.

  Oh, and thanks to Marko wanting an order of chili fries, I have a spork. I don’t want to calculate the amount of force I’d have to use to break skin with one of those.

  “Do me a favor,” I say, keeping my voice so low that only Marko can hear me. He’s slowly moved his lips up my neck and
teases my ear with his teeth. He hums in response. I’m not affected by his touch at all, too attuned to what might be going down around us. “If I tell you to run, you run.”

  He’s not taking me seriously. I can feel it in the way he folds himself around me.

  The car takes a sharp right, and I see the George Washington Bridge in the distance.

  He’s taking us out of the city.

  “This isn’t the way to the hotel,” I announce loudly.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I watch the driver. He isn’t fazed by my declaration.

  “Excuse me,” I say, shoving out of Marko’s arms and moving closer to the small window that separates the two cabins. “We wanted to go back to the hotel.”

  I get a glimpse of him, only for a second. He’s middle-aged, with graying brown hair that sticks out from under his driver’s cap. He has pale white skin that looks almost yellow in the glow of the streetlights streaming in through the windshield. He’s not wearing the typical uniform that I see Marko’s drivers in. He has on black slacks and a black turtleneck sweater.

  Not good.

  He catches me observing him and punches a button on the dash. A dark paned window slides up automatically to separate us from him.

  “What’s wrong?” Marko asks. His eyelids are drooping, his reflexes slowing all the more as exhaustion joins the many emotional states he’s forced his body into tonight.

  I would prefer him alert and ready to follow my every command to keep him alive, but the universe figures I love a challenge.

  “I’ve got a bad feeling,” I say, grabbing the bottle and dumping out the remaining liquor—much to Marko's displeasure. I decide to keep the bottle intact. I can deliver a hard blow with it. The flutes I hit against the side of the metal ice bucket until both are jagged, sharp implements on the ends of their glass stems, perfect for stabbing.

  “You’re kind of freaking me out,” Marko says. “And uh… turning me on at the same time.”

  I shoot him a look. “You’d be turned on by the Devil preparing the spit he’s about to roast you on.”

  He laughs. “I most certainly would if he had a rack like yours.”

  I contemplate jumping. Marko’s athletic. He’ll get banged up, but he’ll survive. The car is only going maybe twenty-five miles per hour right now. We’ll roll a few times, but the momentum won’t hurt us much.