by Anderson, S
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.
“So,” he says, scratching his neck. He’s relaxed, legs kicked out in front of him as he reclines on his hands. I wish I could ease my muscles like him, but he puts me on edge by just sitting here talking. I’d much rather he pull out some weapons for training or punch me.
I wonder if there’s something wrong with my brain.
“So,” I echo.
“Eighteen.”
“Mhmm.”
“Got any big plans to celebrate today?”
“I’m going to call my mother,” I say. “She’ll sing to me. That’s about it.”
He lets out a low whistle before he laughs. It’s that sincere bullshit laugh again. My skin tingles. “I wonder about you, Penelope.”
Penelope. Twice in the span of five minutes he’s called me that. I’ve spent the last year of my life forgetting who Penelope even is. He stripped me down and replaced Penelope with Recruit. Why is he forcing her back out now?
I want to ask him what he wonders, but it feels too forward to ask. He might be letting his walls down, but mine are fully intact. He’s my commanding officer. I don’t have a right to question him.
“I wonder if it’s you and not I who grew up in Siberia.”
I don’t know what that means. I forget myself and ask, “What do you mean?”
His smile makes my insides catch on fire. “I mean it’s cold where I’m from, but I don’t think it’s half as frigid as you.”
I don’t know if he’s serious or teasing me, and I’m still confused by what he means.
“Don’t you have friends you want to go hang out with?”
Friends? Hang out? I’ve been living on base for the past eleven months. My only associations have been with either him or my fellow recruits. I don’t receive any visitors, and on the very rare occasion that we have days off, I spend it here, in this room with him, training.
“I’m hanging out with you, sir.”
I don’t mean it to be funny, but he laughs. “Are we friends then, Penelope?”
I ignore the insinuation and forget myself again, curious when I hear my name on his lips a third time. “Why do you keep doing that?”
“Doing what?”
“Calling me Penelope.”
“It’s your name, isn’t it?”
It is. My mother named me. Hassan wanted to call me some convoluted metaphorical bullshit name, but my mother liked the name Penelope. She didn’t have a reason. I wasn’t named after a classic work of literature or even a distant relative. She just liked the sound of it.
“Yes, but you don’t call me by it.”
He shrugs. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen him shrug before. It’s an odd casual action on his normally controlled body. “Maybe I’d like to change that.”
My head fills with the thump of my heart as it speeds up. “Okay.”
We sit there for few minutes in silence. He’s staring off into the shadows, and I’m highly aware of the warmth his body puts off.
I flex my fingers.
“Why do I get the feeling if I threw a punch at you right now you’d lighten up a little?”
My eyes widen as I stare at him. “Because I probably would, sir.”
He mumbles something under his breath as he climbs to his feet. “Well, get up then.”
I leap up and walk to the bench on the other side of the mat to set my gift down. I probably seem ungrateful about them, but I’ll cherish the shells forever. I’m not used to getting presents from anyone but my mother, and it’s still strange to think of General Zolkov in a friendly capacity at all.
I vowed to hate the man for the rest of my life.
Turning eighteen is every bit as confusing as Saved by the Bell warned me it would be.
“Okay, Recruit Vincent,” he says. “Pick your poison.”
Pick your poison. He’s always telling me that. “Batons,” I say, stretching my arms.
I turn around and freeze. He’s taken off his fatigue top, displaying a black tank that hugs his upper body. I’ve always known he was buff, but I can actually see the ripples of his muscles under the shirt, the cut of his biceps as he flexes his arms. The collar of his shirt is cut low, and I catch a faint glimpse of red on his skin.
A tattoo?
“Alright,” he says, tossing me a pair of short black sticks. “Birthday girl goes first.”
I roll my wrists, getting a feel for the weight of the batons.
He twirls one of his in the air, giving me a cocky smirk.
I can already feel myself relaxing. On the mat as Penelope, I’m awkward and unsure, but sparring with him as Recruit Vincent, I’m confident… his equal.
He gives me first swing, and I take full advantage of it. I’ve yet to find a true weakness on his body. The man moves like a panther and is as hard as granite, but I know any warrior is only as good as his foundation.
He taught me that.
I spin kick while crouching low and land a hard blow to his right leg. He’s unfazed, smacking his baton into my side with enough force to knock the wind out of my lungs.
“You really prefer this?” he asks, leaping away when I swing my right arm up.
I clip his elbow, and he hisses but retaliates instantly with a jab to my shoulder.
Damn, that stings.
“My mind is clearer when I fight, sir,” I say, paying little attention to the conversation.
We spar round and round, each landing hard blows and retreating as the other reacts. We’re pretty evenly matched, and I wonder if he’s going easy on me just because it’s my birthday.
I’m instantly pissed at the thought that he might be. I don’t need anyone to throw a game for me. I can win shit on my own merit.
He catches me from behind, pinning both of my hands between his. With one sharp push, he sends my batons flying from my grip. I try to struggle away, but he’s got me locked within his embrace. I manage to maneuver around to face him, and then something happens, something I don’t anticipate.
I look up and see how excited he looks. He’s like a kid at Christmas, happy and grinning from ear to ear. Something happens to me then. It starts at the base of my spine, swirling in my stomach, and making my heart beat harder. I’m highly aware of every inch of my body. I’m sweating and out of breath. I can’t possibly look all that great.
So why’s he staring at me like nothing else in the room is worth looking at right now?
“Okay, you win,” he s
ays. “That was fun.”
Fun. My stomach feels ten times tinglier.
His arms are still around me, but I know if I make a move, he’ll let me step away. I forget how to move, though. He’s hypnotizing me with his stare.
I can feel his heartbeat under my hand where it’s still pressed to his chest. It’s steady and calm, nothing like the wild beast locked in my ribcage.
I feel his hand press to my abdomen, under my left breast. “Get this under control, Penelope.”
“Yes, sir,” I whisper. His use of my name only makes my heart beat faster, though.
It’s so wild that I taste a sour flavor in my mouth. My head feels fuzzy, and I’m overcome with a false sense of confidence.
My fingers crawl to the edge of his collar, and I keep my eyes fixed on his, daring him to stop me. He doesn’t. I tug the shirt down, revealing an orangey red flower. It’s not girly or anything, but it’s not what I expected, either.
“It’s a poppy,” he says. He doesn’t move, keeping his hands on my lower back. He doesn’t look upset or nervous to have me peeking into his privacy like this.
“What’s it for?”
His eyebrows rise, and he lets out a low whistle. “Loaded question.”
I let go of his shirt, remembering myself. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—”
He grabs my hand and guides it back to his chest. His shirt is back in place, but I can almost feel the flower through the fabric. “Poppies mean many things. They have poisonous properties and in small enough doses can put people to sleep—”
“Like in The Wizard of Oz?”
His smile makes me feel like a stupid kid. “Do you like movies?”
I shrug. “I don’t watch too many.” My mother had a thing about watching The Wizard of Oz every year when it was on TV.
His lips do this pout thing that makes me glad he’s helping hold me up. “Hmm, too bad. I love watching movies.”
That doesn’t seem to fit the hardass general I’ve come to know. I tell him so with my disbelieving look.
He’s amused. “It’s a good way to learn a language. When I first came to this country, I watched movies all the time. And then after a while I… just grew to enjoy them.”
That makes sense. “Maybe you can take me to a movie some time.”
I slap my hand over my mouth, and he grins so wide I can see almost every tooth in his mouth. “Did you just tell me to take you on a date?”
It’s stupid, so stupid. I don’t do dates. I don’t care about going out with boys.
Boys. He’s not a boy. He’s my CO. He’s twenty-three. He doesn’t have anything in common with me. He’s an adult, and I’m just a dumb kid. He can’t possibly care to waste his time taking me to the movies.
So why’s he staring at me like that? Why does he look like he’s a boy around my age and not some grown up man in line for Social Security? Why are his eyes all of a sudden drawn to my lips?
“I’d like that,” he says, and for a heart-stopping moment, I think he’s referring to my lips. “I’d like to… hang out again.”
I’m feeling let down by Zack Morris. He never prepared me for this.
“I’d like it, too,” I say. My cheeks feel hot. My hands are sweaty.
His arms tighten ever so slightly around me. I lean up just as he moves down.
Our lips are a breath apart.
“Ayroo!”
The door to the training room flies open and Recruits MacNeal and Faher enter, shouting like idiots.
General Zolkov and I jump away from each other. I hope neither of them notices, but I see a strange look come over Faher’s face when he gets closer.
They straighten up when they see the general standing there.
“At ease, gentlemen,” General Zolkov says, the playfulness from a moment ago gone. He’s back in hardass mode again.
I don’t know why that thrills me, but it does. Knowing he can move so easily between the two sides of himself.
“What are you guys doing here?” I ask the boys.
“Well, we heard through the grapevine that it’s a certain someone’s birthday,” Faher says.
“Aye,” MacNeal chimes in. “And we were going to break her out and take her on a pub crawl.”
General Zolkov clears his throat. “She’s only eighteen, gentlemen.”
“Oh, aye, she is,” MacNeal says, nodding toward me. “But we were looking for a twenty-one-year-old going by the name of…” He pulls out an ID from his pocket. “Mildred Smith.”
General Zolkov holds out his hand, not saying a word. MacNeal sighs and drops the card into it.
“Thank you for volunteering to scrub the mess hall floors tonight, recruits,” General Zolkov says. “Report to Sergeant O’Neil’s barracks A-SAP for your supplies and instructions.” They both begin to complain, and he shouts, “Move.”
“Sir, yes, sir,” they both shout, jogging from the room as quickly as they appeared.
MacNeal stops at the door and shouts, “Happy birthday, Millie!” before disappearing.
And somehow, I know he just did all that to give me more time with General Zolkov.
Nosey bastard.
“Unbelievable,” he mutters when we’re alone again.
“I thought you wanted me to hang out with my friends, sir.”
“Allow me then to express a greater desire for you having better friends.”
I smile. It’s a small, private smile, genuine, and he notices it before I can clear it from my face.
He’s grinning all goofy again. “So, about that date?”
“I don’t think we’re allowed to date, sir.”
“True,” he says with a stern frown. He twirls the ID in his hand. “I could go out with Mildred, though.” He looks at the card. “She’s blonde and has blue eyes? Those two are going to have to brush up on their details training.”
I laugh.
He stares at me. Hard.
My cheeks are hot all over again. “Recruit Faher and Recruit MacNeal are highly detail oriented, sir. I think they just know fake IDs don’t get studied much.”
“True,” he agrees with me again, tucking the ID in his pocket. “Still, I could take Mildred out on a date.”
I blink a few times. “I wouldn’t be caught dead being called Mildred, sir.”
His lips pinch as he ponders that. His whole face is sharp angles and hard lines. “How bout Poppy?”
“Your tattoo, sir?” I’m confused.
“No,” he says with a decided shake of his head. “I mean your… cover. How bout I take Poppy out on a date?”
My mouth hangs open for a second. He’s not letting this go. “Why?”
“Because I’d like to get to know her.”
“She’s not all that complex, sir.”
He steps to me, looming over me like some massive beast. I’m not afraid, though. His eyes are gentle. “Well I beg to differ, Poppy.”
His accent thickens around the name.
I don’t know why, but I turn to a puddle of goo when he says it. I feel like it’s me embedded in his skin in that curious tattoo. I like that.
“Do I get to give you a name?” I ask.
“Sure. Knock yourself out.”
I’ve never been accused of being clever. I’m smart, but not clever. So I’m not surprised by the lackluster cover name I come up with. “Nick.”
“Nick?” he echoes, his eyebrows raised.
I nod.
“Well, it’ll be a stretch of my imagination, but I think I can pull it off.”
I press my hands to my cheeks. I feel like I’m on fire from the inside out.
He takes one of my hands in his and shakes it. “Hi, I’m Nick.”
I roll my eyes, but I can’t keep my lips from smiling. “Nice to meet you. I’m Poppy.”
“Poppy,” he says, his face lighting up. “That’s a peculiar name. What does it stand for?”
“Apparently a poisonous flower.”
He’s lost in his amusement, and I join
him in it.
“Jeffries.”
I’m pulled from my memory by the sound of the driver’s voice. “What?”
“My name,” he says. “I’m Agent Jeffries. This is my partner, Agent Munroe.”
“Nice to meet you.”
They take me to a seemingly random neighborhood somewhere in the middle of Englewood, to a cottage style house tucked in between blocks of identical looking houses.
“Welcome to your temporary home,” Agent Munroe says.
I wait for Agent Jeffries to open my door since I can’t unlock it myself. We don’t waste any time on the street due to the need for discretion.
“Alright,” Agent Jeffries says, tossing two duffels on the couch.
The house is well stocked with lived-in furniture. I can see a kitchen and a dining room and a hall that lead to at least one bedroom.
Comfy.
“We’ll be staying with you in shifts. I’ll take first watch while Munroe grabs some groceries, and then we’ll switch off every eight hours.”
My mind is already weary from the thought of that. I’m not waiting to bear witness or turn state’s evidence with a set date for release. I’m in hiding for an indefinite amount of time.
I’m going to go crazy in the first fifteen minutes.
“I’m going to bed,” I announce before they run down their list of rules. It’s SOP, I get it. They are in charge. I don’t leave the house. I don’t contact anyone. I put my absolute trust in the two men who let me fall out of the back of their SUV while it was in motion, because they are trained professional who will keep me safe.
Don’t get cranky, Poppy. Cranky leads to sloppy.
“Sloppy Poppy,” I say, shoving open the door at the end of the hall.
I luck out on the first try. Master bedroom. At least, I’m assuming that’s what it is. There’s a single plain wood dresser and a lone nightstand. The bed looks like a decent king size. I sit down and flop about as the damn thing waves under me.
A waterbed. Great.
When did they set up this safe house? 1975?
I don’t bother undressing, leaving even my boots on. It’s part of my standard operating procedure. When you’re on the run, you keep yourself ready at all times. I’m still without a weapon.
That’s problematic.
I inventory the room. Nothing in the dresser. Bible is stashed in the nightstand drawer. I unplug the lamp on the nightstand and unscrew the bulb. I toss the lamp in bed next to me. I can hit someone over the head with it if need be.