Codename: Nightshade (Deadly Seven Strike Force) (17 page)

I blink my eyes a few times, trying to gain some focus.

I feel the air shift as warmth nears me. My hand closes around the neck of the lamp.

Something touches my arm, and I react. I swing the lamp, connecting with something solid. The visitor tips forward, and I land a hard kick to their side.

“Bloody hell, Shade!”

That stops me. “Claymore?”

I give him a shove, and he slides over onto the bed. I feel along the wall until I find the light switch. The pitch-black room is illuminated with bright light that makes both of us cringe.

Claymore lies on his back at the edge of the bed. He’s dressed in black slacks, black boots and a black t-shirt. He’s got black gloves on his hands.

“Have you taken up a life of breaking and entering since I last saw you?”

He rubs his head with a groan. “Aye, I’m here to steal your ass.”

Questions are on the tip of my tongue, but he puts his finger to his lips, motioning for us to leave. I trust him. I keep telling myself he’s never given me a reason to not trust him.

I lead us down the hall, stopping when I see both agents passed out on the living room floor. I squat down, pulling a tranquilizer dart from Agent Munroe’s neck.

“You found the safe house and tranq-darted both agents?”

He snorts. “What? Like it was hard?”

He has a good point. Nothing is easier to track than CIA operatives. They’re all about procedures and paperwork, hiding in plain sight. If you want something deep-sixed take it to… well, the mafia. They’re actually the most effective at hiding shit. But second to them would be us.

Again, I have a billion questions for him, but he points to the back door that’s through the kitchen, so I know now isn't the time for it. I follow him. I’m restless here, and I need to get to the bottom of what’s going on.

I can always overpower him if this turns out to be a mistake.

Stay on your toes, Poppy. Flat feet can be tracked.

He leads me through a small backyard to a wooden fence. “You need help?” he asks, reaching out with his hands linked together.

I answer his question by jumping and catching the edge of the fence. Any other day, no problem. I’d yank my ass up and flip over the top like it was a toddler step. My arms are weak. I can’t recall the last time I ate something. I haven’t gotten more than a few hours of less-than-restful sleep in the past week, and I got my ass kicked so hard last night that I’m pretty sure he broke my actual ass.

I try. A few times I get as far as bending my arms. But mostly I just hang there pathetically.

“Wow,” he says, leaning his hand against the fence beside me. “You’re shit at this.”

“Bite me. I’ve kind of been through the ringer, you know?”

“Aye.” He gets his shoulder under my legs and helps me over. He flips over effortlessly on his own a second later.

A busted Chevy truck sits idling a few feet down the alley we find ourselves in.

“You left it running?” I ask as I climb into the passenger side.

He shrugs. “It’s not like it was going to take that long. Would have been out sooner if your pansy ass could jump.”

I slap his arm. “Talk. I need some information that only you can provide.”

“I love it when you talk technicalities.” He takes mostly back roads and alleyways, moving as if he has the entire town memorized. His eyes are always scanning, the mirrors and out the windows. He’s worried we’ll be followed.

“Talk.”

He sighs. “Well, as you can tell, I didn’t take Justice’s advice and leave the country.”

I nod. “Why is that?”

“It didn’t add up.”

I remember him saying that few times in the hospital. “What’s not adding up?”

“First of all, did you notice anything weird about pretty boy?”

I think back to the few moments Ace and I hung out in the hospital room. Nothing felt weird to me. He was missing his glasses, but that’s not what Claymore’s looking for. “No.”

“No?” He shoots me a look of shock. “Really?”

“Help me out, MacNeal. I’ve been mostly unconscious for the past four days.”

“Aye, well, I figured the girl who nicked his cheek with a bullet would’ve noticed that he wasn’t injured.”

Ace’s face is in my memory again. I remember thinking his face was perfect, nothing wrong or out of place. “They lied about me injuring him? Why?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “I figured it was true with how everyone was going on around HQ.”

“Then what the fuck?”

“I don’t know, but that’s really at the bottom of my list. First off, why was he in New York? There was no reason for him to be in New York.”

“There was technically no reason for
you
to be in New York either,” I point out. “As you told me the other day, we can all have lives.”

He snorts. “I was being facetious and you know it.” I do. “That’s not the only thing, Shade. It rubbed me wrong. The whole damn attack. Marko Veltriv is nobody in the grand scheme of anything. No one would waste a bullet on him, and damn sure no one will expend the man power it would take to do what was done.” He stops at a red light and stares at me till I look back at him. “Not on
him
.”

“Your point is flying over my head.”

“Aye.”

He reaches into his pocket and hands me a phone, then points to the glove box. A sweet Glock is stashed between road maps and packets of facial tissues. I look to him.

“It’s for you. Check it out.”

I check the clip. Loaded. I lock it in place and lay the gun in my lap, turning my attention to the phone.

“Dial the access number and listen to the message saved under mailbox 515.”

I follow his instructions, keeping an eye on the route he’s taking while I listen to the prompts on the phone. 515 is his personal mailbox. Why am I listening to one of his personal saved messages?

“This is Countess. Am under attack. Assignment cover is compromised. Repeat Countess. Assignment compromised, under attack.
Prizrak
. It is
prizrak
.”

Prizrak
. Ghost.

The line goes dead, and I stare at the screen until the phone hangs up on its own.

“What do you think it means?” he asks.

“Ghost.”

“Aye, I know what the word means in Russian. What do you think compromised her?”

“I honestly have no clue.” It’s not a code word we’ve ever used. I rest my head back on the seat, staring out the windshield. The streetlights are casting a blue glow that’s mingling with the rays of daybreak. “What was her mission?”

“Dunno. If we’re not assigned to it—”

“We aren’t briefed on the details.”

“Aye.”

“Why do you have this saved on your personal messages?”

“I do that automatically when a distress comes in,” he explains. “No one else reported in. No one offered to go help her. I checked back ten minutes later, and it had been cleared from the call log almost immediately.”

“Then someone else
did
report in.”

He shakes his head. “No, they didn’t. No one else has made note that she even called in a distress.”

I feel like I’m about to throw up. I don’t know what any of that can possibly mean.

“There’s something else,” I say. “Something that happened after you left… well,
two
somethings.”

He motions for me to continue.

“First, Marko disappeared.”

He nods once, keeping his eyes trained on the road.

That’s weird. He’s been so fixated on Marko’s situation, pushing me to tell him what went down with the accident and how none of it added up. I expected him to be a little disturbed at least that the man went
poof
.

“Second,” I say with reluctance, “I was attacked by the same guy who drove us off the road.”

That gets a curious side-glance. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you get a good look at him? Anything identifiable?”

He looked exactly like Nikolai.
I can’t bring myself to say it out loud. The more time that passes, the more I know I’m just going insane.

“Hard to say. It happened fast, and then Countess—”

“She was still there?”

I nod. “She shot him, but he got away. Then she booked it to a mission.”

“Aye, my suspicion was right then.”

“Suspicion?”

He doesn’t elaborate, too focused on his route now. We’ve crossed back over into Manhattan, and I note that he’s using a technique Nikolai taught us with circling and doubling back to hide our tracks.

Eventually, we end up in a quiet looking section of SoHo. He pulls into an underground garage and enters an access code.

“This isn’t a hotel,” I say.

“Aye.”

He drives to a marked stall as if he’s done it a thousand times.

“Do you have an apartment here?” I guess as we climb out of the truck.

He doesn’t respond, leading me to an elevator a few feet from where he parked. He selects floor fifteen and turns to me. I’ve never seen a more serious look on his face. “Shade, I’m about to let you in on something no one else knows.”

His knife is out spinning in his grip. The handles flip open and closed.

“You know I’m good with secrets,” I say.

“Aye.”

His focus is detached, his mind absent as he stares at the closed doors. I watch his knife, the way his hand won’t let it go, and the controlled flex of his wrist. He’s nervous.

“You know there’s nothing you can’t tell me, right?”

“You say that now.”

The elevator stops and the doors slide open with a hiss. I’d be lying if I said I’m not the least bit afraid as I follow him. We enter an industrial loft set up the second we’re off the elevator. It’s a huge, open space surrounded on three sides by windows. He secures a gate in front of the elevator, locking it in place with an Everlast.

My muscles twitch at the sight. I don’t like having my only clear exit locked.

We make eye contact, and he tosses me a ring of keys. “The smallest one unlocks the damn thing.”

I’m holding the gun he gave me downstairs and the keys awkwardly, wishing like hell the CIA believed in providing clothes with pockets.

He’s still flipping his knife. He shifts his feet, scanning his eyes around anxiously. So I do the same. The place isn’t as cold and empty as most industrials feel. Rugs of all shapes, sizes, and colors cover the concrete floor. He’s splashed paint on the walls under the windows and along the few columns spread throughout the room—a dark amber color that makes the place feel warm. He’s sectioned off pieces to be 'rooms', though there are no walls between them. I see his kitchen in the far corner, and we’re standing in the living room. He’s mounted a 52-inch plasma on the wall.

I give him a look, and he shrugs. “I like my toys.”

I don’t see anything for him to be worried about. He’s got a life, a home. That’s nothing to be ashamed of. It is a vulnerability that Nikolai warned us to not take on lightly. If you have a base then you have a routine. If you have a routine, you can be followed, watched, and eliminated.

He’s offering me a hell of a lot of trust by showing me this space.

I turn to ask what gives when I catch sight of the 'bedroom' area of the loft. His bed is huge, possibly bigger than a king size. That’s not what grabs my attention, though.

Holy shit.

“Marko?” I say, running to bed.

He’s unconscious, uncovered from the chest up, and his skin is cold and clammy to the touch, but it’s him.

I’m relieved in some way I don’t understand. I haven’t let myself really worry that he was gone. Disassociation is something I picked up after I lost Nikolai. I didn’t let myself really feel anything for Marko’s condition or his disappearance.

I couldn’t.

But somewhere in me, I did feel it, and that place eases now as I look at his beautiful face.

“Gave me scare, punk,” I whisper, kissing his cheek. “Don’t do that again.”

I look to Claymore, and he’s still standing in the living room, flipping his knife. If it weren’t for the hand moving his blade round and round, I’d think he’d turned to stone. “How did he get
here
?”

Then I get it. He’s the one who took him from the hospital.

“Why did you kidnap him?” I ask, checking Marko's vitals. His pulse is thready, his breathing weak, but he’s alive.  “You know he was shot a few nights ago, right? You could have killed him!”

A big bandage covers his right shoulder and part of his arm. Blood’s soaked through the gauze. He’s got another gash in his abdomen. Its bandage is gone, revealing the stitches. I remember the glass, remember when he was cut.

“He needs a doctor,” I say.

Claymore remains frozen with his twirling knife.

“MacNeal,” I shout. “What the hell are you doing with him? He could die!”

“He won’t,” Claymore finally says. He flips the knife out, tucking it back into the handles and returning it to his pocket. He doesn’t move any closer, crossing his arms over his chest defensively. “It was a bitch of a run getting him out, but he was okay, awake.”

“Well, he’s knocked out and barely hanging in now.”

Claymore shakes his head. “No, he’s fine. I’ve checked him. He just got overworked from the running.”

Running?
Marko ran somewhere?

“When did you get an MD?” I ask.

“I have basic field medical training,” he says, glaring at me.

I laugh. “The same basic field medical training I have, and I can’t work band aid properly most days.”

“He’s fine.”

“You need to get some help—”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Someone is already on the way to retrieve him.”

Marko moves his head so he’s facing me. His eyes are closed. I know he’s not aware of anything going on.

“Who’s coming to get him?”

“His mum.”

I’m confused as hell, not even sure where to begin. I go back to the standby I refuse to drop. “Why did you take him?”

“It didn’t add up,” he repeats. “I was confused as to why you were attacked and then double confused that Ace was in town.”

“Are we catching a rerun or can we skip to the end of this conversation we just had?”