Codename: Nightshade (Deadly Seven Strike Force) (2 page)

It’s barely three months later, while I’m sitting at that same restaurant, ignoring another plate of steak, that I get the call.

A strike attack in the dead of night. They didn’t see it coming. No warning, no fight.

Every soul was lost.

My glass of red wine topples over, staining the white tablecloth as I drop my phone. I stare at the empty seat in front of me as a terrifying numbness sets in.

The man that could face any enemy and survive…

The man who always seemed more legend than human…

The man I love…

Dead
.

1

The desert.

Hot, dry sand up my nostrils and the sun pressing down on me like a boot in my back in the middle of basic training… it’s a relentless terrain that I only visit when forced.

The Humvee rattles so loud that I can’t think straight as we navigate the barren landscape. The Private driving keeps shooting me murderous looks. He should thank me, honestly. Playing chauffeur for me is keeping his ass alive for the time being. The boy shouldn’t be so eager to die.

Although a cease-fire has been called, most of us know it won’t last. When guns stopped firing six months ago, the government called it “peace”. But I’ve seen enough of the world to know that peace isn't a concept that humanity wants to embrace. I’m wearing a three-piece black suit with a jacket that hugs my curves a little too tightly, thanks to the Kevlar vest I strapped to my chest.

Peace is an illusion.

There’s always war somewhere.

A dark blob appears in the distance, more substantial than the mirages teasing me for the past hour.

“There,” I say, tapping the kid’s arm and pointing like he might be distracted by all the goddamn sand and miss the only building for miles around.

“Yes ma’am,” he says.

For the life of me, I can’t remember the boy’s name. “What’s your name again, Private?”

He hides his annoyance by shifting gears, but I know how to read people. I can tell by the sudden tension in his shoulders and the way his right eye twitches that it pisses him off to be my grunt. I don’t take it personal. Most army guys don’t trust the intelligence racket. I used to agree with them.

Then
he
walked into my life and changed my mind.

“Holt,” the Private says.

I’m lost down memory lane, confused by his response for a second. “What’s that?”

“My name,” he clarifies, shouting over the whine of the jeep’s engine. “My name is Holt, ma’am.”

Holt. I can’t place the name. I’ve read so many profiles in the past twenty-four hours that I’m sick of names. I’m suddenly of the opinion that Prince was onto something by going by symbols instead of a name. Holt isn’t red flagged for anything, though. I’d remember if he was.

I kill the conversation there before it begins. I just have a thing about details. I don’t want to know anything more than that about him. Smalltalk is only something guys with brass on their shoulders do. The rest of us would rather not get to know each other. We prefer the no bullshit approach.

It’s another ten minutes until we reach the outpost and a handful of minutes later before we’re showing ID at the security gate.

“What business do you have here?” the guard on duty asks. He reads my badge and his eyes widen. I don’t even have to say a word. “Sorry to delay you. Please.” He waves toward the large black building, “Director Mohin is waiting for you.”

Holt shoots me a look when he hands me back my badge. It’s quick and subtle, but I roll my eyes. Some people in my line of work get off on the whole rep preceding them thing. Hell, even I have to admit there is a certain thrill in seeing someone take a cautious step back whenever they hear my codename. But this isn’t that, and even if it were, I wouldn’t bother giving Private Holt the backstory of my life.

A legion of employees is melting under the brutal afternoon sun as we pull up to the front steps of Mohin Enterprises. The director of the company stands in the middle, a subtle peacock dressed in a bright white suit and matching fedora.

Hassan Mohin, eldest of oil baron Cyrus Mohin's three sons. Hassan poured a drop of his inheritance into his corporation at the age of fifteen. He doesn’t own the biggest, or even a sizable company in Saudi Arabia, erecting this monstrosity of a building in the middle of nowhere simply to house his ego. He calls it an enterprise and plays civil with anyone who wants to see the fictitious research that goes on in this place, but most of us know the truth.

He’s the used cars salesman of the warfront—a black-market arms dealer.

Every single person in the intelligence community knows him intimately—it’s often joked that we should have a class devoted to dealing with him our first year in training. If you want any information of dirty deals about to go down in the desert, Hassan is the man to talk to.

Just make sure you have something he wants in exchange.

He’s clapping his hands and waving as if I’ve arrived at the end of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade, sporting a damn red suit.

Holt stays stock-still behind the wheel of the jeep. I’m half tempted to tell him he has to stay, but I assured the commander on base I only needed a ride to the building.

“Thanks for the lift,” I say, hopping out.

I hold my breath to keep dust out of my lungs as the Humvee tears off.

“Your friend did not want to join us?” Hassan asks, making his way down the steps.

I shrug a shoulder. “He’s kind of over the whole exotic cuisine thing.”

Hassan wags a finger at me. His left upper canine is gold capped, and it catches the sun as he smiles. “You should have told him he has not tried our food yet.”

“Well, let’s be real… you can only ingest so much turmeric in one lifetime. From here or from the shitty little street stand near base, what’s the difference?”

His jaw tightens, and I see annoyance in the corner of his winning smile, but he just laughs at my sarcasm. “I often forget how sharp your tongue is.”

“And I often make a point to block memories of your fashion sense from my mind.”

He’s on level ground with me, practically eye-to-eye. I’m barely five-five, and the flat boots that I’m sporting aren’t giving me any extra height. Hassan’s not a tall man. Maybe that’s why he wears hats. He clasps my shoulders between his ring-covered fingers and leans in for the customary kiss on each cheek.

I humor him. The last thing I need on my record right now is a diplomatic incident thanks to my impatience with this man.

“What do you want?” I say before he’s fully pulled away from me.

He keeps his grubby hands on my arms, working his thumbs into the thin shoulder padding of my jacket. “Can I not just want to see you every now and then?”

I make a face that he finds funny.

“You look like your mother when you do that.”

“Not even here five minutes. We haven’t even made it in the door and you have to bring her up.”

He shrugs, and I have no doubt that’s exactly how I look when I do it. “She left an impact on my life, my child.”

“Funny,” I say, stepping out of his clutch and heading up the steps, “she pretty much forgot you as soon as she got home.”

The sea of employees, dressed immaculately in dark blue suits, parts for me to pass. He yells at them in his native tongue. I’ve been told by many commanding officers, ordered by a few even, that it would benefit me to learn that language.

I’ve told every single one of them to fuck off.

I’ll be able to speak to Martians before I’ll understand what that man is saying. Subsequently, I’m not sent on too many missions in this part of the world.

Go figure.

“Would you like a tour of the building?” he asks, catching up to me effortlessly.

“I want to do whatever it is that I have to do in order for you to let me leave as soon as possible.”

“You are not a prisoner here, Penelope.”

Conditioned, cool air swarms me as I step into the lobby. Tall columns of marble line an open room. A large wooden desk sits in a far corner. Hallways lead to a bank of elevators and to rooms I’d rather never enter. The flooring is new, knowing Hassan. Every time I visit this place it’s renovated and new to the tune of brand-spanking.

“You know, you could donate the amount of money you spend updating this shithole to charities. Help people.”

He purposely scrapes his shoe across a bright white tile, leaving a dark black smudge. “I help people who help
me
.”

A few of the women who were standing outside rush in to grab cleaning products as I look down the nearest hallway. “Give me the quick tour.” He beams, and I add, “But don’t fool yourself into thinking I give two shits about any of it.”

“God forbid,” he says, motioning for me to walk in front of him.

I stand still, waiting for him to lead. I don’t trust him not to stab me in the back.

His shoes are hard leather that click against the floor.

Mine don’t make a sound.

“We launched a new sector this past summer,” he explains. He likes to hear himself talk. “Synthetics and chemicals.”

“You making condoms and lube now?” I ask, noting the lack of employees roaming the hall that he takes me down. It’s not an area of the building I’m familiar with… not that I’ve been here enough to feel at home.

He lets out a sharp snort. “No. I believe keeping our people from reproducing is more the agenda of the country of your false allegiance.”

My cheek twitches, but I don’t take the bait. He likes to push that button. “What are you developing with synthetics then?”

We lose momentum as he stops, a smile on his face that I want to smack off. “Are you actually interested in my affairs?”

I look away, my sight landing on a pile of wide, short wooden crates with the letters DMG branded into the side. I recognize the seal.
Damn
.

His eyes are sparkling when I return my attention to him, but I don’t take a bite of that apple, either. “I’m interested in keeping
my
country safe from assholes like you.”

He laughs. The sound grates on my skin. I want to believe it’s fake, but there’s something about his amusement that always sounds authentic. Like he’s in on some joke no one else has heard yet.

We bullshit some more and he introduces me to businessmen I don’t need to be told the names of. They’re already on my watch list.

An hour later, I find myself seated next to Hassan at an elaborately decorated dining table, ignoring the lavish spread he’s had prepared. He says it’s a meal to celebrate my visit. I suspect it might be poisoned.

“I told your uncle you’re in town,” he says, pouring himself a second liberal amount of wine.

“I don’t have an uncle.”

He holds up two fingers as he slurps his wine. “You are correct. You have two.”

I sit back in my seat with a sigh.

“What will it take for you to admit that you are my flesh and blood?”

His gold tooth winks at me, and I keep my face clear of any emotion. Doesn’t matter, I know. He’s narrowed his focus on my eyes. My eyes always give me away.

You wear your heart in your eyes, Poppy. Work on that.

“Give me a gun.”

Hassan sputters, spitting the mouthful of current wine he’s drinking onto the beige tablecloth. “A gun? Are we going to have a duel at sunset?”

Cute. Tempting.

I fabricate a half-ass smile. “No. I want a short range sniper rifle… and a .35 desert eagle.”

Hassan licks his teeth, his tongue lingering over the gold tooth for an extra second. He tries to figure out how to ask, but not ask me what I want the equipment for. “What makes you think I have such here?”

He sits back in his chair, waving his arms around like Vanna White.

“You walked me past those crates in the hall for a reason,” I say, crossing my arms in front of me and leaning my elbows on the table. I have the upper hand in this negotiation right now. He didn’t realize I was in town for any reason other than humoring him. I have gossip for him to spread.

I have a secret he desperately wants.

He mirrors my posture, rubbing his hands in front of him as he peers at me. Humor is dominant on his face. “Who says there are guns in those boxes?”

“The stamp on the side does. DMG specializes in one thing and one thing only—high level munitions for military grade artillery.”
For terrorism.

He makes a sound between a snort and a sigh. “High level munitions sounds so… sleazy.” He makes a face as if he’s finally found something about this meal distasteful. “I just have a few guns, maybe a grenade launcher… or five. Nothing
that
threatening.”

He adopts a look of innocence that I want to laugh at, but he’s doing it for a laugh, and I won’t be paying into his pander.

“Then you won’t miss a rifle and a handgun.”

He moves again, propping one arm lazily over the back of his chair, the elbow dangling over as his hand clings to the top. His other hand fiddles with his untouched butter knife.

I remain still but my senses heighten. I recall every man stationed in the room, down the hall, all the way back to the front door. I feel the temperature in the room—a cool, yet muggy seventy to seventy-two. I’m acutely aware that he has three knives within his reach, two forks, a spoon, and two burning candles. I have all of those within my reach as well.

Should a fight break out, I’ll go for the candles first.

Burning wax to the eyes would immediately eliminate over ninety percent of his attack.

He stares at me so long I want to fidget before he leans forward and blows out the candles.

Bastard.

“Why have you never bothered joining Mossad?”

The muscles in my neck tense, but keep myself in check. “I’m already in an army, one that I am extremely proud to serve.”

He blows out an annoyed breath and waves away my words like a stinky puff of smoke. “If you joined the army out of loyalty and a desire to serve your country, then you did it wrong, my dear.”

I don’t want to have this conversation. We’ve had this conversation repeatedly since I was sixteen and started receiving attention for my gift with encryption decoding. “I’m not a mercenary. And I’m not in this for the thrill of hurting people with power.”