Codename: Nightshade (Deadly Seven Strike Force) (30 page)

I thrust my boobs towards him, trying not to laugh when his hand twitches.

“You’re good,” he says, crossing his arms in front of him. He’s dressed, but his shirt clings to his chest, and his hair is still dripping into his eyes.

“You have no idea,” I say, drying my body.

“You sound like her. You fight like her. And you look so much like her. It's almost believable.”

He takes a step into the room, pinching a lock of my hair between his fingers. “She had hair just like this.”

My hair falls just below my shoulder blades. Reasonably, I should cut it. Either keep it short or always keep it tucked in a neat bun. It’s a weakness that can be used against me in a fight. But Nikolai always loved my hair this length. He loved to wrap it around his fist and tug.

He releases my hair and leaves the room.

His moments of lucidity, if that’s what I should call what just happened, are hard to anticipate. He was fine in the woods but flipped getting into the shower. He seems to have swung back to fine for the moment, but I can’t let my guard down and expect it to last.

I redress in the same clothes, searching through the grocery bags for the brush I bought. Nikolai sits on one of the beds, munching on a sandwich.

Didn’t have to tell him to eat this time.

I run the brush through my hair, working out the knots as best as I can. He’s watching me again, committing every move to memory. I walk to the bed and run the brush through his hair. It’s a few inches longer than I remember from that night in Norway. He always kept his hair short, just long enough for me to run my fingers through.

His eyes close as I comb his hair back. “That feels nice.”

I’m giddy to the point of having to slap my internal schoolgirl and tell her to get a grip. “I am her, you know,” I say, dropping the brush onto the bed and running my fingers through his hair. “I am Penelope.”

He looks up at me, and I know he doesn’t believe me. “I’ll believe the lie… just don’t hurt her.”

From giddy to broken-hearted in a matter of seconds. The moment’s over as I move back to the table and clean up the mess.

“What do we do now?”

He asked me that after the EMP episode. I wonder if it’s a sign that he’s more in control or if it’s his obedient side taking over.

“We get some rest and then keep moving.”

“Keep moving,” he repeats. “You even think like her.”

“That’s because I
am
her,” I say, tossing the unused food in a bag. I don’t want to be pissed at him, but I’m frustrated. I’ve reached the end of my rope with being called a liar about who I am.

“You can’t be,” he argues.

“Why not?”

“You’re old.”

You’re old.
I’m twenty-nine. In six months, I’ll be thirty. With the exception of a few wisecracks from Marko over the years, I’ve never had anyone call me
old.
I’m not in line for Social Security, and last I checked, he was born five years before me.

“You’re older,” I say, proud that I refrain from sticking out my tongue.

He laughs.
Laughs.
It’s not the same as the cocky bastard who recruited me when I was seventeen, but it’s damn close. “Hardly, what are you? Twenty-eight?”

I don’t know if I should be offended that he thinks a year younger than my actual age is
old
. “Something like that,” I say, making sure not a speck of our presence will be left behind.

“Then you’re three years older than me.”

I dropped the bag I’m holding, turning to look at him. “What did you say?”

“I said I’m twenty-five.”

He’s wringing his hands again, not as aggressively as before, but I can tell it’s a nervous tick.

“You think you’re twenty-five years old?”

He gives me a look then that I remember from my past. It’s the look that Nikolai used to use when I said something so stupid he didn’t feel the need to comment.

I can’t fathom what he’s saying. “It’s been ten years…”

His cheek twitches. “What’s been ten years?”

It occurs to me that he doesn’t know. What little bit of Nikolai that might still be in there hasn’t moved along with the world outside his cell. He has no idea how long he’s been gone.

“What year do you think it is?” I ask.

His hands work together harder. “2004.”

I shake my head slowly, and he mirrors the movement.

“What year is it?”

“2014.”

His body rocks forward and back, over and over. I don’t think he even realizes he’s doing it. He looks like he wants to laugh at me again, but his eyes are devastated. “No,” he says. “No. No. You’re wrong.”

I wish I were. I wish he’d only been gone a few months. I wish I had thought to look for him. I wish had rescued him.

But we lost ten years.

“No,” he says again. “No. Don’t do that. Don’t make me think I lost that much of her.”

Don’t make me think I lost that much of her.

My heart squeezes so hard I’m afraid I’m having an attack.

The rocking grows more frantic, the wringing as painful looking as it had been in the bathroom. He looks on the verge of hysterics. “No. Please, take that back. Don’t lie to me like that.”

His breath hitches in the middle of his plea, and I feel like I’ve been stabbed in throat.

I’m on the verge of tears again. I don’t know what to say. “They told me you were dead.”

His face pales. “No… No… God… Don’t take that away from me.”

I know I’m only making matters worse, but I can’t help it. I feel like I’ve abandoned him, and I want him to know I would have saved him if I had known. “Kulzkoff told us you were killed. Your star was hung in the Pentagon—”

“Stop,” he shouts, jumping to his feet. He looks ready to beat me into silence, but he just stands there with his fists at his side, glaring at me. “Don’t do this.”

I don’t know what’s crueler: to tell him the truth until he believes it or to take it back and let him believe nineteen-year-old me is still out there, waiting for him. Either choice guts me, and I hold my hands up in surrender as I climb on to the bed next to him. I grab the remote control, turning the TV on.

Ten seconds pass.

Twenty.

Thirty.

I don’t push him, and he doesn’t fight with me. I flip through the channels, finding an old black and white movie.

“Do you know which one this is?” I ask, pointing to the screen with the remote.

Another ten seconds.

Twenty.

Thirty.

The bed dips next to me, and he scoots his back against the headboard, pulling his knees against his chest. “
Streetcar Named Desire.
”

I sit with my legs spread out in front of me. My hands rest in my lap. “That’s the chick from the movie with the guy who doesn’t give a damn, right?”

I’m only partially playing dumb. I’m not big on the oldies. Nikolai loves the oldies. I used to tolerate them because they had a lot of potential for making out.

“Yes,” he says, a reserved humor in his voice. “That’s Scarlet O’Hara.”

“Is that her real name?” I ask, turning to him.

His hands grip his knees tightly, his chin resting on top of them. He keeps his focus on the screen. “No.”

No.
He doesn’t bother with the full explanation. Nikolai wouldn’t have bothered before, either. He knows I won’t commit it to memory.

“What’s this one about?” I ask, tossing the remote onto the nightstand and snuggling into the pillows behind me.

“Scarlet,” he says, his lips twitching when I glance at him. “She’s visiting her sister.”

“The one talking to her right now?”

“Yes.”

He’s patient with me. I expect my interruptions to bug him, but I think the only thing that bugs him is that I’m so much like me when I do it.

“The hot dude in the sweaty shirt,” I say. "I know him."

“As in you’ve met him in real life?” he asks. “I said you were old, but I didn’t know you were ancient.”

I side-eye him and notice he’s smiling. He’s teasing me.

I ignore the way my skin tingles.

“No, like I’ve seen him in something else.”

“He’s a famous actor,” he says. “He’s been in a lot of movies.”

I stare at the man’s face, noting the way his mouth moves when he talks, the mannerisms of his hands. I realize this is a much younger version of him than the one in my mind. By the next time he’s on the screen, I have it narrowed down.

“
The Godfather
,” I say. “He was the Godfather dude.”

“Gold star for you.”

Gold star for you.
That’s not something Nikolai used to say. It’s something
I
say.

He’s quoting
me
now?

“So why he is so sweaty?” I ask, leaning my head back against the pillow and looking up to Nikolai.

His hands relax as he rests his head back. “It’s hot there. Don’t you sweat when you’re hot?”

I scrunch my nose. “Girls don’t sweat.”

That gets me a laugh. “Girls might not, but women do.”

Women do.
Something about that distinction riles me up. I wonder if Nikolai considered me a girl or a woman back when we were together. I was a virgin, clueless and inept.

I wonder what it would be like for us to be together now.

He relaxes more, stretching his long legs out in front of him. “It’s a visual cue,” he explains. I knew the movie nerd couldn’t stay bottled up forever. I roll onto my side, not paying the movie any attention anymore. He’s far more fascinating to watch than it, anyway. “These people are all frustrated and tortured. They want more than they can have, and they all carry secrets that are leaking out against their will. Like sweat.”

It’s amazing. I fought him. I kissed him. I commanded him. But this the first time he’s really let all the guards down and just become Nikolai. He’s not worried about returning to his handler, or that he has to kill someone. We’re talking about movies—it’s so trivial in the grand scheme of things. It’s Nick like I remember him.

“Well, I bet they stink, too,” I say.

There’s that smile I haven’t seen since the night he said goodbye.

My
smile. The smile he reserves for the moments like this, with just the two of us.

I don’t care what it takes or how many trials are ahead of us.

I make it my mission to keep that smile on his face.

10

Two days.

We’ve been on our own for a little over forty-eight hours. I’m itching to contact Claymore, hit up an internet search for something about Marko’s father, or see if there are any new developments in Countess’ case. I’ve never had to deal with this part of the job, not in total radio silence. I’ve gone underground, sure, but I always knew I could turn to my teammates to keep me informed.

Claymore is the only one I trust right now.

Claymore is the only one I’m willing to put in danger right now.

A big part of me hopes someone finds us soon. I’m so bored I’m looking forward to a fight.

We settle into a motel just outside of Springfield, Missouri. I know protocol is to keep moving, but something tells me to stay put.

Nikolai bounces between his various mental states with just as much unpredictability as he has since we caught him. As long as the television is on and he’s watching a movie, he seems to relax. It’s probably the most
normal
activity he’s encountered since he was tortured.

Was he tortured? I don’t know. I assume so. He says stuff, passing comments and pleas, that make me think he’s highly aware that someone is fucking with his mind. But then there are moments when I ask him to tell me what he knows and he has nothing but a blank stare.

That has to be so terrifying. To know your mind isn’t yours anymore.

We’ve crossed into November, but the cable companies still think it’s Halloween. Nikolai sits on the bed, eating a bowl of cereal and watching
Nightmare on Elm Street.
This one I know. I’ve watched it quite a few times. It still scares the shit out of me.

“I fought a guy in Romania who had gloves like that,” I say. “Bastard stabbed me in the kidney.” Nikolai tilts his head as he looks to me. “Thank God we come with two, right?”

I say it with a smile, even though it’s not technically a joke. I
did
lose a kidney from that one.

His lips open and close, his brows knitting together, as he tries to come up with the right words to say. “What?”

I shouldn’t find that as funny as I do. I fight a smile and explain. “Diamond thief, Vladimir Dalca. Is it just me or are all dudes from Romania named Vladimir?” He’s still looking at me like I’m bat-shit insane, so I add more exposition. “He was stealing diamonds to fund terrorist bombings of government buildings in Bucharest.”

That’s all I’m going to give him. I don’t discuss missions with anyone except the council. I’ve said more than I should already.

He stirs the contents of his bowl, shaking his head like he wishes that would rattle some sense into what I’ve just said. “She would’ve been the one I sent on that mission, too.”

He says shit like that a lot. I’m still working on letting it roll off my back. It’s only been two days, but when everything I say, do, think, don’t say, don’t do, is judged and weighed against the me in his head, it’s hard to not let it get to me. I get that he doesn’t believe I can be me. In so many ways, he really did die ten years ago. But he’s giving me a complex.

I want to beat myself—prove to him that I’m the best and the Penelope in his head was a kid who still had a lot of growing up to do. I’m not her anymore. I’m better. It’s ridiculous. A decade later, I’m still trying to prove myself to this man, and the only way I can is to convince him that I’m better than myself.

I glance at the door.
Boy, it’d be nice if some ninjas just descended on us already
.

“Yeah, well, she wasn’t available,” I say, pretty damn snippy even to my own ears. “So I had to take that one.”

He’s done eating, done talking. His knees bend in front of him, and he hides behind his leg cage.