Codename: Nightshade (Deadly Seven Strike Force) (16 page)

“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.

The bulb I wrap in one of the pillows and smash. I scatter the broken pieces in front of the door. It’s the only entrance to the room, so anyone coming in will alert me by stepping on the broken glass.

I collapse in bed, exhausted. I know sleep will take me eventually, but I’m not exactly sleepy. I’m just bone-dead.

Nikolai drilled in to us that this was what we trained for. We didn’t need practice in things going right. We needed to learn how to handle when everything went to shit.

Nikolai
.

Alone with my thoughts, I’m second-guessing what I saw in the hospital. I’ve been through a lot. I’m repressing my panic that Marko almost died and is now missing and it’s entirely my fault. More than anything, I keep thinking how disappointed Nikolai would be in me.

That has to be why I saw him.

But the flower.

Poppies are used as a symbol of remembrance of fallen soldiers. Maybe someone knew I was in the limo. Maybe they saw the MPs on the investigation detail. Maybe it’s just getting closer to November and the veterans are being honored.

I see the moment in the hospital all over again in my mind. It’s slowed down to half time. I was fucked up pretty bad by then. The crash had taken a lot out of me. The meds had to still be in my system. Doctor Stevens worked one over on me. And then Nikolai… the guy in the room kicked my ass so hard my head was spinning.

I can’t trust my eyes.

Beware the Daeva, young one. Not all ghosts are dead.
Hassan’s voice is in my head. I don’t want it there. I think about the woman locked in her house and look around the closed off room.

Maybe Stevens was right. Maybe I’m having a mental break. For a normal mind that means doing shit I do on a regular basis. I feel sorry for the world that has to deal with me out of control.

I miss him.

I let myself feel that.

It’s different than what I feel with Marko. With Marko, it’s a lie. I want to think Nikolai is back, and for a second, I have a chance to be happy again. I don’t mind the crash after. It’s the way of the junkie. You have to get some masochistic thrill out of the lows to really relish the highs.

But right now, free of Marko’s balm, free of Claymore’s sarcasm, even free of Stevens’ judgment, I face the fact that I’m lonely. Only one person in my existence has ever known me. He understood me better than I do. And he let me see him in the same way.

It couldn’t have been him. It’s been ten years, and the face I saw wasn’t a minute older than the Nikolai who said goodbye to me in Norway. That’s not possible.

I saw what I wanted to see.

Saw my memories and not the truth.

I curl onto my side and close my eyes.

Would Doctor Stevens add obsessive to my laundry list of character flaws? I am obsessive. I can’t let him go.

That’s something Nikolai and I shared.

I know.

I remember.

“Are you okay?” he asks. “Did it hurt too much?”

“I’m good,” I say around strained breaths. “Gold star for you.”

I’m lightheaded, and he must be, too, because we both laugh.

I always figured sex would be awesome. Second base with Nikolai a few nights ago had been the best thing to ever happen in my life, so I figured this had potential.

And it lived up to the expectation.

I’m not saying I’m not in pain. He’s big, and I feel like walking straight isn’t in my near future. But this man has brutalized my body in far worse ways over the past two years. This is a good pain.

We’re both sweaty and spent. I wobble every time I move. I give up trying to move, flopping on top of him like a fish. His tattoo is inches from my face, and I’m reminded of the same question I’ve wanted answered since my eighteenth birthday.

“Why do you have this tattooed to your chest?” I ask. “It’s bugged me for almost a year.”

He has no other marks except for a few scars that he’s accumulated over his years in service. I’m curious what would push him to get a flower etched in his skin permanently.

Nikolai smiles as he draws my hand to his lips. “It’s in remembrance.”

“Remembrance? Like the ones the vets hand out?”

“Sort of.”

“Did you lose someone?”

“Yes… and no.” He presses kisses into my palm. “It started out as a remembrance for a friend, and now it’s more a reminder of all the lives I’ve taken. It’s to honor those I’ve stolen a life from.”

I touch my lips to the flower. “You’re such a sentimental bastard.”

He snorts. “Says the heartless bitch.”

I bite him.

His laugh is breathless and shakes us both.

I keep caressing the flower. “When did you get it?”

“I think I mislabeled your specialty on your score card,” he says. I raise a brow in question. “I said you were a Grade A assassin, but I think interrogation is really more your racket.”

“Stop teasing me,” I say, and he doesn’t listen.

The smile on his lips is devious. “I got it my first year in the army, in
Russia
.” He says the name of his homeland the same way he says my name. His accent gives me chills.

I realize though I’ve spent nearly two solid years in this man’s company, and given him the most private access to my body and soul, I know very little about his life. “When did you join?”

“I was like you,” he says, his eyes on the wall, distant with memories. “I was recruited when I was fifteen. I had a gift of breaking into government facilities and stealing supplies.”

He side-eyes me, and I grin. “You little juvenile delinquent, you.”

“Guilty.”

I rest my cheek against the poppy and listen intently. I could listen to him talk for the rest of my life.

“I spent most of the first year trying to defect, but then I met a general who taught me how to be a soldier, how to be a man. He gave me respect.” He pauses, and I see ghosts in his eyes. It makes my chest ache. “You have no idea what it’s like to never know a second of respect and then suddenly have it.”

“Yes, I do.”

He looks to me. I see the same confused kid I’ve always felt was inside me in his eyes right now.

And I explain, “My mother loves me, but she’s always thought of me as weird. She doesn’t say it out loud, but I know it. We have nothing in common, no middle ground. She never even punished me for things I did, because she knew I was smart enough to know what I was doing was wrong to begin with. My teachers hated me.” He chuckles under his breath, and I ignore him. “They didn’t know what to do with me. And making friends was impossible because I was just…”

“Weird,” he finishes, running his hand up the side of my neck. He cups my cheek, angling me so I can’t look anywhere but into his eyes. “I like your weirdness,
Poppy
.”

I cover his hand with mine. “You’re the first person who showed me what respect really was. So I get it.”

He nods. “General Grekov. He was a mean old bastard.” It’s my turn to laugh at him. He pinches my side in response. “But when he told me to hold my head up high, because I was one of the best…” His eyes fill with tears, and he looks away. “We were on assignment, helping a small countryside village recover from a winter storm and a boy, a kid a few months younger than I was, pulled a gun on him. Grekov tried to reason with him, help him, but the boy was too angry. He shot him. Right in the forehead. Right in front of us.”

My throat’s gone dry, and I can’t swallow. “I’m sorry.” His jaw twitches as he bites back his emotions. “What happened to the boy?”

“I shot him between his eyes.”

There’s no remorse, no apology in his voice, and I don’t expect any. I would have shot the kid, too. I would have shot him before he could harm my commander.

“I was already being groomed for a transfer to America. I was eighteen and being watched by the figureheads who would later build the council. Secretary Williams visited our base in Moscow. He wore a red flower on his lapel.”

“A silk poppy,” I say. I remember getting those in the mail every November.

“He told me he wore it for General Grekov. That it was the highest honor for fallen comrades.”

“So you got it tattooed to your chest.”

He nods. He’s done with his story. I can tell by the way his face hardens.

I press my lips to the flower. “Maybe I need a new nickname.”

He stares at me like I’ve lost my mind. "Why?"

“It was a joke, Nick. We were just flirting and fooling around.” I feel sick to my stomach all of the sudden. I tap my finger against his tattoo. “I’m not worthy of this.”

I’ve seen just about every look the man has. I’ve seen him pissed. I’ve seen him happy. I’ve seen him in ecstasy, and I’ve seen him depressed. This look is a new one. He’s gone pale. His eyes are hollow shadows. And his lips keep opening and closing like he can’t think a full thought.

It’s intense.

“Nick?”

He sits up, taking me with him. His hands hold my face captive, the emotions in his eyes leveling every one of my defenses. “You’re everything,
Poppy
. Nothing means more to me than you.”

I feel strange. I’m overcome with too many emotions to process. I don’t know how to define what’s been going on between us, and I don’t know if it’s just losing my virginity tonight to him, or his story, or I don’t know. But I feel like he’s just shoved a knife in my chest and filleted me. I’m wide open. All my guts are rushing out, and I’m shaking.

Is this love? If it is, it’s a scary thing.

“Thanks?” I say… I ask? I don’t know.

I’m so confused.

The new look melts into pure playful Nick. This one I know. This one is my favorite. He kisses me, and my emotions relax back into the desire that brought us here tonight.

He rolls us over so I’m under him. His lips travel down my body in a hot, sensuous trail. I moan when his tongue dips around my belly button. Lower and lower he goes, pushing my legs apart. He spreads me, curling his tongue up as he licks slowly.

The sound I make isn’t human.

“You’re welcome.”

5

The faint crunch of glass pulls me out of light slumber. I’m alert instantly, but I remain still. I didn’t hear any commotion from the living room. Maybe it’s just one of the agents coming to check on me.

The next step is even softer, no crunch this time.

Not one of the agents. This is someone trained to sneak up on me.

I have no way to gauge how long I’ve been asleep. No window in the room. No clock on the nightstand. No watch or phone at my disposal.

Whoever this is has made sure no light followed them into the room. It’s total darkness.