Codename: Nightshade (Deadly Seven Strike Force) (23 page)

Who is he, the Grim Reaper?

“What in God’s name are you doing?” Deputy Miller whines when he walks back in.

I return to my chair without saying a word.

Deputy Miller fumbles with computer keys, making more of a mess in my file than anything. “What did you do, Penelope? Did you change my password or something?”

That would’ve been hilarious, but no. “I didn’t do anything.”

Deputy Miller continues his conniption while I stare at the tall dude in black, knowing full well he sees me doing it. I don’t give a shit. He doesn’t scare me.

Nothing scares me.

He stares right back for a few seconds. Clearing his throat, he looks to Deputy Miller. “Is everything in order?”

It’s the second time he’s spoken but the first time I’ve noticed his accent. His voice is deep, low, and the accent makes his words feel heavy to my ears. People don't often captivate me, but I’m borderline admitting he intrigues me.

Deputy Miller absently waves a hand, still focused on his computer screen. “Yeah, yeah. Check her out through the front desk. Got the guardian approval form signed in the file.”

Guardian approval form.
Those three words feel like a slap to my face. He already contacted my mother and she came down and signed a release for me.

And didn’t bother sticking around to see if I’m okay
.

I can’t blame her. I wouldn’t want to put up with me, either.

Black suit accent dude stares at the back of the Deputy’s head for a minute before he gives up and holds a hand out toward me. “I’m General Zolkov.”

His hand is in front of my face, and I’m staring at it like I don’t know what to do with it. In reality, I don’t. I don’t get what’s going on. Why is a Russian businessman introducing himself to me?

Twenty seconds die between us before he reaches out and grabs my arm.

I don’t question it or fight. I’m seventeen, and my legal guardian signed me over to this man.

Human trafficking?
Maybe this will be a reversal, and I’ll be an American prostitute in Russia. Nah, that can’t be it. Deputy Miller is a pain in the ass, but he wouldn’t let that happen to me.

Zolkov leads me to the front desk where Betty, the secretary, gives me a onceover. “Figured this day would come eventually.”

She hands the man a file that’s three inches thick. I wonder how far back the record on me goes.

I honestly can’t remember the first time I was brought to this station. I’m kind of nostalgic for a second.

“Thank you,” Zolkov tells her. He doesn’t react to her assessment, doesn’t offer any other insight on what’s going on. He just pulls me right out the front door.

The sidewalk shines from the afternoon sun. It’s hard to believe it’s wintertime with as sunny as it is, but Southern California doesn’t know too many days without clear blue skies.

We reach a black sedan parked along the side of the police station. He unlocks the passenger door and holds it open for me. I debate running, but he’s got long legs. He’ll easily catch up to me and probably wrestle me to the ground.

For some reason, that only tempts me more.

“I don’t like running in my dress shoes,” he says as if he read my mind. “Do us both a favor and just have a seat.”

I climb in and fasten my seatbelt.

He gives me a surprised look as he scoots in behind the wheel. “So seatbelts you have respect for but federal safeguards you don’t?”

I don’t want to explain it to him. I cross my arms over my chest and watch the neighborhoods fly by as he drives. He doesn’t turn on the radio, doesn’t waste breath with chitchat. The air is stuffy with tension, and for some reason, I feel like I’m on the verge of tears.

We’re on the road for about an hour before I finally speak. “Did they sell me for medical testing?”

His eyebrows, as black and thick as the hair on top of his head, pull together. “Why would they do that?”

“Because I’m a freak.”

He doesn’t have anything to say about that. I watch his hands as he controls the steering wheel. His fingers are long and graceful. I can see callouses and scars from where I sit. He might wear a suit, but he’s someone who uses his hands a lot.

“Would you like that introduction now?” he asks, holding my gaze.

“Sure. I’m Penelope. Who are you?”

“I’m Nikolai.”

He reaches his right hand over, and I shake it this time. It’s every bit as rough as it looked, but there’s something comforting about it, too. It swallows my hand in size. I expect him to squeeze the blood flow from my digits, but he doesn’t. His touch is gentle, controlled.

He pulls his hand back, resting it on the gearshift between us. He can’t possibly be comfortable. I have very little legroom, and I’m five foot nothing with my bangs teased up. His legs look cramped, but he reclines with an ease. I wonder if it’s comfort or confidence in his appearance.

“Nikolai,” I repeat. The name feels funny in my mouth. “That’s the Russian version of Nicholas, right?”

The corner of his lips twitches as he side-eyes me. “Nicholas is the English form of Nikolai, yes.”

Smartass.

“Who are you? I mean… what do you want with me?”

This earns me a tick in his jaw that my eyes find fascinating. “Your stunt with the FBI security decryption earned you some notice. I’m here to offer you an opportunity.”

An opportunity.
“My mother already signed me over.”

“Did she?” he asks.

“Yes, I heard Miller tell you she did.”

“You really need to work on collecting all the facts before you make an assumption, Penelope.”

“Thanks, Yoda. I’ll keep that in mind.”

He laughs.
Laughs.
I want to be pissed, but his eyes do this twinkle thing that incapacitates me. “Your mother signed a release for me to take you on a trip. She can’t authorize you taking this opportunity. Only
you
can.”

“What is it?”

“You’re going to ruin the whole Power Point presentation if you make me tell you now.”

Knowing my mother didn’t hand over my freedom this dude gives me more power than I previously thought I had. “I’m not going anywhere with you unless you tell me what this is all about.”

“You go with me, or I drop you off at the nearest prison. Your choice.”

Prison.
“I haven’t been tried and found guilty yet. You can’t send me to prison.”

“We’re the federal government, Penelope. We can do what we want.”

Federal consequences.

Damn.

My throat’s dry, my lips sticking to my teeth as I try to come up with a witty comeback.

I’m fresh out of ideas.

“Why did you do it?”

All I can do is blink as I stare at him.

“Why did you hack into the FBI database?” he clarifies.

“Oh. I hadn’t come across a level-five encryption like that before. I was bored, figured it would be fun.”

He gives me the same look Deputy Miller and my mother give me when I explain what I do. "You were bored?"

“Yeah, like I said…
freak
.”

He mutters something under his breath in Russian. “I’m taking you to Virginia, to the Pentagon.”

The Pentagon.
Damn, I thought Miller was just being overzealous.

“Is there like a secret code you need me to crack before the evil Russians take over our country or something? Is that what this is?”

“
Evil
Russians
?” He repeats my words, drowning them in his accent.

I offer him a weak, awkward smile. “Sorry, this was feeling like a set up to a bad 80s movie.”

“No, you are not the country’s last hope against the Soviet Threat.” I’m not sure but I think I hear sarcasm in his voice. “You’ve been selected for recruitment.”

“Like in the Army?”

He nods.

I scrunch my face. “Oh, take me to prison, then.”

He laughs. “You don’t strike me as a girl who backs down from a challenge.”

“I’m not Army material, trust me. They’ll kick me out the minute I’m introduced to my boss.”

“Your CO,” he says, clarifying when he catches the baffled look on my face. “It stands for Commanding Officer, and I wouldn’t worry about that. He’s a guy who has put up with
a lot
worse.”

My eyes roll as I turn my attention to the side window. “I’m not interested in being commanded by anyone to do anything, thanks. Just take me to the clink. I’ll survive it.”

“Can’t do that. Not until you’ve been given the spiel.”

The word 'spiel' sounds funny with his accent. “So, what? You’re flying me there and then just dropping me off?”

“Something like that.”

It’s a five-hour flight, and we’re riding in a private jet with just me, him, and a very attentive stewardess who makes sure to touch his arm every time she talks to him. He doesn’t look comfortable with the attention. He has less smiles and no laughs for her than he did in the car. Every so often his right leg bounces.

“Are you afraid of flying?” I ask.

His eyes narrow as he looks at me. “What makes you think that?”

“You’re nervous as shit.”

“You’re going to have to work on your language if you join the Army.”

“Reason number five-hundred and fifty-two for me
not
joining the Army.”

He fights a smile and leans forward so his elbows are resting on his thighs. “Flying isn’t my favorite thing, no.”

“I don’t mind it. But then again, I’ve been on airplanes so much in my life they feel like riding in cars to me.”

“Visiting your father?” he asks, as if he actually knows anything about anything.

“Visiting the dude who knocked my mother up, yeah.”

I’m not surprised he knows about Hassan. I wonder if I’m being considered for this bullshit
because
of Hassan.

“I don’t have anything to do with him, really,” I say. “He doesn’t tell me about his business, and I don’t care.”

His head bobs up and down. “I believe you.”

He believes me. What a relief. I can sleep easy tonight because this total stranger believes in me.

I stare out the window until we land.

Of all the places I’ve wanted to visit, Virginia has never been on the list. I mentally strike it off as I follow him to a town car parked on the tarmac. We’re silent on the drive and as we walk toward the doors of the Pentagon.

I stop a foot before the entrance. “I can’t do this.”

“You broke into one of the most heavily guarded computer programs in the world because you were bored. I have the utmost confidence that you can.”

He holds the door open, motioning for me to go in.

My palms sweat as I do. The place is huge, open, and intimidating. We stand in line for a metal detector. My eyes keep landing on a wall with a collection of silver stars. I’ve heard of it, but thought it was in the lobby of the CIA.

“Is that the wall of no names?” I ask, cringing when I hear my voice loudly echo.

He leans in, whispering, “Sort of. These stars are for those who have lost their lives in the most covert and important missions of all branches of our defense.”

His breath tickles my ear. It distracts me from the thought of what someone has to do to end up on
that
wall.

“It’s a great honor,” he adds, helping me forward with his hand on my lower back.

“Yeah, but… who cares if you’re dead?”

We step up to the metal detector, and he shows them his badge. I’m told to empty out my pockets, and I do. I don’t have much, except the key to mother’s apartment and my pink plastic wallet with only my ID inside.

I’m waved through, and the light stays green over me. I collect my things and watch as the light turns red over Nikolai.

“Are you packing?” I ask as we walk through the lobby.

He looks annoyed, like the answer should be obvious. It just now strikes me that he originally introduced himself as
General
.

I keep my mouth shut as he takes me on an elevator ride and down a long hall. The buzz of the fluorescents overhead makes me feel like a moth about to be zapped to death. We enter a moderately sized conference room. I’m expecting a firing squad but just one man sits on the opposite end of the room.

I recognize him.

He’s much older than Nikolai, with wrinkles all over his cheeks. He wears a pair of glasses that he adjusts to get a better look at me.

“Penelope,” Nikolai says, waving between us. “This is Secretary Williams.”

“Hello, Penelope,” Secretary Williams says.

I wave awkwardly. “Hey.”

“Be good,” Nikolai whispers to me. He excuses himself, and I’m standing alone at the head of the room like it’s exam day for oral debate class.

I’m ready to puke.

“Please,” Secretary Williams says, motioning to the twenty chairs around the table. “Have a seat.”

I go with the one right in front of me, plopping down with a thud.

“How are you today, Penelope?”

“Okay, I guess.”

“You guess?”

I pick at the nail of my right index finger. “I’m nervous, not sure what you want with me.”

“Can I move down the table and sit closer to you?” he asks, and I nod. I’ve seen him on TV before. He’s always talking in Congressional sessions, always covering press conferences about military actions. On 9/11, his face became more common than a can of Pepsi. And he’s moving down the table to sit next to me instead of demanding I move closer to him. “There’s no need to be nervous. I know this building is scary, and we didn’t give you much warning, but you’re safe here. I promise.”

He promises. For some reason, I’m even more on edge because of that. “What do you want from me? I’m sorry I broke into the site. I promise not to do it again.”

“But what if you could?”

He’s got the kind of face you expect in one of those old timey portraits of what America was like in the 50s. Like
Leave it to Beaver
was filmed in his family’s home. I don’t trust him because of that. I trust him because his eyes look into mine and not through me. He’s not talking down to me or around me. He’s talking to me.

“Sir…”