Codename: Nightshade (Deadly Seven Strike Force) (9 page)

It’s a clear autumn night. I can see the faint twinkle of stars high above as we head away from dense collection of buildings.

We’re going the wrong way.

“Is that the same driver from earlier?” I ask softly, keeping my eyes fixed out the window.

The limo is moving at a standard pace. I wouldn’t have caught on that anything was wrong if he hadn’t mentioned the Empire State building. It wasn’t on the route to the party. I know we took a detour to get food, but we’ve headed back downtown instead of moving toward our destination. Marko’s driver went over the route with me before leaving the hotel. He told me if I felt a threat was eminent that he could alter the directions easily, but otherwise he would take the path we discussed. Those of us in the protection business are meticulous with our routine. We find the most efficient, safest path, and we stick to it.

I never expressed a threat.

Marko’s fingers slip under the strap on my shoulder. “No, Mickey got off at midnight. This is the new guy.”

The new guy.

The words don’t sit well with me. New means variables I haven’t been allowed time to consider. I silently berate myself. I let my guard down. I let myself ignore my responsibilities. I hindered my reflexes and responses with alcohol and a liberal dose of Marko.

Not good.

I keep repeating to myself that Marko’s nobody, really. He’s rich, sure, but the amount of effort kidnapping him would take, the planning and capital to get the upper hand on government security details, wouldn’t be worth it. Kidnap a local politician’s kid. It’s much more cost effective.

Unless it’s one of his father’s opponents.

Scenarios are playing out in my mind as I memorize the streets we’re driving down. Mickey got off at midnight. We were supposed to leave the party at eleven. Instead we strolled out the doors at two a.m.

Sloppy work, sloppy results, Poppy. Fine when you’re sweeping a floor. Less okay when you’re washing dishes for a family dinner. Death when you’re dealing with protecting someone’s life.

The new guy.

“What did he look like?”

Marko shoves the strap aside, pressing his lips into the curve of my shoulder. “He looks like a man who drives cars for a living.”

Idiot.
This man doesn’t make eye contact with his servants, let alone commit their facial features to memory. That damn clown from
It
could be driving the car, and Marko wouldn’t bat an eyelash.

I’m not carrying a gun. I wouldn’t have been able to get past security at the party, and I figured if a threat did present itself, I could eradicate it with my hands and whatever is around me.

I assess the inventory inside the limo, looking for a weapon in case this goes bad. I no longer have my shoes. I’ll be able to run faster, but the heels would have been excellent for stabbing. I have a half empty champagne bottle, two glasses, and a cigarette lighter at my disposal.

Oh, and thanks to Marko wanting an order of chili fries, I have a spork. I don’t want to calculate the amount of force I’d have to use to break skin with one of those.

“Do me a favor,” I say, keeping my voice so low that only Marko can hear me. He’s slowly moved his lips up my neck and teases my ear with his teeth. He hums in response. I’m not affected by his touch at all, too attuned to what might be going down around us. “If I tell you to run, you run.”

He’s not taking me seriously. I can feel it in the way he folds himself around me.

The car takes a sharp right, and I see the George Washington Bridge in the distance.

He’s taking us out of the city.

“This isn’t the way to the hotel,” I announce loudly.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watch the driver. He isn’t fazed by my declaration.

“Excuse me,” I say, shoving out of Marko’s arms and moving closer to the small window that separates the two cabins. “We wanted to go back to the hotel.”

I get a glimpse of him, only for a second. He’s middle-aged, with graying brown hair that sticks out from under his driver’s cap. He has pale white skin that looks almost yellow in the glow of the streetlights streaming in through the windshield. He’s not wearing the typical uniform that I see Marko’s drivers in. He has on black slacks and a black turtleneck sweater.

Not good.

He catches me observing him and punches a button on the dash. A dark paned window slides up automatically to separate us from him.

“What’s wrong?” Marko asks. His eyelids are drooping, his reflexes slowing all the more as exhaustion joins the many emotional states he’s forced his body into tonight.

I would prefer him alert and ready to follow my every command to keep him alive, but the universe figures I love a challenge.

“I’ve got a bad feeling,” I say, grabbing the bottle and dumping out the remaining liquor—much to Marko's displeasure. I decide to keep the bottle intact. I can deliver a hard blow with it. The flutes I hit against the side of the metal ice bucket until both are jagged, sharp implements on the ends of their glass stems, perfect for stabbing.

“You’re kind of freaking me out,” Marko says. “And uh… turning me on at the same time.”

I shoot him a look. “You’d be turned on by the Devil preparing the spit he’s about to roast you on.”

He laughs. “I most certainly would if he had a rack like yours.”

I contemplate jumping. Marko’s athletic. He’ll get banged up, but he’ll survive. The car is only going maybe twenty-five miles per hour right now. We’ll roll a few times, but the momentum won’t hurt us much.

I move toward the right door and am thrown into Marko’s lap as the car suddenly swerves. We’ve accelerated, going closer to fifty now, eliminating jumping as an option. Marko would probably snap his neck.

“Hey,” he shouts, slamming his fist on the ceiling. “Watch what you’re doing, asshole!”

He’s got one arm around me, and I can feel a tremor deep inside him. He’s finally catching on that shit’s getting real.

“What’s going on?” he whispers.

“I’ve got it under control,” I promise.

I do. My heart is beating at a calm, steady pace. My focus is narrowed to the situation at hand. I’m assessing all possible outcomes—several are spelling mortal for me, but all are assuring Marko will walk away from this alive.

It’s not a question. It’s my job.

I’m damn good at my job.

We tumble to the left and then to the right as the limo continues on the erratic course.

“Tell me about your father’s affairs,” I say.

“I… uh…” Marko’s voice stumbles. “He introduced me to a woman named Helga once. Told me she was good at sucking dick.”

I groan. “
Political
affairs, Marko. Tell me what business he’s involved in right now. I need to know what kind of enemies he’s made.”

Marko snorts. He’s as pale as fresh snow. Fear like I’ve never seen shines from his eyes. “He doesn’t tell me what he’s got cooking. My mother told me to stay out of the press before we ventured to New York last week, but she didn’t say why.”

Stay out of the press
. My guess would be Representative Veltriv has some big moves he’s about to make, or a move he wishes to be involved in, at the very least. Marko’s antics make him a liability.

The glass clanks and crunches on the floor of the limo as we turn again.

I lean around Marko to look out the back window.

I freeze.

A black SUV is following us, riding our bumper.

Kidnapping
. Damn it.

The windows are tinted, and with the added cloak of night, I can’t make out how many are in the car. I narrow my eyes, training them on the driver as we pass under a series of streetlights. The yellowish glare distorts the windshield but highlights just enough that I can make out the build of the driver.

It’s a man. He’s tall with broad shoulders. He has a big head, not comically huge, but bigger than Marko’s. His jaw is square, rough. I can’t make out his features, but memory stirs in me again.

Can’t be.

I’m projecting, and I try like hell to lock that shit down as I turn and crawl off Marko’s lap. It’s at least a three man team, with our driver included. There’s the driver of the SUV, and muscle carrying some sort of weapon—mostly like a gun. If this is a kidnapping, I doubt they’ll open fire on the car. They’ll want Marko alive.

Even so, it’s better to be safe than sorry.

“Slide down on the floor,” I tell him.

“There’s broken glass everywhere.”

“Fine,” I say. “Get shot in the back of the head. It’s your funeral.”

He’s on the ground in the next second. I hear the SUV speed up as it pulls along the left side of the car. I’m no longer sold on this being a kidnapping. This has the makings of a hit.

I count seconds in my head. The shooter only holds his wad for twenty before he unleashes a barrage of bullets into the limo. The SUV flies along the length of the car, spraying lead the entire way down.

I scream for Marko to duck and cover his eyes. I’ve got my body on top of his, shielding his vital organs.

“The glass is bullet proof,” Marko yells.

No such thing
. I want to tell him that, but I don’t have to. I’m guessing based on how easily the windows shatter, they’re using armor piercing rounds. Those things will tear through just about anything if you’re persistent enough.

I tumble off Marko and glance out the now wide-open side windows. We’re on an empty side road, nearly to the edge of the entrance for the bridge. A sinking weight fills my stomach. My skin tightens with anticipation.

We're heading right for the water.

They’re going to drown us.

Shit
.

The SUV circles around and moves to pass us on the left side of the car. I ache for my gun. I could take each of those bastards out with my gun.

I wait for the gunman to shoot out the first window before I sit up. The driver’s window is down as is the back window. The shooter sits in the back and I get a good look at what he’s working with. The M60 he fires lights up as he unleashes another bout of bullets into the limo. The angle is extreme, moving a good sixty miles an hour with wind whipping in my eyes, but I catch a hint of black hair and a scar on the side of the driver’s bright white neck.

Little by little, I’ll piece these bastards together. Bit by bit, I’ll figure out how to defeat them.

I’m taking a flying leap into the dark, but I’m willing to bet these are Russian hitmen that I’m dealing with.

Great. The only thing more deadly is a ninja.

Little do these bastards know, they’re dealing with a soldier trained by the best Russian hitman to ever live.

Pain pierces my heart, and I use it. I let it spread along my veins and numb me inside and out.

“We’re not going to have much time,” I say.

“For what?” Marko’s voice is strained.

I glance down and see a shard of glass wedged in his side. He’s bleeding but not fatally. A healthy dose of fear settles into my bones. “How well can you swim?”

Despite the situation, his panic, and his pain, he smirks at that. “You were the one ogling me earlier today. You tell me.”

I nod. As long as we don’t get trapped under the weight of the car, or shot, we’ll be okay. We’ll swim to safety.

There’s a slight chance that they’ll park the car. That they’ll try to kill us before they toss the limo over the edge into the Hudson. In that case, I’ll try to fend them off and give him time to run. If he can at least get to a populated area, find another car or person with a cell phone, he can call for help.

Wait… that’s it. A phone.

“Do you have your phone on you?” I ask. I forgot I left mine back at the hotel and he told me I could use his in an emergency.

He searches his pockets and produces it. The screen is cracked from all the commotion, but it still works.

“Who are you calling?”

“Dominoes,” I say. I dial a number only six other people on earth have access to and wait for the beep. “This is Nightshade.” A loud burst echoes through the cabin as the SUV slams into the left side of the car. The door is bent and mangled—jammed.
Shit.
“I repeat, Nightshade. I am under heavy enemy fire with a friendly.” Another loud boom as the SUV destroys the right door. We’re trapped inside the car unless we wiggle out the windows. “Follow the coordinates one mile south from this transmission. Possible Titanic in process. All points S-O-S. Come and find me, boys.”

The limo has slowed speed, and I hang up, ignoring the questions Marko is throwing at me in rapid fire. Police will only get killed. It takes too long to get through to any governmental channels. Too much red tape. Only The Deadly Seven can find us now.

We pull alongside the edge of the river and stop. We’re a few hundred feet away from any sort of witnesses.

Great.

I hear the limo driver get out and see a flash of his gun as he stands next to the limo. He had a gun too. He could have shot us at any time, long before the SUV showed up. Why didn’t he? Who are the guys in the SUV?

Who’s behind all of this?

“What do you want?” Marko shouts.

I know how helpless he feels. I’ve been there. But I can’t let myself fall to fear.

I’m not giving up hope. It’s my job to keep him alive.

I slowly start to crawl toward the other side of the car, the side closest to the river. I’m going to climb out. I use the palm of my hand to smash out the remaining glass to the clear the ledge.

I don’t get any further than that.

My arm flies through the open window as force propels my body forward. The SUV has rammed the opposite side of the limo and is backing up to ram it again.

“
Yebat’
,” Marko shouts.

The SUV keeps slamming too violently for us to react. I feel the limo slip closer to the edge.

“I don’t know what they want,” Marko says, panicking as he turns to me. “What do they want to stop this?”

I don’t have any words for him. I’m done with this leg of the fight. “Brace yourself,” I warn. “It’s going to be cold.”