Codename: Nightshade (Deadly Seven Strike Force) Read Online Free

ago, Pishkar rose quickly through military ranks to claim the head of the nation. He’s been at the center of the fallout, playing the noble leader who negotiated peace with the rebels and the cease fire that the world has deemed the calm before the storm. CNN is doing their damnedest to spin the situation as a celebration of the birth of democracy in the region, but even they have to know this wasn’t needed. Not here. Qatar has been the world’s richest country for decades, with a thriving government and society.
    Pishkar acts as if his new title is a surprise, and yet he was sworn into office less than twenty-four hours ago while this party has been scheduled for nearly six months.
    I give up the illusion of caring about anything except for the view, leaning fully on the railing at the edge of the roof. I sense movement to my right, catching a hint of a penguin suit in my peripheral. I keep my stance casual while planning out exactly where to plant enough force to shove the guy over the ledge if need be.
    I catch a scent on the air—cinnamon. I relax.
    Ace.
    His shoulder is two inches above mine when he stops beside me. He leans his ass against the railing, snagging my champagne without invitation. “Really wish you’d take me up on that offer to get naked.”
    His voice is low enough that only I can hear him. Even so, I’m glad I’m not facing the crowd at the party. My cheeks grow warm with a blush. “What have I told you about mixing business with pleasure?”
    “This is about business,” he says, exchanging the now empty glass for a refill as he flirts with the waitress.
    I roll my eyes. “How is us getting naked business?”
    “I want to see the brass fucking balls you’ve got to have tucked back under that dress.”
    I break protocol and glance at him. He smirks. He’s almost too pretty to look at with his russet colored skin and playboy styled black hair that fans across his forehead like he’s waiting for a cover shoot with Vogue. He’s wearing sunglasses… at night. They’re lightly tinted and oversized, like something out of a 70s porno. I’m often of the opinion that he only became a soldier to work undercover missions like this and pretend he’s a model.
    I give him a look that warns I’ll slap him if he doesn’t stop teasing me. He knows I won’t, that’s why he’s taking the chance. I’m less than a foot away from Pishkar. All eyes on him have an opportunity to also see me.
    I’m a covert agent. Being seen isn’t in my job description.
    “Boss said locate the target,” I say, stealing his glass. I enjoy every bit of his stunned look as I down the alcohol. I have a low tolerance for it. I hate to drink, especially on the job, but the hour’s getting late, all the pieces are in play, and adrenaline is already pulsing through my veins so hot that my muscles are vibrating. “I located the target.”
    He takes the empty glass from me and smiles wider. I turn and fade into the crowd before he can say another word. Now’s not the time for small talk. His appearance was planned. I have a schedule to keep.
    I don’t make eye contact with anyone, but I make sure just about everyone gets a glimpse of my skin-tight red dress. I cut across the rooftop and work my way down the right side of the oval staircase that leads into the main lobby. So many people are crammed into every level of this building that my anonymity is secured. People might recall my attire, maybe even remember the way my black wig flows over my shoulders, but they won’t be able to describe anything unique about me. I’ve got Hassan’s tanned skin and sharp looks. I blend in with everyone else invited tonight.
    I float around the exterior of the group in the lobby, stalling when I hear a familiar voice.
    “The only good oil is that in a man’s palm and not in the ground,” Hassan says. “Find a woman and rub her down, gentlemen. Let the politicians drown in their wells.”
    Damn. I talked up the Devil.
    I change