Codename: Nightshade (Deadly Seven Strike Force) Read Online Free Page A
Author: S Anderson
course, ducking behind a flower arrangement. If Hassan’s here, that means his guards will be roaming the perimeter. I don’t anticipate altering my plan, but this situation just became trickier.
I cut through an empty exhibit hall, to a service closet, finding the duffel bag stashed by Ace earlier in the evening. My blood is spiked with energy, but my heart rate remains steady.
Keep this in check, Poppy. Your heart commands your body. If it’s out of control, then so are you.
I take a measured breath as I lay every article from the bag on the ground in front of me. I take a rapid inventory and begin to strip. My shoes, wig, and dress go into the bag before I stash it back under the cleaning supplies. The harsh sting of ammonia burns my nostrils, and for a moment I lose all other scents except for the chemical. I slide on a black wet suit and lock the small breathing apparatus to my collar. Goggles, gloves, and flippers in hand, I make my way out the back and around the side of the building.
The museum is an island. Armed guards patrol the narrow walkways between the walls and the water, with two boats circling the bay. I check my watch.
Eight minutes.
After slipping on the goggles and flippers, I wait for the nearest guards to move out of my eye-line before sprinting to the water and diving in. The water’s shallow but quickly flows into the deeper levels of the bay. I have my strokes timed with speed of the boats that I’ve watched all night, so I pass through their perimeter unnoticed.
Five minutes.
Halfway between the island and the mainland, I swim to the dead center of the blue light reflected in the water—to a black rubber raft I tethered to the shore earlier in the day. I knew the current would naturally draw it out to this point and counted on the fact that the patrols would be pulled closer to the museum due to the party. One lone raft without any passengers would be overlooked for one night.
I ditch the goggles and flippers in the water as I tumble into the raft.
Two minutes.
The rifle is tucked under a tarp, already loaded and primed. A drop of water runs down my cheek and I ignore it, lining my sight to the roof as I brace my elbows on the rim of the raft. Through the scope, I spot Ace first. He scratches the stubble along his jaw. He’s speaking to a woman I don’t recognize… flirting with her, according to the blush on her cheeks and the way her lips keep parting as she gazes at him.
I move the sight to the right, to where Pishkar stands near Ace.
One minute.
Sixty seconds, Poppy. It might seem like no time at all, but everything can change within it. Make it count.
I draw in a slow breath, keeping the scope lined with the back of Pishkar’s head.
Forty-five seconds.
My heartbeat’s steady. I flex my trigger finger.
Thirty seconds.
Pishkar turns, taking one step out of my sight. Ace steps into my shot, grabbing Pishkar’s attention to draw him back to the target zone. I don’t know what Ace tells him, but the man is slapping Ace’s chest, drunk and overly animated. Not good . Ace leans ever so slightly in my direction.
Twenty-two seconds.
They turn around so Pishkar’s back is to me once more. Still bad. Ace is now lined in the shot along with Pishkar. The bullet will pass through the target and hit him square in the chest. Over the old man’s shoulder, I see Ace raise his glass of champagne. Everyone around him assumes he’s toasting the man of the hour, but I can see his eyes—or his sunglasses, rather—are fixed toward the water… toward me.
You damn well better duck.
Ten seconds.
I can hear the crowd begin to count down. I see the boats stop in the distance between my position and the target.
Nine seconds.
Eight seconds.
Seven seconds.
My focus narrows to one patch of hair on the back of the man’s head.
Six seconds.
Five seconds.
Four seconds.
Can you kill a man, Poppy? Can you take a life?
Three seconds.
Two…
Don’t hesitate, Poppy. Hesitate and
I cut through an empty exhibit hall, to a service closet, finding the duffel bag stashed by Ace earlier in the evening. My blood is spiked with energy, but my heart rate remains steady.
Keep this in check, Poppy. Your heart commands your body. If it’s out of control, then so are you.
I take a measured breath as I lay every article from the bag on the ground in front of me. I take a rapid inventory and begin to strip. My shoes, wig, and dress go into the bag before I stash it back under the cleaning supplies. The harsh sting of ammonia burns my nostrils, and for a moment I lose all other scents except for the chemical. I slide on a black wet suit and lock the small breathing apparatus to my collar. Goggles, gloves, and flippers in hand, I make my way out the back and around the side of the building.
The museum is an island. Armed guards patrol the narrow walkways between the walls and the water, with two boats circling the bay. I check my watch.
Eight minutes.
After slipping on the goggles and flippers, I wait for the nearest guards to move out of my eye-line before sprinting to the water and diving in. The water’s shallow but quickly flows into the deeper levels of the bay. I have my strokes timed with speed of the boats that I’ve watched all night, so I pass through their perimeter unnoticed.
Five minutes.
Halfway between the island and the mainland, I swim to the dead center of the blue light reflected in the water—to a black rubber raft I tethered to the shore earlier in the day. I knew the current would naturally draw it out to this point and counted on the fact that the patrols would be pulled closer to the museum due to the party. One lone raft without any passengers would be overlooked for one night.
I ditch the goggles and flippers in the water as I tumble into the raft.
Two minutes.
The rifle is tucked under a tarp, already loaded and primed. A drop of water runs down my cheek and I ignore it, lining my sight to the roof as I brace my elbows on the rim of the raft. Through the scope, I spot Ace first. He scratches the stubble along his jaw. He’s speaking to a woman I don’t recognize… flirting with her, according to the blush on her cheeks and the way her lips keep parting as she gazes at him.
I move the sight to the right, to where Pishkar stands near Ace.
One minute.
Sixty seconds, Poppy. It might seem like no time at all, but everything can change within it. Make it count.
I draw in a slow breath, keeping the scope lined with the back of Pishkar’s head.
Forty-five seconds.
My heartbeat’s steady. I flex my trigger finger.
Thirty seconds.
Pishkar turns, taking one step out of my sight. Ace steps into my shot, grabbing Pishkar’s attention to draw him back to the target zone. I don’t know what Ace tells him, but the man is slapping Ace’s chest, drunk and overly animated. Not good . Ace leans ever so slightly in my direction.
Twenty-two seconds.
They turn around so Pishkar’s back is to me once more. Still bad. Ace is now lined in the shot along with Pishkar. The bullet will pass through the target and hit him square in the chest. Over the old man’s shoulder, I see Ace raise his glass of champagne. Everyone around him assumes he’s toasting the man of the hour, but I can see his eyes—or his sunglasses, rather—are fixed toward the water… toward me.
You damn well better duck.
Ten seconds.
I can hear the crowd begin to count down. I see the boats stop in the distance between my position and the target.
Nine seconds.
Eight seconds.
Seven seconds.
My focus narrows to one patch of hair on the back of the man’s head.
Six seconds.
Five seconds.
Four seconds.
Can you kill a man, Poppy? Can you take a life?
Three seconds.
Two…
Don’t hesitate, Poppy. Hesitate and
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