Codename: Nightshade (Deadly Seven Strike Force) Read Online Free Page B
Author: S Anderson
your life is the one that will end.
One.
The world slows to a standstill. All exterior sounds and sights fade away. I become the gun, squeezing my finger with just enough force to unleash the bullet. My heart beats three times before I see Pishkar’s head explode. I clear my brass, tucking the spent casing in my suit, and toss the rifle right into the water. Only then do the explosions overhead ring in my ears. The sparkling lights float and swirl above me, glittering reflections twinkling in the water.
Fireworks.
I lie down in the boat and crank the motor on, flying back to shore in two minutes flat. Cutting the line to the anchor, I release the boat in the current and race toward a car parked down an alley a few feet from the water.
Chaos has already erupted. Trucks swarm the streets, sirens blaring as the world discovers the new president has just been assassinated. I climb into the backseat of the Buick I stashed in the alley. Another black duffel waits for me. This includes another change of clothes, a passport, the desert eagle I acquired from Hassan, and a cover story to get me out of the country.
I strip out of the suit and stuff it in the duffel. The tan pants, dark red shirt, and black leather jacket fit me perfectly. A pair of flat sneakers finishes my outfit. The kit also includes a pair of glasses and a wig. I tuck my wet brown hair under the short black wig, ruffling the false hair with my fingers. The glasses have a slight magnification to them, and I blink a few times to adjust my sight. I shove the passport in my pocket and grab the duffel, ditching the car where it has been sitting for the past twenty-four hours.
I walk two blocks and toss the duffle in a trash bin along with a lit match. People run this way and that, screams and gunshots peppering the air. No one is concerned by the suddenly burning trash.
I walk, never once running, keeping to the shadows as I work my way to the edge of town. Border checks are already tight, but I don’t worry.
I have a way out of town.
A bus is parked four vehicles from the checkpoint. I strut straight to the door and tap on the glass. The driver gives me an odd look but presses the release to open the door.
I hold out my passport, and he nods when he sees my cover.
“Sorry, got lost,” I say with an innocent smile. I bend my words with a proper British accent to sell the fact that I’m speaking English and not a local dialect.
He shakes his head, motioning toward the seats.
Twenty other people are on the bus—college students who visited the city for the historical presidential address this afternoon. I ease into a seat next to a young man who’s crying. He’s holding a worn and faded card in his hand. The image on it is of a young Pishkar.
I keep my head down, making no eye contact with anyone else. My passport says my name is Mylia Azar and that I’m from a town just outside the city. I look the part. So long as no one speaks to me and expects me to answer in the native tongue, I’m home free.
The bus bounces and sways as we move forward, one car, then another, and finally another. We’re next for inspection. I know no one saw me in the water. No one found me before I ditched the raft. I highly doubt they’ve had time to narrow the gunshot to the bay at all at this point. Even so, my heart jerks once in my chest.
Keep it in check, Poppy.
Lights shine through the windows. The boy beside me covers his eyes with his arm. I hear the creak of the door hinges a second before an armed soldier steps onto the bus. I tell myself to look afraid. Everyone around me is cowering, nervous. For the first time tonight, I let myself feel a twinge of what I’ve been cutting off. I realize how close I stood to the man I killed.
A life ended tonight because of me.
When the soldier reaches me, my eyes are on his boots, as tears drip from the tip of my nose. He shouts something that I don’t need a translator to understand is a threat. The faintest gasp
One.
The world slows to a standstill. All exterior sounds and sights fade away. I become the gun, squeezing my finger with just enough force to unleash the bullet. My heart beats three times before I see Pishkar’s head explode. I clear my brass, tucking the spent casing in my suit, and toss the rifle right into the water. Only then do the explosions overhead ring in my ears. The sparkling lights float and swirl above me, glittering reflections twinkling in the water.
Fireworks.
I lie down in the boat and crank the motor on, flying back to shore in two minutes flat. Cutting the line to the anchor, I release the boat in the current and race toward a car parked down an alley a few feet from the water.
Chaos has already erupted. Trucks swarm the streets, sirens blaring as the world discovers the new president has just been assassinated. I climb into the backseat of the Buick I stashed in the alley. Another black duffel waits for me. This includes another change of clothes, a passport, the desert eagle I acquired from Hassan, and a cover story to get me out of the country.
I strip out of the suit and stuff it in the duffel. The tan pants, dark red shirt, and black leather jacket fit me perfectly. A pair of flat sneakers finishes my outfit. The kit also includes a pair of glasses and a wig. I tuck my wet brown hair under the short black wig, ruffling the false hair with my fingers. The glasses have a slight magnification to them, and I blink a few times to adjust my sight. I shove the passport in my pocket and grab the duffel, ditching the car where it has been sitting for the past twenty-four hours.
I walk two blocks and toss the duffle in a trash bin along with a lit match. People run this way and that, screams and gunshots peppering the air. No one is concerned by the suddenly burning trash.
I walk, never once running, keeping to the shadows as I work my way to the edge of town. Border checks are already tight, but I don’t worry.
I have a way out of town.
A bus is parked four vehicles from the checkpoint. I strut straight to the door and tap on the glass. The driver gives me an odd look but presses the release to open the door.
I hold out my passport, and he nods when he sees my cover.
“Sorry, got lost,” I say with an innocent smile. I bend my words with a proper British accent to sell the fact that I’m speaking English and not a local dialect.
He shakes his head, motioning toward the seats.
Twenty other people are on the bus—college students who visited the city for the historical presidential address this afternoon. I ease into a seat next to a young man who’s crying. He’s holding a worn and faded card in his hand. The image on it is of a young Pishkar.
I keep my head down, making no eye contact with anyone else. My passport says my name is Mylia Azar and that I’m from a town just outside the city. I look the part. So long as no one speaks to me and expects me to answer in the native tongue, I’m home free.
The bus bounces and sways as we move forward, one car, then another, and finally another. We’re next for inspection. I know no one saw me in the water. No one found me before I ditched the raft. I highly doubt they’ve had time to narrow the gunshot to the bay at all at this point. Even so, my heart jerks once in my chest.
Keep it in check, Poppy.
Lights shine through the windows. The boy beside me covers his eyes with his arm. I hear the creak of the door hinges a second before an armed soldier steps onto the bus. I tell myself to look afraid. Everyone around me is cowering, nervous. For the first time tonight, I let myself feel a twinge of what I’ve been cutting off. I realize how close I stood to the man I killed.
A life ended tonight because of me.
When the soldier reaches me, my eyes are on his boots, as tears drip from the tip of my nose. He shouts something that I don’t need a translator to understand is a threat. The faintest gasp
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