Codename: Nightshade (Deadly Seven Strike Force) by S Anderson Page A

cold.”
    His eyes widen. “What is?”
    “That water.”
    The SUV hits us again, and that’s it.
    “Marko,” I scream as the world drops out from under us.
    Gravity shifts, and for a second, I’m weightless. The car is suspended midair, Marko and I floating in the middle of it. A large shadow stands at the ledge, aiming a gun straight for us.
    It’s an impossible hit. He’d have to shoot between the broken windows and hope for the best. Very few people could ever make the shot. I've only ever known one.
    Even so, I use what’s left of my energy to throw my body toward Marko, but I’m too late. A bullet whizzes into the cabin a second before we plunge into the river.
    It’s October. The weather has just begun to shift, and the leaves are red and yellow in the trees that line the banks. The water is ice when I hit it. It locks my lungs, seizing every inch of my body at once.
    This can’t be the end.
    I told myself a long time ago I wouldn’t go out like this.
     

     
    I remember when I was a kid—maybe three or four. My mother would let me spend some time alone in the tub after she finished washing my hair. She’d leave the bathroom door open just in case I needed her help. I’d splash and play, imagining my toys were submarines on secret missions.
    I never felt threatened by the water, never feared being alone in it.
    But then, that water had been warm and comforting. My mother was only a few feet away, ready to save me if needed be.
    The water I find myself in now is freezing—ice slashing at my skin and ripping me apart. I’m held down, forced to feel it, to face the pain.
    My mommy isn’t going to help me now.
    As brutally as I'm shoved under, I’m yanked right back above the surface. Water spews from my lips, and I gag as I try to breathe.
    “You’re useless,” a voice shouts, the cruelty of the man's voice is nothing compared to the sincerity of his words. His hands are gripped like vices to my shirt.
    I can’t take a full breath, can’t defend myself in any way before he plunges me under the water again. This time is worse. This time I’m caught off guard. I didn’t get enough air into my lungs before he did it. My arms and legs are dead weight, pulling down like lead anchors. I’m not kicking and fighting anymore.
    I can’t.
    Darkness bleeds into my vision. Somehow the cold is turning into comforting warmth.
    “Come on.” I hear a muffled, warped voice yelling. I’m detached from my body, detached from my mind, floating someplace I can’t describe. “No, you don’t. You hear me? You are not allowed to die!”
    Those words strike me as funny, and I want to laugh. If I still had lungs, I would laugh. I didn’t want to die, either. I just wanted to feel like I belonged somewhere for once in my life. Why did I think agreeing to this training would do that for me?
    “Breathe.” The command is ferocious. I’m pretty sure my lungs begin to move simply from fear.
    I hear a weak, shredded gasp a second before I feel my lungs contract. Feeling returns to my body slowly. Eventually I realize I’ve become a fish, flopping mindlessly on the ground. I’m soaking and shaking.
    My eyes clear, and I see he’s inches from my face—angry.
    “What am I going to do with you, Recruit Vincent?” General Zolkov gives me a hard stare that somehow makes my numb body shiver. “You’re a disgrace.”
    “I’ll do better, sir,” I say through chattering teeth.
    He shakes his head, dropping me right there on the ground like a heap of garbage.
    “I told them I believed you have what it takes.”
    I lay on my side, panting. I can feel my heart in my chest. Every vessel straining as it pulls and pushes. My blood is slowing down, each beat exaggerated. My skin is so cold it’s burning from the inside out as my body fights for life.
    I stare at his boots. I feel like dog shit smudged on the bottom of those boots.
    “I do, sir,” I say between strangled breaths.
    “You’ve yet to prove it to me,