Operation Zulu Redemption: Hazardous Duty - Part 3 (15 page)

“Téya, just hold your position.”

“I doubt she’s going to take any
leaps of faith
,” Houston said with a snicker, his fingers flying over the keyboard, guiding his fly drone toward the grate. “Yep, definitely electronic. I’m going to guess that opens to release the floodgates of sewage.”

“Can you open it?”

“That I can, Commander.”

“Téya,” Trace said leaning over Houston’s shoulder to get a better view provided by the drone. “Is Nesim wise to your bug? If you think he is, clear your throat.”

Only the sound of wind across the microphone came through.

“Good,” Trace said.

Beside them, Annie breathed a sigh of relief. “I still can’t believe she’s doing this. It’s insane—a trap!”

Trace shot Annie a glare. One that told her to settle down. He knew how to run an op. She should know that.

“You send her in there alone, then abandon her.”

This time the look he sent her way had more personal and emotional capital behind it. “Nobody has abandoned her. Rusty and Nuala are there.” And other assets he’d put on alert, ones nobody in this room knew about. He and Téya knew this op was a cesspool of trouble, especially when the Turks had told them he needed to stay behind. She could have an escort, but not Trace. Whatever this was, it was personal and involved Téya.

Because of that, they’d gone to extra precautions. Set up contingencies. If Trace could’ve left the country, he’d have been there. But with Boone at the hospital, that left the bunker unguarded. That’s what she felt, wasn’t it? That he abandoned her. But he wouldn’t argue with her. Not in front of the geek, whose ears were burning as he listened to this conversation.

Sam appeared from the rear bunk room, his arm supported in a sling. He moved slowly, tentatively.

Annie pushed out of her seat and went to him. “Shouldn’t you be resting?”

“I’ve rested enough to have Rip Van Winkle on my headstone when I die,” Sam said as he kept moving toward the stations hub. “What’s happening?”

Trace would not answer that. And he hoped Annie wouldn’t, but she was letting her feelings for the Squid get in the way of everything: common sense, operational security, and personal relationships. For now, Trace had to focus on making sure Téya stayed alive.

“Have you figured out what they want from you, yet?” That’s the thing. Everyone knew the Turks were using Téya for something nefarious. What that was. . . “Clear your throat if you know.”

Again, only strong wind.

“Do you still feel it’s trouble, a trap? Clear for yes.”

A rumble boomed through the speakers.

“Uh,” Houston said, lifting his head from his task, “that would be a
definite
yes.”

“Don’t worry,” Trace said. “Nuala has eyes on you.” He glanced at the second monitor that held a video recording of what Nuala was watching through the scope of her rifle. “And Rusty’s there.”

“Okay, the grate should release in three. . .two. . .”

Through the feed, they heard a loud, metallic groaning.

“Watch out!” Téya’s shout was followed by a whoosh of liquid-sounding noise.

“I’m going to hurl,” Houston said. “Heights
and
a pile of sh—”

“Houston,” Trace said. “Are there cameras she needs to worry about?”

Houston’s curly head never came up, though he’d spouted off. “Already on it.” The clicking of the keys mingled with the disgusted grunts of Téya and her escort.

“Disgusting,” Téya said, and blew what sounded like a raspberry.

“Yeah, okay, I didn’t need to know that,” Houston said. “It’s one thing to get crapped on.” He looked up and waggled eyebrows with a
Get it?
look. “Another to—”

“Just get it shut down,” Trace said.

“Aye, aye, commander.”

Grunts filled the feed once more, and Trace knew they were on the move again. “The drone is still operational. Just play it cool. We’re right with you, Téya.”

Still nauseated at the smell of raw sewage, Téya low-crawled through the tunnel on her belly, using her elbows to advance. Behind her, she heard the soft splashes of Nesim. He’d been surprisingly agile in the climb and stealthy now. She’d underestimated him on the plane, she guessed. He didn’t look like the type of guy who could make a climb like that.

Another twenty minutes or so in, following the pattern she’d randomly chosen—left, left, left, right, left. It’d matched the cadence of the ROTC program she’d been in, that her stepfather, Georg, had demanded she do. As a child under his roof, she had no choice. It’d made her mother happy that she didn’t argue. It made Téya happy that she learned to shoot weapons and, once she’d climbed up in rank, got to boss the other cadets around. That was enough for her.

As she banked left for the last time, she slowed. It was dark. Very dark. She should’ve expected this.

A soft tap came to her leg.

She glanced over her shoulder. “Dead end,” she whispered. “They barricaded it.”

Nesim waved her back. They renegotiated the last passage and went right instead of left. As they moved along, this time with Nesim in the lead because of the narrow space and having backed out, light trickled into the tunnel. They came to an air vent. Blades of a fan whirred rapidly, daring them to put their fingers in and get them chopped off.

Tugging a small pack she hadn’t noticed before from his back, Nesim produced a small torch. He burned through the heavy bolts that held the fan vent on. Téya’s gut churned at the thought of having to stop that fan. What if it burned out the motor and set off an alarm? What if it slipped while one of them was climbing through?

Like a pro, Nesim freed the vent cover. Once he’d done that, he reached toward the motor at the center, avoiding the blades completely. With a few deft moves he had stopped the fan.

“Not your first rodeo, huh?” Téya said. She hated that she felt impressed. They were forcing her here.
Why?

Bracing the fan blades so they didn’t move, Nesim hauled his legs out from under his body and sat. He nodded to the interior vent. “Hold it.” Using both booted feet, he shoved hard.

Téya pitched forward. The vent came loose, and she nearly fell into the room, but Nesim caught her by the waist. He slowly lowered her into the room. She let the encasing rest against the vinyl floor, then pressed both palms to the side and did a sort of cartwheel to her feet. Nesim was at her side.

Metal lockers lined the wall, a few plastic-encased steel benches straddled drain holes. Half walls encircled a center tiled area. Showers.

“You’re entering what, according to our schematics, is the locker room.”

“Outdated,” Téya muttered.

“What?” Nesim asked.

“My memories are outdated,” she said, covering her mistake. “This used to be a laundry room.”

Nesim rushed to the lockers and dug through them. He produced a green jumpsuit and held it out to her, motioning to the showers.

“No,” she hissed. “We have to find Majid, right?”

But he was already going through other lockers. “We reek. They’ll smell us a mile away.” He bent over a lower locker, yanked something out, then straightened. A blue jumpsuit. “Go,” he said again, heading in the opposite direction.

This was all kinds of wrong. But she did stink. And they were probably tracking muck—she glanced at her brown footprints on the floor. Yep.

She stripped, showered, and donned the suit, grateful her undergarments weren’t soaked. But they were damp enough to have some of the smell. As were her socks and boots. When she stepped around the corner, dressed, she found Nesim walking toward her. He had a gun. Aimed it at her.

Téya froze. “You wanted me clean before you killed me?”

With an apologetic shrug, he said, “Sorry.” And fired.

“What just happened?”

Mouth open, eyes wide, Houston stared at his systems. His
silent
systems. “I. . .”

“Téya,” Trace called through the coms. “Téya can you hear me?” He spun to Houston. “But we can still hear what’s going on, right?”

“Her piece is dead,” Houston said, a stunned, bewildered expression plastered to his face. “I don’t know how. It’s waterproof. That shower shouldn’t have affected it.”

“The shower didn’t,” Trace said.

“Is she dead?” Houston asked, his voice squeaking on the last word.

“Negative.” Trace would not accept that. “If she was dead, we should still be able to hear, right?”

“Uh. . .yeah.” Houston sat a bit straighter. “Yes. If she died, the piece wouldn’t.”

“Only an electrical surge can shut those down, right?”

Houston nodded but said nothing.

“Can anything else? Think, Houston!”

“No, nothing. I mean, they can fluke on us. Something goes haywire and it stops working, but that’s rare. It’s more likely that there was a surge somehow.”

“Stun gun,” Sam offered from the lounge area.

“Yes.” Houston blinked. “Yes, yes. The Squid is a genius—a stun gun. That’s why it died. It’s not because my technology is shoddy.”

Trace covered his mouth. He didn’t want to go there. Didn’t want to consider that option.

“Wait—wait. But that’s bad, right?” Houston swung another stupefied expression his way. “Because that means he shocked her. And that means he knows she was bugged.”

A direct violation of the agreement.

“Would he kill her?”

“Why stun her then kill her?” Sam said.

Trace grouped up what he had left of his nerves and shifted his focus to a recovery mission. “Rusty.”

“I’m on my way in,” Rusty said without hesitation.

“Noodle.”

“I have no joy,” she said.

“Stay eyes out. Keep me posted.”

“Roger, eyes out,” Nuala repeated.

Whatever had just gone down in that facility, Téya was in trouble. The Turk had her. The skilled, trained assassin who had targeted her for the last month had caught up with her. Played chess with her life. Now, was he calling checkmate?

Téya blinked and found herself in a small, dimly lit room. Fire licked through her veins, through every tendril of her flesh. Every hair follicle. Confused, disoriented, she tried to remember how she’d gotten here. In a flash, she remembered the claws of the Taser grabbing her in the chest and pumping voltage through her body. Her heart had seized. Her lungs squeezed, forbidding a breath.

She dragged herself upright and looked around.

Nesim stood against the wall, arms folded and one leg crossed over the other at the ankle. As if this were a casual day and meeting.

“I knew you’d try to kill me,” she gritted, rubbing the spot on her chest that still tingled from the tiny charges. “Why not just put a sniper bullet through my gray matter? It would have saved us both some time.” She held her palm to her forehead, begging for a breath and heartbeat that didn’t hurt.

He came closer. “I was not trying to kill you,” he said as he reached for the black hood.

Téya shoved to her feet. Used her palm and struck upward, aiming for his nose.

Skilled and swift, he caught her hand. Jerked it behind her back, then dropped to the floor, forcing her down. Her cheek hit hard. “Try that again, and I will kill you.”

“What do you want with me?”

“That is my concern. Your concern is compliance.” He released her and hopped up, standing over her.

Téya pulled her throbbing head and wounded pride off the floor.

Lowering his head, Nesim reached for the top of his hood again. He pulled it off and scrubbed his still-wet hair. Only then did she realize, he didn’t have Nesim’s jet-black hair.

He lifted his gaze.

Mentally, Téya threw herself backward, screaming. But a split-second defiance zipped through her. She went perfectly still. However, she could not fend off the terror clawing her courage. She tried to make sense of what she saw. The tattoo on his left cheekbone.

He said he hadn’t come to kill her. This time. Then. . .what? Was she to be a captive? His prisoner? Even as she locked gazes with him, she let herself take in her periphery. It sure looked like a cell. Gray cement walls. A lone bed.

He held out his hand, something small in his palm—the device she’d tucked in her ear before making the climb with him. “You were bugged, and that was expressly forbidden.”

Téya said nothing. She stared at him. Hard.

“You are smart not to tempt my anger further. I could’ve used this”—he showed her a Glock—“instead of the Taser.”

“But killing me would’ve defeated the reason you brought me here.” She hoped it’d induce him to tell her what that reason was.

He almost seemed to smile, the star-crescent dancing. “Still, you do not remember.”

Téya frowned. What was she supposed to remember? “What, that you tried to kill me in Paris? Or are you talking about Greece?” She held up the brand.

“Come.” The almost light tenor of his voice and his amusement vanished. “On your feet.”

“What? I thought I was to be your prisoner.”

“Do you remember what Nesim told you about this place?” He stood at the door, gripping the handle.

She did not want to cooperate. But what choice did she have? She couldn’t fight him. He was stronger. Faster.

“You may believe me to be the biggest threat to your safety here, but you could not be more wrong.” He cocked his head toward the door. “Ready?”

“What are we doing here?”

Light flicked into the room. “Quiet,” he hissed at her, grabbing her arm.

Téya flinched at his tight hold. She was about to cry out when she saw two men in black tactical gear stalking down the hall ahead of them. Heavily armed. Intent on something. Had they discovered the fan where she and Nesim—The Turk—had entered?

The realization that she was with The Turk made her head spin. What if he planned to kill someone and frame her for it? It was the only thought that made sense. Why he’d drag her through this facility and not tell her where they were going.

Téya jerked back, planting a foot hard so she could break free of him.

The Turk, again, had lightning fast reflexes. Before her hand could even come up, he held her in a strangle hold from behind. “Stop!” he hissed as he manhandled her over into a shadowed alcove.

“Why? Why me? What do you want with me here?” she squeezed out, her pulse whooshing in her ears.

“There are cameras here. Security officers more than double the staff. Do you want to alert them to your presence?”

Téya considered that. Would it be so bad if she were caught? That would mean he was caught, too, right?

No, he’d escape. If he could outmaneuver her so easily, he’d be gone in a heartbeat.

“You want to know why? I will show you why,” he said, loosening his hold, then nudging her into the corner, his forearm against her throat. “You must do exactly as I say, or the guards will see you. And they will not hesitate to give you that bullet you asked about earlier.” His eyes bored into her, but the tattoo was peculiarly distracting. “Clear?”

Téya swallowed around the pressure of his arm then nodded.

Slowly, he released her. “Come.” Again, he took her by the arm. Led her hurriedly down a series of doors and passages.

As they navigated the facility, Téya realized something. It was terrifying and yet reassuring at the same time—he knew where he was going. Which meant he didn’t need her to lead him in the back door.

What is going on?

They rounded a corner, and a single door stared back. It was marked S
ecurity
. It was the same door she’d been herded into the night they’d caught her.

“Wait,” she hissed.

But the Turk rushed into the room. In the time it took her to shut the door, he had incapacitated the two security officers sitting at the monitors.

“What—”

“Quiet,” he hissed and leaned over the keyboard. He took control of a security camera. Made a few clicks. “Come.”

She hated the way he commanded her. The way he assumed she’d do what he said. She toyed with grabbing one of the weapons from the guards.

“Reiker,” he growled.

And something twisted sideways in Téya. A chill raced up her spine. She joined him at the desk, feeling unsettled. Unnerved. Her mind struggling to catch up with whatever had triggered the weird feeling.

“Look,” he said, one hand on the desk, the other pointing to the monitor.

“That’s Red Wing.”

Téya’s breath caught. “I thought it was an organization. Nesim said it belonged to Red Wing.”

“Red Wing is a man,
that
man.”

The man stood with his back to the camera, poised as he spoke with a group of guards. Several other guards ran in. Red Wing’s body language changed from composed to enraged. Arms flailing. Pointing.

“Why didn’t you just tell us where he was? Why bring me—”

Red Wing turned, exposing his face to the camera. To Téya.

Téya went ice cold. No. “Not possible,” she whispered, tears blurring her vision. Her heart went from dangerously slow to a rapid-fire beat that made it feel like it’d climb out of her chest. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. “He—that can’t be. . .he’s. . .he’s
dead
.”