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

The guy on his right—head shaved bald and arms built like a tank—tugged Sam forward as a blue SUV pulled to a stop fifteen feet away. The random lights of the airstrip made it hard to decipher anything within that vehicle. Passenger-side door opened, a man stepped out and started toward them. He had short-cropped light brown hair with a receding hairline. All the same, the guy looked thirty-five, maybe forty at most. Though the late hour cast shadows over the man’s face, it only added to the grim, terse expression he wore. Ticked. How Sam knew, he couldn’t be sure. But that anger combined with at least two concealed weapons that Sam could detect—one beneath a lightweight jacket and one at the ankle—put Sam on edge.

The way he moved, head up, gaze swiveling to take in their surroundings, identify threats or trouble, the grim set of his mouth and jaw, the way he homed in on Sam without reservation. . .this guy had military written all over him. Usually, that worked to Sam’s benefit, able to connect on a brothers-in-arms level. But with the way he stalked toward them, staring—no,
glaring
—Sam knew there was nothing brotherly here.

“He say anything?” the new guy asked the man on his right.

“Not a word, Colonel.”

Military—yeah, pegged that one.
Being called a colonel didn’t mean the guy was still active duty. Active or not, he wasn’t in uniform, so this was either an unofficial mission or worse, unsanctioned.

“Just sat there like a good Boy Scout,” the tank-like guy said.

The colonel raked a gaze over Sam, his green eyes both assessing and condemning. “Too busy trying to figure out what’s going on.”

Sam felt naked the way this guy could read him. And angry—he’d surrendered too much control to them. Had to swing some power back into his court. “Thinking you could fill me in.”

“Might want to stop thinking before you hurt yourself.” The colonel turned slowly, his irritation evident as he took a few steps away. “Let’s go.”

Tank tugged him toward the vehicle.

No. It wasn’t happening like this. They weren’t going to get the luxury of him going quietly. Not anymore. He had a theory to test. A question burning his mind. In a defensive posture, Sam moved his right foot back.

Tension cracked the air.

Tank shifted. “Hey!”

But Sam trained on the leader. “Annie Palermo.”

Lightning fast, the colonel spun around. His fist drove into Sam’s jaw. The strike whipped Sam to the right. Out of the Tank’s grip. Though pain spiked through his face and neck, Sam rolled with the momentum and stayed on his feet—barely, thanks to the chains. Straightening in the face of the attack, he gave a grin, one he knew would stoke the fires of contempt, and ignored the warmth sliding down his chin and neck.

The driver’s side door of the vehicle now hung open, a Dwayne Johnson wannabe standing there in the beam of a massive lamp. But Sam kept his gaze on the colonel in front of him. The man he would guess was none other than Trace Weston, the man Francesca Solomon mentioned. The responsible party, and that he’d riled the man gave Sam a sick sense of pleasure. “Hit a nerve,
Colonel
?”

The man launched at him.

Barreled into Sam. Knocked him backward, his chained hands unable to lift for defense. Another hard right drove straight into Sam’s cheek. With a sickening crack, Sam’s head bounced off the tarmac. Spots sprinkled through his vision as the man’s fist loomed again. Fiery pain exploded in Sam’s side.

“Hey, hey!” someone shouted.

The colonel was dragged off him by Tank and Wannabe.

Sam curled onto his side to haul himself up. White-hot fire blazed through his side, filling his lungs with painful breaths. The man might’ve broken a rib. On one knee, he wobbled but steadied himself. Spit the sweet, metallic taste from his mouth—blood.

More shouts and angry epithets flew. Sam closed his puffy eye and glanced up at the trio. Even as he stared at the colonel, his eye swelled, partially blocking his view. The colonel was out of control. Was this how he led? Sam sneered at him. If Solomon had been right, it wouldn’t take long to bring this guy down.

The colonel tugged himself free and stretched his neck.

Pressing his right arm against his side, Sam pushed to his feet, struggling for a breath that didn’t hurt. Having gained some control of power with a few words gave Sam new courage. “Where is she?”

The colonel rubbed his hand. “You piece of dirt. So obsessed with your need to have her, you never once thought about the danger you put her in!”

Sam stilled. Swallowed, assessing the flimsy information he had. It renewed his concern for Ashland. For her safety. “So she
is
in danger?”

“Not here,” Wannabe said to the colonel, who spun on his heels and stalked to the vehicle.

Wannabe came toward Sam, who tensed when he reached forward.

Sam moved a foot back, ready to fight again.

“Easy,” Wannabe growled and held up something. A key. He motioned to the chains. “Unless I need those on you.”

Sam’s gaze skipped to the colonel, who now stood at the vehicle, watching. “Only if you want him to kill me.”

Wannabe smirked. “Not a bad idea after the harm you’ve done.”

“I only wanted to know she was safe.”

“So you put her in danger to find out.” Thick-necked and barrel-chested, the man shook his head. “I think you spent too much time in the water, Frogman.”

The guy even smelled like a squid.

Trace balled his fist as Boone escorted Caliguari to the vehicle and set him directly behind the driver’s seat. Once they were underway, Trace knew he had to chill out enough to deal with this guy. Hands trembling from the rush of adrenaline, he worked to calm himself. It’d felt good—too good—to beat the daylights out of Caliguari. But he wasn’t proud of losing control.
When’s the last time that happened?

“Ashland’s in danger?” Caliguari sounded more penitent now, contrite almost. But Trace knew better than to answer that question as they pulled onto the highway.

Bringing the SEAL here had been more to tie his hands, but there was a fraction of hope that he could help. Yet, Trace couldn’t bring himself to talk to the guy. Knew Caliguari had baited him. And Trace bit—right into the guy’s face. Annie would have a field day with that.

“Look,
you
brought me here.”

Trace’s secure sat phone rang and he grabbed it, identified the caller, and answered, relieved to avoid the SEAL in the backseat. “Go ahead.”

“Hey, Houston here.”

Trace waited.

A nervous chuckle carried through the line. “I forget you know that already. You know everything, probably before I think it. I mean, not that you have psychic powers—”

“Houston,” Trace snapped, betraying how little patience he had left.

“Sorry.” Houston cleared his throat. “Right. Anyway. Uh, where was—oh yes. Their security radios are dead silent.”

Trace frowned. “That’s unusual.” Chatter had been hot and heavy while they were in there.

“Very. So I’ve been hunting around and I’ve found some phone chatter. Not registered to anyone we know but a truckload of what are probably throwaways. Mostly texts. They aren’t traceable to names but the locations are pinging right off the Stoffel estate. They’re using coded phrases, but I’m pretty sure—I mean, it’s my guess. . .a pretty educated one, if I must say so—”

“Houston,” Trace warned.

“I’d bet my pay they still have her there at the estate, but I think they’re planning to move her.”

“Can’t let that happen. We’ll be back in ten.” Trace ended the call and felt Boone’s gaze on him. “They’ve gone radio silent. But he thinks she’s still there.”

“Wait?” Sam asked, pulling himself forward. “You talking about Ashland?”

“No.” Trace hated the guy. Hated his guts. Besides—her name was Annie.

“Look, you dragged me halfway across the world,” Caliguari said with a growl. “Why else would you do that and then cut me out now?”

“To get your hands out of the boiling water you stirred around her life.” Trace glared at the guy, the late hour preventing him from getting a clear picture of his face, but Trace didn’t need light to feel the anger and hatred.

The feeling was mutual. Trace could kill the guy. Right now. And never regret it. “Did you seriously think plastering her face all over the Internet would
help
her?”

“It got your attention.” Caliguari wasn’t repentant.

“And it also caught the attention of individuals trying to kill her and others under my protection.”

“Zulu.”

Trace’s pulse skipped a beat. Angered him. He couldn’t really be that stupid, to keep throwing stuff in Trace’s face and expect to live to see the morning, could he?

“Let me fill you in on something, Squid,” Boone said as they exited the vehicle and made their way into the hotel. “You don’t know this man the way I do, and right now, if he decided to do what’s going through his mind, your body won’t be found.”

“So, it’s a good thing I’m fighting for Ashland, since he’s so dangerous.”

Trace jerked back to the front. Balled his fist.

“You are one stupid man,” Boone said.

“In the last six years,” Trace growled, “I have protected her from more than a punk SEAL too high on his own juice.” Trace pulled in a hard breath, forcing himself to cool off. “If you ever expect to see her again, you’re going to climb off that high horse and get square with some facts.”

Caliguari gave a slow nod, his chest dragging in what looked to be a heavy breath as he shook his head and smiled. Finally, he glanced at Trace as Boone guided him into the elevator. “So she
is
safe.” He splayed his hand and pointed down. “Here. She’s here. That’s all I wanted to know.”

“This isn’t about you!”

“I just needed to know she was okay.”

“You played Russian roulette with her life!”

Caliguari shifted a foot closer. “Ashland vanished on a night when a sniper took shots at us.” The guy was quick with the smirks. “But then, you know that, don’t you?”

Trace didn’t owe the Squid anything.

“I knew Ashland wouldn’t just up and vanish. Not after what we shared. She wouldn’t do that to me. She was too nice and too considerate.”

Boone laughed.

And made Trace smile. The guy had a very romanticized notion of Annie. “What she is, is a highly trained and skilled operator, chosen by top Brass for black ops missions.”

The man considered them, his expression priceless. Uncertainty warred with disbelief. “How. . .?”

“It doesn’t matter how. You just need to understand what she is and what you screwed up with your little love campaign.” Mentally, Trace chided himself for letting his disgust seep into the conversation. “In fact, your social media stunt is the reason she’s missing right now.” It wasn’t true, but it felt good to throw the dagger into the guy’s heart—if he had one.

“Wait.” Sam came to his feet. “What? She’s missing?”

“We need you to leave it alone, stop stirring the waters.”

Caliguari hesitated. Seemed to think over the demand. “Tell me why—what’s this all about?”

Trace studied the carpet that rushed down the hall toward their suite. Chewed the agitation of opening this conversation. He cast Boone a questioning glance and found his buddy just as uncertain about moving forward.

“What you need to know,” Boone said as they entered the suite, “is that for reasons that cannot be revealed at this time, she went into hiding. For her own safety.”

Caliguari nodded. “That’s why she came to Manson.”

Trace nodded. “It’s time for you to stop making trouble. You really want to help her by doing that?”

“If it means protecting—”

“That’s not your job,” Trace bit out as he stalked toward Houston and thrust his jaw toward the monitors as if to ask if the guy had anything new.

Wide eyed, Houston nodded as he stared at Caliguari.

“You said she’s missing, but you know where she might be.” Sam’s gaze never left Trace. “Let me help.”

Grinding his teeth made his jaw hurt, but it was nothing compared to what was happening in his chest. Trace stalked the hotel room, his mind a mangled mess of rage and panic. It’d been hours since Annie was taken, and now he had to deal with the SEAL, with letting the guy help them locate Annie. He knew it was an obvious solution. But he’d do anything to stop the inevitable, stop them from being reunited.

“On the couch,” Trace barked at the Squid. He glanced at Houston. “Nothing?”

“Not yet,” he said, glancing again at Caliguari.

“Boone, check it out.” His head hurt from the exertion of keeping his rage below the surface. Trace stormed into the bathroom and washed the blood from his knuckles. He scrubbed and felt a pressure building in his chest. He gripped the sides of the sink and stared down at the red-tinged water swirling down the drain.

That man represented an end to everything Trace had worked to build and protect. He was the epic sign of his failure. Annie wasn’t here. That jerk was. The one who didn’t deserve her. Who risked her life for his own pleasure.

“You okay?”

Trace’s gaze rose to the mirror, where he spotted Boone hanging back in the doorway, arms folded over his chest. “I want to kill him.”

“You almost did.”

“He doesn’t deserve her.”

Boone’s eyebrow winged up, and only then did Trace realize what he’d said. What he’d allowed to slip out. Though he knew it wasn’t a secret to Boone what happened before Misrata between him and Annie, the truth had never been vocalized.

“He put her life in danger. Exposed her to the very people trying to find her.” He straightened and dried his hands on the towel. “A man who can’t see past his own need for selfish desires doesn’t deserve the woman he endangers. Bringing him here—”

“Why
did
you?”

Trace threw the towel against the sink. “I don’t trust anyone else to keep his hands out of the fire.”

“But bringing him
here
. . .” Boone scratched his jaw. “Trace, if you didn’t want them together, why bring him to Annie? Is this. . .?” He stepped in closer. “This is about what I said—about having him on our side.”

Trace didn’t want to own up to it. Didn’t want to voice his intentions.

“I thought you hated the idea.”

“I do,” Trace breathed with a hiss. “But it’s better than having him gunning for us and exposing our locations and identities.”

“Is it?”

Trace leaned back against the sink, hands braced on either side. Quiet gave him room with his thoughts—too much room. There had been so many things happening, so many things going wrong, that Trace made a split-second decision to corral the SEAL and tape his mouth shut. Now, once they recovered Annie, the two would be together. And it’d gut Trace.

“Why’d you let her go?” Boone’s question was quiet, respectful.

Surprise jerked Trace up. How had Boone known?

With a slow nod, Boone sighed. “Thought so.”

Shame hung Trace’s head. The ache was fierce. And raw. And still bleeding. One drowning him in a sea of regret. He pushed to the surface, away from the truth, and came to his feet. “We’ve got work to do.” He left the bathroom and strode into the living room.

Caliguari sat on the sofa with a bag of ice pressed to his cheek. He wasn’t watching Houston because the monitors were blocked from view. “You won’t get the answers you want,” Trace said.

Carve a hole in his heart, because he could not—
would not
ask the SEAL for help
.
Hands fisted, Trace met Boone’s gaze, then pulled out of that silent dialogue before it could get started.

“Great balls of fire,” Houston exclaimed, drawing Trace’s attention.

“What?”

“No, literally—a great ball of fire.” He lifted a remote and turned on the TV. “Look. News—massive explosion in Salamina.”

Trace checked out the footage and immediately recognized the three-story seaside estate.

Houston grinned and pointed to one of his stations. “It’s the Stoffel estate.”

What did it mean, that there was a fire? The footage wasn’t from a news crew, but witnesses on scene, judging by the shaky, bad quality of the video.

“We need to get out there,” Boone said.

“Is that where you think Ashland is?” Caliguari asked.

“You mean Annie,” Houston said, then his jaw went slack. “Oops. I did not just do that.”

“Annie,” Sam repeated. Then huffed and shook his head.

Yeah, good dose of reality for the SEAL who thought he knew the woman he loved.

“Solomon thought that might be her name.”

Trace glared at the SEAL. “Solomon?” General Solomon wouldn’t give this guy the time of day. But the other one, the serious pain in his prickly backside. . .

“Francesca Solomon showed up right before your goons snatched me.”

“Son of a—” Trace bit off the curse and met Boone’s gaze. “I’m going to have her muzzled.”

“She’s dangerous,” Caliguari said.

Surprise stilled Trace.

“She knows a lot and isn’t careful with that information.”

“Oh, you mean like you and your social media campaign.”

“The information I promoted was already out there. I just amplified it.”

“That’s true,” Houston piped up, nodding.

Trace snapped a seething look at the wiry-haired geek, who ducked.

“She has classified information she’s spouting off. At least,
now
I know it’s classified. But let’s get on task here.” Caliguari moved to the computers where Houston worked. “Why are you interested in this estate? Was she there?”

“Three hours ago, she and I were on a mission there,” Trace said, giving only information that was necessary. “After what we believe was a diversion they used to separate us, she vanished.”

Something sparked through the guy’s brows, but he quickly diverted his attention. “If this estate is where Ash—Annie was, then she’s in trouble with that fire.”

“Negative,” Trace said, resenting the way the guy tried to step in and take charge. “If she’s there, that fire doesn’t mean she’s in trouble. It means she set it.”

Boone planted his hands on his belt like a proud uncle. “Just like we trained her.”

Caliguari double-checked the footage playing on the TV, then slowly nodded. “A diversion?”

“Or a signal,” Boone said.

“What’s around the estate?” Caliguari asked Houston.

“Houston,” Trace said, warning the geek not to give the guy any information. “There are forests to the west and the sea to the east.”

“Not the sea,” Caliguari said. “The forest—she went to the trees.”