Operation Zulu Redemption: Hazardous Duty - Part 3 (5 page)

Téya slipped into the hotel room, glancing around. A single lamp on a sofa table cast warm light over the space. Houston’s computers hummed quietly, spotlighted by a swing-arm lamp. Odd that he wasn’t sleeping near his systems the way he normally did.

And that Trace and Boone weren’t around.

“It’s too quiet,” Noodle whispered, exhaustion dripping through her words.

Téya lifted her weapon and motioned Noodle toward the room they’d shared with Annie while she went to the men’s suite. The door stood ajar and the room dark, empty. Then light skidded out between the bottom of the door and the carpet.

The door opened.

Téya snapped the weapon up.

Houston stepped out, straightening his shirt. When he looked up, he let out a strangled cry that sounded like someone wringing a cat’s neck.

“Houston,” Téya breathed, lowering the gun. “Where is everyone?”

He shook a finger at the weapon. “Those things kill people, you know.” Houston moved past her back to the main room. “And the others are trying to find Annie.”

“Annie?” Stuffing the gun in the holster at the small of her back, Téya followed him. “What happened?”

He grabbed a bag of M&M’s Salty and Sweet from the desk and dropped into his chair. “They took her right out from under Trace’s nose.”

Téya’s irritation at his tone grated on her. “You really need to grow some respect for our commander.”

“Sorry.” He popped some pieces into his mouth and chewed. “He’s my boss, not my commander. And he was seriously ticked. Of course, things went downhill when they brought the Navy SEAL here.” Houston shook his head, his springy curls catching the light. “I tried to tell them that was a bad idea, but do you think they listen to me?”

Nuala joined them. “What SEAL?”

“The SEAL, the one Annie hooked up with. You know—Sam Cal-something.”

Téya widened her eyes, glancing at Noodle. Things had really turned upside down since they’d entered the slums.

“And the commander wasn’t happy that you weren’t back.”

“We weren’t happy,” Noodle said as she took a seat beside Houston and reached for his bag of Salty & Sweet mix.

Houston paused, mid-chew, to watch her, and Téya couldn’t help but notice a bit of awe in his expression.

“How long has Annie been missing?”

Houston grinned as he took back his bag, dumped out a handful, then held out the bag for Noodle to have more. Again with a goofy grin.

“Houston.” Téya’s exhaustion brought out the worst in her. She snapped her fingers. “Annie.”

Houston blinked. “Right.” Shifted in his chair. “What?” His face had gone crimson, but he still managed to steal another look at Nuala.

“You realize she can take your head off from a mile away with a single shot, right?” Téya couldn’t resist teasing the geek.

Houston frowned at Téya. “You know that’s not funny, threatening people with sniper shots to the head just because I can appreciate beauty.”

“Appreciate is one thing, dear geek,” Téya said as she leaned over his shoulder. “Going full-out fan-boy is another. Now.” She squeezed his shoulder. “Annie?”

“Annie’s been missing since 1730 hours,” he said, all business and glaring at her. “About an hour ago, an explosion at the same estate made the news. Trace, Boone, and the SEAL are headed out to meet up with a contact who is going to chopper them in and see if they can find Annie.” His nostrils flared. “Anything else, your Highness?”

Amused, Téya met Nuala’s smile with one of her own. “That’s perfect, Houston. Now, we have no problem.”

“Except that you’re lame.”

Téya frowned at him.

“That joke. It’s lame. I hear it all the time. It’s old. Burnt to a crisp.”

Nuala stood, bent toward Houston, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “G’night, Houston.”

“Okay, now that was just. . .unfair.”

Nuala stood over him. “Why?”

“You’re mocking me. That kiss meant nothing to you.”

“Oh, you’re wrong,” Noodle said. “It was done with my sincerest thanks.”

Hanging his head dramatically, he waved them away. “Go, go. ‘You mock my pain.’”

Noodle laughed as she backstepped toward their suite. “‘Life is pain, Highness.’”

Houston’s face lit up. “Be still my beating heart, a woman who knows the classics.”

Téya groaned. She was missing something but she didn’t want to know what. “Noodle, let’s go to bed. We need an early start.”

“Yeah,” Houston said, his expression suddenly very serious. “Where exactly are you going? I’ve got orders”—his jaw went slack—“Trace is going to kill me.” He lifted the phone. Dialed. “Two and Six arrived safe.” Houston nodded. “Will do.” He hung up. “Commander says to stay put till they get back.”

Téya saluted and entered the suite, closing the door behind them.

“Just let me get three hours,” Nuala said as she dropped on the bed.

With a smile, Téya stretched out on the other full-size mattress, grateful Nuala knew there wasn’t a prayer Téya intended to stay put. As she stretched her arm over her face to cover her eyes, she caught sight of the burn. When they got stateside, she’d go to a doctor, see if they could clean up the skin so it wasn’t so obviously a brand.

Like a predator, sleep dug its long, sharp talons into her mind and dragged Téya from consciousness. Images of fires and children and the slums and burning pain in her hand, then staring at the business end of The Turk’s weapon, his brown-green eyes glinting in dark satisfaction that he’d found her. And now,
now he’d kill her.

He touched her shoulder.

Téya grabbed it, twisted the wrist and swung her opposite arm up and over, pinning them.

“Ow!”

Téya blinked, the bedroom coming into focus and the nightmares slipping away, as she found herself holding Houston’s arm. She shoved him away, furious. “Why are you in here?”

Rubbing his arm, Houston scowled. “You have issues, Two.”

“My name is Téya. Why are you in our room?”

He cast a glance toward Noodle, who was still asleep.

“You sick dog,” Téya snarled, imagining him watching them in their sleep.

“Oh, grow up,” Houston said. “She cried out in her sleep. I. . .I got worried.”

Téya swung her legs over the edge of the bed and glanced at the digital clock. 5:58. She was so not a morning person, but waking up and finding the geek hovering over her— “Go.” She stomped as she caught his shoulders and pushed him from the room. “Out. Now.”

“Okay, okay. Relax. I just wanted to make sure you two were okay.”

“She’s a sniper, remember?”

“Right,” Houston said.

Téya closed the door and turned.

Noodle sat perched on the edge of her bed. “I had a nightmare again, didn’t I?”

“I think Peeping Houston just wanted to watch you sleep.”

A small smile tugged Noodle’s face, clearly not believing it.

“Shower up. I need one, too, and I want to be out of here in fifteen.”

Noodle complied without another word, her countenance haunted. Though there was no cure, Téya wished she could get hold of something that would heal Noodle’s mind. It was one thing to deal with drama when you had created most of it yourself. It was another to watch a woman as sweet and gentle in nature get ripped apart from the inside out by something out of her control.

Twelve minutes later, hair still wet and tied back, Téya strode into the main area. “How’re the commander and Boone doing?”

“In the air. And grumpy. No sign of her yet.”

“We’re heading down to the cafeteria,” Téya said, noting Houston was distracted with the mission at hand. “Need anything?”

“Nah, I’m good,” he said, as he adjusted something, then glanced at a monitor.

Téya nodded to the door, and Nuala made for it. They were in the hall, the door almost closed, when Houston shouted, “Hey! There’s no cafeteria in a hotel—and Trace said to stay put!”

Laughing, they hurried out of the hotel and back onto the street. Adrenaline thrummed through Téya’s body. She skipped a step as they made their way back toward the slums.

“Think he’s awake?” Noodle asked.

“Maybe,” Téya said, her stomach clenching. “I gave him sleeping aids in his water, but who knows if that will keep him under at all.” She hated herself for remembering how toned his abs were and the larger version of the star-crescent over his left, well-defined pectoral.

“Wouldn’t he flee?”

She wanted to say nobody with that injury would flee. Maybe stumble out and collapse from the pain. But this wasn’t an ordinary person. This was The Turk. “I hope not. He needs to answer a few questions.”

“What if he doesn’t speak English?”

“Then he’s not a very good assassin.”

“What does speaking English and killing people have to do with each other?”

“To integrate into someone’s life to figure out how best to kill them, he’d need to master the language.” In theory, at least.

“I don’t have to speak any language but sniper for a kill shot,” Noodle said, panting as they walked. “And would you
slow
down?”

Téya rounded the rear of the hotel and jogged to the window. She hesitated at finding it open. Hands on the ledge, she hauled herself inside. The smell of something burnt snagged her senses first. Then the silence.

“I thought we closed it,” Nuala came in after her. “Whoa.”

The room had been meticulously rearranged. Bed made up. No sign of blood. No stains on the carpet. No bloody towels. In fact, new ones hung in perfect array on the plastic silver rod. Téya took in the cheap, framed print. Not a trace of dust. “He scrubbed it.”

“Didn’t want to leave evidence we could use to track him.”

“We don’t need to. Everyone knows who he is—The Turk.”

“We know what he wants us to know,” Noodle said as she went into the bathroom. “The last time this bathroom was this clean was probably ten years ago.”

A rap against the door put Téya’s heart into overdrive. Nuala reappeared and gave a curt nod. They were ready. Téya went to the door, not daring to look through the peephole and end up with a hole in the head. She yanked open the thin barrier.

Disheveled and drawn, the bearded man looked as surprised as Téya felt. “Are you Miss Reiker?”

Her heart spasmed, and her mouth went dry. She couldn’t move. How would he know her name, her
real
name? She hadn’t used it in Greece at all. Which put this man on the deadly side of the Richter scale.

With a nervous glance down both ends of the hall, he pushed a large hand through a mop of tangled, dirty-blond hair. “I don’t mean to be rude, but can I come in? I–I’m not safe.”

“Tell me who you are first.” She said, easing her weapon to a visible position.

His gaze went to the weapon. “H–hey. Easy now. . . .” He licked his lips. “You’re looking for me. I–I’m Carl Loring.”

Sitting on the edge of the Black Hawk, boots dangling in the predawn air, Trace used his thermal scope to scan the forest below. Boone and Caliguari were scoping the terrain as well. Three pairs of eyes were better than two, though Trace hated having the guy with him.

Hated that it was possible Caliguari would find her first.

The thought pushed Trace to pay attention.

“I’ve got something,” Boone spoke through the coms. “Chopper’s two.”

Trace looked to his left where the chopper’s two o’clock position lay. Sure enough, a handful of heat signatures—small ones—raced over the ground.

“Goats?” Caliguari said.

Trace shook his head. They were too agile, moving too fast. “Dogs,” he countered. “Hunting party.”

“Yeah, and One is the quarry.”

That’s when Trace saw it—a heat signature alone, about a half mile away from the dogs. “Toomer, take us half klick to your three.”

“Copy that,” the pilot said as the bird swung in that direction.

Trace zoomed in on the position, but the image had vanished.

“What’d you see?” Boone asked.

Maybe he’d imagined it. “Not sure,” Trace said, scanning, agitation growing. She was out there. Had been for hours. Daylight was on the horizon, which put Annie’s odds at being recaptured higher. “Lost it.”

“Hang on,” Toomer pulled away and came back at a different angle. “There’s an incline. If someone’s hiding in the cleft. . .”

As they raced up the slope one more time, Trace spotted the signature again. “One o’clock.”

“I see it,” Caliguari called.

“Can we put down?” Boone asked.

“Negative,” Toomer said. “No room.”

Trace harnessed and hooked up to the steel rings riveted to the floor of the chopper. Just before he stepped off, he looked over and spotted Caliguari doing the same.

Hot in his gloved hands, Sam fast-roped out of the helo. Wind fought him, its needling fingers tugging at him as he made the rapid descent. He landed with a soft thud and went to a knee, his M4 sweeping the area. Weston hadn’t been pleased about Sam having a weapon, but he also hadn’t been able to argue against it. The man hated Sam, and it felt very personal.

Sam wasn’t worried. He had no ill intent here. His only mission and purpose was to find Ashland and make sure she was okay.

Then kiss her senseless.

The trees were quiet sentries on this Greek island, providing cover against the moonlight and the early morning lightening of the sky. He saw no visible threat. “Squid clear,” he said, hating that he had to use that term, but it was a concession. If it meant finding her. . .

To his right, he spotted the colonel kneeling behind a large boulder. He signaled Sam forward. Moving along a dense copse of saplings, Sam hustled toward the rendezvous point—the location they’d spotted the heat signature. No way of knowing if it was Ashland, but it’d be a long shot if it wasn’t her.

Thwack! Thwat!

Heat seared across his shoulder. From behind. Sam hurtled himself over a fallen limb and scrabbled up against the decaying wood. “Taking fire,” he gritted his teeth, refusing to admit he’d been nailed. Hand near the spot, he eyed it. Blood glistened under the moonlight, but it wasn’t much. Just a graze.

To his six, he heard a flurry of shots being exchanged. Sam rolled onto his stomach and low-crawled to the end of the log. Sliding his weapon, he eased into position. Traced the wash of illuminated terrain for the targets.

A head peeked out.

Sam took his time lining up the sights. “Target sighted,” he spoke quietly against the mic.

“Take the shot,” the colonel said.

Sam fired. The man pitched backward. “Target down.”

“Tango at your eleven, Squid,” came the near twang of the big guy, Boone.

“Copy,” Sam said, spotting the shooter. He wasn’t a sniper, but the men chasing Ashland were reckless. It was like picking cans off a line at a fair. “Target acquired.” He pulled the trigger back and, “Target down.”

Patiently, he waited, eyeing the terrain. Watching for more unfriendlies.

“Clear. Let’s move,” the colonel said.

They picked their way with stealth and deliberation toward the rocky cleft where they’d spotted the person. He’d worked contract gigs in the jungles of South America and the Middle East, but there was something about being part of a team. Having an objective you believed in. A purpose you’d die for.

He’d die for Ashland every day of the year.

Twenty minutes later, Sam grew wary. They’d gone too far. Should’ve come across the person by now.
Unless the person is evading. . .

How would Ashland know they were friendly?

He nodded, sorting the thought. He reached for his mic to ask the colonel when a whistle sailed through the air. “Col—”

A weight slammed into Sam’s back. Pain detonated across the back of his head.

“Augh!” He pitched forward but had enough presence of mind to know if he went down, he was probably dead. He went to a knee to break his fall, coiled to strike. He swung out his arm.

Something flew at him.

Slammed him backward. He struggled against the person, wrestling with them. He swung a hard right. It barely glanced off the person’s jaw, but their legs were locked against his chest, squeezing.

Beams of light bobbed around them.

Blinding. Confusing.

Only in that chaos, Sam saw the glint of a gold curl.

“Stand down, stand down!” Heart thudding, Sam rammed out a hand against the chest of his attacker, holding them back so he could see the face.

Hands raised over their head, a large rock braced between their fingers, the person looked down at him. Blue eyes registered wild rage.

Then shock.

“
Sam?
!”