Operation Zulu Redemption: Hazardous Duty - Part 3 (6 page)

Having her job back, having her access returned, Frankie hesitantly made her way through the first few days. If she retrieved the wrong file or made the wrong call, everything could come crashing down on her. Again. The bitter taste of that defeat hung fresh in her mind, a strong warning. Tomorrow, she would go back to work and throw herself into the job. Prove to her father and her boss that she could play by the rules.

Oh, she wasn’t quitting. That wasn’t in her genes.

She just had to be more careful. Play by their rules—and not get caught. She’d grown up with three brothers who treated her like their father’s fourth son. She could play with the big boys and not get hurt.

Tucking her legs up under her, she sat down on her sofa. After a quick glance around the living room she’d spent too much time fixing back up, she tugged her laptop over the cushion. She thumbed through the file from the accident and searched for the report from the EMT. Scanning, she dropped her gaze to the bottom. The signature was about as legible as a doctor’s. “Okay, so not much help yet.”

Frankie went to the laptop. Typed in
Luckett’s Volunteer Fire Department
. She found a handful of results and images but no EMTs. At least, not the one she was looking for.

Wait. . .wait. . . She forced herself to recall the lettering on the side of the ambulance.
Loudoun County
. She typed that in along with
EMT
.

“And voilà!” Frankie smiled down at the image of the EMT with a group of others. A feature from
Leesburg Today
with a picture of the men—and a caption. “God loves me,” Frankie muttered as she read the names. “. . .and one Landon Ramage.”

Ramage. According to the article, the Ramages were fixtures in Loudoun County since the early 1800s, having owned land and horses dating back to almost as late.

Frankie’s grin widened as she typed in his name and city. A half-dozen pictures from local events erupted. Including one with Landon and his older brother, former Army Special Forces sniper—
sniper?
The back of her neck prickled—“Boone Ramage.”

A wild tendril of an idea rushed through her. She went to land records. Searched.

No Matches Found.

Frankie frowned. “How can there be no matches?” The article had explicitly stated the family owned land there in Loudoun, had for nearly two hundred years. Maybe she typed it wrong. She tried again.

No Matches Found.

Despite attempts to locate other records, she came up empty. Frustration tightened a noose around her neck. If she kept pushing—this is what got her in trouble last time.

“I am not easily scared off,” she murmured.

But she
hated
losing.

Curiosity caught her by the throat. She accessed her work login and navigated into the secure databases. A strange squirreling wormed through her belly. He had to have a driver’s license. Did he even own a vehicle? Or have a credit card?

If she didn’t know better, she’d say Boone Ramage and his family didn’t exist. But she’d met the man. She’d seen him. There were photos on the Internet of him and his younger brother. Frankie glanced at the screen from the local paper. She had to admit—the Ramages bred well. Both sons were striking, handsome. “Well built, too,” she murmured around a smile. “And not married.”

The page automatically refreshed—and Frankie froze. She tilted her head. “Wha. . .?” She hit the manual refresh icon. But the page was blank. “I was just there, how can it be blank?” After verifying she still had Internet access, she refreshed again. This time, a single line of text vaulted her stomach into her throat.

The page you have requested has been removed.

Nausea swirled. Fingertips to her temples, she tried to weigh what this meant. It wasn’t a coincidence that she’d just looked up Ramage and suddenly he disappears from the face of the planet.

When her phone rang, she yelped. Glanced at it as if it had the plague. Carefully, as if they could remotely see her through it somehow—she peered at the caller ID.

U
nknown
N
ame
.

Right. No way would she answer that.

It went to voice mail. A few minutes later, her phone signaled a message had been received. Frankie played it.

“Contact Leland Marlowe. He can help.” It’d come from Varden. No wonder the identity didn’t show up.

Frankie’s breath rushed out of her. Leland Marlowe? As in General Leland “Freeland” Marlowe, the firebrand general who’d swept the military clean as one of the joint chiefs last year?

Annie rolled off him, careful of her injured ankle, and slumped to the ground.
Sam?
Sam was here? How was that even possible?

He shifted toward her, the predawn hour barely providing enough light to see his face. “Ash, you okay?”

Ash.

He was on his knees.

Numbness rolled through her, soaking her muscles. Drenching her brain. What was he doing here? Sam didn’t belong here.

“Ash—you okay?” he said, more urgently, cupping her face.

His deep, rich brown eyes broke through the daze that fogged her mind. “Sam. Why. . . ?”“I’m here. It’s okay,” he said, his voice. . .weird.

Annie drew back, a strange spike of anger bursting through her.
Get off.
But that was rude. And he was Sam. But why was he here?

He tried to pull her closer.

With both hands, she shoved him backward. “Stop.”

Boots thudded closer.

“One, you hurt?”

Annie glanced up. Trace stood over her, his face unreadable. But perfect. Exactly what she needed. “My ankle.”

He offered his hand and she reached up, clasping his forearm. His strong fingers tightened around her arm and pulled her up. Hissing through the pain, she struggled to stay balanced. “What happened?”

“Dogs.” A shiver traced her spine, the morning cooler than she’d realized.

Trace nodded. “Chopper’s on the way back. But we have almost a full klick to cover.”

At their side, Boone communicated with the chopper, shedding his pack, then removing his tactical jacket. He wrapped it around Annie’s shoulders, and she shuddered in the cradle of its warmth. “Thanks, Boone.”

He gave a nod and lifted his gear and weapon again. “Two mikes to rendezvous.”

This was better. The precision, the strategy, the focus. “Okay,” she said with a single nod.

Trace’s arm slipped under hers and hooked around her waist. “Other injuries?”

Annie gave a quick shake, her gaze skirting to Sam.

He stood to the side, his expression dark. Stricken.

Unable to sort what she felt, the confusion, the anger, the. . .she didn’t know what. It was a tangled mess like a plate of spaghetti.

I hate spaghetti.

“Squid, give a hand,” Trace said.

Without hesitation, Sam trudged over to Annie’s right and hooked an arm beneath hers. The two men formed a cradle and supported her. They hurried up the hillside to a clearing. They’d no sooner gotten there and the chopper, still blacked out, hovered over them. Ropes snaked down.

Trace quickly worked a rope into a harness and helped her into it, creating an awkward and unladylike mess of her dress. Annie no longer cared. She just wanted to get out of here. Once the men were onboard, the chopper veered away from the estate.

Sam took the seat beside her, and Trace remained in the jump seat, eyes trained out. Weapon ready. Boone sat on the other side, watching as well.

Guilt choked Annie. She could feel the tension she’d created between Sam and her. It was palpable. But he—it didn’t make sense for him to be here. He had no business entering her life like this.

Does he know who I really am? That I lied to him for two years?

She thanked God a thousand times on the twenty-minute flight to the airstrip that the rotor wash and engine noise was too loud for any conversation to take place. Mostly because she had no idea what to say.

Before the wheels touched down, Trace hopped to the ground. He shifted the sling so his weapon was against his back. He turned and looked into the chopper at her. It was crazy. Really crazy how much she just wanted Trace to be here. Only Trace. It made no sense. Made her feel like a traitor. Unfaithful.

“Will your leg hold?” Trace hollered as the chopper whined down. He held out a hand.

Terrified to face Sam, to face the hurt she’d inflicted, to face the deep, bewildering confusion she felt, Annie scooted across the strap seats toward Trace, keeping her leg elevated.

She reached for his hand.

“Here,” he said, tugging her into his arms.

Annie tumbled, her foot jarring against the chopper. She tensed at the burst of pain, but relaxed as she felt Trace’s firm hold tighten. He carried her to the SUV where Boone had a door open. Inside the vehicle—that’s when Annie finally felt safe. When the terror she’d felt, the hypervigilance she’d needed to survive began to melt away.

Sam climbed in next to her.

The doors shut and Annie realized they were alone. Her conscience pricked, warned her she should apologize.

For what?

For shoving him away. With both hands. In front of Trace.

But she wasn’t sorry.

“You’re mad.” His voice poured over her like warm chocolate. As always.

Annie steeled herself. Told herself to talk to him. Explain what she felt. Why she was angry—and that was so weird to be angry with him. Hadn’t she spent the last five weeks pining over the fact that Trace wouldn’t let her see or talk to him?

The doors opened and the vehicle rocked as Boone and Trace climbed into the front seats.

Trace looked over his shoulder at her. “We’ll have a doctor at the hotel waiting.”

She nodded. Had all but forgotten about her ankle.

But her mouth was dry. Her body exhausted. Sam’s strong hands wrapped around hers. Her heart. . .jammed. She wanted to snatch her hands free.

What’s going on with me? What’s with the anger?
The animosity churning in her chest stunned her. Sharing the passionate kiss with Sam on the deck in Manson felt like a lifetime ago. Why? Didn’t she want him? Want the hope of the life they’d taken the tentative steps toward starting?

One question gaped at her more than any other.
Why am I not happy to see Sam?

With Annie huddled between him and Sam again, Trace hustled her into the hotel room. A million alarms blazed when he registered a man and two children sitting at the small dining table in the far corner of the room. He nearly dropped Annie.

“Uh,” Houston punched to his feet and pointed to another man. “Dr. Foster is here.”

“Got it,” Boone said, nodding Trace toward the others with a
take care of it
look as he slipped in and aided Sam in delivering Annie to the bedroom.

A short, stout man with dark hair and a medical bag rushed after them.

Trace closed the door and locked it, then turned to face the others. He rested his hand on his Glock.

The side door opened and Téya emerged with a middle-aged woman with wet brown hair. She wore clothes that didn’t quite fit her short frame.

Téya’s eyes widened. “Commander.” She waved the woman to the table, then went and passed the woman a bowl from a room service dining cart.

“Anyone want to fill me in?” he asked as he watched the woman cast nervous glances at the man.

“Commander,” Téya said in a voice that was entirely too calm. “This is Carl Loring and his wife, Sharlene.”

Stunned, he stared at the couple. The children. So, Zulu had accomplished their objective. “What took so long to find them?”

Nuala rose from a chair where she’d sat undetected until now. “The slums—it’s like its own small city. It’s a”—Noodle’s gaze darted to Téya’s—“miracle, really, that we found them at all.”

“We were hiding,” Carl Loring said. “And when you don’t want to be found in a place like that, it’s possible to stay hidden for. . .” He shrugged. “Probably forever.”

Something smelled rotten. Trace stared at Téya. Then Nuala. They wouldn’t look at him. Or at each other.

“I can help you,” Loring said. “I was the financial officer for HOMe for the last eight years.”

“So why are you living in the slums?” Trace folded his arms.

“
Hiding
in the slums,” Loring corrected, then glanced at his wife. “We aren’t sure what changed, but about two months ago, a man came to our door. He said some things were going to come to light, but if I’d help him, he’d make sure my family and I were safe.”

“What things?”

“Financial statements. Black market transactions between HOMe and various organizations.”

Trace scowled and searched their faces. “You have this proof?”

“N–no,” Loring muttered, looking to his wife. “I was in the process of uncovering the information when everything went crazy.”

“Someone burned down our home,” Mrs. Loring said, her eyes glossy.

“He got us into the slum and told us to stay there. Then he came to me early this morning and said you would help.”

“Who are you talking about?” Trace asked. “Who told you we’d help?”

“Not you, he said
she
would.” Mr. Loring pointed to Téya. “Miss Reiker.”

Trace unfolded his arms and pulled straight. “Who gave you her name?”

“The man,” he said, flicking a finger in the air around his cheekbone. “He said you saved his life, so he owed you.”

Téya darted her gaze around nervously, swallowing.

“Who?” Trace demanded.

Wetting her lips, Téya drew up her shoulders. Let out a long breath. “The Turk.”

“You
saw The Turk
and didn’t tell me?”

“I shot him.” She said it so plainly as if she were telling him about a doughnut she ate. “It was a mistake. He was going to die, so—”

“You should’ve let him!”

Téya’s eyes flashed. “I wanted answers.”

“You only needed one—that he was dead!”

Trace’s phone buzzed. “We’ll sort this out in Virginia.” He pivoted to Houston, who sat with his head down, hand over his mouth. “Get us back there, Houston. ASAP.”

The geek nodded and went to work.

Livid and boiling, Trace moved to the private suite. His phone buzzed again and he lifted it, checked the caller ID, and answered. “General, how are you?”

“Trace, sit down.”

Stilled by those words, Trace felt as he had the night of the warehouse disaster. “What’s wrong?”

“Know I’d rather spit on this than tell you, but—”

“Just say it,” Trace bit out.

“You are being ordered back to DC. General Leland Marlowe has given orders for you to stand down all operations and return to DC at once to stand before a full congressional hearing regarding Misrata.”

The world
whooshed
out from under Trace’s feet
.
“They can’t do this. I was already cleared.”

“Separate charge, Trace. They can and they are. You are temporarily relieved of duty until this matter is settled.”