Operation Zulu Redemption: Hazardous Duty - Part 3 (8 page)

“I gotta tell you—it looks bad, Trace.” General Haym Solomon clicked a pen and set it on the desk in front of him. The pen doubled as a jamming device to block the inevitable listening devices that picked up chatter. They’d have a few minutes before it clicked off and their conversation would resume being recorded.

“When doesn’t it look bad?” Trace lowered himself into the seat across the desk from General Solomon. There were few days Trace felt more choked and awkward than in his uniform, but today—coming here, addressing the topic at hand—he was sure the collar had taken the form of a noose. “And just when progress is on the other side of the door.”

Solomon’s salt-and-pepper eyebrows rose, creasing his forehead. “The Lorings?”

Trace nodded. “We have them. And while they don’t have a full roadmap, they’ve given us a pretty decent tip.”

Solomon’s bushy eyebrows rose again, this time in impatient expectation.

“The wife says Ballenger is the one who sent the orphans and staff to the warehouse that night.”

“Ballenger?” Haym pushed back in his chair and rubbed his lower lip. “How would he know anything? He was supposed to be a cradle-robbing loser.”

“The cradle was robbed,” Trace said with no hint of the humor his words begged. “But I think we need to talk to Ballenger again.”

“Agreed,” Haym said.

“I’ve got Houston hunting him down. After what happened in Paris, it might be tricky getting him to talk to us again.”

“Speaking of Paris—what about Two?”

Trace gave a hefty sigh. He knew this would come up. “We’ve had a complication there, too.”

“You do know you’re supposed to
avoid
complications, right?”
The wry smile on Haym’s face did nothing to appease the guilt and frustration Trace felt.

“When she was in Athens, she got ganged up on in the slums. Someone burned The Turk’s mark into her hand. Then she shot him in an alley—”

“Shot
The Turk
?”

Trace stilled, measuring the general’s response to that statement, then gave a slow nod. “She didn’t realize who he was when she pulled the trigger. She’d been trying to protect a boy she believed had information on the Lorings’ location.”

“Is he dead?”

Trace snorted. “You forgot the part where things are complicated.”

“So, he’s alive. And he knows she shot him?”

“And that she sewed him up and put him back on his feet.”

Haym’s expression went from wide-eyed disbelief to scowling fury. “You realize—”

“Fully. She and I will be having a long talk. The only good thing that came out of her foolishness was that The Turk sent the Lorings to her.”

Haym muttered something, shaking his head. “We do
not
need to owe that cold-blooded assassin anything.”

“Agreed. I’m hoping that Téya’s moment of weakness in having compassion on that murderer will even the score, that The Turk will call it even and walk away.”

With a loud, long guffaw, Haym held a hand over his chest. “You aren’t that naive, Trace.”

“No, sir, but I’m feeling that desperate.”

Thumbing away moisture from the corner of his eye, Haym shook his head. “All right. Back to the hearing.”

Trace nodded. There wasn’t much else to say or do. He was at the mercy of those who held more power than they should and made more money in one month wearing silk suits and ties than he made in a year running operations in the desert. When those suits got raises, he and his men went without a warm breakfast.

“I’m going to tell you something you won’t like.”

Again, Trace nodded. Waited.

Solomon’s gaze moved to the wall of bookcases where a framed print—
Is that new?
Trace hadn’t seen that before—smiled back. Make that, two dark-haired beauties smiled back. One, clearly older, the other—
Francesca Solomon?
Trace frowned. She had her hair down and makeup expertly applied. They both did. But Trace’s mind snagged on the younger woman. Francesca. She could easily be a model or actress. But. . .where was
that
Francesca Solomon, the softer one, the one with a warm smile and rare beauty? He’d only met the hard-as-nails one, the one who wore her hair tied back and skipped the makeup. The one who had steel in place of the Italian femininity evident in the picture.

“Hard to believe she’s mine sometimes—like that picture. Taken at my niece’s wedding. Frankie and her mother looked like angels. I was the luckiest man on earth that day.” He sighed.

Trace shifted uncomfortably. The general’s daughter might be able to dress up and play pretty, but she couldn’t fool him into believing she was anything other than a demon in disguise.

All that aside, what was the general’s point?

“I think Frankie’s behind this.”

“Sir?”

Haym slid something across the desk.

Trace lifted it and opened the file. A dialogue transcript. He scanned it and asked, “What is it?”

“Surveillance transcript of a meeting between Francesca and a man named Elijah Varden.” Trace heard the sneer in the general’s voice as he scanned the document. “He’s a major, serving under—”

“Marlowe.” Trace’s gaze stuck to the name at the bottom.

“Afraid so.”

Slapping the folder shut and tossing it on the desk did nothing to appease the burn in Trace’s chest. “It’d be too much to ask them to stand down and let me get this solved, wouldn’t it?”

“They’d blow you off, say you’ve had the last five years.”

“What about when they learn of the deaths?”

“You mean the Three, Four, and Five?”

Who else would he mean? “Five’s not dead.”

“Honestly,” Haym said, “I don’t think it will matter to them. In fact, they may try to blame you for their deaths.”

Figured as much.

“And Frankie knows you’ve been to Vegas, not to mention Marlowe and Perrault both know you were in Alaska for the TALOS demonstration.”

“Which is when I found out about the hits.” And rushed to save them. “You know, I’m tired of this fight. Maybe it’s better if I step aside and they put a full task force on this.”

“Trace,” Haym said, his words filled with sympathy as well as chastisement. “You know they’re just looking for a fall guy. Pin the blame on you and they can wash their hands, tell the public Misrata finally has justice.”

Click!

“Justice,” Trace spat, his gaze flicking to the pen and realizing the conversation was now recording. “They wouldn’t know the meaning.”

“Easy. I know you’re mad—”

“You really don’t have the first clue what I’m feeling. No disrespect, sir, but someone up that chain of command gave you the order to have me select, train, and deploy Zulu. Now, my mission entails protection against the very people who gave those orders, to find out who sabotaged us, who wanted those girls dead or arrested. It didn’t make sense then and it doesn’t now. And I’m certainly not giving up, not when this person has now stepped into the arena of premeditated murder.”

“You’ve been ordered to stand down. Your clearances are being revoked, pending this investigation.” General Solomon reached to the side and lifted a small paperweight and set it in front of him.

Trace recognized the resin piece with the inlaid gold-embossed gryphon. They both had one, a symbol of the ultrasecretive team they’d put together: Zulu. And with that gesture the general had just given, Trace mulled the last few words. Was that the general’s way of saying one thing but feeling another?

Defiance and rebellion had never been his SOP but they were imperative now, and that’s exactly what the general inferred in his double speak. “So I hear.”

“You understand, Trace, that I can’t help you. If I—”

“Understood, sir.”

“Being vague with the committee will only cost you time.”

“Yes, sir.”

General Solomon huffed. “You’ve gone stiff on me, son.”

“Protocol, sir.” Tensing his jaw helped him sound angry and agitated, the way he believed the general wanted. “I’m here at your request regarding an investigation. You’ve informed me I’m stripped of my duties and security pending the outcome. What is there to talk about, sir?” Tension coiled in his gut, ready to erupt.

“I’m not your enemy, Trace. I’m just—”

“Doing your job, sir.” Trace stood. “You’ve made yourself clear, sir. Thank you for taking the time to refresh my memory.”

Solomon tapped the gryphon paperweight twice.

Trace nodded. He understood. All too well. The general was in a position to lose a lot if things went south, but he also wasn’t a coward who’d hide under his desk until the storm blew over. That double tap on the gryphon was all the encouragement Trace needed to keep moving forward with their investigation.

Boone sprinted from the parking lot into the hospital. He punched the button for the elevator and shoved back, watching the light. “C’mon, c’mon,” he muttered. His pulse hadn’t slowed since Rusty’s call an hour ago. Stupid traffic coming down Route 7 killed his timing. That and the cop who pulled him over.

With a
ding
, the elevator door slid open.

Boone threw himself forward—and skidded to a stop. An elderly woman shuffled forward. He slapped out a hand to keep the door open and secretly wanted to lift the woman and place her outside. Would’ve been faster.

“Thank you,” the woman said in a shaky, frail voice.

Hitting the third-floor button he stepped back. Clasped his hands. Glanced at the numbers above the door. Then to the still-open door.
Why isn’t it closing already?

Finally, it slid shut. And the elevator slowly lifted.

Should’ve taken the stairs.

The lift alighted and the door took its time opening again. Boone shoved himself through the space as soon as he’d fit. Free of the box and its confinements, he jogged to the end of the hall.

Rusty stood outside, arms folded, pinching his lips as he stared through the wire-beveled glass.

“Rus,” Boone gruffed as he approached.

Off the wall, Rusty gave him a
I’m really sorry
expression.

“What’s happening?”

Rusty jutted his jaw in the direction of the room. A half-dozen doctors and medical staff were crowded around. An annoying noise rattled across Boone’s hearing, but he was focused on Keeley’s form. Almost as frail as the old woman from the elevator.

“They’re not sure,” Rusty said. “She’s been flatlining on and off for the last thirty minutes.”

“Why?” Boone growled. “She was almost ready to come home.”

“They’re running tests. Checking for an internal bleed or injury they missed. . .” Rusty folded his arms. “I’m sorry, man.”

“Not your fault,” Boone muttered as he moved to the window. He planted his hands on the blue-painted steel frame. His breath, warm against the cool glass, bloomed in a fog.

Too many scrubs-covered bodies blocked his view. He leaned to the side, trying to see around them, but it was no good. Boone pushed off and went to the door.

A doctor stepped out, a hand going to Boone’s chest.

Though everything in him wanted to take that hand and secure it behind the doc’s shoulder blade, Boone restrained himself. “What’s wrong? What happened to her?”

“Mr. Ramage, that’s what we’re working to figure out.” He pointed with a clipboard to a corner of the hall then walked that way. Once they were out of traffic and earshot of the others in the corridor, the doctor sighed.

“She was fine. You told me she would be waking up any day. I’m gone for four days, and I get a call that she’s on the verge of death.
What
happened?” Boone demanded, glancing to the room as another nurse exited. As the door slid shut, two nurses moved in opposite directions, and for a split second Boone saw Keeley.

Or rather, a ghost of Keeley. A strange tinge colored her face and made her look drawn. Aged. Her lips were almost blue.

“Look, I. . .” The doctor scrubbed the back of his head.

“What aren’t you telling me? You have a theory, don’t you?”

Again, the doc sighed. “I don’t. I wish I did, because then we could attempt to be proactive, but. . .I’m confounded. It makes no sense.”

Eyes on where Keeley’s toes pushed up the blanket, Boone willed her not to leave him. “I just don’t understand how we went from ‘she’s coming home soon’ to ‘she’s on the brink of death.’ ”

“I don’t either,” the doc admitted. “Excuse me. I need to study the labs again, compare them to new labs. I’ll keep you posted.”

After the doctor and most of the staff left, Keeley’s heart rate and blood pressure moderately stabilized, Boone slipped into the room. He went to her side and took her hand, cringing at the tubing that snaked down her throat and the thinner tubes anchored into the top of her hand.

“Keeley,” he whispered, lifting her hand gently to his lips and kissing the spot by her thumb where the IV didn’t interfere. “Please come on, baby. Don’t do this to me. Don’t leave me.” His throat felt raw and thick. “I need you.”

What was wrong with her? The one man she’d wanted a relationship with was here, waiting on her. Right outside the showers in the lounge. Waiting to talk. Waiting to pick up where they’d left off. Sam was everything she wanted in a guy—kind, romantic, tenacious, handsome, honest, full of integrity. And he liked her. A lot, obviously, considering all he’d done to find her.

I should be flattered.

Showered, dressed, and sitting on the floor, she hugged her knees to her chest. Rested her head against the tiled wall and willed herself to go out there. Face the music. Stop being ridiculous.

And yet, here she sat.

Maybe it was Trace’s fault. What he said, what he did—his touch against her jaw that she could still feel—reignited all the old feelings. Old promises.
Broken
promises. Promises she’d begged God for the first two years after Misrata to fulfill.

“Annie?” Téya’s voice echoed in the room seconds before her leggy friend rounded the corner and stopped short. “Sam’s waiting for you.”

Annie nodded but didn’t move.

Téya tossed her towel and change of clothes on the counter by one of the showers. “And why are we avoiding the hot-n-hunky Mr. SEAL?” She crossed her legs at the ankle and sat. “What am I missing?”

“The same thing I am, apparently.” Annie sighed and peeled herself off the wall.

“What’s wrong?”

“He doesn’t belong here.”

“Do any of us?”

“We do—you and I. Trace and Boone, Noodle. But not Sam,” Annie said, her words cracking on raw emotion. “This, what we’re going through, what we’ve done, what happened in Misrata—it’s a nightmare. Half our team is dead or dying, and I don’t want Sam to end up like that.”

Téya considered her.

Annie slumped back against the wall. She knew those words were more like the wrapper on a burger and not the meat itself. “What?”

“Well,” Téya said as she pushed to her feet. “If David walked in here right now, I sure wouldn’t be moping in the shower.
Especially
knowing what we’re facing, what’s out there trying to kill us. I’d be all over him—well, not
literally—
to make sure we had every moment we could get.”

“Would you? Really?” Annie felt worse. More guilty. “But it’d put David in danger.”

“Girl, please.” Téya went to the shower and twisted the knobs. “You are so not getting that over on me. That hunk out there is a SEAL, Annie. He knows how to handle himself. So, I know that’s not the problem behind you hiding in here. No.” She wagged her fingers at Annie, motioning her to get off the floor. “Stand and tell the truth.”

“That is the truth.” Annie stood.

“No.” Téya folded her arms. “That’s what you’re telling yourself so you don’t have to face the truth.”

“Yeah, and what truth is that?”

“Your feelings for Trace are still too strong. And you can’t decide between the two.” Téya smiled, took hold of Annie’s shoulders, then aimed her toward the lounge. “To be honest, I’m not sure who I’d pick either. But staying in here is only going to make that hair of yours frizzy.”

A shove pushed Annie into the open.

Sam looked up, his eyes widening for a fraction of a second. He started to push to his feet, then slowly finished the movement. And man! Téya was right—Sam was a hunk. Wearing a navy T-shirt and a faded pair of jeans only made him look more
GQ
. “Still hate me?” His rich baritone voice still smoothed her tension and made her relax.

“I don’t hate you.” Annie sagged as she released her frustration. “I just. . .”

“You don’t want me here.”

She sighed and closed the distance between them. Easing onto the sofa, she tucked a foot beneath her as she sat. “It’s dangerous, Sam.”

He smirked, angling his torso toward her. “You do realize I’ve run plenty of combat operations. I’ve shot people and been shot, Annie.”

Her heart spasmed, hearing him use her real name. Guilt tugged at her. “That’s weird. . .”

“It is for me, too. But I’m in. Whatever it takes.”

And that frustrated her. Why, she couldn’t explain because she didn’t know. He was nice.
Too nice.
Too understanding.

“What’s wrong?” Sam asked.

Annie gave a halfhearted shake of her head.

“I feel like I’ve lost you again.”

She sighed. “Sam—” she met his gaze and felt the walls around her heart stagger, so she looked down “—things are really messed up right now. There’s so much you don’t know—”

“Then tell me.”

“I can’t.” This time, she saw disbelief and hurt in his chocolate eyes.

“Annie, I’m here. I’ve been on a mission with you and your team. I’ve seen them.”

“But you don’t know—” She snapped her mouth shut. What would he think when he found out she’d been the team leader responsible for the deaths of twenty-two innocent lives? Would his resolute belief in her waiver? She believed it would. Sam was too good a person to accept something so heinous. “Sam, it’s so complicated. So dangerous for you to know, even though you’re here. Even though
we
are here, there are men still trying to kill us. Men resolved to make sure we stay out of the way or silent.”

“Fill me in. I’ve got the clearance level, Annie. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. I fought to find out, and I’m not just walking away.”

“Sam, you don’t belong here.” Something about his resolution to stay involved made her feel like a heavy blanket had been thrown over her face. Breathing grew harder.

“I belong with you.”

Annie met his gaze. Yes, she wanted that. Believed that. But with her, not with her
here.

Sam touched her face and she leaned into the warmth of his caress, closing her eyes. He tugged her closer and she let her temple rest against his shoulder. “Why does it scare you that I’m here, Annie?”

Eyes closed, she thought about how to answer that. Truth was, she didn’t know. Was it as simple as not wanting him to get hurt? Yes, a big part—she’d killed twenty-two people. She didn’t want to make it twenty-three.

But Sam was a SEAL. He knew how to fight. Knew how to operate.

But if he saw
her operate. . .
what would he think? When he found out she’d killed children and women. . .? “I don’t know,” she whispered.

He held her close, his chin resting atop her head. “Take your time figuring it out. I’m not going anywhere. Weston has made that clear.”

Annie lifted her head. Met his gaze. Their noses almost touched, and she could feel his breath fanning across her cheek.

He homed in on her mouth.

Her heart hammered. But instead of kissing him, she pulled back. Then hated herself because she saw the hurt in his eyes again. “Sorry,” she whispered. Telling herself she should just kiss him now, let him know she still liked him. Still wanted to figure things out. “I—”

“Annie!”

Her breath backed into her throat. She turned just as Trace stalked past the oddly angled walls that provided a bit of privacy in the lounge. His expression went from stern to anger in a heartbeat. He and Sam shared a long, hateful look.

Annie stood, intentionally blocking their glare-off. “What’s wrong?”

“Need you and Téya out here.”

Sam had come to his feet now, standing behind her possessively. And she couldn’t deny the jealous rage that spread through Trace’s face did her wounded heart a lot of good. But she didn’t want them at odds just for her thirst for revenge against Trace. She didn’t have a thirst for vengeance, truth be told.

“I’ll let her know,” she said, then turned to Sam and slid her hand along his arm until she clasped his fingers. “We can finish this later.”

Sam nodded.

Annie toyed with giving him a quick kiss, but they hadn’t really moved to that level. Or past the obvious rift between them. She squeezed his fingers then went to the showers.

“Give her room and time to figure this out.” Trace didn’t sound confrontational with that warning to Sam, but Annie knew better. She also knew what Sam would say.

“You mean, give her room so you can step back in.”

Yeah.
About like that. . .
She hated the tension between them, but she lingered within earshot to hear what Trace would say.

“What Annie and I had ended five years ago.”

Trace’s words were like a hot branding iron through her heart, searing any hope she had that they’d get back together. And that was it. That was why she didn’t want Sam here. She
hadn’t
given up on Trace. Even though he’d ripped her heart out. And now. . .he’d done it again.

“So there was a ‘you and her’ then?”

Sam sounded furious but also enjoyed getting the dig in.

“If you know anything about her, you’d be smart to bury that and give her the room she needs. Annie can’t be forced to do anything she doesn’t want to do. And if you try, you’ll only tick her off.”