Operation Zulu Redemption: Hazardous Duty - Part 3 (9 page)

Not only had he lost her, but he’d lost her to a squid. For two minutes on the plane, he’d imagined she might actually let him back into her life, forgive him for what he’d done. Being that close to her, smelling that lavender body wash she’d used years ago, he’d nearly given in to those desires. Nearly kissed her.

Call him crazy, but he was pretty sure she would’ve let him.

Then the SEAL came around the corner.

Trace tucked his cover in his right leg pocket and strode down the hall of the Pentagon with General Solomon to the office of the Army’s service chief, General Barry Cantor. They stepped into the office area and were met by a young lieutenant seated behind a desk. His name patch read H
ollings
.

“Morning,” Solomon said. “We have an appointment with Barry.”

“Yes, sir,” Hollings responded as he stood. “He’s waiting, sirs.” He led them down a short hall and past three additional doors to one that had the black name plate with C
antor
stamped in white. After two firm raps, he pushed into the room.

“General Solomon and Lieutenant Colonel Weston are here, sir.”

“Good, good.” Cantor came around his massive desk and crossed the office. “Come in, Haym.” The two greeted each other like long-lost brothers with a firm handshake that pulled into a back-slapping fest. “How’s Vivienne doing since her surgery?”

“Oh, that was six months ago. She’s fine.”

“And that beautiful daughter of yours? How’s she? Found a good Ranger or Green Beret to run off with?” Cantor’s eyes crinkled in a deep smile as he turned to Trace. “You didn’t steal her away from him, did you?”

Heat rushed up past the tan shirt collar and up his neck. “No, sir.” Francesca would rather gut him than date him. And the feeling was mutual.

Cantor slapped his shoulder. “Oh, don’t be embarrassed to admit you noticed how beautiful she is—in fact, Hollings out there has been trying to get her phone number since he met her at the Christmas gala.”

“I’m not sure Francesca would date Army,” Haym said. “Seems quite determined to do everything opposite me.”

“At least she’s in the military like her brothers, eh?” Cantor pointed them to where a black leather sofa and two chairs sat huddled in a conversation area. He offered coffee and water, and when they refused, he steered them right into the reason for the meeting. “How are those boys?”

“Grown fighters,” Haym said, his words drenched with the pride that drew up his shoulders. “However, I think you know more about Paolo than I do, I believe.”

Appreciation for the words colored Cantor’s face. “Imagine that’s right,” he said with a laugh.

Trace might not be privy to the facts of these men’s lives, but he could read between the lines as well as the best. Clearly, Haym’s eldest son had gone into an intelligence-related field that put him under the direction of Cantor. The knowledge made Trace a little more ill at ease. He had Haym on his side, but the man’s daughter enjoyed breathing fire down his neck. Would the eldest son do the same?

“So, she might not be trying to date you, but it seems our dear Francesca is trying to slice open your old wounds.”

Trace blinked, the general’s ability to switch topics so fast it left a soldier with whiplash no less sharp today as they sat here. He cleared his throat. “Apparently, sir.” A quick look to Haym told Trace there were no ill feelings.

“Well, I’ll tell you—Marlowe is out for blood.”

Trace nodded.

“Namely, yours.”

Another nod. “Yes, sir. I believe he’s been after it for the last five years.”

“What about the girls?”

Trace hesitated, wishing now he’d accepted the offer for a glass of water. He didn’t talk openly about Zulu.

“I have reports the one in the hospital isn’t doing well.”

Something about this man having such credible, up-to-date information unsettled Trace.

“And The Turk!” He guffawed. “Heavens have mercy—how on earth are you getting so tangled up in everything?”

Trace shifted on the leather chair. Wasn’t this meeting to discuss the investigation? To prep Trace for what was to come? To warn him to keep his lips tight and his information tighter?

“And what about that SEAL you had to wrangle into submission?” the general asked, snickering. “I would’ve paid money to see that go down.”

“Holding his own, sir.” Irritation clawed its way up Trace’s spine and kept him from looking the general in the eye and giving away his anger.

“And you?”

Trace snapped his gaze to the general. “Sir?”

“How are you holding up? It’s been one brutal mess.”

“It has, sir.”

“You have no family?”

“Parents in an assisted living home.” Even if he’d told them, they’d never remember if he existed outside their confusion-trapped minds. “My sister makes sure they’re taken care of. My younger brother is in the military.”

“But what about a love life? A dog? Best friend?”

Trace frowned. Looked at Solomon, then back to the Army service chief. “Sir, I’m not sure that’s relevant.”

“Of course it is,” Cantor barked, his amusement and lighthearted banter gone. “You just told me you have no family connections. Psychologist will tell the counsel that means you’re disconnected and have trouble forming healthy relationships. That information will turn you into a soldier with a thirst for blood to avenge the bad upbringing you had.”

“I didn’t have a bad upbringing,” Trace snarled.

“And your inability to form bonds also affects your leadership of the ultrasecret black ops team named Zulu.”

Anger rising, Trace fought the tug of those demons. What was this? A trap?

“Tell me, Colonel Weston, when was the last time you were with a woman?”

Fury colored his world red. He punched to his feet. “That’s none of your concern.”

“Of course it is. I need to know her name so I can talk to her, determine what kind of relationship you had. Determine how it ended—assuming it did end.” His gaze lingered on Trace, then he snorted. “Good. You don’t need to be dating right now anyway.”

Heart crashing into his ribs, Trace fought to maintain his hold on the ultrathin line of control.

“Do you make it a habit to be involved with women, potentially compromising the safety of classified information you’ve been trusted with? How many women have you slept with, Colonel?”

“If it were any of your business, I’d tell you I hold marriage sacred, and when I utter those vows before God, it will be for one woman for the rest of my life.”

“God.” His hazel eyes flashed. “So, you’re a religious zealot.” Cantor hadn’t slowed down. “You do realize that the military and government classify religious zealots as domestic terrorists.”

Trace cursed.

Cantor rose and met his gaze, steel to steel, his expression fierce. “Sit down, Mister Weston.”

Trace couldn’t move. Didn’t trust himself to move.

“You need to realize, Trace, that Marlowe is going to throw everything at you that he can. He’ll play dumb, play nice, then he’ll rip your heart out.” He pointed to the chair. “Sit down. Let me tell you what you’ve already revealed to me.”

He didn’t dare ball his fists in front of the Army service chief, but every muscle in Trace trembled with rage. Slowly, gaze still on Cantor, he lowered himself to the seat again.

“You’ve just told me that you are alone. That you have nobody you go to for counsel. That your relationship with a woman ended poorly, and that your anger is easily aroused. All points the counsel will use against you in determining whether your duties and your job should be returned to you.”

Trace said nothing. Did nothing. He remained frozen, convinced one wrong breath would detonate the rage within him.

“You’re heading into a maelstrom, Trace,” Cantor said, his voice more friendly, less accusatory.

“That’s been my life the last five years.”

“No,” Cantor said. “You’ve been at the eye of this storm for the last five years. You’re about to feel the full intensity.”

“Good to know, sir.” Trace gritted his teeth, maintaining a civil tongue almost impossible.

Cantor’s left eye squinted as he looked at him. “Trace, you should know something.”

He waited.

“I’m not your enemy.”

“Forgive me, sir, but if this is friendly conversation—”

“Consider it friendly fire, iron sharpening iron.”

Trace lifted his chin. He reserved phrases like that for friends. “Why would I do that, sir?”

“Because I’m the one who tapped you to assemble Zulu.”

It hurt Nuala’s heart to see Boone in such misery. And it killed her to know that he was in such shape because the woman he loved—which wasn’t her—lay in a hospital mysteriously failing. Of course, that made her feel worse because she shouldn’t begrudge him. He had no idea how she felt. She’d never given him any indication that he held the moon and stars in her world. Even if she had, he would’ve rejected her. Nuala King wasn’t the type of girl guys fell in love with.

Now, Annie. . .and Téya . . .and Keeley. . .yeah. Guys tripped over themselves trying to get a date with them. But Noodle? The nickname alone told her what they thought of her.

But Boone. Like Rock of Gibraltar. Impenetrable. Solid. That he had enough muscle to make up two humans meant little to her.

Oh, who was she kidding? He was as physically attractive as he was kind. As bulked up as he was compassionate. Which is why it hurt all the more to see him in pain like this.

She poured a cup of coffee, added cream—oops. Not too much. Nuala carried it over to the workstations where Boone sat in a chair, staring at the computer. Which she knew from the blank look on his face either wasn’t on or he wasn’t paying attention. “Here,” she said softly as she set the mug before him.

Boone glanced down at it but seemed as if he didn’t see it. Then shifted. “Did I ask for that?”

Heat crept into her cheeks, but not enough—she hoped—to make the blush evident. “No, you looked like you needed it.”

Boone’s gray eyes came to hers, a shade of disbelief coloring them. “Thanks, Noodle.”

Would he call her anything else but that stupid name? Something with respect. Something with meaning. But she had no meaning to him, other than being a member of Zulu. And a top sniper.

They had that in common. And she loved to talk shop with him. Really, she’d talk about anything with him.
Am I pathetic?

“Wow, I sure would love someone to bring me coffee without having to ask,” Téya murmured loudly from the dais, where she sat studying the wall. “Must be nice, Boone.”

Again, his mind seemed jogged back to the present. “Maybe you should try being nice to someone,” he said, almost not missing a beat. But then he glanced at Nuala and lifted the cup and nodded. “Thanks.”

She smiled.

“You think you’re nice to Nuala?”

Oh no. This wouldn’t end well. Nuala knew where this was going. And suddenly knew what Téya was up to. She swept across the room and stood over her friend, glaring deliberately at her, warning her to stop.

Téya, unrepentant as always, just shrugged. “I’m just saying—he should be more grateful.”

Okay, time to clear out before this got really embarrassing. Nuala headed for the bunk room. Maybe she’d journal. Work on a scene in her space opera. Pluck out her fingernails. Anything less painful than being humiliated by Téya, who had somehow figured out Nuala’s feelings for Boone.

Hushed, harsh whispers skated out of the corner bunk room, slowing Nuala. Holding the swirl necklace her mother had given her as a teen, she stood outside the room she shared with Téya, listening.

The whispers continued, stiff and hurried. The Lorings were in there, their children visible on the lower bunk and napping. How’d they get older children like that to nap during the daytime? When Nuala had been that age, she wanted to be with the adults. Didn’t want to miss anything.

“No. . .you don’t. . .”

The broken pieces didn’t make sense. What was going on? They sounded pretty upset. With each other? Or with the team?

“. . .they’ll know.”

“. . .no choice.”

“. . .keep doing this. . .what if. . .”

“. . .figure it out.”

Nuala edged closer, putting her stealth sniper skills to use, but even with her straining to hear, she couldn’t make out the conversation. What she wouldn’t do for her long-range microphone. Or a well-placed listening device.

Footsteps came toward her from their room.

Hurrying into her room, Nuala forced her heart to slow. Bring her breathing under control.

“Hey.”

Nuala pivoted, surprised to find Annie on the upper bunk. “Oh. I didn’t know you were there.”

Annie wrinkled a brow. “You okay?”

“Sure. Yeah.” She shrugged.

“You’re a bad liar.”

Should she tell Annie? Téya hadn’t believed her. Why would Annie?

Because Annie had a stronger balance in terms of weighing pros and cons. She didn’t go on gut reaction alone the way Téya often did.

Nuala wanted affirmation that she was as vital to the team as the others. That her assessments were just as valid. She had to make judgment calls in the field with a sniper rifle pressed to her shoulder. They trusted her to do that. Why not listen to her now? “I just—”

“Oh, hey. Glad you are in here,” Sharlene Loring said as she stepped into the room, freezing Nuala’s words in her mouth.

Annie sat up. “Need something?”

“Carl and I were talking.”

Arguing was more like it.

“It’s probably nothing,” came Carl’s voice from the hall.

Annie and Sharlene moved out there. In order to keep up with the conversation, Nuala had to follow them.

The Lorings wrapped their arms around each other. Carl pressed a kiss to Sharlene’s temple. And though Nuala wasn’t sure, she thought she saw a grimace. A split-second tweak of Sharlene’s lips. But their arms were around each other.

“We both think that there is a connection between Giles Stoffel and Titus Batsakis that cannot be overlooked,” Carl said firmly.

“We pretty much figured that out,” came Trace’s deep, firm voice as they all gathered by the computer stations. “Stoffel’s sister married Titus Batsakis.”

“That’s not illegal,” Téya mumbled. When everyone looked at her, Téya shrugged. “What? It’s not!”

“Not to disappoint you,” Trace said, arms folded over his chest as he leaned against the tables, “but Annie and I got into the bank. Houston went through their systems and found nothing out of the ordinary.”

“So, you think they’re innocent?” Sharlene said, her voice pitching.

“No way,” Annie said. “They kidnapped me. We know they’re dirty, but we have no way to prove it.”

“We might,” Carl said, looking as his wife in a sickeningly adoring fashion. “We believe they keep their secrets on their yacht.”

Trace straightened. “Yacht?”

“
Aegean Mercy
,” Sharlene said. “Named after—”

“Mercy Chandler,” Annie put in. “Stoffel’s wife.”