Operation Zulu Redemption--Complete Season 1 (12 page)

“I don’t think we need twenty minutes, let alone two hours,” Annie said. “There’s nothing here.”

Nuala didn’t agree. There was something…
something
they were missing.

Francesca

Fort Belvoir, Virginia

6 May – 0915 Hours

“Sir, a word?” Lieutenant Francesca Solomon stood at the door of Colonel Liam Stevens, her commanding officer.

He looked up over his reading glasses as he lowered the file he’d been holding. “Come in.”

“Sir, I believe I might have a lead on an unsolved murder that happened a few years ago.”

Colonel Stevens sat back. “Is this Misrata again?”

Frankie ignored the squirrels running rampant in her stomach. “Yes, sir. But—”

“Solomon, when are you going to let that go?”

“When justice is served, sir. I believe I have a new lead, one that could solve this and bring down the man responsible.”

“You do realize the difference between justice and vendetta, right?”

Frankie swallowed at the insinuation. At the same time, she took courage from the fact he hadn’t threatened to throw her out of her job. “Sir, a week ago, a woman in Las Vegas died. Official cause of death was an overdose. But I talked with the coroner and the body went missing.”

“Happens more often than you might believe.”

“True, but the person who signed for the deceased’s effects was one T. Weston.”

“You just aren’t going to leave the colonel alone, are you?”

“Sir, I just got—” No, she couldn’t let him know she’d been tracking him. That wouldn’t work in her favor. “I got word that Weston is back in Vegas. I believe, sir, he’s there to cover up what happened.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “And what? You want to go there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You realize if I let you do this and anything goes wrong… Lieutenant Colonel Weston can have formal charges brought against you. You see that, right?”

“Sir, if we keep looking the other way, nobody’s going to see anything.”

He groaned. “Okay, fine. Go. But so help me—if you don’t get something, don’t ask me for another inch on Misrata again.”

Trace

Las Vegas, Nevada

6 May – 1120 Hours

Trace had landed three hours ago. Spent one hour with some friends at Nellis AFB, putting out feelers, asking them to check around. Never hurt to have more boots on ground. He’d gone over surveillance footage back in Virginia, but being here again, remembering Kingston’s body in a bag…it made him hungry to stop whoever had unleashed this vicious game against Zulu.

He climbed the creaking stairs to the third floor, rapped on the door to apartment 312, and entered when Boone answered. “How’s it going?” His first thought that Jessie needed better housekeeping habits was quickly replaced with the revelation her place had been overturned.

“Painfully.” Boone angled around. “Not exactly much to inspect, but Houston is taking his time, inspecting every square inch with his tech.”

On his knees, Houston scooted along the floor, holding a wand to the back wall, moving slowly and methodically.

Trace hit the gaze of a man he didn’t know. “You must be Baker.”

Dark-haired and solid, the suit came toward him. Extended his hand. “Dan Baker. Nice to meet you.”

“Trace Weston.”

Baker grinned. “I know. Don’t imagine there are many of us who don’t know who you are, sir.”

Trace ignored the comment. Didn’t want to go there. Too many memories. He looked at Téya, Annie, and Nuala. Though he wasn’t that much older, he felt like a protective father. And one of their number had been murdered here. Made him want to wrap a steel vault around the whole team. “What’d we know?”

“Not much,” Dan said. “Official cause of death is overdose.”

“Which would explain the tox reports.” He hated that they had to leave the girl with a paper trail that defiled her character, but it was more imperative they cover that she’d been hit by a sniper. That would draw attention they didn’t need on this situation.

Boone watched over the girls, too. “Not much room to clear.” He glanced at Trace. “Think we should pack it up?”

“No computers?”

“Nope,” Houston spoke from where he sat on the couch, a laptop perched on his legs. “But…this is…
weird
.”

“What’s that?” Trace moved into the room, begging the guy to give them something.

“Well, there are a ton of radio waves exploding around this place, yet”—he waved his arms around the apartment—“we have zilch. No computer, devices, phone, nothing.”

“What does that mean?”

Houston shrugged. “Beats me, Boss-Man, but I’ll find out,” he said, never looking up from the laptop. “I’m checking lease information to see who her neighbors are.”

“F. Thompson, R. Wright, J. Heller, and D. Nadler,” Annie said.

Trace looked at Annie, feeling an old swell of emotion.

“What the…?” Dan asked. “How’d you know that?”

“Mailbox labels when we entered,” Annie said, as if her attentiveness was no big deal.

“Right,” Houston said. “Neighbor on that wall”—he pointed to the one where a cheap impressionist print hung—“is Heller, J. Across the hall…well, that doesn’t matter, because the signal is too strong to be over there. I think it’s the one that shares the wall.”

“I’ll check it out,” Annie said.

“I’ll come with you,” Trace said, unwilling to leave any of them alone at this point in the game. They stepped into the hall and Annie knocked on 313.

“Unlucky thirteen,” Annie whispered as they waited. The hall light seemed to form a halo around her blond curls. “Guess nobody’s home. We can talk to the landlady. She was very helpful earlier.”

Trace nodded and followed her down to the first floor, letting Annie take the lead. She gently knocked. When the door opened, the woman on the other side smiled.

“Hi, Mrs. Higginbotham.”

“Did you get locked out, dear?”

“No, ma’am. Actually, we were wondering about the tenant in apartment 313.”

“Oh, Jennifer Heller. She’s not around much, but she sure is nice.” She wrinkled her nose. “Not sure why she rented here. The girl looked like she had enough to get a nice place, but I wasn’t going to turn down good money.”

“Do you know where we can reach her?” Trace asked.

The woman straightened, adjusting her dress, as she smiled at Trace. A coy smile spread over her face. “I didn’t see you before. Are you an FBI agent, too?”

“A consultant working with Special Agent Baker,” Trace corrected her, wishing to shift her attention back to their question.

“They sure do grow them handsome, don’t they?” She giggled to Annie.

“Ma’am,” Annie said, her tone a bit more terse. “Do you have a number we can use to contact Miss Heller?”

“Oh—ya know? I don’t think I do. She promised to come back and give me one, but she never did. And she told me back last month that she’d be gone for a few weeks.”

Annie nodded. “Thank you, ma’am.”

Climbing the stairs, Annie slowed, giving him the chance to move beside her. Eyes narrowed, she chewed her lower lip.

“What are you thinking?”

They reached the top before she answered. “Just…maybe it’s—”

“What is it?”

She shrugged. “Jennifer Heller.”

“Yeah?”

“Jessica Herring.”

Trace saw her point. “Same initials.”

“Jessie loved things like that.”

“You think she might’ve rented 313, too?”

Annie scrunched her nose. “Maybe?”

He glanced around to verify they were alone and unwatched. “Let’s find out.” The place was borderline run-down and he doubted there were high-tech locks. A simple use of his credit card freed the door.

He drew Annie in and shut the door behind them. Spotless. Spartan. A few decent pieces of furniture. First thing he noticed—no pictures. At least, not of people. There were safari images. Prints of still life, but nothing to give him a clue. He went to a closet and opened it. Standard fare. Traditional dress. But only a half-dozen pieces.

“It was Jessie,” Annie said, her voice alive.

Trace turned and found her holding up a flyer of a tribal exhibit. Emblazoned across it in white letters was the word
Zulu
.

“And look!” Annie pointed to an old-fashioned telephone on the counter. Her face brightened with a big smile as she lifted the handset from the cradle. “She had this favorite movie that she always talked about, quoted lines from. In it”—she was dialing numbers—“the hero wired a safe house to—”

Pop!

Trace reached for his weapon at the noise behind him. He aimed his weapon at the closet, wary.

Annie hurried past him. “I knew it!”

“Wait!”

She shoved aside the hanging clothes and pressed both hands on the wall. It slid to the side, out of view.

“You’re kidding me,” he muttered.

A second later, the other side of the panel slid back. Boone grinned back at him. Held up a Bible. “She left me a love note,” he laughed. “Said it’d light my path…”

Trace shrugged. Okay, so the two rooms were connected via the closet. By why? He glanced back into the cleaner apartment. They were too small to hide anything. The kitchen cabinets… Three large strides carried him to them. He cleared them. Turned around.
What am I missing? Why would she need two apartments?

“Baker had to head back,” Boone said as he joined him in the cleaner apartment, walking the perimeter, glancing out the window, then turning back to Trace. “What gives with this?”

Trace shook his head. It made no sense.
C’mon, Jess…talk to me
. His gaze traced the walls, the ceiling, the—“Hold up.” His gaze hit the closet again, remembering the other apartment. “Was there a closet…no, there wasn’t. Only a table with a Bible.”

He stalked back to the closet. Thrust the clothes to the other side and stared at the left side wall. After unhitching his SureFire, he traced the corners and floor. He pressed his fingers to the middle of the left corner.

Click
.

Trace stilled, feeling the wall move beneath his fingers. He looked up, noticing only half the wall moved. He pushed a little harder. It swung back. Light snapped on. Trace crouched, bending in half to fit through the opening. He straightened to his full height, his gaze hitting an unbelievable sight.

Francesca

Nellis Air Force Base, Nevada

6 May – 1300 Hours

Wheels down. Frankie’s nerves thrummed as the plane rolled toward the gate where they’d deboard. She was close. Closer than she’d ever been to putting the Misrata tragedy to rest. Bringing justice to the children so needlessly and callously murdered. Cutting the legs out from under one of the most arrogant soldiers she’d ever encountered.

She stepped onto the tarmac, the unusually hot day sending heat plumes warbling over the blacktop. She tucked on her sunglasses.

“Lieutenant Solomon?” An airman stood beside a black sedan. “Ma’am, I’ll be your driver while you’re here. We’re ready when you are, ma’am.”

“I need to talk to the local authorities, Airman. Can you take me to the FBI field office?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The ride to the John Lawrence Bailey Memorial Building on West Lake Mead took twenty minutes, thanks to a lack of heavy traffic. The airman delivered her to the front door and went to park the vehicle. Frankie entered the building and showed her ID. “Lieutenant Frankie Solomon with U.S. Army Intelligence and Security Command. I need to speak with the special agent in charge, please.”

She waited, refusing the opportunity to sit. Her nerves, her anticipation of resolution sending spurts of adrenaline through her legs.

“Lieutenant Solomon?”

Frankie spun as a woman in standard FBI attire strode toward her, flanked by a man in khaki slacks, a navy blazer, and white shirt. The guy was hard not to notice with his height and unusual gold eyes.

“I’m Assistant Special Agent in Charge Gloria Lopez. The SAIC is offsite right now. Can I help?”

Frustration squeezed the muscles at the base of Frankie’s neck. She wanted the top dog to deal with this, not an underling. But time was of the essence. “Yes, that’d be fine. Can we go somewhere private?”

Special Agent Lopez led her to a room where the three of them sat around a long table. Frankie was sure the agents did this to emphasize their position and authority. The Army kept everything small and cheap.

“Ten days ago, a woman died here. Her record of death”—Frankie slid the death certificate across the table—“states she died of a drug overdose.”

Lopez, her short hair curled softly around her ears, smiled. “I’m afraid that happens all too often here. Girls come looking for a big break, and they get one, but not the kind they hoped for.”

Frankie stemmed her frustration. Already being placated. She glanced at the male agent sitting quietly. He hadn’t introduced himself or said a word yet.

“I believe this girl did not die of an overdose. But I can’t prove that because her body went missing.”

Lopez tilted her head, concerned. “You know this how?”

“I phoned the coroner and asked for more information, but she couldn’t provide it because she couldn’t locate the body.”

“Maybe just a mix-up.”

“Possible,” Frankie admitted, “but I have another scenario in mind. While you do not have the clearance level necessary for me to share everything, I can tell you that a case I’m working on involves a tragedy that cost twenty-two innocent children and women their lives. I believe the man responsible for those killings to be behind this woman’s death.”

Lopez straightened. “And this man’s name?”

“Trace Weston. He’s currently a lieutenant colonel in the Army.”

“Then, isn’t this a JAG problem?” the man said casually.

“Yes and no. Right now, he is here in this city. I need your help to find and stop him,” Frankie said.

“We have protocols,” Lopez said.

“I know. That’s why I came prepared with this.” Frankie handed over a faxed letter from the FBI Director, a favor General Stevens called in to make sure they didn’t hit unnecessary dead ends.

The man shifted. “Where is he?”

Frankie felt herself grimace but swallowed it. Couldn’t show a weak bone here. “Honestly, I do not have that information right now, but—”