Operation Zulu Redemption--Complete Season 1 (26 page)

“Good, good,” he said, hopping to his feet and clapping. The guy gave new meaning to
rolling with the punches
. “Never give your opponent an opportunity. Read their body language, watch their eyes.”

When she reached fifty sit-ups, Téya lay there on the mat, staring at the ceiling. Anger and a sense of futility roiled through her. She did not want to be here in this cement coffin. Didn’t want to be engaged in acts of violence.

“All right, ladies. On your feet,” Quade shouted.

“You realize we’re only a few feet away, right?” Nuala struggled to her feet. “Screaming doesn’t make a point any better than a normal tone of voice.”

Quade considered her. Then Téya and Annie, who grouped up around their teammate. “Hit the trail.”

Téya fantasized about throwing herself at him. Of conjuring up some psychic powers to make that lightbulb smash into his head. Anything to get this guy—

“
Moove it!
”

Topside and jogging a barely existent trail through the woods and around a creek that bordered the property, Téya gritted her teeth. “I’m going to kill him.”

“I’m ready to take my knife to Trace for bringing this guy in,” Annie huffed out, her blond curls matted to her head with sweat.

“What is with that?” Téya wet her lips and swallowed to quench her parched throat.

“Don’t know,” Annie breathed. “But does Trace really think this will do any good?”

“Can’t outrun a sniper bullet.”

“Speaking of sniper—where’s Nuala?” Annie slowed to a fast walk, pushing her damp strands off her face. “If Trace can bring in this goon, why not Sam or David?”

Téya felt her stomach clench at the mention of David.

“Sam’s a Navy SEAL—or was.”

“Move it, ladies. Walking’s for wusses.” Quade’s voice boomed over a megaphone.

“Seriously?” Téya glowered. “Why not take out a billboard announcing where we are?”

“Guess he thinks we’re far enough out to be safe.” Annie resumed her run.

When they made it back to the bunker, Quade was there waiting. “Since you took your sweet time, do another lap.”

“Are you—?”

“Argue and I’ll add more.”

“Who do you think you are?” Téya demanded.

“The guy trying to keep you alive.” Quade stood firm. “In ten seconds, you’ll be doing two more laps.”

“This is bull,” Annie said.

“Ten…”

“Where’s Nuala?”

“Nine…”

Téya drew up her shoulders. Inched forward.

Annie hooked her arm. “C’mon. We can use the fresh air.”

Even as their feet padded across the inches-thick litter of fall and spring left in the field, they heard Quade say, “Clear your heads and come back ready to fight.”

“That’s a promise,” Téya hissed.

But as she ran this time, she let her mind drift to David—was he doing better? Had he recovered from whatever sent him to the hospital? Her heart and mind were tangled up in the conflicting messages her heart telegraphed. One to stay away and keep him safe. The other to rush to his side.

“Does it get to you?” she asked Annie.

“What?”

“That we put them in danger?” She dropped out of the jog, hands on her hips as she walked, sucking big gulps of air. “I mean—that’s why we were ordered to never return to our family or friends, right? So we don’t.” She swallowed hard, wetting her lips. “But we get close to people and put
them
in danger.”

Annie said nothing for a few minutes as they did a fast walk-jog. “Sam…” She sighed. “I staved off his attention for two years. Finally gave up and gave in. And
that
night, the sniper shows up.”

“Think he’ll give up?”

Annie lowered her gaze. “I… I don’t know. He’s like a pit bull when he gets an idea, but at the same time, I don’t know how much I meant to him. If I was just a challenge.”

“
Laaaddies
,” Quade’s voice taunted.

“I am truly going to kill him,” Téya said as she started jogging again. “What about David—have you heard how he’s doing?”

Téya shook her head. “I’d rather not think about all that—I’d rather figure out where Berg Ballenger is, who was behind beating the tar out of me, and ultimately, who set us up in Misrata.”

“Wouldn’t we all?”

“How did we not have the information about Ballenger but HOMe did?”

“Maybe we weren’t supposed to have that,” Annie suggested. “Maybe she let something slip that shouldn’t have come out.”

“She admitted they were breaking rules letting Berg stay there with his wife.”

“Child bride, sounds like.”

“Maybe that’s why. Maybe HOMe knew it wouldn’t look good if word got out.”

They finished the mile-long lap, Téya’s rubbery legs threatening to pitch her to the ground as she made her way to the barn. Coming down the stairs, they encountered Boone, who was carrying a platter of burgers and hot dogs.

“What’s that?” Téya demanded.

“Burgers,” Boone said, a bit of sarcasm to his words, then he took the rest of the steps two at a time.

“Are we invited to the barbecue?” Annie asked as she continued down.

“Only if you hurry. I have a big appetite tonight.”

Downstairs in the showers, Téya slammed her door shut. Who were they to beat them to a pulp then act as if this were any ordinary day on the farm? As if they were just lazing about? Ordering them to work their muscles into oblivion while the men drank beers and ate burgers. She scrubbed herself clean in the shower, dressed, then stormed out into the command area.

Only the top of Houston’s curly hair was visible in the dimly lit area. Téya hit more lights, which yanked up the guy’s head. “Are they still up there?”

Pencil in mouth, Houston stared. Dropped the pencil. “Who?”

“Boone? The Torture-Master.”

Houston blinked. “Wha—”

With a grunt, Téya severed his reply. Irritation clawed up her spine. “Have you seen Nuala? She went missing after Henley’s torture session.”

“Nuala? I thought she was with you.”

“It’s a sad thing no one knows where we are,” Téya groused. “Because nobody’d ever know if they came in and killed one of us.”

“Now, that’s not fair—I’m very busy here.”

Yeah, busy with a whole lot of nothing that had gotten them nowhere. Futility and frustration soaked Téya’s muscles. She’d had it. Had enough of this. It was over.

Trace

Thwack!

Shoulders squared, black hair shorn close, Quade stood ramrod straight, staring out at the field, then lowered his Airsoft M4 and lowered himself to a chair, muttering.

With a smirk, Trace grabbed a bottled water from the cooler, ignoring the thirst at the back of his throat for one of the brown bottles Quade supplied for tonight’s barbecue.

“Going light tonight?” Quade asked as he eyed the sweating water bottle.

He’d shared more than a few beers with Quade back in the day. It had been a way to relax, to let go of stress and forget what they’d seen and done in the field. But he’d felt himself slipping…slipping into the arms of a fierce seductress known as alcoholism.

Trace took a swig of the water and watched Boone flip the patties over. “How are they coming?”

“They hate me,” Quade snickered, sitting in a lawn chair, a pair of binoculars in hand.

“If they didn’t,” Trace said, “I’d wonder why I brought you.”

“Right?” Quade’s grin shone with pride. “They’re good. I’ll give you that.”

“But?” Trace heard it coming. Tried not to feel irritated with the criticism, because he knew they’d gotten sloppy. Five years hiding, stifling their once razor-sharp skills, made the girls vulnerable.

“But they can be better.” Quade took a swig and set it down, peering through the binoculars. He came to his feet. Lifting his Airsoft, he aimed.

Trace tensed, gaze roaming the field lit only by the orange streaks of the setting sun.

Quade fired.

The next several seconds stretched into one of the longest minutes Trace had experienced in days. When only the wind answered Quade’s shot, Trace let out a breath he didn’t realize he held. “Nice try.”

With a grunt, his buddy dropped back into the chair. Took another gulp of his drink.

“Okay,” Boone said, “I think—”

“What is going on here?” Téya demanded as she appeared out of the barn with Annie. “I thought we were lying low? Staying out of sight.”

Quade tipped his bottle at her. “You are supposed to be lying low, Freckles.”

Trace scowled at his friend. Was he
trying
to tick off the girls?

“Look, you,” Téya hissed.

“Trace,” Annie cut in, her expression stone cold. “We’d like an explanation.”

She’d always been tough. Straightforward. Bordered a little on insubordinate as they grew more…
acquainted
with each other. He watched her, waiting.

Her nostrils flared. “You will not let Téya see David. You block me from talking to Sam. Yet you bring him”—she stabbed a finger at Quade—“to sit out here, drinking beer and goofing off.”

Boone delivered a platter of cooked burgers. Quade was right there, undeterred about Annie and Téya’s objections.

“Seriously,” Téya said. “Are we supposed to learn how to outrun sniper bullets? Because if I remember correctly, that’s how Candice and Jessie died. I’m not imagining all the laps in the world around this godforsaken place would enable us to do that.”

They were ranting. Upset. Neither of them had wanted to come back. Though he hadn’t interacted with them, he knew what they’d been up to. Kept tabs on them. On every piece of communication or significant event in their lives. Jobs. Moves. Major purchases. He had to so he could catch anything that might draw attention to them.

“Ah, ha, ha-haaaa,” Quade said as he dressed his burger.

The ambivalent attitude was one intended to anger the girls. Make them see him as a source of their problem. Get them to hit hard and not give up. It worked well on most grunts. But these two ladies weren’t grunts.

“So help me,” Téya said, glowering at Quade, “I will shove that thing down your throat.”

Thwack!

The sound startled everyone, including Trace. He stilled then saw the paint that had exploded all over Quade’s shirt, face, hair, and burger. He dropped it with a curse, lunging to his feet.

Téya and Annie frowned, confused, as they looked around trying to figure out what was happening.

But Trace knew. And smiled.

“Show yourself,” Quade shouted, his face red and his vein throbbing near his temple. “Show yourself!”

The girls turned in the direction he shouted. Boone’s chuckle seeped into the darkening night as grass shifted just inside the yard’s perimeter. The blades rippled and rose…up…up.

Pride spiraled through Trace.

Dressed in a ghillie suit, Nuala removed the head covering she’d created from local vegetation to conceal her movement. With an Airsoft sniper rifle slung over her arm, she stared back, a hardness in her eyes Trace hadn’t noticed before. The same kind darkening the eyes of her teammates.

A raucous applause broke out as Quade started laughing. “Well done, young lady! I’m impressed.”

“Thank you,” she called as she crossed the field and set down the gear. She straightened and looked at Boone, who grinned unabashedly. “I had the best instructor.”

“I showed her a few things, but Noodle has skills that can’t be taught.”

Quade made a puking sound. “Y’all are nauseating with all this sappy stuff.” He slapped Boone on the shoulder. “Brother, I need another burger. Seems this young lady poisoned it.”

“Just because we care about and look after each other—that isn’t a bad thing,” Téya snapped.

“It is when you’re in the field and it compromises your decisions,” Quade countered.

“Well,” Annie said, her voice quiet but her tone deadly. “You don’t have to worry about that where Trace is concerned.”

Her words sliced through him like a knife.

“He was always a tough mudder,” Quade said. “Singular focus to the team and the mission. Kept personal feelings out of it, which is why he’s where he is now.” Surprisingly, admiration glinted in the man’s eyes as he looked at Trace. “Isn’t that right, Colonel?”

Trace set down his water. “I think you’ve had too much to drink. You’re going soft.”

“You should’ve seen this guy when we were in Iraq.” Quade launched into a tale that was very exaggerated and puffed up his own role in the takedown of some notorious Taliban leaders.

Hanging back with a burger, Trace watched Annie. She hated him. He couldn’t blame her. He’d made a decision that had kept her safe. One, it seemed, she would forever hold against him. But what was she worried about? She had that Navy SEAL to keep her cozy.

They’d never be on friendly terms again. He’d hurt her after Misrata. And once she found out about the SEAL… that he’d hurt her again…the pit of hatred would be deep enough to bury him.

Appetite lost, Trace chucked the burger and the hope that she’d forgive him.

Sam

Manson, Washington

19 May – 1645 Hours

Rock music blazed through the night as Sam stood on his deck, hands shoved in his jeans pockets as he stared at the small tan cottage. More accurately, the one that had set his life on a collision course with a quiet, demure woman who’d intrigued him from the first day he saw her sitting on that deck. The sunrise had created a halo around her golden-blond hair that looked as messy and windswept as any model.

Sam glanced down at the object in his hand. A gold circle, just like that halo. But not just a halo, a promise.

“Where are you, Ash?” He tucked the ring away and turned, roughing a hand over his mouth and down his neck as he slumped against the railing. Okay. Enough. He wanted answers. And they were coming as efficiently as a jammed M4.

Sam climbed into his Camaro and headed to the Green Dot. There was something about Ashland Palmieri that had quieted his soul. Getting out of the SEALs had been the hardest decision he’d made, but the back pain and hypervigilance that never went away convinced him it was time. That and the mission that cost him three buddies, who left behind a girlfriend, two wives, and four children.

When he arrived in Manson, he had no intention of sticking around longer than the summer, longer than the time it took to get a gig with a private security contractor. But then Ashland all but dared him to figure her out. Not directly. She was too private for that.