Operation Zulu Redemption--Complete Season 1 (27 page)

But was that need and demand for privacy
more
than just being a loner?

He parked near the Green Dot Sub Shop deck and strode swiftly inside. A line snaked back six or seven customers deep, but he went around them. Straight to the counter.

Jeff came around the corner with a tray of freshly chopped lettuce. His light expression vanished as he met Sam’s gaze.

“C’we talk?” Sam said, making sure his tone warned Jeff this wasn’t an invitation.

Jeff hesitated, his gaze tracking to the food bin propped against his green-and-yellow apron, then gave a curt nod even as Sam walked back outside. He leaned against his car and waited, hands in his pockets. The safest place for his fists right now. A few minutes later, the Green Dot owner emerged, sans apron.

“Why’d you lie to the reporter?”

Jeff held his ground. “Wasn’t a lie.”

“You said she hadn’t been there in weeks.”

“Yes,” Jeff said, “and mentally, that was true.”

“I’m not following.”

“Easy,” Jeff said, holding up his hands.

“I’m not tracking. Ashland considered you a close friend and you—” Sam shook his head. “I’m not sure what you did. But not talking to me, hiding things from that reporter—how does that help Ashland?”

“It keeps information about her contained. You should know about that.”

“Contained?” Sam cocked his head. “Why do you think it needs to be contained?”

“Think about it. Think about what you told the cops.”

“How do you know—” Sam bit off his question. Jeff knew everyone in town and they knew him. This was his turf.

“You said a pro sniper took hits at you both. Then Ashland vanishes after a man nobody knows or has seen around town—and that’s something for Manson—shows up.” Jeff thumped the back of his hand against Sam’s shoulder. “Put that lethal brain of yours to work. Doesn’t it sound a lot like she might be in trouble?”

“Why do you think I’m trying to find her?”

“What if finding her is what puts her in danger?”

Sam hesitated.

“Look, I don’t know half the stuff you do with your experience, and I’m certainly no cop, but this sounds a lot like a witness relocation thing or something.” Jeff edged in. “You’re not the only one who cares about Ashland and wants to know that she’s okay.”

I don’t just want to know she’s safe—I want her safely back with me
. Sam tugged his hand free from the pocket and rubbed his forehead. “None of it makes sense. Cops find nothing. I can’t find anything.”

A car whipped into the parking lot and Sam automatically tensed. He glanced over and saw Lowen Miles emerge from the silver vehicle. “Hey, I was headed out to your place but saw you here.”

Sam started forward. “You find something?”

“Yes and no.” Lowen handed him a paper. “First—remember I told you someone tipped me off, said to look into the women who were killed?”

Sam nodded, vaguely recalling that.

“Well, that person called again.” He slid a piece of paper to Sam. “Two more names to look into. One’s in Pennsylvania, one in Virginia.”

Sam’s head hurt. More questions, but no closer to finding Ashland.

“Annnd,” Lowen said, producing yet another paper. “Remember those sites you created—‘Help Find Ashland Palmieri’?”

Unfolding the paper, Sam cast a furtive glance to Jeff then to the paper. His eyes raced over the words, dragging his mind through a quagmire of muddy panic. Leave her alone? A minute flicker of betrayal slithered through him. Why would she…

No. This couldn’t be right. Conviction stabbed him. “She didn’t send this.” As the words left his mouth, the conviction deepened.

Jeff was at his side. “What is it?”

He shoved the paper at his friend as he focused on Lowen. “Did you trace it?”

“Tried,” Lowen said, adjusting his sunglasses. “It bounced all over the place like a racquetball. Never seen anything like it.”

Sam nodded. “Proves it wasn’t her.”

“How’s that?” Jeff asked.

“Ashland didn’t even have a computer or laptop.”

“Maybe she had hidden skills,” Jeff said, but Sam shot him a scowl and Jeff held his hands up. “Just mentioning possibilities.”

“How are those pages doing?” Sam was ready for some progress. Ready to get Ashland back. Whatever it took.

“Good, good. We’ve got well over 500k on the Facebook one—but then someone complained or something. Said we were spam or porn or some lie. We got shut down, but we appealed it. It’ll be back up by the end of the day.”

“Half a million?” Jeff asked, his eyes rounding. Then he looked at Sam and went still, his gaze dropping to the parking lot.

Agitation wound through Sam. While he couldn’t explain it, there was a massive knot of irritation in his gut, and it needed an outlet. He tried to keep it from hitting Jeff. But that look… “What?”

Jeff met his gaze for a second. “Ah, it’s—”

“Just spill it.” Sam heard the impatience in his voice and drew in a calming breath.

“I was just thinking”—Jeff nodded to Lowen—“this page on Facebook…it has a picture of Ashland?”

“I gave him the one of me and her at the Fourth of July fireworks show.”

Jeff drew up and gave a half nod. “Ashland’s picture…half a million people seeing it—if we explore the possibility I mentioned, that she’s intentionally hiding for some reason—”

“You really believe that?” Sam didn’t want to. Didn’t want to believe Ashland would hide, not from him. Not after what they’d shared. Not after she let him into her protected zone.

Staring at the picture for a few more minutes, Jeff finally grunted. Then shrugged. “I don’t know. I just would hate to be putting her in danger by bringing attention to this.”

Sam turned away, exhaling hard. He scratched the side of his face as he paced. Thought through the possibility. How would they know? “If she’s not hiding, then she’s in danger. How can you expect me to just sit here?”

“Don’t.”

Sam frowned. “Come again?”

Again, Jeff looked to the reporter and his friend. “You posted that page and then got the e-mail, right?”

The two men nodded.

“I see where you’re going,” Sam said, his mind spinning possibilities.

“Ask for proof that Ashland’s the one telling you to back off.”

An idea took root. “I have a better idea.”

Trace

Lucketts, Virginia

21 May – 1645 Hours

Ridiculous. Trace sat back in the chair at the briefing table and tossed down his pen. Despite the litter of papers strewn across the brown surface and the years of work he’d put into discovering who had been behind Misrata and who was still targeting Zulu, he had nothing.

Either he was entirely incompetent or…

They’re just better than I am
.

And Sam Caliguari. Like a cancerous tumor on Trace’s back, the guy just wouldn’t go away. He’d sent a message that read normally, but something nagged at the back of Trace’s mind. Warned him Caliguari was testing the response. Trying to verify Annie had sent the e-mail, no doubt. He lifted the printout of the e-mail and read it again.

My only concern is for your safety and well-being. One word will reassure me and I will step off. Answer this—olives: yes or no?

They hadn’t answered. They couldn’t ask Annie what it meant because she didn’t know they were warning the SEAL away. And she’d be ticked off with Trace if she found out. Considering how things were going, that was the last thing they needed.

Back to the mission. To the task at hand. His radar was homing on Berg Ballenger after the attack on Téya that left her with a broken nose and black eyes. Hollister sent them to an address she’d never visited. At least, that’s what she said. Trace had Houston monitoring every bit of data and all calls in/out of that organization. He’d even had the tech geek dig through old records. Nothing smelled rotten.

Except Berg Ballenger. Where was he? Why had he dropped off the grid? That smelled fishy.

Trace pushed away from the endless pile of nothingness and stalked out into the command center, straight to Houston. “What’d you find on Ballenger?”

Boone looked up from a nearby system and adjusted his ball cap. “You look ticked.”

“Sick of not having answers,” Trace admitted. He jutted his jaw toward Houston. “Well?”

“Uhh,” Houston said as he pulled up files and splashed them over the wall screen. “Not much. One passport photo—the one you gave me is the only one.”

“No renewal?”

Houston shrugged. “Not that I can find.”

“What did you find then?”

“I found out that his parents were Robert and Penny Ballenger. His mom’s maiden name was Eddington. She has a brother named Bertrand.” Houston looked up at Trace through his eyebrows. “That is an interesting man. A businessman with a lucrative stock portfolio. World traveler.”

“How does that help us?” Boone asked.

“Guess it doesn’t, but Eddington’s passport has some interesting stamps.”

“Yeah?”

“Morocco, Greece, Paris, Palestine”—his gaze locked with Trace’s—“Libya.”

Though his heart kicked, Trace wouldn’t read into that. “Lot of businessmen travel there. What else?”

“Nothing,” Houston said. “The trail dies after the last U.S. stamp.”

“Point of entry?”

Houston pulled up the image of the passport stamp.

“Denver,” Trace muttered.

Boone pushed back, his boots tipped on the toes as he held his hands behind his head.

“Nothing after that. We’ve known that for years, right?”

“Why would he vanish?” Houston asked. “It’s not like someone was deliberately trying to kill anyone. What happened in Misrata was an accident. No need to run, hide, or conceal your identity.” Houston leaned back in the chair, causing it to squeak.

“Unless you had something to do with it.”

Houston shot him a look. “Dude, seriously? Berg Ballenger?” He pointed to the screen. “The guy was what? Twenty-four when Misrata happened?”

“An accountant fresh out of college,” Boone said, repeating the information they’d hammered into their brains over the last five years, no doubt.

“He married a Libyan orphan who’d aged out, according to Kellie Hollister.” Houston shook his head.

Annoyance chugged through Trace. He knew every option to what happened in Misrata. And he knew every counter-option, every reason why the option couldn’t be right.

He rubbed his eyes. Needed a shift in focus or some miraculous breakthrough. “What about Pennsylvania?”

Houston gave him a quizzical look.

“Erasing Téya’s digital footprint…”

“Oh. Oh, right. Yeah, I did that, but…”

“But what?”

“Well, there was this”—Houston wagged a finger at each of the three monitors on his left—“image at the hospital in Pennsylvania. It’s been bugging me.”

A grainy picture of a man in a baseball cap talking to a doctor appeared on the screen.

“Why would that bother you?” Tech geeks were good, but sometimes they were anal. And wrong. “Don’t waste your time—”

“I… It just seems…familiar.”

“What? The hospital, the doctor, or the guy?”

“Yes.” Houston came up a little straighter in his chair, his head angled to the side. “Yes,” he said more firmly. “That’s it!”

A frustrated groan begged Trace to give it release. Instead, he waited. Guys like Houston—their brains worked in ways he couldn’t fathom. Didn’t want to fathom, but he was grateful for them because they made connections that were otherwise missed.

“Keeley.”

Warm anger splashed through Trace’s gut, making him wary. “What about Shay?”

Houston’s fingers flew so rapidly it sounded as if several people were typing at once. “Look look look,” he said, glancing from one monitor to another. “Yes! I was right.”

Trace saw the security footage of the hospital where Shay was recuperating. A half-dozen people sat in a waiting area. “What? What am—” And he saw it. Saw the same guy. Same clothes.

“I review the footage every night, just to review who’s been in and out of Keeley’s room and the ICU ward.” Houston tapped on the shape of the guy. “He’s there, too. Tell me that’s not creepy. What’s he doing there?”

“Can you zoom in?” A buzzing began at the back of Trace’s brain and washed down his neck.

“Even better. Here you go.” Houston ran a program over the face. “Connecting it to facial recognition right—”

“No need,” Boone said.

Anger sparked through Trace. “Sam Caliguari.”

“He’s close, West.” For Boone’s face to telegraph the concern Trace felt was not a good sign. Things had progressed beyond a salvageable situation. “What do you want to do?”

“He has to be dealt with.”

“Arrest? Persuasive negotiation?”

“Whatever it takes.”

“Hey!” Excitement snapped through Houston’s voice. “Look! Ballenger…” His eyes were wide as he stared at the monitor.

Trace moved toward him. “What?”

“Ballenger left a message. I have that voice-to-text on that number Annie and Téya left with Hollister. Ballenger just left a message on it.”

“What’s it say?” Boone asked.

“He says he’ll meet them—but in… 75004 Place…” Houston’s voice trailed off as his fingers took over. “It’s a hotel. Hôtel-de-Ville, Paris.”

“Paris?”

Trace and Boone looked toward the lounge area where Téya stood, watching them. How long had she been there? “Ballenger left a message agreeing to meet—but in Paris.”

Téya crossed her arms as she drew closer. “That’s intriguing. Kellie Hollister had an invitation on her desk for a benefit gala—for HOMe. In Paris.”

“When?” Traced asked.

“The twenty-fourth.”

“Friday,” Boone said, meeting Trace’s gaze. “Think we have time?”

“Seriously?” Téya said with a cheeky grin. “I’m going to Paris, right?” Nuala and Annie emerged from the bunk rooms. “Who’s going to Paris?”

Francesca

Leesburg, Virginia

22 May – 1030 Hours

The town had its charm, its history, and its more than fair share of historic homes. And narrow streets. But that’s about all Frankie would give it. Though it wasn’t her speed—
especially
with the 25 mph speed limit through the blink-and-you-miss-it-downtown—Leesburg held one benefit: it wasn’t a big city, so finding Trace Weston should be easier than trying to track him down in a place like DC or New York.