Operation Zulu Redemption--Complete Season 1 (37 page)

“But you think they’re connected to what happened? The weapons we saw and verified in Misrata?” Annie seemed shaken.

“The weapons that had vanished and were never recorded in the arson investigator’s notes?” Téya opened a package of Oreos and dumped two in her hand before offering the rest to Annie, who refused, and then to Nuala, who readily accepted them.

Gulping water did little to help Trace voice his thoughts. He heaved a sigh. “I do. The relative wealth and thriving accounts of Spirapoulos Holdings when most of Greece is poor and flailing give me cause to wonder what’s funding their success.” He set down the bottle then moved to the small coffee table littered with a pile of papers. He lifted one and sent it around the room. “Jessie had a slip of paper with
Spirapoulos
written on it.”

“Coincidence?” Nuala said, shrugging.

“Unlikely, but the probability does exist.” He slid his hands into the pockets of his slacks, his ‘uniform’ for this mission. “Since we are here, Annie and I will do some looking around the estate and do some recon on Spirapoulos while Téya and Nuala head into the Roma slums to find the Lorings.”

“Slums?”

“Boone will shadow you, but we want it to look like you’re on your own. The Lorings are hiding for a reason, which means they’re unlikely to easily trust strangers.

“Don’t worry,” Boone said. “You’ll never be out of my sight.”

“The slums are…tragic.” Trace had entered a similar situation in Russia once, and it left an indelible impression on him. “It’s not just a slum like you might find downtown somewhere. It’s an entire city—a large city, filled with third world conditions. Trash, disease, crime.”

“I think that’s his way of encouraging you to get in and get out.” Annie’s wry comment brought nods all around.

“It is. But I just also want you to be prepared.” Trace held a hand over his balled fist. “Remember entering Misrata, the poorest of the poor?” he paused to intentionally meet each of their gazes. Hope they had strong memories and stronger constitutions. “I recall how it tugged at each of you.”

That night was as clear as if he were watching a movie. Zulu had stolen into the city and headed straight for the warehouse, while he and Boone stayed a mile out, monitoring their position and progress. Thanks to the use of helmet cams and mics, he’d been able to track reactions. Children, faces blackened by filth and dirt, clogged their path. Begged for money. Food.

“They shouldn’t be out this late,” Nuala said
.

“Out? They have no ‘in’ to go to,” Téya countered, her tone hard, a trait he’d seen often with the tough woman when she got perturbed
.

“We have to do something.” Jessica wanted to play good Samaritan
.

“Get in, get out,” Trace replied through the coms, trying to redirect the team back to their mission
.

“Okay.” Trace broke free of the memory, noting the others had gone quiet. Probably lost in the same past tragedy that nearly sucked him dry. “Two and Six, head out with Boone, who will recon and feed me updates. Houston will stay here, monitoring all of us.” He met Annie’s gaze. “Ready?”

She stood and held up a finger then moved to the bedroom she’d shared with the other two. In the five minutes before she returned, Boone, Two, and Six left. Houston went to work setting up a station near the window—“better Wi-Fi and view,” Houston had explained—and Trace slid on his suit jacket. He checked his sat phone for any more updates from Solomon but found nothing.

“Okay,” Annie said.

Trace turned—and stilled. She wore a light gray pantsuit that made her eyes seem…big. Innocent. That was good. It’d work in their favor at Spirapoulos. But the updo and her tangle of gold curls against her neck…maybe that was too far. Too mature. Too alluring.

He remembered slipping his hand around her neck and tugging her closer…

“What?” Annie asked, glancing at her attire. “I thought it was a good compromise—business yet casual. No skirt to distract.”

Thing of it was, Annie didn’t need a skirt to be distracting.

“It’s fine,” Trace said, gathering his nerve. “Houston, you have the fort.”

“Don’t worry about me, Boss. I’m good.” Houston spoke around a breadstick.

As they headed into the hall, Trace steeled himself. A quick dart of panic stabbed him. It’d be the first time in over five years he’d been alone with her. But that shouldn’t matter. This was business. They had a mission. This time wasn’t pleasure.

Stepping into the elevator ahead of him, Annie moved as a woman of confidence and means. She would nail the gig, posing as a potential investor. But no matter what Trace wore, where he went, people pegged him as military. A soldier. It wasn’t something he could turn off. Not that he wanted to, but in times like this, the mission demanded he
not
be a soldier—in appearance.

The doors slid closed. Silence gaped like a foghorn, buzzing his nerves. Not even elevator music in this steel trap.

“You look nice,” Annie said with a smile. “Not every day we see Lieutenant Colonel Trace Weston dressed in a slick suit.

“Same could be said of you,” he deflected.

“What? That I look nice or that it’s not every day…”

“Both.” Safe answer. Wouldn’t get himself in trouble. Not with them heading into an important meeting.

Annie wrinkled her nose and faced the door. “You should’ve been a politician.”

Trace snorted. “I’d kill everyone who didn’t agree with me.”

Her soft laugh did crazy things to his breathing. They’d always had a natural camaraderie. One that had gotten them in trouble. The best trouble he’d ever experienced in his life. A trouble he now couldn’t afford. “Once we get in there…,” he said, leaving off the rest for her to fill in.

“I’m Natalia Policek, daughter of Anton Policek, a Russian billionaire turned diplomat,” Annie said, not missing a beat as she recited her cover story. One she carried well even into the third-floor offices of Spirapoulos Holdings.

“And how did you hear about us?” the wiry little man asked.

Trace tucked aside his irritation, immediately recognizing by the cubicle-style office that this man was not high enough up to serve their needs. They’d gone over this at the hotel, rehearsed what to do.

Annie turned to Trace, her face not quite pale but definitely distressed.

Now it was his turn. In as thick a Russian accent as Trace could muster, he demanded, “What is this? A joke? Ms. Policek comes here to make significant deposits and investments, and you expect her to deal with a minion? Someone who does not even have an office?” Trace raised his voice, higher with each word, until several workers around them stalled their productivity to gape. “Insult!”

“No.” The man came to his feet, waving at Trace. “Please. Let me call my boss.” He gave Annie a sympathetic look. “Would that be better?”

“I am sorry for my bodyguard’s anger.” She managed a weak smile. “It is just his job to protect, you know?”

“I must advise, Ms. Policek, that you not speak here. It is too open. And this man—his clearance is not high enough. You could jeopardize everything. The danger—”

Wide-eyed, Annie looked around, playing the part. “Oh…yes… I think you are right, Mr. Volkov.” She gave the wiry man a shaken expression. “I’m sorry. We must leave.”

“Is there a problem here?”

Trace smiled inwardly as he turned.

“Mr. Christakis,” the wiry man said, scuttling forward. “This is Ms. Policek.”

Christakis—the CFO. Perfect.

Annie lifted her chin, staring down her nose at the man. “I am here to make investments, yes? But I cannot do it”—she waved a hand dismissively at the maze of cubicles—“in the open, where so many ears listen.”

“I am Mikalos Christakis, Chief Financial Officer of Spirapoulos Holdings.” Debonair and slick as snot, Christakis had turned the charms on full force with Annie. “Would you come to my office, and we can discuss your options?”

Annie beamed at him like a schoolgirl. “That would be wonderful.”

Téya

Athens, Greece

31 May – 1330 Hours

A pregnant woman squatted at a massive heap of trash, picking through the stinking, rotting refuse. Two children, who couldn’t be older than three, played with a white, oval disc. The littlest draped it over his head and wore it like a necklace. The elder giggled.

“Please tell me that’s not a toilet seat,” Nuala said, sounding as if she might puke up the lunch they’d eaten before heading out.

“Okay,” Téya said. “It’s not.”

“You’re lying.”

The pregnant woman called harshly to the two children.

“You told me to say it.” Téya’s gaze was stuck on the pregnant woman. What future did she have to offer her child?

On her feet now, the woman held a few remnants of dirty, torn clothes and what looked like it might be a half-rotten orange. She glared at Téya and Nuala, who gasped.

“She looks like she’s barely eighteen,” Nuala whispered. “
Tell me
those aren’t her kids!”

Disapproval and defiance shone in the woman—no, the
girl’s eyes
. The woman spouted something, but when they didn’t respond, she huffed. “What do you want?” she snipped at Téya. Her broken English was filled with hatred and defensiveness.

As good a place to start as any
. Téya took a step forward. “I am looking for a family—”

“Think money can buy you one?”

Téya blinked at the acidic words. “Their name is Loring. The husband is named Carl.”

After tucking the goods she’d harvested from the trash heap, the girl grabbed the children’s hands. “I don’t care what his name was—no way would I help the likes of you.” With that, she stomped off, down what Téya had thought to be more trash. It turned out to be a path.

“That went well,” Téya muttered. She sure hoped this wasn’t going to become a pattern here, but she had a feeling these people wanted to protect their privacy and lives as much as she did outside the slums.

“I’d feel so much more comfortable watching from a rooftop.”

“What? Not appreciating the unique scent of the slums?” Téya sighed, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face.

Across the way, down through a narrow alley blocked from this side, a cluster of people stood around talking. Around what might have been a gas station at one time, stretched torn, grungy canopies over makeshift tables and propped-up crates. A man, his drab gray jacket missing a large section in the back, offered a man on the other side something as he lifted a—fruit! A market. What better place to eavesdrop and ask about a family.

“C’mon,” Téya said to Nuala and started walking, away from the trash heap.

Nuala was with her, eyeing the surroundings. The sheets of metal, clearly torn from other buildings, were propped together and tied with rags to form a new structure. Téya couldn’t bring herself to call it a home. Didn’t want to believe people lived in squalor.

“Sure gives a new perspective,” Nuala muttered as they navigated the tangle of streets and alleys until they wandered into what was a clearly marked-off area. The market offered partially spoiled fruit and vegetables. Clothes washed and hanging from cord, but with frayed hems and a hole here and there. Used goods. Their own flea market. Only here, she was sure there would be fleas and other forms of pestilence. She chided herself for wanting to dig out a bottle of hand sanitizer from the bag she wasn’t carrying. These people deserved respect and kindness as much as any human did. She did not feel pity for them, but rather anger—anger that anyone had to live in filth.

“Act like you’re shopping,” Téya said, moving to one table where a vinyl purse lay. She lifted it. “If you have to buy something to get someone to talk, then do it.”

Already wandering past her, Nuala motioned to a black belt hanging from the ripped canopy. “May I see that?” she asked the seller, who gladly lifted it, rattling off in a quick tongue the benefits of the
fine belt
.

“What do you want here?”

Téya started at the hissed words and glanced to the side. The teen mom stood beside her, hands balled into fists that she pressed against her hips. “I told you,” Téya said, acting calm. “We are looking for a family. The Lorings—Carl and Sharlene, and their twins.”

“Nobody will tell you anything, and once night comes, they will kill you,” the girl said, her lip curling. “Unless they decide to keep you.” The girl put her hand to her swollen belly, her meaning quite clear.

“We will leave before then,” Téya reassured her.

“You should leave now,” she practically growled. “Already, they talk of the two pretty, rich girls. You do not think we notice, just because we are poor?”

“I think you’re afraid to talk because you think it will bring trouble,” Téya said.

“That is what I said!”

“No, they won’t bring trouble to me,” Téya corrected. “You’re afraid it will be trouble for you.”

The girl’s dull eyes went wide. She took a step back.

Téya pushed her attention to the woman behind the crate pallet that served as a table and lifted the purse. “How much?”

The teen girl slapped it out of her hand. “Leave! Now!”

“Ten euro,” the woman said.

Téya hesitated, glancing at the woman then the purse. “That’s a lot.”

“Do not say you were not warned,” the teen girl said. “It is on your own head if you are hurt!” And with that, she spun and scurried away.

Folding her arms over an ample bosom, the woman narrowed her eyes at Téya. “It is fair!”

Lifting the money from her wallet, Téya hesitated. “I am looking for a family—the Lorings. They are friends of my family, and I got word they were living here.”

“I know of no one with that name, and it would not cost you ten euro if I did,” the woman said.

Relinquishing the money, Téya smiled her thanks. A gnawing in her stomach telling her this search could take months, not the two days they had to solve this riddle. The Lorings were key to more information, something Zulu needed desperately to put the torment of Misrata behind them. For Annie to return to her Navy SEAL hunk, and Téya to the quiet life with David Augsburger.

What would he think of this, her digging through the notorious slums of Greece for a refugee family?
“If they wanted to be found, they would be found. Leave them.”
That’s what David would say.