Operation Zulu Redemption--Complete Season 1 (48 page)

Sam wasn’t worried. He had no ill intent here. His only mission and purpose was to find Ashland and make sure she was okay.

Then kiss her senseless.

The trees were quiet sentries on this Greek island, providing cover against the moonlight and the early morning lightening of the sky. He saw no visible threat. “Squid clear,” he said, hating that he had to use that term, but it was a concession. If it meant finding her…

To his right, he spotted the colonel kneeling behind a large boulder. He signaled Sam forward. Moving along a dense copse of saplings, Sam hustled toward the rendezvous point—the location they’d spotted the heat signature. No way of knowing if it was Ashland, but it’d be a long shot if it wasn’t her.

Thwack! Thwat!

Heat seared across his shoulder. From behind. Sam hurtled himself over a fallen limb and scrabbled up against the decaying wood. “Taking fire.” He gritted his teeth, refusing to admit he’d been nailed. Hand near the spot, he eyed it. Blood glistened under the moonlight, but it wasn’t much. Just a graze.

To his six, he heard a flurry of shots being exchanged. Sam rolled onto his stomach and low-crawled to the end of the log. Sliding his weapon, he eased into position. Traced the wash of illuminated terrain for the targets.

A head peeked out.

Sam took his time lining up the sights. “Target sighted,” he spoke quietly against the mic.

“Take the shot,” the colonel said.

Sam fired. The man pitched backward. “Target down.”

“Tango at your eleven, Squid,” came the near twang of the big guy, Boone.

“Copy,” Sam said, spotting the shooter. He wasn’t a sniper, but the men chasing Ashland were reckless. It was like picking cans off a line at a fair. “Target acquired.” He pulled the trigger back and, “Target down.”

Patiently, he waited, eyeing the terrain. Watching for more unfriendlies.

“Clear. Let’s move,” the colonel said.

They picked their way with stealth and deliberation toward the rocky cleft where they’d spotted the person. He’d worked contract gigs in the jungles of South America and the Middle East, but there was something about being part of a team. Having an objective you believed in. A purpose you’d die for.

He’d die for Ashland every day of the year.

Twenty minutes later, Sam grew wary. They’d gone too far. Should’ve come across the person by now.
Unless the person is evading…

How would Ashland know they were friendly?

He nodded, sorting the thought. He reached for his mic to ask the colonel when a whistle sailed through the air. “Col—”

A weight slammed into Sam’s back. Pain detonated across the back of his head.

“Augh!” He pitched forward but had enough presence of mind to know if he went down, he was probably dead. He went to a knee to break his fall, coiled to strike. He swung out his arm.

Something flew at him.

Slammed him backward. He struggled against the person, wrestling with them. He swung a hard right. It barely glanced off the person’s jaw, but their legs were locked against his chest, squeezing.

Beams of light bobbed around them.

Blinding. Confusing.

Only in that chaos, Sam saw the glint of a gold curl.

“Stand down, stand down!” Heart thudding, Sam rammed out a hand against the chest of his attacker, holding them back so he could see the face.

Hands raised over their head, a large rock braced between their fingers, the person looked down at him. Blue eyes registered wild rage.

Then shock.

“Sam?!”

Francesca

Alexandria, Virginia

2 June – 1815 Hours EST

Having her job back, having her access returned, Frankie hesitantly made her way through the first few days. If she retrieved the wrong file or made the wrong call, everything could come crashing down on her. Again. The bitter taste of that defeat hung fresh in her mind, a strong warning. Tomorrow she would go back to work and throw herself into the job. Prove to her father and her boss that she could play by the rules.

Oh, she wasn’t quitting. That wasn’t in her genes.

She just had to be more careful. Play by their rules—and not get caught. She’d grown up with three brothers who treated her like their father’s fourth son. She could play with the big boys and not get hurt.

Tucking her legs up under her, she sat down on her sofa. After a quick glance around the living room she’d spent too much time fixing back up, she tugged her laptop over the cushion. She thumbed through the file from the accident and searched for the report from the EMT. Scanning, she dropped her gaze to the bottom. The signature was about as legible as a doctor’s. “Okay, so not much help yet.”

Frankie went to the laptop. Typed in
Luckett’s Volunteer Fire Department
. She found a handful of results and images but no EMTs. At least, not the one she was looking for.

Wait…wait… She forced herself to recall the lettering on the side of the ambulance.
Loudoun County
. She typed that in along with
EMT
.

“And voilà!” Frankie smiled down at the image of the EMT with a group of others. A feature from
Leesburg Today
with a picture of the men—and a caption. “God loves me,” Frankie muttered as she read the names. “… and one Landon Ramage.”

Ramage. According to the article, the Ramages were fixtures in Loudoun County since the early 1800s, having owned land and horses dating back to almost as late.

Frankie’s grin widened as she typed in his name and city. A half-dozen pictures from local events erupted. Including one with Landon and his older brother, former Army Special Forces sniper—
sniper
? The back of her neck prickled—“Boone Ramage.”

A wild tendril of an idea rushed through her. She went to land records. Searched.

No M
ATCHES
F
OUND
.

Frankie frowned. “How can there be no matches?” The article had explicitly stated the family owned land there in Loudoun, had for nearly two hundred years. Maybe she typed it wrong. She tried again.

No M
ATCHES
F
OUND
.

Despite attempts to locate other records, she came up empty. Frustration tightened a noose around her neck. If she kept pushing—this is what got her in trouble last time.

“I am not easily scared off,” she murmured.

But she
hated
losing.

Curiosity caught her by the throat. She accessed her work login and navigated into the secure databases. A strange squirreling wormed through her belly. He had to have a driver’s license. Did he even own a vehicle? Or have a credit card?

If she didn’t know better, she’d say Boone Ramage and his family didn’t exist. But she’d met the man. She’d seen him. There were photos on the Internet of him and his younger brother. Frankie glanced at the screen from the local paper. She had to admit—the Ramages bred well. Both sons were striking, handsome. “Well built, too,” she murmured around a smile. “And not married.”

The page automatically refreshed—and Frankie froze. She tilted her head. “Wha…?” She hit the manual refresh icon. But the page was blank. “I was just there. How can it be blank?” After verifying she still had Internet access, she refreshed again. This time, a single line of text vaulted her stomach into her throat.

T
HE PAGE YOU HAVE REQUESTED HAS BEEN REMOVED
.

Nausea swirled. Fingertips to her temples, she tried to weigh what this meant. It wasn’t a coincidence that she’d just looked up Ramage and suddenly he disappeared from the face of the planet.

When her phone rang, she yelped. Glanced at it as if it had the plague. Carefully, as if they could remotely see her through it somehow—she peered at the caller ID.

U
NKNOWN
N
AME
.

Right. No way would she answer that.

It went to voice mail. A few minutes later, her phone signaled a message had been received. Frankie played it.

“Contact Leland Marlowe. He can help.” It’d come from Varden. No wonder the identity didn’t show up.

Frankie’s breath rushed out of her. Leland Marlowe? As in General Leland “Freeland” Marlowe, the firebrand general who’d swept the military clean as one of the joint chiefs last year?

Annie

Athens, Greece

2 June – 0615 Hours EEST

Annie rolled off him, careful of her injured ankle, and slumped to the ground.
Sam
? Sam was here? How was that even possible?

He shifted toward her, the predawn hour barely providing enough light to see his face. “Ash, you okay?”

Ash.

He was on his knees.

Numbness rolled through her, soaking her muscles. Drenching her brain. What was he doing here? Sam didn’t belong here.

“Ash—you okay?” he said, more urgently, cupping her face.

His deep, rich brown eyes broke through the daze that fogged her mind. “Sam. Why…?”

“I’m here. It’s okay,” he said, his voice…weird.

Annie drew back, a strange spike of anger bursting through her. Get off. But that was rude. And he was Sam. But why was he here?

He tried to pull her closer.

With both hands, she shoved him backward. “Stop.”

Boots thudded closer.

“One, you hurt?”

Annie glanced up. Trace stood over her, his face unreadable. But perfect. Exactly what she needed. “My ankle.”

He offered his hand and she reached up, clasping his forearm. His strong fingers tightened around her arm and pulled her up. Hissing through the pain, she struggled to stay balanced. “What happened?”

“Dogs.” A shiver traced her spine, the morning cooler than she’d realized.

Trace nodded. “Chopper’s on the way back. But we have almost a full klick to cover.”

At their side, Boone communicated with the chopper, shedding his pack then removing his tactical jacket. He wrapped it around Annie’s shoulders, and she shuddered in the cradle of its warmth. “Thanks, Boone.”

He gave a nod and lifted his gear and weapon again. “Two mikes to rendezvous.”

This was better. The precision, the strategy, the focus. “Okay,” she said with a single nod.

Trace’s arm slipped under hers and hooked around her waist. “Other injuries?”

Annie gave a quick shake, her gaze skirting to Sam.

He stood to the side, his expression dark. Stricken.

Unable to sort what she felt, the confusion, the anger, the…she didn’t know what. It was a tangled mess like a plate of spaghetti.

I hate spaghetti
.

“Squid, give a hand,” Trace said.

Without hesitation, Sam trudged over to Annie’s right and hooked an arm beneath hers. The two men formed a cradle and supported her. They hurried up the hillside to a clearing. They’d no sooner gotten there and the chopper, still blacked out, hovered over them. Ropes snaked down.

Trace quickly worked a rope into a harness and helped her into it, creating an awkward and unladylike mess of her dress. Annie no longer cared. She just wanted to get out of here. Once the men were on board, the chopper veered away from the estate.

Sam took the seat beside her, and Trace remained in the jump seat, eyes trained out. Weapon ready. Boone sat on the other side, watching as well.

Guilt choked Annie. She could feel the tension she’d created between Sam and her. It was palpable. But he—it didn’t make sense for him to be here. He had no business entering her life like this.

Does he know who I really am? That I lied to him for two years?

She thanked God a thousand times on the twenty-minute flight to the airstrip that the rotor wash and engine noise were too loud for any conversation to take place. Mostly because she had no idea what to say.

Before the wheels touched down, Trace hopped to the ground. He shifted the sling so his weapon was against his back. He turned and looked into the chopper at her. It was crazy. Really crazy how much she just wanted Trace to be here. Only Trace. It made no sense. Made her feel like a traitor. Unfaithful.

“Will your leg hold?” Trace hollered as the chopper whined down. He held out a hand.

Terrified to face Sam, to face the hurt she’d inflicted, to face the deep, bewildering confusion she felt, Annie scooted across the strap seats toward Trace, keeping her leg elevated.

She reached for his hand.

“Here,” he said, tugging her into his arms.

Annie tumbled, her foot jarring against the chopper. She tensed at the burst of pain but relaxed as she felt Trace’s firm hold tighten. He carried her to the SUV where Boone had a door open. Inside the vehicle—that’s when Annie finally felt safe. When the terror she’d felt, the hypervigilance she’d needed to survive began to melt away.

Sam climbed in next to her.

The doors shut and Annie realized they were alone. Her conscience pricked, warned her she should apologize.

For what?

For shoving him away. With both hands. In front of Trace.

But she wasn’t sorry.

“You’re mad.” His voice poured over her like warm chocolate. As always.

Annie steeled herself. Told herself to talk to him. Explain what she felt. Why she was angry—and that it was so weird to be angry with him. Hadn’t she spent the last five weeks pining over the fact that Trace wouldn’t let her see or talk to him?

The doors opened and the vehicle rocked as Boone and Trace climbed into the front seats.

Trace looked over his shoulder at her. “We’ll have a doctor at the hotel waiting.”

She nodded. Had all but forgotten about her ankle.

But her mouth was dry. Her body exhausted. Sam’s strong hands wrapped around hers. Her heart…jammed. She wanted to snatch her hands free.

What’s going on with me? What’s with the anger?
The animosity churning in her chest stunned her. Sharing the passionate kiss with Sam on the deck in Manson felt like a lifetime ago. Why? Didn’t she want him? Want the hope of the life they’d taken the tentative steps toward starting?

One question gaped at her more than any other.
Why am I not happy to see Sam?

Trace

Athens, Greece

2 June – 1020 Hours EEST

With Annie huddled between him and Sam again, Trace hustled her into the hotel room. A million alarms blazed when he registered a man and two children sitting at the small dining table in the far corner of the room. He nearly dropped Annie.