Operation Zulu Redemption--Complete Season 1 (51 page)

Again, Trace nodded. Waited.

Solomon’s gaze moved to the wall of bookcases where a framed print—
Is that new?
Trace hadn’t seen that before—smiled back. Make that, two dark-haired beauties smiled back. One, clearly older, the other—
Francesca Solomon?
Trace frowned. She had her hair down and makeup expertly applied. They both did. But Trace’s mind snagged on the younger woman. Francesca. She could easily be a model or actress. But…where was
that
Francesca Solomon, the softer one, the one with a warm smile and rare beauty? He’d only met the hard-as-nails one, the one who wore her hair tied back and skipped the makeup. The one who had steel in place of the Italian femininity evident in the picture.

“Hard to believe she’s mine sometimes—like that picture. Taken at my niece’s wedding. Frankie and her mother looked like angels. I was the luckiest man on earth that day.” He sighed.

Trace shifted uncomfortably. The general’s daughter might be able to dress up and play pretty, but she couldn’t fool him into believing she was anything other than a demon in disguise.

All that aside, what was the general’s point?

“I think Frankie’s behind this.”

“Sir?”

Haym slid something across the desk.

Trace lifted it and opened the file. A dialogue transcript. He scanned it and asked, “What is it?”

“Surveillance transcript of a meeting between Francesca and a man named Elijah Varden.” Trace heard the sneer in the general’s voice as he scanned the document. “He’s a major, serving under—”

“Marlowe.” Trace’s gaze stuck to the name at the bottom.

“Afraid so.”

Slapping the folder shut and tossing it on the desk did nothing to appease the burn in Trace’s chest. “It’d be too much to ask them to stand down and let me get this solved, wouldn’t it?”

“They’d blow you off, say you’ve had the last five years.”

“What about when they learn of the deaths?”

“You mean the Three, Four, and Five?”

Who else would he mean? “Five’s not dead.”

“Honestly,” Haym said, “I don’t think it will matter to them. In fact, they may try to blame you for their deaths.”

Figured as much.

“And Frankie knows you’ve been to Vegas, not to mention Marlowe and Perrault both know you were in Alaska for the TALOS demonstration.”

“Which is when I found out about the hits.” And rushed to save them. “You know, I’m tired of this fight. Maybe it’s better if I step aside and they put a full task force on this.”

“Trace,” Haym said, his words filled with sympathy as well as chastisement. “You know they’re just looking for a fall guy. Pin the blame on you and they can wash their hands, tell the public Misrata finally has justice.”

Click!

“Justice,” Trace spat, his gaze flicking to the pen and realizing the conversation was now recording. “They wouldn’t know the meaning.”

“Easy. I know you’re mad—”

“You really don’t have the first clue what I’m feeling. No disrespect, sir, but someone up that chain of command gave you the order to have me select, train, and deploy Zulu. Now my mission entails protection against the very people who gave those orders, to find out who sabotaged us, who wanted those girls dead or arrested. It didn’t make sense then and it doesn’t now. And I’m certainly not giving up, not when this person has now stepped into the arena of premeditated murder.”

“You’ve been ordered to stand down. Your clearances are being revoked, pending this investigation.” General Solomon reached to the side and lifted a small paperweight and set it in front of him.

Trace recognized the resin piece with the inlaid gold-embossed gryphon. They both had one, a symbol of the ultrasecretive team they’d put together: Zulu. And with that gesture the general had just given, Trace mulled the last few words. Was that the general’s way of saying one thing but feeling another?

Defiance and rebellion had never been his SOP, but they were imperative now, and that’s exactly what the general inferred in his doublespeak. “So I hear.”

“You understand, Trace, that I can’t help you. If I—”

“Understood, sir.”

“Being vague with the committee will only cost you time.”

“Yes, sir.”

General Solomon huffed. “You’ve gone stiff on me, son.”

“Protocol, sir.” Tensing his jaw helped him sound angry and agitated, the way he believed the general wanted. “I’m here at your request regarding an investigation. You’ve informed me I’m stripped of my duties and security pending the outcome. What is there to talk about, sir?” Tension coiled in his gut, ready to erupt.

“I’m not your enemy, Trace. I’m just—”

“Doing your job, sir.” Trace stood. “You’ve made yourself clear, sir. Thank you for taking the time to refresh my memory.”

Solomon tapped the gryphon paperweight twice.

Trace nodded. He understood. All too well. The general was in a position to lose a lot if things went south, but he also wasn’t a coward who’d hide under his desk until the storm blew over. That double tap on the gryphon was all the encouragement Trace needed to keep moving forward with their investigation.

Boone

Reston Hospital, Virginia

4 June – 1045 Hours

Boone sprinted from the parking lot into the hospital. He punched the button for the elevator and shoved back, watching the light. “C’mon, c’mon,” he muttered. His pulse hadn’t slowed since Rusty’s call an hour ago. Stupid traffic coming down Route 7 killed his timing. That and the cop who pulled him over.

With a
ding
, the elevator door slid open.

Boone threw himself forward—and skidded to a stop. An elderly woman shuffled forward. He slapped out a hand to keep the door open and secretly wanted to lift the woman and place her outside. Would’ve been faster.

“Thank you,” the woman said in a shaky, frail voice.

Hitting the third-floor button, he stepped back. Clasped his hands. Glanced at the numbers above the door. Then to the still-open door.
Why isn’t it closing already?

Finally, it slid shut. And the elevator slowly lifted.

Should’ve taken the stairs
.

The lift alighted and the door took its time opening again. Boone shoved himself through the space as soon as he’d fit. Free of the box and its confinements, he jogged to the end of the hall.

Rusty stood outside, arms folded, pinching his lips as he stared through the wire-beveled glass.

“Rus,” Boone gruffed as he approached.

Off the wall, Rusty gave him an “I’m really sorry” expression.

“What’s happening?”

Rusty jutted his jaw in the direction of the room. A half-dozen doctors and medical staff were crowded around. An annoying noise rattled across Boone’s hearing, but he was focused on Keeley’s form. Almost as frail as the old woman from the elevator.

“They’re not sure,” Rusty said. “She’s been flatlining on and off for the last thirty minutes.”

“Why?” Boone growled. “She was almost ready to come home.”

“They’re running tests. Checking for an internal bleed or injury they missed…” Rusty folded his arms. “I’m sorry, man.”

“Not your fault,” Boone muttered as he moved to the window. He planted his hands on the blue-painted steel frame. His breath, warm against the cool glass, bloomed in a fog.

Too many scrubs-covered bodies blocked his view. He leaned to the side, trying to see around them, but it was no good. Boone pushed off and went to the door.

A doctor stepped out, a hand going to Boone’s chest.

Though everything in him wanted to take that hand and secure it behind the doc’s shoulder blade, Boone restrained himself. “What’s wrong? What happened to her?”

“Mr. Ramage, that’s what we’re working to figure out.” He pointed with a clipboard to a corner of the hall then walked that way. Once they were out of traffic and earshot of the others in the corridor, the doctor sighed.

“She was fine. You told me she would be waking up any day. I’m gone for four days, and I get a call that she’s on the verge of death.
What
happened?” Boone demanded, glancing to the room as another nurse exited. As the door slid shut, two nurses moved in opposite directions, and for a split second Boone saw Keeley.

Or rather, a ghost of Keeley. A strange tinge colored her face and made her look drawn. Aged. Her lips were almost blue.

“Look, I…” The doctor scrubbed the back of his head.

“What aren’t you telling me? You have a theory, don’t you?”

Again, the doc sighed. “I don’t. I wish I did, because then we could attempt to be proactive, but… I’m confounded. It makes no sense.”

Eyes on where Keeley’s toes pushed up the blanket, Boone willed her not to leave him. “I just don’t understand how we went from ‘she’s coming home soon’ to ‘she’s on the brink of death.’ ”

“I don’t either,” the doc admitted. “Excuse me. I need to study the labs again, compare them to new labs. I’ll keep you posted.”

After the doctor and most of the staff left, Keeley’s heart rate and blood pressure moderately stabilized, Boone slipped into the room. He went to her side and took her hand, cringing at the tubing that snaked down her throat and the thinner tubes anchored into the top of her hand.

“Keeley,” he whispered, lifting her hand gently to his lips and kissing the spot by her thumb where the IV didn’t interfere. “Please come on, baby. Don’t do this to me. Don’t leave me.” His throat felt raw and thick. “I need you.”

Annie

Lucketts, Virginia

4 June – 1315 Hours

What was wrong with her? The one man she’d wanted a relationship with was here, waiting on her. Right outside the showers in the lounge. Waiting to talk. Waiting to pick up where they’d left off. Sam was everything she wanted in a guy—kind, romantic, tenacious, handsome, honest, full of integrity. And he liked her. A lot, obviously, considering all he’d done to find her.

I should be flattered
.

Showered, dressed, and sitting on the floor, she hugged her knees to her chest. Rested her head against the tiled wall and willed herself to go out there. Face the music. Stop being ridiculous.

And yet here she sat.

Maybe it was Trace’s fault. What he said, what he did—his touch against her jaw that she could still feel—reignited all the old feelings. Old promises.
Broken
promises. Promises she’d begged God for the first two years after Misrata to fulfill.

“Annie?” Téya’s voice echoed in the room seconds before her leggy friend rounded the corner and stopped short. “Sam’s waiting for you.”

Annie nodded but didn’t move.

Téya tossed her towel and change of clothes on the counter by one of the showers. “And why are we avoiding the hot-n-hunky Mr. SEAL?” She crossed her legs at the ankle and sat. “What am I missing?”

“The same thing I am, apparently.” Annie sighed and peeled herself off the wall.

“What’s wrong?”

“He doesn’t belong here.”

“Do any of us?”

“We do—you and I. Trace and Boone, Noodle. But not Sam,” Annie said, her words cracking on raw emotion. “This, what we’re going through, what we’ve done, what happened in Misrata—it’s a nightmare. Half our team is dead or dying, and I don’t want Sam to end up like that.”

Téya considered her.

Annie slumped back against the wall. She knew those words were more like the wrapper on a burger and not the meat itself. “What?”

“Well,” Téya said as she pushed to her feet. “If David walked in here right now, I sure wouldn’t be moping in the shower.
Especially
knowing what we’re facing, what’s out there trying to kill us. I’d be all over him—well, not
literally
—to make sure we had every moment we could get.”

“Would you? Really?” Annie felt worse. Guiltier. “But it’d put David in danger.”

“Girl, please.” Téya went to the shower and twisted the knobs. “You are so not getting that over on me. That hunk out there is a SEAL, Annie. He knows how to handle himself. So, I know that’s not the problem behind you hiding in here. No.” She wagged her fingers at Annie, motioning her to get off the floor. “Stand and tell the truth.”

“That is the truth.” Annie stood.

“No.” Téya folded her arms. “That’s what you’re telling yourself so you don’t have to face the truth.”

“Yeah, and what truth is that?”

“Your feelings for Trace are still too strong. And you can’t decide between the two.” Téya smiled, took hold of Annie’s shoulders, then aimed her toward the lounge. “To be honest, I’m not sure who I’d pick either. But staying in here is only going to make that hair of yours frizzy.”

A shove pushed Annie into the open.

Sam looked up, his eyes widening for a fraction of a second. He started to push to his feet then slowly finished the movement. And man! Téya was right—Sam was a hunk. Wearing a navy T-shirt and a faded pair of jeans only made him look more
GQ
. “Still hate me?” His rich baritone voice still smoothed her tension and made her relax.

“I don’t hate you.” Annie sagged as she released her frustration. “I just…”

“You don’t want me here.”

She sighed and closed the distance between them. Easing onto the sofa, she tucked a foot beneath her as she sat. “It’s dangerous, Sam.”

He smirked, angling his torso toward her. “You do realize I’ve run plenty of combat operations. I’ve shot people and been shot, Annie.”

Her heart spasmed, hearing him use her real name. Guilt tugged at her. “That’s weird…”

“It is for me, too. But I’m in. Whatever it takes.”

And that frustrated her. Why, she couldn’t explain because she didn’t know. He was nice.
Too nice
. Too understanding.

“What’s wrong?” Sam asked.

Annie gave a halfhearted shake of her head.

“I feel like I’ve lost you again.”

She sighed. “Sam—” she met his gaze and felt the walls around her heart stagger, so she looked down “—things are really messed up right now. There’s so much you don’t know—”

“Then tell me.”

“I can’t.” This time, she saw disbelief and hurt in his chocolate eyes.

“Annie, I’m here. I’ve been on a mission with you and your team. I’ve seen them.”

“But you don’t know—” She snapped her mouth shut. What would he think when he found out she’d been the team leader responsible for the deaths of twenty-two innocent lives? Would his resolute belief in her waiver? She believed it would. Sam was too good a person to accept something so heinous. “Sam, it’s so complicated. So dangerous for you to know, even though you’re here. Even though
we
are here, there are men still trying to kill us. Men resolved to make sure we stay out of the way or silent.”