Operation Zulu Redemption--Complete Season 1 (73 page)

“You’re his target?” Houston asked, his voice unusually high. “That’s…that’s odd.”

“Why is that odd?”

“How could he possibly know you and Annie would be there?”

Trace crouched next to the Bug, thinking. “He didn’t.” Which meant—“Solomon.” Why was he after her?

He shoved into the open, sprinting for his car. Within a few feet, he dived for cover.

Fire screamed down his leg. He pitched forward. “Augh!” Trace hit hard. His breath knocked out of him. “Son of a biscuit!” Trace bit out, grabbing his leg, the trail of fire not soggy, but raw.

“Trace! Trace are you shot?” Houston cried.

Gritting his teeth, Trace unlocked his car. Flipped open the door. “Find this piece of crap, Houston. I want him.”

“I haven’t stopped. You didn’t answer if you’re shot.”

“Just a graze. Won’t be so lucky next time.” Trace dragged himself into the seat, lying across the console. He started the engine and laid back the seat. “Get me that guy’s head on a platter!”

“Roger that,” Houston said. “Trace—patching Rusty through.”

“Rusty?” It was half repetition, half invitation.

“Trace. Where are you?”

“West side of the Capitol.” If he could get a little farther north, he should be out of the shooter’s line of sight. With the Capitol in lockdown, the parking lot wasn’t busy right now. That worked in his favor. “The shooter has me targeted, but I’m trying to get out of here. Where’s Annie? Why was she here?”

“That’s why I asked Houston to patch me in. She was here when Solomon got hit—”

“You’ll explain that to me when we get back.” Trace rammed his shifter into gear and gunned it. Tires pealed. He whipped to the left, keeping his head out of sight.

Glass exploded, peppering his face. The shooter had hit the driver’s side. Trace squinted, shielding himself as he turned his head away but kept his gaze forward. Aimed for the exit to Northwest Drive. “Rusty, shooter’s on Constitution somewhere. Find him!”

“Working on it…”

Trace raced down Northwest then Northeast to Capitol. He flashed his ID to the guard, who gave him a nod and directed him to the south. Routes to the north and west were blocked, he warned Trace.

“Rusty—talk to me. Annie.” Trace gunned the engine, racing down First.

“She was supposed to wait at the Grant Memorial.”

Trace’s gut churned. “Supposed to?” He flicked on his blinker, crawling out of his skin over the traffic clogging the roads. Didn’t they know there was a lockdown?

“I can’t get over there. Roads are blocked.”

“On my way,” Trace said then focused on getting to her. “Turning onto Independence now.”

He dodged cars, weaving in and out of traffic like a Capitol cabby would.

“She’s not at Grant.”

Annie… Annie…what were you thinking?

She got shot at. Or Solomon did. The sniper couldn’t have known Annie was there. But if Annie felt the threat was coming from Constitution—just as he did—then she’d head away from it. Put as much distance between him and the shooter. “I have a theory,” Trace said, driving as fast as possible while he scanned the sidewalks and pedestrians. The light went yellow.

Trace punched the pedal. Glided through the intersection.
C’mon
,
c’mon
. Where was she? He passed the botanical gardens. The wall would block a shooter, but it was too open.

Sirens whooped behind him.

He glanced in the mirror. Saw a Capitol Police car.

“For the love of…” Trace growled and pulled to the side, wanting to curse. Wanting to gun it and outrun the cop. But that would only get him jail time. Annie would be missing. He eased to the curb.

The cop revved and sped around Trace, hitting the corner hard at Third and squalling his tires.

Trace breathed a sigh of relief and guided his car back into traffic. His gaze tracked the roads. Sidewalks again. His attention hit a copse of trees just past Third. Little grass grew near the sidewalk bench—

Trace’s heart vaulted into his throat. “Annie.”

He sailed through the intersection and yanked the car to the side of the road. Ignored the No P
ARKING
sign, shoved the gear into P
ARK
, and threw open the door.

A horn blared.

He sprinted to the bench. “Annie!”

She looked over her shoulder. Chalky faced, she gave a weak smile. “You found me.”

He went to a knee. “What’s wrong?”

She lifted her head and managed another smile. “Two for the price of one.”

“Crap,” Trace said as he went to a knee, lifting her hand and checking the wound. “What have I told you about eating lead?” he asked, his tone chiding but light.

“Never did listen well,” she mumbled.

“Got that right.” The bullet hadn’t exited, which was good—it limited the amount of blood loss—but that could be dangerous—jarring it could push it into an organ. “Okay, we need to get you back to the bunker.”

“Sorry I left.”

“We’ll talk about it later.”

“Sounds ominous.”

“Good, I’m finally doing
something
right,” he said, helping her to her feet. He slipped his arm around her waist and hooked hers over his shoulder.

“I had to get away from there,” Annie said, grunting in pain. “He was still shooting. If I stayed—How’s Rusty?”

“Fine.” Trace guided her into the backseat so she could lie down. But her question nagged at him. Was Trusty doing okay? As he straightened, he heard the whoop of a police warning siren. He glanced back.

The cop was motioning him away from the curb.

Trace held a hand up, praying he didn’t have blood on it from Annie, then hurried to the driver’s side. He slid behind the wheel. “Stay down. We have a cop behind us.”

As he eased back into traffic, his phone rang. He hit the speaker. “Houston—”

“Trace. Trace, it’s bad,” came Houston’s frantic, almost shouted words.

“Slow down,” Trace said, heading back to Independence so he could catch 50 up to 66 and then fight the insanity of Route 7. “I’m on my way back with Annie. We need a doctor.”

“You’re not listening!” Houston shouted.

Trace drew up short at the terse, angry words. The laidback guy had a rocket up his rear end. This wasn’t like him. “Okay,” he said calmly. Very calmly, though his pulse probably registered on the Richter. “I’m listening. Talk to me. What’s wrong?”

“It’s Rusty!” Houston’s voice cracked. “Oh my gosh, Trace. He’s dead. The shooter hit him. Rusty is dead!”

Nuala

Lucketts, Virginia

15 June – 1430 Hours

With Houston’s help, Nuala had converted the isolated workout room into a sterile surgical environment with draped industrial-grade plastic enclosing one-third of the space. Within that enclosure were heavy lamps, metal trays, a metal table, and a complete surgical care system. All sanitized as they had waited for Trace to show up with Annie.

It was strange, watching Annie lie there, silent. Still. Sleeping death. That’s the only way Nuala had been able to cope over the years with seeing her targets in that position. Of course, they were dead. Annie was only sedated. But the fear that Annie could take a turn for the worse, that the doctor would discover the sniper bullet had punctured an organ, haunted Nuala. Just like knowing the sniper had killed Rusty. She shuddered, hating that their team had once again been affected. Targeted.

“She’ll be fine.” Houston handed Nuala a cup of water.

“Do you realize how fast a sniper bullet is?” She held the water but kept her eyes on her teammate. “It’s designed to kill. It’s messy. The speed and trajectory of the bullet create incredible damage…”

He touched her shoulder. “Hey…”

Startled by his tenderness, which made her more aware of how morose she was being, Nuala sipped her water. “Sorry.”

“No worries. I’d rather be here hearing about bullet power than sitting by my station listening to Trace and Téya shout it out.”

“They’re still going at it?”

Houston nodded. “You’d never guess Téya was his subordinate.”

“I don’t think she sees herself that way,” Nuala said. “At least, not since Frankfurt.”

“Yeah,” Houston said, scratching his curly mop. “I’m still working feeds and surveillance to see if I can find her, figure out where she went and what happened. Sometimes I get lucky. Like today—I spotted him.”

Nuala pushed her gaze to his. “The shooter?”

He nodded, his chin lifting as a touch of pride hit his expression. “Saw him on the rooftop of Washington Gas. Missed him first couple of gos, but then finally located him behind one of the big A/C units.”

“Did they catch him?”

Houston’s face fell. His shoulders sagged as he stuffed his fists into his jean pockets. “No. He was gone by the time the team made it up there. They’d been up there once.”

Nuala frowned. That didn’t make sense. “How’d a SWAT team and a satellite scan miss him?” A gun that size wasn’t easily overlooked, nor a person. “What if he moved?”

“What? From one building to another?” Houston shook his head. “But I’m working the image through facial recognition in the hopes of pinning him down.”

Thwap
.

Nuala spun, the sound eerily like a silenced shot. Instead, she found Dr. Olson emerging from the sterile environment. Nuala straightened, taking a step forward.

He held up a hand as he removed his surgical gown, cap, and gloves, snapping them into a receptacle. “She’ll be fine. Bullet missed her vital organs, thank goodness.”

Nuala gave a relieved sigh.

“Is the colonel around?”

With a hesitant glance to the briefing area, where Téya and Trace were visible and in the throes of an argument, Nuala hesitated. “Yeah. Sure. Let me get him.”

“No,” Dr. Olson said. “My nurse will stay with her for the night to monitor her vitals. I’ll call Weston and give him my report.”

“If you’re sure… I don’t think he’d mind me interrupting.”

“It’s okay. I have to get back before questions are asked anyway.” Dr. Olson gave a nod to Nuala.

“I’ll walk you out.” Houston’s offer wasn’t simply consideration. It was necessity. Dr. Olson couldn’t access the security panels. Trace trusted him, had requested a surgeon through General Solomon so they didn’t have Annie on the grid with a gunshot wound. That would draw the kind of attention Zulu did not need.

Houston and Dr. Olson had just made it into the tunnel and closed the door when Trace and Téya emerged, still bantering.

“We can’t go on with this. Annie’s down. Nuala and I can’t pull this off alone.”

“You won’t be alone,” Trace said as he came toward her. “Where’s Olson?”

“Just left.” Nuala thumbed toward the doors. “Said he’d call you. But Annie’s going to be fine, he said. Bullet missed vital organs.”

Visible relief washed through the commander’s face. He swiped a hand over his face and sighed. “Probably slowed because it passed through Francesca first.”

“Could be,” Nuala said. It wasn’t completely implausible that the sniper had hit the two of them, but Nuala didn’t want to think about it. “Any word on Miss Solomon?”

“Not ‘miss.’
Lieutenant
,” Téya corrected with a growl. “That woman got what was coming to her for all she put Trace through and what she almost did to us.”

“But she didn’t,” Trace countered. “She left your names out. That’s what mattered.”

Nuala noticed Houston return. The guy hated confrontation as much as she did—he shimmied over to his workstation and hid behind the monitors. She joined him, moving away from Téya and Trace. Away from the tension. Sitting beside Houston, she brushed her long, straight brown hair from her face and yawned—hard.

Houston yawned through a “stop that” complaint. He shook his head. “That’s…too…” His eyes bugged.

Laughing, Nuala realized he was staring at something on his monitor. “What?”

He clicked a ticker feed. Sucked in a hard breath.

So did Nuala. The ticker was from a news program. Hand over her mouth to cover her gasp, she found herself staring at the image of Boone Ramage. Talking with a reporter. The ticker below the journalist’s face read
L
OWEN
M
ILES
, then it switched to
S
PECIAL
F
ORCES SOLDIER COMES FORWARD ABOUT
M
ISRATA
.

“No,” she muttered through her hand.

“Commander,” Houston said, his voice tinny, stressed. “This is bad. No, this is cut-your-losses-and-run-as-fast-as-you-can bad.”

Trace hurried over to them.

Houston pointed to the wall, where he mirrored the news feature.

“… and can you tell us why you decided to come forward now?” Lowen Miles asked.

Please please please don’t do this
, Nuala silently begged the man she loved. The man she held on a pedestal like no other. The man who’d mentored her. Encouraged her. Championed her. Protected her. Trained her. He had never given her a reason to think he saw her as anything other than a soldier, but she didn’t care. She got to be with him, near him. Hear his thoughts. Hear his voice.

Now…now his voice sailed through a national television show, revealing secrets Zulu had fought—and died—to protect. “Too many people are dying. It’s time to stop this. I’ve had enough.”

“But it’s been five years,” Lowen said.

“Yes, and someone is actively hunting anyone connected to the incident,” Boone replied.

“You mean those responsible?” Miles’s words were a challenge.

“Did you know about this?” Téya demanded of Trace, who shot her a look.

But he said nothing. Just stared at the screen. Expression blank. But then, Trace’s expression, if it wasn’t blank, was terse. He had two modes: blank and intense.

“Holy bloody backstabbing, Batman,” Houston said as he dropped back and stared at the screen open-mouthed.

“Quiet,” Trace warned.

“Are you not seeing—hearing this?” Houston squeaked.

“Shut up!” Trace snapped. He moved closer to the wall, the image of Boone exploding in enormity—not only his visage but his betrayal.

Nuala squeezed her hand over her mouth, afraid her yelp might escape. Why was he doing this? She wouldn’t believe he did this to harm them. But why else would he do it? Why go public?