Operation Zulu Redemption: Hazardous Duty - Part 3 (12 page)

The cherry blossoms had long since bloomed down on the Mall, and the streets were now crowded with tourists, flocking to the nation’s capitol to visit the museums, historic locations, and the seat of power. Halls of the Capitol building teemed with overpaid suits and power-hungry politicos, who had too often turned their backs on the military volunteers fighting fierce, brutal wars while those same politicians sat comfy before a fireplace, feet up, drink in hand, as they cut benefits and dug into the heart of the warriors defending their country with their very lives.

The same was true now as Trace sat stiff backed at a table with General Haym Solomon before a select committee assembled by the Permanent Select Committee on Intelligence. Seated at the elevated area was Chairman Steve Moller, who had called the assembly at the behest of General Marlowe. Also among the committee members was Mike Souza, the chairman of the Subcommittee on Oversight and Investigations. Souza, a former Army Ranger had stepped into politics after his team suffered a deadly blow because of budget cuts that sliced right into the supply of equipment to defend themselves. But Trace knew it’d be a mistake to consider Souza an ally; the man would be harder on Trace simply because they both served. Because neither wanted anyone else to see them as allies in what should be a neutral, fact-finding mission.

“It’s been five years,” Chairman Moller began once the meeting had been called to order, “since the Permanent Select Committee on Intelligence and the select committee on the Misrata incident found no proof that Trace Weston had willingly or knowingly endangered the lives of twenty-two innocent civilians there in Libya.”

Yes, five years ago he’d been in this same position, having his career and every decision dissected. Now Trace sat here again.

“We’ll move to United States Representative Mike Souza, the chairman of PSCI to begin,” Moller said.

Souza sat forward, his salt-and-pepper hair cropped short as if he still served in the Army. His bearing, his tenacity, and his sharp wit had given him the nickname, The Wolf. “Thank you, Senator Moller,” Souza said as he adjusted his microphone and opened his folder. “In the last six weeks, it seems the lid has blown off the Misrata incident.” He peered over his invisible-frame glasses at Trace. “Including the deaths of three soldiers involved in the strike on the warehouse. Is that right, Colonel Weston?”

Trace eased toward the table and turned on his microphone. “It is.”

“The Subcommittee on Oversight and Investigations has received the testimony in a classified briefing from eight individuals, two of whom investigated each of the three murders. Chairman Moller has asked for a detailed timeline of the events, and the Honorable Ellen Dunne will respond to that.” Souza turned a page and scanned it. “We will hear from Colonel Weston, General Haym Solomon, General Marlowe, and Lieutenant Francesca Solomon in the course of this investigation. Our purpose here is to determine once and for all whether Colonel Weston, then a captain, was directly responsible and therefore negligent in attacking a civilian warehouse in Misrata.

“Briefly,” Souza said, meeting Trace’s gaze again, “Colonel Weston, please relate the events of 29 April as you recall them.”

As I recall. . .
Trace gritted his teeth. As if what he recalled wasn’t the truth. But Souza knew how to play the pundit game. “Five days before arriving in Misrata, I was contacted by General Haym Solomon. SOCOM had been tracking a shipment of weapons that were slated for destruction but were rerouted from the location where they would be disposed of. Due to previous caches of weapons being stolen in this manner, SOCOM had tagged these. They were in Libya, being prepped for a shipment, they believed. My team was tasked with inserting, locating, and destroying said cache.

“We arrived in Misrata on 27 April at 2200 hours. The team made quick progress of locating the warehouse. After a two-day stint of surveilling the location, it was determined through communication with SOCOM and the opinions of my team that we destroy the weapons with explosive charges, since the warehouse was abandoned.”

Trace spent the next forty-five minutes going over minute details and carefully protecting the identities of Zulu and wording his explanation in a way that would not condemn himself or anyone else involved.

“Would it be fair,” Chairman Souza began, “to say that your team was confident the warehouse was a safe target in terms of casualties?”

“We had every confidence as the charges were set that the warehouse was abandoned and there were no civilians nearby.”

“And yet,” Chairman Moller of the Oversight and Intelligence subcommittee interjected, “the warehouse wasn’t empty. Was it, Colonel?”

“It was not, sir,” Trace said in a stiff, decisive manner.

“What happened, Colonel?” Moller looked at him, lifting a file. “We have an update from you on how that warehouse came to be occupied that night. Would you share its contents with the committee, please?”

Trace nodded, moving to the file in front of him, the one that detailed Berg Ballenger’s involvement. He spent the next five minutes explaining about the newest discovery. Tedious stuff, considering they had a full, fifty-something page report detailing every fact and nuance. Trace had been meticulous in crafting that report. But it was a sad fact that many in this room would not read it. He’d seen it too many times—senators or representatives out for someone’s throat, out to advance their careers, and they plunge ahead with their machetes to hack their way to success on the lives and backs of those who did nothing but their duty.

“So, why didn’t you find Ballenger and question him before now?” Senator Hastings, a member of the SOI asked.

“He didn’t want to be found, sir. We searched. I’ve been searching for the last five years.”

“Why do you think you found him now?”

“He wanted to be found, sir. He came to us, asked to meet.”

“What do you think spurred that contact?”

Maybe Ballenger has a hand in the hand of someone’s pocket in this room.
But Trace knew saying that would only tighten the noose Marlowe wanted to hang him with. “I have no idea, sir.”

“Do you think he knew about the recent assassination of your team members?”

“I’m not sure how he could, sir. Their names were not nor have they ever been known, because their hands were clean.”

“But yours weren’t,” Hastings said.

“That’s what some in this room would have you believe,” Trace said.

“So, you don’t believe you’re responsible?”

“I am responsible to carry out my duty and lead my team to the best of my ability. I did that, sir, and I have no regrets.”

“No regrets?” Hastings’ voice pitched. “Twenty-two innocents are dead at your hand!”

Trace had handled worse accusations and more testy politicians than Hastings. “They are dead, sir, because of a tragic mistake—Ballenger moved those people into the warehouse that night. The charges were already in place.”

Questions came and went. A few more accusations were tossed out and quickly doused with truth and fact.

“Colonel Weston,” Souza interrupted. “Let’s get back on track here. Your team—where are they now?”

“Two are dead, one is nearly dead.”

“And the other three, plus”—Moller glanced at his notes—“Sergeant Gray and then-Staff Sergeant Ramage?”

“Location unknown of the three,” Trace said, citing the only information he’d give of One, Two, and Six. “Gray and Ramage maintain vigil over the dying member in an undisclosed hospital.”

The monotony of the next several hours that involved questions about him and Haym nearly did Trace in. Though he’d been trained to withstand torture, they ought to consider placing recruits in a hearing like this and make them endure the ridiculous claims of men who’d never served. Men who would have an income for the rest of their lives regardless of whether they worked. Men who made three and four times as much as the average soldier.

And where was the justice they always harped about?

“We’ll adjourn for today and pick up next time with the Honorable Ellen Dunne, General Marlowe, and Lieutenant Francesca Solomon.”

Funny how only one name on that list bothered and stressed Trace—the last one.

Released for the day, Trace walked with Solomon out of the hearing room. As they rounded a corner, Trace felt his gut cinch. At the end of the hall, backlit by the early evening sun, Francesca Solomon stood talking with a group of uniforms. She wore a skirt with her dress blues. Hair tightly secured at the back of her neck, she possessed the same fire in her eyes as her father.

“When I taught her to fight for what she believed in, I didn’t expect to be fighting against her.”

Trace said nothing, noting who she stood with. Not just soldiers. General Marlowe. Secretary Dunne. His gaze met hers and he had to admit—she was pretty. Beautiful, if you wanted to be technical. But it was a lot like Delilah. Her attention shifted to her father, then back to Trace. Finally, she broke away from the huddle and started toward them with what he could only describe as a smug, satisfied expression.

Right, because ruining someone’s life and career was satisfying.

“I’ll see you,” Trace muttered to Haym.

“Wait,” Haym said, catching his arm and striding right past his own daughter without so much as a glance.

In his periphery, Trace noted that she slowed, looked to him, and almost acted like she expected him to say something.

He had nothing to say. This hearing, this fiasco, was her fault. She’d gone digging. She’d fueled a fire that should’ve been smothered. Now his time and efforts were divided from protecting Annie, Téya, and Nuala. He made his way to the parking garage, grateful for the temporary pass so he could avoid reporters and the like. In his car, he started the engine then backed out and left Capitol Hill. At the first light, he looked up.

In his rearview mirror, a foreign face appeared in the backseat. Trace’s heart jammed. He reached for the weapon beneath his seat.

“It is not there,” the man said, holding Trace’s gaze steady and firm. “And I am not here to harm you or endanger you.”

Someone behind honked, and Trace’s gaze flipped to the light. Green. He eased through the intersection, pulse thrumming. “Who are you?”

“Please, just drive. I promise it will be worth your time.”

In her dress uniform, Frankie closed the gap and met her father in the foyer. She placed a kiss on his cheek, all too aware of the anger emanating off him.

“What are you doing?” he hissed at her.

“My job.” She bristled, hating that he never gave her the benefit of the doubt. Just like her brothers. “You taught me not to simply look the other way because it might be easier.”

“Looking the other way is different than actively working to destroy a man’s life.” He pushed a thick hand through his short, curly hair. “We’ve been here, Francesca. He’s been here. He’s proven his innocence.”

“Has he?”

“Yes! Or haven’t you read the transcripts from the last hearing?”

“Don’t patronize me, Dad. I’m doing my job. I believe Trace was more involved in what happened than he admits.”

“I beg you, Frankie,” he said, catching her arm and holding it tightly. “Don’t do this.”

Confused and surprised at his vehemence, she tugged free.

“There are things you do not know.
Cannot
know.”

“Are you protecting him now?”

“I am protecting the truth. Protecting those who cannot come forward. Protecting scenarios and assets that you will never know about. It’s not just about you, Francesca.” He scowled at her, his bushy eyebrows knotted. “For once in your life, think about someone else besides yourself.”

Frankie shook her head. Why was he so adamantly on Trace’s side? It hurt. A lot. To think that he stood with Trace on this. It was just like all those times growing up, when he took sides with Paolo. Or told her to go play with her Barbies when she wanted to be with her family, doing what they were doing. If he knew the truth about the things she’d seen and done, he’d think differently.

“Your affinity for this soldier is blinding you, Dad.”

“Your determination that he is guilty is blinding
you
to the truth.”

“Why are you fighting for him so hard? It makes no sense.”

“Because if Trace Weston goes down, he’s not going down alone.”

Frankie frowned. “What does that mean?”

He gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Your mother wants you to stop by tomorrow.” And with that, he left her standing in the hall, alone. Confused.

He’s not going down alone.

What did that mean? It didn’t sound like a threat. It felt more like. . .fear. Her father had been Trace’s commanding officer. He’d given the order for Trace to go into Misrata. But had her father been in collusion with something else related to Misrata?

A strange, awful feeling spilled down her spine and into her stomach.

Towel-drying her hair after a long workout, Téya entered the bunk room she shared with Annie and Nuala now that the Lorings occupied one and Sam had taken up residence in another. She dressed, donned her boots, and then headed out to the command area.

Annie lay stretched out on the sofa in their lounge area, her face twisted with concern.

“How’s he doing?” Téya asked as she eased onto the arm of an oversized chair.

“Resting,” Annie said wearily and pulled herself off the leather sofa. “Though he won’t admit it, the pain is pretty intense. I can see it on his face. Doctor said he tore the muscles around the bullet wound, swimming to stay afloat. He’ll be out of commission for a while.”

“So, why aren’t you in there with him?”

A crimson blush filled Annie’s face. “I needed to think.”

“And you can’t think in there?”

“He’s a loud breather.” She managed with a weak smile.

“You mean he snores.” Téya laughed. “What are you thinking about?”

Annie breathed long and hard, her shoulders bunched, then slowly released as she sagged deeper into the leather sofa. “I was so angry when I realized Sam was there, in Greece. Then even more angry when I realized he was with us here.”

“You didn’t want him here?”

“It wasn’t that. It was more. . .” Again, she bunched her shoulders. “It’s hard to sort out. But in Manson, Sam was my lifeline. Safe. Handsome. And good.” She held her hair away from her face. “But here? He’s right in the middle of it like the rest of us. He jumped into that mission without a thought for getting hurt and what that might mean to me.”

“To you?” Téya couldn’t help the surprise she felt. “What about to himself? He was shot. He was pretty much dead.”

“Exactly. And that would’ve been my fault.”

“How?”

“Because he went out there to prove he could. That he’d be fine. Only he wasn’t.”

“You give yourself too much credit,” Téya said with a snicker. “Sam went out there—at least, it seemed to me that he went out there because he had the training. He recognized a need and stepped up to the plate. He’s a warrior. It’s what they do.”

Annie glanced down, lifting her fingers out and checking her nails. Classic avoidance right there. Téya must’ve hit a nerve and had a theory formulating in her head. One that wasn’t very complimentary toward her best friend. But one that held a heaping dose of truth.

“Go on,” Annie said. “Your thoughts are screaming through your face.”

Téya smothered the smile. “I think this is about you protecting yourself.”

“Yes, I don’t want Sam getting hurt—”

“Close,” Téya said, “but not quite on target.
You
don’t want to get hurt.
You
don’t want Sam here to end up hurting you the way Trace did.”

“That’s insane. You don’t even know what happened between me and Trace.”

“You’re right. But I do know something happened.” Téya took her time, knowing this soft spot was very sensitive for Annie. “I know he devastated you because there was a day not too long before Misrata that you had stars in your eyes and could see no wrong that Trace Weston did.”

“I’m not doing this,” Annie said, pushing to her feet.

“Annie,” Téya came up out of the chair to stop her. “I—”

“No. It’s okay. I just need. . .space.”

She closed the door to the bunk room and the conversation.

Téya puffed her cheeks and blew out an exasperated breath. She was glad her life was relatively, comparatively uncomplicated. They’d fix this Misrata stuff, find out who killed them and deal with them, then she’d go back to David, if he’d have her, and his simple Amish life. With its 6:00 a.m. early risers to get chores done.

Chores. Here she was running around the world saving lives, fighting. And she’d go back to Bleak Pond to do. . .chores.

“Téya!”

She snapped around, glancing toward the command area. Boone stood waving her over to him. “What’s up?”

He handed the phone to her. “Trace.”

“Where is he?” Téya put the phone to her ear. “Hey.”

“I need you to take the car,” Trace said calmly—right as Boone held up a black key fob.

Car? They wanted her to take the car? She hadn’t been allowed to drive since her last adventure to see David.

“The address will be in the phone by the time you get in the car.”

“And where am I going?”

“Get in the car, plug it in, and head out. Stick to the speed limit.”

Téya gave a nervous laugh, disbelieving all the smoke and mirrors. Then the call disconnected. “Is this legit?”

Something in Boone’s expression made her pause. Made her smile vanish. “What?”

“Go. Now.”

“What’s wrong? Don’t do this—”

“When was the last time Trace asked you to do something like this?”

“Uh. . .” Her brain blanked. “Never.”

Boone thrust his jaw toward the door. “Exactly. Go.”

The trip took forty-five minutes, delivering her to a business park in Reston and into the empty parking lot of a building still under construction. Uncertainty chugged through her as she parked then climbed out. Glancing around, Téya had a nauseating feeling. Phone in hand, she dialed the bunker.

But a text came through before she could finish.

Third floor.

Téya repeated the words of the text in a mutter then glanced up at the building. “Right,” she whispered and started for the stairs she spied already completed and tucked into one of the main corner supports. Gypsum board, nails, and chunks of wood littered the stairs. As she stepped onto level three, she found a wide open space as big as a Super Wal-Mart. In the opposite corner, Trace sat against a cement barrier. Beside him stood a man. Holding a weapon.

Téya’s hackles went up as she closed the distance between them. She mentally cursed herself for not being more thorough, for not demanding Boone give her a weapon. But she hadn’t expected trouble. The guy wasn’t holding the weapon on Trace, but it was clear Trace was annoyed. Yet. . .Trace had the know-how to take down this attacker.

She thought of Boone’s expression. His terse behavior. He knew. Boone knew something was wrong.

Lifting his eyes, Trace met her gaze. There was so much in that simple move. His head didn’t move. His body didn’t. Just his eyes. Crowded with wariness. With determination. They were in this together. Somehow.

Téya had fighting skills. So did Trace. He hadn’t used his. So she wouldn’t use hers. She’d wait. Threading her fingers, she came to a stop a yard in front of Trace and the man.

“Your hands,” the man demanded, his words thickened by an accent she couldn’t quite determine.

My hands?
What did he want with her hands? She gave Trace a look and he responded with an imperceptible nod.

“Your hands!” the man shouted now.

Lifting her hands up, she offered them to him, palms up.

He stomped forward, the gun aimed at Trace as he did, a move that pulled Téya up straight, but she saw Trace out of the corner of her eyes give a quick nod.

Scowling, he gripped her left hand and flipped it over. The scowl in his dark features dug deeper as he met her gaze fiercely. Then turned over her other hand. His thumb swiped over the burn mark and the scowl washed away. He smiled and gave a breathy laugh as he stepped back. “Forgive me.” He bent his torso toward her.

Did he just bow to me?

“I had to be certain,” he said as he offered another quasi-bow, then holstered the weapon at his hip. He motioned Trace closer. “You may call me Nesim.”

“Why would we call you anything?” Téya finally asked, her disbelief thick in her words.

“It would help since you are going to work with me.”

Trace hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t smiled. Laughed. Nothing.

“Sorry, I don’t work for you,” she said.

“That mark says you work with me,” he countered, tugging down the corner of his shirt. There on his collarbone was a tattoo of the star-crescent. “He marked you.”

Téya folded her arms over her chest, effectively hiding the brand The Turk had given her.

“What do you want, Nesim?” Trace asked. “You’ve gone through a lot of trouble, breaking into my car, bringing me here, having me call her out. You have snipers watching us.”

Fear scraped Téya’s courage, ordering her to search her surroundings. But she couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

“What do you need?” Trace asked.

“I need Téya to come with me.”

“No way—”

“For what?” Trace asked at the same time she refused.

“To find Majid Badem.”

Her mind bungeed. “Who is that?” She slapped her hair away from her face. “You know what? Never mind. I don’t care. I am not helping you.”

Nesim’s confidence never wavered. “But you will, Miss Reiker.”

“Yeah,” she said, her gaze bouncing from Nesim to Trace—why wasn’t he saying anything? “Why would I do that?”

“
Unm
ö
glich Festung
.”

Warm dread spilled down her spine. She knew with those two simple words, this man had her. She’d do whatever he wanted.