Operation Zulu Redemption: Act of Treason - Part 4 (10 page)

Stunned at the woman’s cruelty and insensitivity, Annie shook her head. “I met your dad the Christmas Colonel Weston tapped me for the team. I was so impressed with him.”

“Yeah,” Francesca said, removing her cover and setting it and her satchel in her car. “Is this where you—like everyone else—tell me I’m nothing like him? That he and my brothers are much better people than me?”

Annie heard the hurt in those words. Saw the sting on the woman’s pretty face. “Actually, I was going to say you were just like him.”

Francesca looked down. Rubbed her forehead, with one hand on her hip. “Look, I didn’t do it.”

Did Annie dare hope that meant what she wanted it to? “Didn’t do what?”

Francesca unbuttoned her uniform blouse and removed it, standing in the parking lot in a tank top. She loosed her hair from the tight knot at the base of her neck. Somehow, Annie knew the moves were symbols of her shedding the rules and regulations of the military. “I walked out of the hearing without giving my testimony. Without telling them who you and the others are.”

“Why? I mean—I’m glad. Thank you.” She could breathe. Feel the air on her face. “But. . .why?”

“I realized I could’ve been on your team. I could’ve been one of those girls who died. One of your friends. It’s crazy, I know,” Francesca said, leaning against her car. “But it changed things for me. When he begged me to leave you all out of it, there was something about the way he said it, the torment in his eyes. It haunted me.”

“He?” Annie’s stomach squirmed. “Colonel Weston?”

Francesca stood up straight. “I—”

Crack!

A split second carried a bevy of noises and images: the tinkling of shattering glass. The
oof!
of Solomon as she rammed into Annie. Solomon’s shouting “Down!” and the crackling sound of the windshield safety glass spider-webbing.

Shots!
Someone was shooting at them!

~

Annie threw herself at Francesca, knocking them both to the glass-littered pavement. “Shooter!” Head down, she covered it with her arm.

Tink! Thunk!

That was close! Right above her head. Which meant the shooter could see her. She rolled, grabbing Solomon. “Here.”

Without hesitation, the woman went with her, and as she did, Annie tried to shift to the side. Her hand slipped on a slick puddle. Nausea churned. Though she wanted it to be oil, she knew better.

Rocks spat at them. Dust plumed in her face. Annie pressed herself harder against the car and road, trying to edge out of view. “You okay?’ she shouted to Francesca.

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know,” Annie shouted.

“Yeah. . .my name is Francesca Solomon,” the stiff, formal words of the woman drew Annie around. Solomon had her phone pressed to her ear. “I’m on Pennsylvania Avenue by the Grant Memorial. We have an active shooter.” She glanced around, shaking her head. “I can’t tell. Across the street, I think—what is that?” Pointing away from the water, Francesca nodded toward another street. “I think. . .it’s Constitution, I think.”

Sirens wailed in the distance. Someone else must’ve called in the shooting. All Annie could think was that she had to get out of here. But moving could get her head sniped off.

Tires squalled, and within a matter of seconds, Rusty’s large gray and black Ford F-150 backed up into view. “Annie!”

“Here,” she said, lifting her hand. She looked up, afraid to lift her head too high. Rusty had the door flung open, leaning out. “Did you see him?”

“No. You okay?”

“Yeah.” Annie instinctively glanced back to Francesca, who was on her back staring up at the sky, phone still in hand. Bloody hand.

“Francesca!” Annie scrambled toward the woman. Her white tank wasn’t white anymore—a large dark stain spread over her waist and hip. Her Italian complexion had gone pale. “Francesca!”

She lifted her head to look at them and cried out, throwing herself back down. A sheen of sweat covered her face.

“Apply pressure,” Rusty said. “I’ll get my med kit.”

Annie planted her hands on the wound and pressed.

“We need”—Francesca grimaced, blew out a breath, then continued—“EMS. Y–yes. I’m shot.”

Rusty was at her side, kneeling with his gear. He grabbed gauze that would stop the bleeding, lifted Annie’s hands, and then pressed her hands back down. “Hold it.” He lifted the phone. “My name is Rusty Gray. I’m a trained medic. We have a late twenties female with a single gunshot wound to her abdomen. Both exit and entry wounds. Blood loss is significant.” He tucked the phone between his shoulder and chin. “I’m running a wide bore IV. . . .”

Annie dropped back against the car, sagging in relief. The shooter—she couldn’t just assume he was gone, but he’d be stupid to stay there now that even she could hear sirens blazing.

“Colonel Weston,” General Marlowe droned on, “has shown contempt for the proceedings of this committee and the Select Intelligence Committee’s investigation. He has refused to answer questions, and what little he has volunteered is repetitive or non-issues.”

“This is the same complaint that I have personally heard as well,” Representative Glick said, his slicked-back hair glossy beneath the lights. He proved to be as slimy as his hair. “I believe Colonel Weston’s refusal to be cooperative with this committee and its investigation is proof positive of his hand in the deadly and tragic events of 29 April. Would you agree, General Marlowe?”

Marlowe leaned forward, keyed the microphone. “I would, sir.”

Trace sat staring forward. Not only would he refuse to answer those questions, he would refuse to acknowledge these two. Besides, this was nothing more than a scripted attempt to get Trace stripped of rank and duty. Marlowe had been after his oak leaves since before they were pinned on Trace.

Glick tilted his head to look at the chairman a few seats down on the raised dais. “I think we have what we need, Senator Moller. The Select Intelligence Committee is of the mind that Colonel Weston, due to his extreme lack of respect and compliance with this committee, be charged with obstruction of justice. And it would be our recommendation to his superiors that this is not the type of soldier we need leading a younger generation. In fact, he has failed his duty and dishonored the uniform he wears today.”

“I would remind you, Representative Glick,” Chairman Moller said, “Colonel Weston has not been found guilty, and therefore, the blame and accusation you lay at his feet is premature.” With a heavy sigh, Moller turned to Trace.

Trace knew he’d tied the chairman’s hands with the stunt the other day. And with his silence and refusal to speak today.

Trace’s phone buzzed in his pocket, but he ignored it. The guillotine was coming down on his neck. He wasn’t going to answer a phone call while it was happening.

Moller held out his hands, as if pleading with Trace. “Colonel Weston, you haven’t said much, and like General Marlowe said, what you’ve conveyed to us has been a repeat of the earlier hearings. You’ve heard what my colleague, Representative Glick, has said, what he has recommended.” He stared at Trace, and though the message was clear—
please, tell us something, break this silence, don’t let them win
—Trace held his peace. “Do you have anything to say, anything that can sway the minds of this committee?”

“I do not”—Trace’s mind flicked to Francesca, to her refusal—“except one thing: I would charge each member of this hearing to consider the proceedings. What happened. But more importantly, what didn’t happen. Let that speak for itself.”

His phone buzzed again. Trace slid it from his pocket, wondering what was so urgent.

“May I speak?” General Solomon asked. “Briefly.”

Houston’s number showed up with the message:
Shots fired. Annie involved.

Before Trace could register the move, he was pushing to his feet, sucking in a quick breath.

Kneading his brow, Moller hesitated. “Briefly,” he agreed.

Solomon cast him a curious gaze and reached for the microphone.

A security guard raced to the front of the room as Solomon started talking about the inherent sensitive nature of black ops missions and teams.

Another Houston text:
F Solomon injured. Rusty on scene. Call ASAP
.

“Excuse me, General,” the chairman cut in, leaning forward, his expression taut. “I’ve been advised that we are in lockdown. There is an active shooter just outside the building.”

Trace rushed toward the door.

“Hey!” the security guard shouted. “Nobody leaves.”

But Trace was already out of the courtroom, sprinting now to the foyer as he hit the autodial for Houston then aimed for a side door. “Tell me,” he ordered as soon as the call connected.

“Trace!” a shout from behind didn’t stop him.

He pushed the door open and stepped into the warm, balmy June afternoon. He sprinted behind a Dumpster, all too aware and too familiar with avoiding eating lead. What he missed was his gear, his M4, and his Glock. Being in the hearing, he was unarmed. Had to get to his Charger.

“EMTs are on the scene.”

That stopped Trace. He pulled his shoulder back, gaze skimming the surroundings. “Wait—Annie’s there? Why is Annie there? Is she hit?” his mind raced. What was she doing out there? Why wasn’t she at the bunker? All the five- and six-story buildings could offer a sweet spot for a shooter. Taller ones made it impossible for him to know if they were up there.

“No, she
was
there,” Houston said, “but Rusty got her out of there.”

“Rusty’s there?” What in blazes was going on?

“On scene. Told them he was driving by when he saw Solomon get hit.”

Good, good. Trusty always knew how to think on his feet. Two massive forms of relief right there. Having Annie at an accident and her name being taken in reports would not be good. Even worse would be if she’d been injured.

“What’s the situation?” Trace darted to a delivery truck parked a few yards away. “Are you into the satellites or cameras?”

“Me? That’s illegal, Colonel Weston,” Houston said, a mock in his words.

“Houston,” Trace growled as he crouched next to a truck, then sprinted to another.

“Chillaxe, Boss-man. What do you want to know?”

“What do you see?”

“Using cameras on the poles, I’m seeing a lot of emergency vehicles. Roads around the Capitol are shut down and blocked. Cops are hunting the shooter, according to radio chatter and the SWAT teams racing into two different buildings.”

Trace jogged toward his car. “Shooter’s still active?”

“Active, no, but out there, yes. I’ve piggybacked a satellite. Scanning rooftops.”

“He’s pretty cocky to do this in broad daylight,” Trace said. He took a step.

Glass exploded in an older model sedan.

Trace threw himself to the ground, scoring his palms. He bit back a curse. His phone clattered across the parking lot, spinning to a stop under a Volkswagen Bug. He peered beneath the vehicles, eyeballing his Charger three more down. He huffed and pulled himself into a crouch.

“Weston!” someone behind him shouted.

Trace glanced back and saw Haym jogging toward him. “Get down! Get down!”

Face white, Haym went to a knee.

“Still active,” Trace shouted to his friend, still thirty feet away. “Stay there.” Hand on the bump of a silver Mercedes, he readied himself to run. He took in two quick breaths and blew them back out, then launched himself forward.

Crack! Tsing!

He threw himself at the Bug and retrieved his phone. Shimmying along the side, he made his way to the rear of the vehicle, grateful the parking area had a curve to it. He sighted his Charger. Scanned the rooftops. There were enough trees that if the shooter wasn’t high enough, he wouldn’t have a good vantage.

“Houston—higher the better. He needs to be able to see over the trees,” Trace barked into the phone. “He’s got a bead on me.”

“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, laying 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 shift 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 N
o
P
arking
sign, shoved the gear into
Park
, 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.