Operation Zulu Redemption: Collateral Damage - Part 1 (2 page)

Boone aimed the SUV off Fairfax County Parkway and turned onto New Dominion Parkway, easing into the turn lane that would deliver them to Reston Hospital Center.

“I’m not hurt,” Nuala said, her pale blue eyes wide and dusted with fear as she stared at the multistoried building ahead. The scratch across her cheek looked angry but not stitch worthy.

“I need a doctor more than you after you dropped me twenty feet onto the hard ground.”

“It was seven feet, and you’re a big guy.” Her gaze traced the hospital, worry evident and strong.

“Relax,” he said as he slid the vehicle into a parking spot. “Keeley’s here.”

Nuala’s pink lips parted. Then she closed her mouth, apparently not willing or ready to face the questions that were no doubt plaguing her.

“I need to check in,” Boone said. “Then I’ll take you to the safe house.”

Nuala nodded, her gaze tracking the movement of pretty much everyone in the parking lot, especially the security truck. “Should I come in?” she asked, dragging her attention back to him.

“Yeah.” He’d never thought of her as the “easily spooked” type, but the scared-rabbit look on her face made him reconsider. Besides, he wouldn’t want her sitting out here. They couldn’t trust anyone or any situation right now. Everything posed a risk. A threat.

Nuala, a petite thing at five-four, made his height and size seem monstrous as they walked. Maybe it was just that he was more aware of the difference after five years. Her round, cherubic face didn’t help things—she still looked fifteen, though her dossier read twenty-five. He’d always had this big-brother feeling toward her, wanting to keep her safe. Though his instincts said to protect her, Boone knew Noodle could take care of herself. The girl’s skills with a Remington had outshone his in no time.

They entered the CICU wing, and he strode down the hall toward the secure area. Nerves on fire after their adventure in the Blue Ridge Mountains, Boone immediately zeroed in on the lanky guy sitting in the chair outside Keeley’s room. Rusty Grey, former Army and Special Forces, came to his feet and settled his gaze on Nuala.

“You remember each other?”

They both nodded. The less said here the better. Boone moved to the door. “How’s she doing?”

“Same,” Rusty said.

“Hang tight.” Boone let himself into the room. A sort of dusky feel had fallen over the room with the subdued lights and soft beeping and hissing of machines. Sun poked defiantly past the closed shades and curtain, demanding access to the still form in the bed.

Auburn hair curled around her face, Keeley lay there the image of peace and beauty.
He touched the soft strands, smiling as his gaze shifted to her face. “Hey. Time to wake up, beautiful. The team needs you.” He wanted to kiss her cheek, but they had an audience—he could feel their gazes boring into his back. “
I
need you,” he whispered.

He squeezed her fingers. “I’ll be back later.” Linger here too long and they’d start asking questions. Ones he didn’t want brought up. Ones he couldn’t afford to be exposed. Boone stepped back out and jutted his jaw toward Rusty. “Doctors been by?”

“Not yet,” the guy said, his brown, curly hair longer than regs. “But it’s early. Nurse was here, said she’s doing good. They might downgrade her to the ICU by the end of the week.”

With a nod, Boone felt the pressure in his chest ease a little. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Thanks for doing this.” He caught Nuala’s arm and started moving.

Back in the SUV, Boone headed north on Fairfax County Parkway and hit Route 7, instantly feeling like a trout trying to swim upstream. “Hungry?” he asked, glancing at Nuala.

She shook her head.

“We have a full kitchen at the bunker, but it’ll take us an hour to get there in this traffic.”

“I’m fine.”

This
is why he’d steered clear of Nuala. She would seem fine and strong one minute, moody the next. He didn’t get it. “Well, I’m hungry after you strung me up.” Besides, stress made him crave protein and a good workout. And with the attacks, the murders, and being around Trace and Zulu once more, Boone was sure his BP was up again.

Boone hooked a right onto Countryside and aimed into a drive-thru where he ordered three sides of eggs and three sides of sausage. Before getting back on Route 7, he dug out two of each of the sides and handed the bag to Nuala. “Eat.”

“I said—”

“I didn’t ask.”

Nuala huffed and took the proffered nourishment.

In the stop-and-go insanity of the drive, Nuala drifted off. She’d situated herself so it wasn’t obvious, but he could tell by the twitch in fingers that bore the grime and dirt of her incident with the killers at the lodge that she’d fallen asleep.

Boone was glad for the silence, glad she would get a bit of shut-eye before he delivered her back into the lion’s den with Trace and the others. The team was in a fight for their lives.

They all knew this day was coming.

But nobody wanted to see it.

“That’s the answer you’re giving me?”

The deputy sheriff, a beefy guy in his own right without a trace of gray in his brown hair, sighed heavily. “Sorry, sir. We have no leads, no proof—”

“
I’m proof!
” Sam’s anger thumped against his pulse. “I was there. I saw it—I was shot at. What else do you need?”

“Bullet casings, witnesses,
a suspect. . .
”

“What? You want me to hand him to you?”
Bring it down. Easy. Easy.
He huffed, then stretched his jaw. “What about Ashland? What about the spent casings in the house where he blew out the windows?”

“Miss Palmieri, you mean? And there were no casings. Our forensics teams swept the place. They didn’t find anything.”

“Bull!” Sam’s heart thundered. “I want Ashland found. I was there and she was taken. She wouldn’t have left willingly.”
Not without telling me.

Who was he kidding? Ashland didn’t talk to anyone about anything. She had a better vault and internal security system than Fort Knox. “What about Ashland—what are you doing to find her?”

The deputy hesitated and glanced to the side.

“What?” Sam’s response came out as a snarl.

“Sir, I’m sorry.” The deputy shrugged. “I know you’re concerned, but at this point, we have no proof of kidnapping—or that she’s even missing.”

Sam was not leaving this station without some information, some hint that they would do everything they could to find Ashland. To find whoever had taken a bead on them. “Call my sister—Carolyn Caliguari Jennings. She can verify that Ashland has been living there and she’s missing.”

Another reluctant expression. “We did.”

Sam gritted his teeth, unwilling to trust himself to open his mouth—and snap off this officer’s head. He was too used to the “we all come home” and seeing the mission completed even if it meant dying. To suffer bureaucracy when Ashland’s life hung in the balance. . .

“Mrs. Jennings said she found an e-mail from Miss Palmieri stating she was going out of town.”

Sam felt as if his veins pumped mud. She left? Of her own will—and she’d told Carolyn but not him? After what had built between them? She. . .

No. No, this wasn’t right. Something was off.

Sam pivoted and stormed out of the building, tugging out his cell. He hit Carolyn’s speed dial.

“Hey,” came her weary greeting.

“What e-mail? Tell me about the e-mail.” Sam slid into his black Camaro and started the engine.

“Wha—? Oh. Yeah, I tried to call you.” She hadn’t. There were no missed calls on his phone. “It was in my spam folder.”

“Read it.” Sam hated ordering his sister around, but he needed answers.

“Uh. . .let me get to my computer.” Rustling rattled his nerves as he made his way back to the cottage. “Okay, here: ‘Hi, Carolyn.
Sorry this will be late notice, but I need some time to get away. If you need to rent out the cottage, I understand. I hope to come back someday.’ ”

“She didn’t write that.”

“Sam—”

“When was the last time Ashland e-mailed you. . .
ever
?”

“I. . .uh, well, never.”

“Exactly. Because Ashland doesn’t have a computer or e-mail. She told me months ago she didn’t trust what the government could do with them.” Sam wanted to curse, but he’d given that up right along with his career in the SEALs. He’d seen enough and heard enough to last a lifetime.

“What are you saying?”

“Ashland was taken.” And the authorities weren’t going to be any help until he made them do their jobs. “I’m going to prove it and find her, if I have to do it myself.”

“Sammy. . .” Her warning, whiny tone grated on his last nerve. Sam ended the call and found himself pulling into the parking lot of the Green Dot. He parked and sat staring at the wood deck, where he had shared ice cream with Ashland. Many times Jeff had given Sam that “I’ll kill you if you hurt her” look, but they both knew Sam had it bad for Ash. His mind drifted to two nights ago. Had they not been shot at and had she not disappeared, he would’ve called it the best night of his life. She let him into her protected vaults. Not only had she let him kiss her, but she’d responded. He’d known in the heat of that moment that he wanted to marry her.

Not true—he’d known for months he’d marry the girl if she dropped out of her stealth mode of running past his interference attempts.

He climbed out and entered the shop.

Jeff looked up from behind the sandwich station, catching Sam’s gaze through a long line of customers. Sam dropped into a chair near a window. Though Fox News played on the monitor that hung in the upper corner, the volume couldn’t compete with the chatter and laughter in the sub shop. His gaze caught on the ticker scrolling across the bottom.

. . .National park —Ranger Candice Reyna brutally murdered. . .

Why wasn’t Ash up there?

Right. Because the cops think she just walked away from the barrage of bullets and kept going.
Sam stretched his jaw and rubbed it. What was going on here?

“You Sam Caliguari?”

Sam snapped his gaze to the man in the windbreaker with a news logo emblazoned over the left breast. He gave the guy a look that in his Navy SEAL days would’ve had the guy running to change his pants. The last thing he wanted or needed was some nosy, microphone-pushing reporter—

“Can I talk to you about Ashland Palmieri?”

Sam eyeballed him. Kept his mouth shut. But the mention of Ashland’s name made the gears of his heart grind down into first.

The reporter took the silence as an invitation.

“Look,” Sam finally said. “I’m not in the mood—”

“Don’t you find it weird that suddenly nobody knows where she is?” He thumbed toward the Green Dot owner. “Mr. Conwell says she hasn’t worked in weeks.”

Sam shot a scowl at Jeff. Rose to his feet. Crossed the restaurant. He zeroed in on Jeff. “C’we talk?”

“Sorry,” Jeff said, nodding to the line. “Too busy.”

But he saw it. Saw
something
scrawled all over Jeff’s face. “What do you know about Ashland?”

Jeff stuffed a paper-wrapped sub into a bag and handed it to the customer, effectively turning his attention and his back on Sam as he completed the sale.

Sam waited, but his mind drifted again. Envisioned Ash standing there, preparing his sandwich. The night she intentionally accidentally put olives on his sandwich. Her giggles. Her smile. Her breath. Sam ground his teeth together, trying to push those potent memories aside so he could focus.

Jeff wasn’t going anywhere. Not with the answers he had. He felt the presence of someone behind him and glanced back. The reporter, who came to Sam’s shoulder, leaned in, apparently wanting to hear the conversation.

He hated reporters. They’d never gotten stories about his SEAL team right, though they were quick to splash inaccurate facts all over the six o’clock news. But the guy’s questions tugged at the gnawing in Sam that something was really. . .
off.

“What’s your name again?” he asked, angling into the guy’s personal space.

“Lowen Miles.”

He clapped a hand on the reporter’s shoulder and could swear the guy about wet himself again. Maybe his SEAL skills were still intact. “Let’s talk.” He led him out of the shop and into the parking lot. “What do you know?” Hands tucked up under his arms, Sam worked to keep his frustration down.

Lowen shifted his messenger bag onto his shoulder. “Sh–shouldn’t I be asking the questions?” He nudged his wire-rim glasses and managed a shaky laugh. “I mean, I am the reporter, right?”

Sam waited. Told himself killing the guy in plain sight would get him jailed. Then he’d never find Ashland.

“Right.” Lowen’s smile faded. “Okay, it’s just. . .have you heard about the girl killed in Nevada?”

Sam didn’t respond.

“What about the ranger in Alaska?”

“On the news.”

Lowen nodded. “Yeah. Well, they’ve all been former military.”

Lifting a shoulder, Sam tried to let the guy know he didn’t care about other women. Had Ashland ever said she served?

“Was she former military?”

Sam crowded the guy back against an SUV. “Do not probe me for information.”

“I. . .I wasn’t. She was.” He blinked. “I mean, she was in the military. At least, I think so.”

“So was I. What’s your point?”

Lowen looked up at him, then his expression went blank. “Honestly, I’m not sure. I just. . . someone. . .” He shook his head. “Someone gave me this information. Suggested I look into it.”

Sam’s radar pinged off the charts now. “I think we should take this elsewhere. Give me your phone.”

Lowen handed over the device, his eyes wide.

Sam programmed his number into the phone then returned it. “You know who I am, Lowen Miles?”

The man shifted on his feet. “Y–yes.”

“You know what I did for a living?”

He swallowed.

“So just remember that if you do anything that puts Ashland in danger.”

“I don’t need to be threatened.”

Sam flared his nostrils. “Not a threat. Due diligence—to keep Ashland alive till I can find her.”