Operation Zulu Redemption: Collateral Damage - Part 1 (3 page)

Trace Weston stood in the plywood-paneled room that would someday become his office. For now, it was a box that allowed him to contain his thoughts and frustration. He held the secure phone to his ear, waiting.

“Go ahead,” said an older, more seasoned voice on the other end.

“One, Two, and Six are secure. What do you know about Six’s assailants?” Elite military experts had slipped into the mountains and retrieved the bodies, hoping to identify the shooters and finger whoever was behind this.

“Mercenaries. No information yet on who hired them.”

“Not surprised. Whoever did this wants the girls out of the way, unable to talk.”

“Agreed.” The general let out a longsuffering groan. “This is a fine bloody mess, Colonel.”

“It is, sir.”

“One that I do not need, but then again, I’m sure you don’t either. Listen, I have teams working round the clock to contain this. Keep the assets there till we get this swept under the carpet.”

“Sir, we need to find who did this.”

“Yes, we do. But not yet—we can’t. Things are too hot. Understood?”

Trace wanted to tear something limb from limb. “Yes, sir.”

The line went dead.

Trace lowered the phone. What would he do with three women whose lives had—once again—been turned inside out? Who had found them? Had it taken the person five years to hunt them down? Or was there significance to this timing?

A solid but soft—at least for the guy doing it—rap came on the closed door. Trace turned, pocketing the phone as Boone stepped in. “They’re gathered.”

What would he tell the girls? They had no answers and nowhere to go.

“Did he have anything to say?” Boone asked.

So, he’d figured out Trace had talked to the general. “No. Just to stay underground.”

“What will you tell them?” Boone asked, bobbing his head toward the partially exposed conference area where Trace saw the remnant of Zulu. Three of the six he’d recruited. Three of the best female operators he’d ever met.

“They already know it’s screwed up. Let’s just give them what we know and leave it at that,” he said as he made his way out of the plywood office.

Trace tucked aside his feelings, his anger, his frustration, and entered the conference area.

“Who came after us?” Annie asked, sitting beside Téya at the table.

He held up a hand to stay the questions. “One thing at a time. First—we do not yet know who came after you. What we do know is that they were mercenaries.” Trace pressed his fingertips against the table. “Teams are working right now to contain the situations, to limit any traces that will lead back to you or your real identities.”

“I just don’t understand how they found us,” Téya said.

“We all knew it was just a matter of time.” Annie folded her arms over her chest.

“But we did everything right,” Téya said. “New name, new identity, new location. No contact with each other or those in Command. Right?” Téya shoved her hair from her face as she looked from Annie to Trace. “How did they find us?”

“The better question,” Nuala said, “is
who
found us.”

“There are a lot of questions, but give us time. It’s only been thirty-four hours.” Trace eyed Houston as he lured Boone away from the conversation. “We still have a lot to sort through. For now, we need you to stay here, stay below. I know the bunks are a sorry excuse for beds, but I’m just grateful Boone has been working on this the last few years.”

“I don’t like this,
Colonel,
” Annie said, nodding to his rank patch in the center of his chest. “Congratulations on the promotion.”

Trace nodded. He’d been a promising captain when Zulu had assembled. Despite the disaster, he’d been promoted twice, the most recent step to LTC coming just three months ago. His silver oak leaf was something he didn’t want to lose. And if what happened with these ladies five years ago resurfaced now. . .

“Nobody likes this,” Trace replied. “But it’s where we are.”

Nuala sat forward, hands on the table. “So, nobody’s asked, but I will—we think this is connected to Misrata, right?”

“West,” came Boone’s terse, quick call.

“I can’t see any other explanation right now,” Trace said. “Excuse me.” He strode across the room and up onto the dais where Houston had established his place of dominance over the command bunker.

Boone pointed to a monitor. “We’ve got trouble.”

“Where have you been living?”

Téya met the pale blue eyes of the girl who’d been their sniper. “Pennsylvania.”

Nuala nodded.

“What about you, Noodle?” Annie asked.

They all smiled at the old moniker. Nuala’s Irish name took a beating in a military setting, going from the correct “Noo-lah” pronunciation to “Noodle” very quickly.

“Mountains,” the girl said.

Téya chided herself. Nuala wasn’t anymore a
girl
than she was. Hard to believe Nuala was only two years younger when she looked like a high school sophomore, junior if they pushed it. “What about you?”

Annie fiddled with a straw wrapper. “A lake outside of Seattle. Really quiet, pretty.”

Twitches of movement in the computer area drew Téya’s attention. Something had the men worked up. The WWE could borrow Boone, his size and fight as intimidating as the best fighters. Trace with his all-business attitude scowled at Boone, as he tightened his lips, apparently replying to something the big guy said.

The tech guy hunched his shoulders and shrank away from the two men who had been the mentors and leaders of Zulu.

“They know something,” Annie muttered, joining her.

Understatement.
Téya left the confines and safety of the conference room, slinking into the open area but sticking to the walls, out of the line of sight of Boone and Trace. She eased toward them quickly, grateful for bare feet in this underground bunker. As she stepped up onto the dais, she saw a news piece on the monitor.

“She
can’t
know. It’ll only make things worse,” Trace said, his shoulder pointed in Téya’s direction but his line of sight blocked by the bigger Boone.

“I don’t agree with keeping this from her,” Boone said. “Everything’s messed up, and they need to understand how deadly it is right now.”

Peering past them, she eyed the articles on the screens. Téya’s heart tripped over the headline:
Amish Man Shot; Elderly Woman Missing.

She froze for a second, David’s kind face flashing before her mind’s eye. Surely it wasn’t him that article mentioned.
Please, God, You promised to protect him!
She moved closer. Strained to read the smaller words.

“Téya.” Trace shifted, snapping her to the fact he looked right at her.

She met his green eyes. “Tell me that’s not my grandmother.” Her heart felt like it was pumping peanut butter.

He and Boone shared a look.

It was. David had been shot and her grandmother was missing. This couldn’t be happening.
I wasn’t there to protect them.
The threat had been closer than any of them realized. “When did that happen?” she demanded.

“Day after you left,” Houston offered.

Boone and Trace glowered at the guy.

In other words, whoever shot David had been right on her heels. What if he came back? Téya spun around. Stalked to the bunk rooms.

“Téya,” Trace said, a stiff warning in his voice. “You can’t leave.”

“Watch me,” she snapped as she threw open the door to the room she had to herself. On the lower bunk, she stuffed on a boot.

Trace stood in the doorway. “I can’t let you leave.”

She stomped her booted foot down. “Trace, my grandmother is missing. David—that’s who was shot, right? What if they realize he’s not dead and go after him again?”

“We’re under orders. It’s too dangerous to be out there.” Trace folded his arms over his chest, a trail of tattoos peeking out along his forearms. “Listen, everyone they tried to kill was a precise hit. These guys don’t miss.”

“They missed Annie.” She slid on her other boot.

“That’s because she had help.”

She yanked the laces tied. “Exactly.” She stamped to her feet. “That’s why I’m going back there. They need me.”

“Think about it—David didn’t take a kill shot because they wanted to draw you out, so they could kill you.”

“I would rather take the bullet any day of the year than have someone I love and care about take one.” The cadence in her chest felt
like an entire platoon on a march. “You can’t possibly think it’s right to keep me here when they need me.”

“They need you
alive
. That’s what they’d want.”

“If they’re dead, they can’t
want
anything.”

Trace took a step forward. “Téya, think it through. Put aside the emotion and think. I’ve already called in security detail for David. He won’t know they’re there, but they will be.”

“And my grandmother? What are you doing to find her, Colonel?”

He held her gaze but said nothing.

“She’s
eighty-two
. Do you really think she has a chance with goons like that?”

Now, his gaze said everything.

Téya drew up short. “You think she’s already dead.” She shoved her hair from her face and turned away. Paced the room. “I can’t. . .I need. . .” Covering her mouth, she worked to sort her thoughts. Figure out what she had to do. What if Trace was right? What if her grandmother was dead? A deep, strong ache started in her breast. She closed her eyes. “Do you understand what she did for me?” Téya shifted and gave him a sidelong glance. “She
lied
to the elders so I could live with her. She knew I was in trouble and needed help, a safe place. Do you know what the bishop can do to her?”

Trace Weston had been one impenetrable rock since the first day he walked onto the training field after Selection. His sandy-blond hair in an almost buzz cut, his tanned skin, and his green eyes softened the chiseled-from-stone personality that embodied the solider she admired and who made her want to be better and stronger.

And here she was, ready to defy him. She wanted David back. She wanted
Grossmammi
and the farm, the simple, nonviolent life of the Amish back. She wanted peace. “I don’t want this,” she managed, her throat constricting. “I was glad for the safety of my grandmother’s community.”

Trace studied her for several long seconds. “But you never felt you deserved it.”

Téya swallowed. How did he know that?

“You protect them by staying away.”

“How can you say that? He’s been shot! She’s missing. She can’t even get around without”—Téya gasped and took a step back, suddenly remembering—“her cane!”

Trace frowned.

“I can find her.”

He frowned. “With her cane?”

“She was having memory problems and got lost a few times, so I put a tracking chip in her cane.”

Driving through the quiet, quaint town, Trace saw farmers drilling oat or grain seeds with horse-drawn planters. While he could appreciate the simplicity of their lifestyle, he didn’t envy them. He didn’t want to be out day after day doing chores and the same ol’ thing. He liked the adrenaline rush and the adventure of new missions.

Then again, unlike him, these farmers and their families were relatively safe.

Except David Augsburger.

Trace couldn’t pretend a small amount of curiosity about the man. He’d gotten under Téya’s skin, and that was no small feat. She was a driven, hard-hitting woman.

“Sure can’t imagine living in a place like this,” said Martin Hill, the tech Trace borrowed from INSCOM to get a facial recognition workup of the man who’d hit David.

Off East Frederick, Trace turned into the parking garage of Lancaster General Hospital. “Let’s just get what we need and get out.” The longer they were here, the bigger the target on their heads.

They made their way to the main postoperative unit on the second floor. According to their records, David had surgery yesterday for a fractured fibula and to remove a bullet. They stepped out of the elevator and saw an elderly Amish couple exiting a room.

“Guess we’re in the right place,” Martin muttered as he hitched his gear pack on his shoulder.

Trace kept his eyes straight, not making contact with the couple. He waited till they went into the elevator, then he entered the room.

In a hospital gown and strung up to an IV tower, David Augsburger looked like an average Joe. A brace over his bed kept his leg elevated. Weights provided a counterbalance to keep his leg up, and the pulleys provided traction. Trace knew that pain all too well.

“I already talked to the police.”

Trace entered the room, stuffing his hands in his pants pockets. “We’re not with the police.”

Suspicion crowded the man’s expression, seeming to darken the bruise around his left eye.

Trace wanted to put him at ease, but he had little information he could dish out. “I’m with a special branch investigating your incident and that of Mrs. Gerig and—”

“Katie.” The way he said her name showed his affection for Téya/Katie. “They’re both missing. Please—you have to find them.”

“Yes, sir. We plan to, but we need your help.” Trace indicated to Martin. “My friend here works in a criminology lab.” Not quite the truth, but close enough. “He’s an expert on reconstructing faces from descriptions.”

David nodded, but the suspicion hadn’t yet left his face. “You want me to tell you about the man who did this to me.”

Trace nodded.

“Look,” David said, glancing to the window where medical staff and patients moved up and down the corridor. “I’m not sure—”

Trace leaned in, placing a hand on the man’s pillow and forcing him to look up. “You care about Katie, right, David?”

He swallowed.

“So, I need your help. Tell him what you saw. Give us something to go after whoever did this. Whoever took Mrs. Gerig and Katie.” He hated deceiving the guy, but he could
not
know what happened to Téya. She had to remain permanently MIA.

“Okay,” David said with a shaky voice.

Martin swung the bag onto the food tray and unzipped it. “Okay, this will be pretty painless.”