Operation Zulu Redemption: Collateral Damage - Part 1 (7 page)

He’d been here. Right here. In this room. Francesca Solomon stood with the FBI agents and their tactical team. Moving only her eyes, she took in the apartment. The clean but outdated kitchen with a small brass-and-glass table and two chairs. A pleather sofa. Goodwill-looking coffee table. The bed with no headboard and what looked like a Wal-Mart quality bedspread. Simple, cost-efficient.

Sage. She could smell sage with a tinge of something musky. A man’s cologne or that body wash stuff her brothers used.

“Ready?” Special Agent Baker asked, giving the room a visual sweep. “Unless they’re hiding in the walls, I’m guessing you missed your man.”

Frankie eyed the agent as she strode toward the closet, following the trail of body wash scent. A SWAT member was there but shifted out of her way. She stepped in, eyeing the ceiling, walls, and floor. The smell was stronger here. “Right here,” she said.

“Come again?” Baker joined her, pressing his shoulder into her back to peer into the closet.

Annoyed and wanting to punch the cocky agent, she shoved backward. “He was here.”

“Right,” Baker said from behind. “I’m pretty sure we established that possibility.”

“Not possibility. Fact.” She envisioned herself sparring with this guy, taking him down the way she had her brothers. Dosing him with humility. “Mrs. Higginbotham identified the photo of him.”

Baker shrugged, nodding. “ ’Kay. He was here. Now he’s not.” He looked at Lopez. “And why are we still here?”

Assistant Special Agent in Charge Lopez lifted her chin. “We can set up surveillance on the building. If he comes back, we’ll know.”

“Surveillance.” Frankie sighed, turned a circle. It wasn’t like he could be hiding anywhere, but to have been so close. . . They must’ve just missed Weston by minutes. What did he come back for? Quite a risk. What evidence had he found, ripped out of their hands by mere seconds? “I’ll survey the building tonight. I’m not letting him get away a second time.”

Paper-thin walls made it easy for Trace to hear. Why? Why’d it have to be Francesca Solomon? He wanted to lean against the wall but didn’t trust the flimsy building material to not creak or pop, giving away his location. He owed Baker a steak for playing dumb about his location. For ribbing Solomon, making her tenacity seem foolish and ridiculous.

If she was going to watch the building. . .it’d only be one person. She couldn’t cover all possible exits. That worked in their favor. What
didn’t
work in their favor was waiting till nightfall. The team would have to hang out at the tarmac for his return.

Hold up. If the team went to the airport—he and Houston would have no way to get back to the airport. And they had the equipment. He wanted to curse. Trace pinched the bridge of his nose as they stood in the darkness, listening and waiting as Solomon and the FBI cleared out. Once he heard the door close, he pressed his watch. The timepiece lit up: 1515 hours. They’d have to wait till dark. Not just first dark, but late dark. Enough time for her to get bored. Believe there wasn’t anything to monitor.

“They’re—”

Trace clapped a hand over Houston’s mouth. Using the illumination of his phone, Trace mouthed,
“We wait. Four hours.”
He wouldn’t put it past her to be sitting on that sofa all night.

Houston’s eyes bulged.
“Four?”
he mouthed back, clearly distressed at having to stand in the box of a closet for that long.

An hour into their wait, legs aching and air stale, Trace wondered if they could push their luck and sneak out now. Right. And have her standing there with her weapon trained on him? Victory in her brown eyes?
No, thanks.

Creaking in the first apartment, 312, stiffened Trace’s spine. He held up a finger to his mouth, warning Houston they had company. Solomon must’ve gotten anxious. Glock up, he aimed it at the wall.

Creak. Groan.

He trailed the noise. They were right in front of the access panel in 312.

A soft scraping barely made it to his ears. When the sound registered—the panel sliding back—Trace’s pulse jack-hammered. He tensed, holding the weapon firm.
I’m not going down without a fight.

Creak.

Pop!

Air flooded into the area. A face appeared.

Adrenaline exploded through his gut. His finger curled back just as the face registered. “Boone!”

“C’mon,” he whispered. “She’s parked out front. Has been since the others left.”

“How’d you get in?”

“Roof.” Boone grinned and stepped back. They gathered the computer equipment, closed the hidden room panel, bent out of the closet into a darkened 312. Boone secured the hidden panel and put the table back, before they slipped out the front door.
Walking right out the front door.
But instead of going down, they went up and onto the roof.

Boone scurried over to the far left and soared over a narrow alley between the two buildings onto the roof of the other. He turned and waved toward them.

Houston shook his head. In a hoarse whisper he said, “I can’t throw this stuff.”

Trace took it from him, shifted the contents, then turned to Boone. With as much care and deliberate direction as he could put into it, he tossed the box to his buddy. The box soared over the opening as Houston gasped. Something flung out and clattered against the tar roof, teetering on the edge. Boone caught the box, the contents jarring noisily, as he stomped a boot on what had flown out—a tablet that now dangled precariously beneath his large foot.

With a jump, Trace threw himself over to the other building, then spun and snatched the tablet.

“Nice,” Boone whispered, then nodded to Houston, who looked as if the jump spanned a dozen feet instead of a few. Finally, the geek worked up his courage and lunged over. They all hurried to the fire escape and made it down the south side of the building.

Trace hopped to the ground. “Where’s Solomon?”

With a nod, Boone said, “North side of the other building. We’re safe.”

Slinking along the shadows of the dense apartment buildings, Trace followed Boone out across the parking lot.

“Trace Weston!”

He didn’t have to glance back to know it was Solomon. Trace shoved Houston forward. “Go!”

Boone grabbed the equipment and broke into an effortless sprint, Houston directly behind him. Trace lagged just enough to give himself time to provide cover, should they need it, but not enough to get left behind. They sprinted down the parking lot, weaving among cars and working their way to a rear alley, abutted by more buildings. They slipped down one darkened, smelly alley.

“Weston, stop!”

They dove around a building.

The black SUV roared up next to them. Boone dragged Houston into the vehicle, carrying the box as if it were a piece of paper. Trace hopped in after them, diving over bodies. They lurched into motion before the door shut. Giving him a perfect glimpse of Francesca Solomon as she broke out of the alley.

Annie stuffed her plate and utensils in the dishwasher and closed it. She wiped down the long brown table that looked like something leftover from a church. But it worked for their needs. After washing her hands, she made her way to the command area. Utilizing a corner of the bunker on the raised portion plus a makeshift wall Boone had nailed together, Houston reassembled Jessie’s data wall.

Leaning against the back of one of the computer stations, Trace folded his arms as he stared at the information.

Annie said nothing as she stood to his left, eyeing the chaos that had some sort of logic to it. All of Jessie’s stuff did. But whether anyone else could make heads or tails out of it was another thing altogether. There were names, some with photos, others without. Images of buildings. Cars. Multipage articles.

One picture drew Annie to the board—a woman in her mid-twenties. Taped together with what looked like a more recent picture. Beneath it read:
Kellie Hollister/HOMe.
No wonder it’d drawn her attention. Kellie Hollister was one of the founders of Hope of Mercy, which had a branch in Misrata. HOMe–Misrata had been in that warehouse. The children they were protecting were the same ones Zulu had unwittingly killed in their first and only mission.

“What do you see?”

Trace’s voice pulled her around, startling her. She’d forgotten he was there. Those green eyes still held strength that made her feel weak. In more ways than one.

Annie turned back to the data wall. “Chaos,” she said. “She never gave up on finding who set us up. Unlike the rest of us.”

“You gave up?”

Steeling herself, Annie cast a look over her shoulder at him. “Didn’t you?”

“Not for a second.” Resolute. Formidable. Trace Weston hadn’t changed. He flicked his gaze to the wall again. “See anything interesting? Something that stands out?”

Annie let her gaze traipse over the accumulation of five years of Jessie’s research and analysis.
Hollister. HOMe. Children. Misrata. Khalifa al-Zwawg. Ballenger.
There were so many, but none of it felt unique. “Not really. I mean—she has more depth to her research than any I could’ve come up with.” Annie stuffed her hands in her back pockets and bunched her shoulders. “But what’s important. What’s not?” She shook her head, then met his gaze again. “You? You said you haven’t given up for a second. Is this familiar?”

“All too,” Trace said, pushing to his feet. He came to the wall. Pointed to a name. “Hollister fell off the map after Misrata, after CID and DIA interviewed her, she vanished. I’d like to find her, hear her story myself. Ballenger—his wife and kid were killed that night.”

Annie frowned. “Wife? I thought only orphans were there.” She’d seen Ballenger’s name on the list and on numerous news reports, but she didn’t recall anyone being married or having a child there.

“We need to find him. Hear his story, too. We need to find them all. Start over. Fresh eyes. Fresh ears.” Still handsome and still in charge.

And she still hated him. Annie took a step back. Reminded herself what he’d done.

Eighteen children, four women. All dead at the hands of a unit he trained. A unit he led. A mission he organized. General Haym Solomon had tasked Trace with putting together the all-female special ops team. Suggested it was time to make history. Trace had nearly killed the general point-blank after the failed mission, but Solomon had too much of his own fury over Misrata to have been guilty. Someone up the chain, someone neither of them knew had entrapped those women. Set them up to take a massive fall. Sent them to the slaughter.

It’d been his fault—he led them into the trap. So, he led them out. Secured safe passage. Ferreted Zulu to safe ground. Got them new identities. New lives. Bought time for him to figure out the truth. He just never thought it’d take five years.

Five years and you still don’t have the answers.

And what he’d done to Annie. . . She still hadn’t forgiven him, and he’d known back then she wouldn’t. He’d accepted that. It was worth the price.

Trace’s phone belted out a rock version of the national anthem. He answered the call. “Weston.”

“Returning your call.”

At the familiar voice, Trace excused himself to Annie. He strode to the briefing room. “Yes, sir,” he said as he sealed himself in the soundproof room. “Sir, we were in Las Vegas. Searching the apartment of Jessica Herring.”

“Did you find anything?”

“Yes—some systems. . .and your daughter.”

General Haym Solomon muttered something under his breath.

“Sir?”

“What does she know?”

“That I was there.”

“She identified you?”

“Yes, sir.”

The general sighed. “I’ll handle it.”

“I’d appreciate it, sir. She’s in a position to create a lot of trouble for me and mine.”

“I said I’ll handle it. Now—what’d you get?”

Trace looked back to the data wall and struck gazes with Annie. Something inside him cinched. He shoved his gaze to the ground. “A puzzle, sir. It’s going to take time to decipher.”

“Do you think Kingston figured out anything?”

Trace scratched the side of his face, thinking about the yarn, the markers, the plethora of information. “No telling. She had a. . .unique mind.”

“Keep me posted.”

When the line went dead, Trace stared at the phone, the searing memory of his failure that night burning hot and cruel in his mind. He’d failed them. All of them—the team, Boone and Rusty, who’d helped train Zulu. And even Solomon.

Should’ve seen that trap coming. Should’ve given them thermals to verify the building was empty.

It
should
have been empty. They’d been there that morning. Saw nothing and no one.

And Zulu showed up that night to wipe out an illegal weapons cache that had been harvested from military “excess.” The weapons should’ve been destroyed, instead they found their way into a warehouse in Misrata, Libya.

Now. . .now Zulu was depending on him again. This time to stop whoever was trying to kill them. In order to figure that out, he had to find the answers to a puzzle he hadn’t been able to solve in five years.

Lieutenant Colonel, five years, and still no closer.

Might as well eat a bullet.