Operation Zulu Redemption--Complete Season 1 (17 page)

“Are you in communication with Sam?”

Annie closed her eyes and snorted. “This has nothing to do with Sam. This is me explaining that Téya had good reason to go to David.”

“No,” Trace said, stalking away. “No reason is good enough to draw more attention and harm to an innocent civilian. And if she’s there, that’s what she’s done.” His expression went dark. “How do you think she’ll live with it if, by visiting him, she gets him killed?”

Annie knew in a black-and-white world like the one Trace and Boone lived in, that hypothetical question made sense. But why couldn’t he see or understand what it was like from their perspective? “Our entire lives were upended. Ripped from us. Again.”

He gave a curt nod. “Noted. But you want to keep living. You want those you love and care about to keep living, right?”

Annie studied the floor, wishing—just for once—Trace would get it. That he’d understand where they were coming from. “We’re not wired like you.”

“Look,” he said, coming closer. “I get it. I know what you’re thinking. Probably what you’re feeling, but if you’re going to make it, if you’re going to survive this very personal attack against you three, then you have to stop thinking with your heart. You have to think strategy.”

When she looked up at the board, she saw Sam’s name. Wondered what he’d say. Probably exactly what Trace said.

“Annie,” he said, his voice low and close. “We aren’t trying to cow you into this. We’re trying to solve the puzzle, stop this from becoming a massacre.”

She bobbed her head, covering her mouth. “I know,” she whispered, feeling raw. “It’s just—”

“Got her!” Houston’s proclamation severed the conversation. “Oh, crap.”

Just like that, Trace was all business. “What? What’ve you got?”

“She’s in trouble…oh man.” Houston clicked a few buttons, and what he found splashed on the full-wall screen.

Grainy footage, a bit hard to take in with the size covering the whole back side of the dais. Téya running across a parking lot. Getting into a scrap with a man. Getting free and hopping in the truck.

“She got away,” Annie said, an acute sense of relief rushing through her body.

“Not quite,” Houston said. “Traffic cams. Look.”

The footage showed Téya in the blue and silver Ford truck cruising along the highway. Then a black sedan racing up behind her.

“When was that?” Trace demanded.

“Right now. Traffic cams are live,” Houston said.

“I want you to erase whatever trail of hers can be found. There can be no record of Téya being there. Got it?”

Houston bobbed his head, his golden-brown nest of curls wagging beneath the fluorescents. “Yep. Got it.”

Hurrying toward the door, Trace called, “Feed that to my phone.” Then he looked toward his buddy. “Boone.”

“Right behind you.”

Annie started for the door to join them.

“No.” Trace stopped at the door, accessing the security panel. “Stay here.” He barked that at her as if she were a dog. Trace met her gaze. “Do we hand them two Zulu members?”

Why did he always have to make sense? And why did he always know what she was thinking?

Before she could respond, give him a piece of her mind, he was out the door.

“Things haven’t changed much between you two, have they?” Boone quipped.

“I’ve changed plenty,” Annie bit back. “It’s him, stuck in his ways, who hasn’t changed.”

Boone chuckled. “Men rarely do.” And he was gone.

Boone

In his Raptor, Boone barreled out of Virginia and headed north. It only took ten minutes to catch up with Trace. Using his Bluetooth, he called him.

“Houston has them passing York now,” Trace said without introduction. “You have eyes on them yet?”

“Not yet. Then again, some of those areas are right through towns and roundabouts, so speed is limited. We should intercept them around Gettysburg.”

“Tire spikes.”

“Too much traffic. Do a PIT maneuver.”

Boone nodded to himself. “Copy that.”

“I’ll do the PIT. You get Téya.”

The hour drive to Gettysburg did nothing but ramp up Boone’s nerves. He verified with Houston that, thanks to traffic and small-town congestion, Téya and her troublemaker were still north of him and Trace. He took an overpass and waited on the southbound on-ramp behind Trace.

“Okay, guys,” Houston said in a distracted voice, no doubt watching the satellite feed. “They’re about two minutes out.”

Trace’s car pulled back onto the road, and Boone followed suit. They took up a lazy speed, watching their rearview mirrors.

A few seconds after they’d merged into the light traffic, Boone saw his dad’s old pickup barreling for all it was worth down 30. Right behind it, a dark sedan. Nerves thrumming, he waited. Waited…as the old Ford grew closer.

“Trace,” Boone said, watching the rearview and noting the swirl of blue and red. “They’ve got company.”

“Copy. I’ll handle him if needed,” Trace said. “Just get her home.”

Grinning, Boone said, “Roger that.”

Téya roared past them just then. Not two seconds later, the black sedan. Immediately, Trace interjected himself and Boone followed. The
whorp-whorp
of the sirens told them the cop wasn’t happy. But it was for his own good. Boone slowed, pulling even with a red Prius chugging along in the right-hand lane, effectively blocking them. He toed his brake, watching Trace make his move.

Trace pulled his vehicle alongside the black sedan so that his front wheels were aligned with the rear of the guy’s car. Gently, he made contact. Then a sharp turn into the guy’s car.

The black sedan’s tires lost traction. Started to skid.

Trace eased his vehicle to the right, continuing in the direction he’d taken for the pursuit intervention technique.

Swerving around the black sedan, Boone watched it overcorrect. “Idiot.”

The car went airborne. Flipped once…twice.. three times like a freaking gymnast. It slammed with a sickening crunch-thud into a cement construction barrier. The cruiser angled toward the accident, no doubt a higher duty to check for injuries.

With the way the car wrapped around that cement, the cop would need a body bag. Boone accelerated and pulled in behind Téya, flashing his lights. “We’re clear, but the cop probably got my license.”

Téya’s vehicle swerved. She corrected. A few seconds later, she was veering off again.

“I’m on the access road. I’ll be behind you in five. Just make sure she gets home.”

“Roger that… I think something’s wrong with Téya.” Boone scowled as her car almost left the road. He revved the engine and pulled alongside her. He glanced over into the truck and saw blood smeared over her face. Alarm shot through him. Motioning for her to pull over, he relayed the information to Trace.

“I’m coming up on you now.”

Boone followed Téya off the highway and onto a service road. She smartly pulled onto a dusty, rural road before stopping. He rammed his truck into P
ARK
and flung himself out of the truck.

At her door, he yanked it open.

Téya grimaced at him, holding her side.

“What happened?”

“He shot me,” she said, her words thick. “At the hospital.”

“That was two hours ago!”

“
Cha-ching!
The man can count,” she said, a sheen covering her face. “It’s not bad, but it hurts.”

Trace joined them.

Téya flinched at the sight of Trace. “Here to bawl me out?”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Trace said before tapping Boone’s shoulder. “Pack the wound and let’s get moving. It’s getting dark, so we have less chance of being seen. Stick to the speed limit.”

Boone retrieved a first aid kit from his truck and pressed gauze into Téya’s wound before helping her out of the truck. Arm hooked over his shoulder, she stumbled back to his vehicle. Dusk bathed them in an amber glow as they pulled back onto the service road, then the highway, and headed south toward Virginia.

“He was there,” Téya said. “Right there, waiting for me.”

Boone nodded, hearing what she wasn’t saying. They knew enough about her to know where to hit. To predict her moves. “Now you know why Trace said to stay at the bunker.”

“Just had to see him.”

“Was that visual confirmation worth almost dying for?” Boone hated to be tough on her, but she needed to wake up. “Or getting him killed?”

Tears slipped down Téya’s cheeks.

Trace

Fort Belvoir, Virginia

11 May – 1340 Hours

“I’m not surprised you called.”

Trace settled into the seat at the white-draped table, shifting his gaze around the high-class restaurant. “They are right on us. I need help to stop this. To end it.”

General Haym Solomon nodded as the waiter delivered a glass of water then took his order. “And he’ll have the same.”

Trace wasn’t hungry, but there was no use arguing with the general. “Sir—”

“Relax, relax. You’ll ruin your digestion.”

“It’s already ruined. They nearly killed Two.”

Haym scowled. “I thought you had Two.”

He’d stepped right into that. “She’s struggling with the situation. She was very close to an Amish farmer who almost died because of her.”

“Aren’t they all farmers?”

Shoulders deflating, Trace huffed. Why wasn’t the general taking this seriously? “Sir, I’m not sure you understand.”

Haym’s expression hardened. “I understand far more than you can imagine, Colonel.”

Put in his place, Trace lowered his head and chose his next course of conversation. How to impress upon the general that this had to end. They needed a break. More assets. More intelligence behind this.

“You think you’re the only one working on Misrata, but you’re not. I’ve got plenty to lose in this deadly game, and trust me,” he said, his breath coming in heaves, “we all want the dirtbag behind this brought down. You don’t need another conversation with my daughter to remind you of what this has cost me, do you?”

Trace gave a half shake of his head, frustrated.

“Before you get all morose, I need you to know two things.”

Trace met the man’s bushy-eyed gaze.

“First, I’ve canceled the task force.”

Jerked upright by that piece of news, Trace scowled. “You wha—?”

“On the heels of that, I’ve put together a cover team. Each member handpicked. Each person I know personally.” Giddy victory soared through the general’s face and tone.

Unsure whether it was a good thing or bad thing, Trace nodded. “But why…why would you cut the original team? They have knowledge—”

“They’d grown blind to it. Stale.” He waved a hand. “Nothing worse than stale meat or vegetables.” Again, he seemed very pleased and amused with himself. “They had been staring at the data for so long, they weren’t seeing it.”

“I can relate.” Trace roughed a hand over his face.

“It’s time to kick things up a notch.”

“Beyond time.” Something about the way the general said that registered with Trace. He tilted his head to the side. “Wait—what do you mean?”

A man joined them at the table, sliding into the seat across from him. Vague recognition flickered through Trace’s mind as he met the man’s brown eyes. He frowned, studying the man. Waiting for someone to explain what was going on. He certainly wouldn’t continue this discussion in front of—

“You remember my son, Paolo.”

Tension coiled in Trace’s gut. He tightened his lips. “Sir, I—”

“Paolo’s on the new task force.”

Bouncing his gaze between the two, Trace tried to pull his brain out of the vat of oil that had just fried it. “Sir?” Trace eyed the guy who had to be close to his own thirty-seven years. With his father’s Italian blood and the Solomon strong features, the guy could hit the cover of
GQ
and never lack for attention or money again. “Aren’t you—isn’t he a SEAL?” Though he wasn’t wearing his tactical gear and sweating like a horse, he was the same guy Trace had worked an op with years back, wasn’t he?

Paolo sat comfortably in the chair, his button-down shirt crisply pressed and starchy white against his deeply tanned skin. “I am.”

“You’re enjoying this,” Trace said, a growl in his words, but he didn’t care. “Sir, with all due respect—”

“Which means with none.”

Trace huffed. “Sir, I’ve lost two members of the team. One more is in critical condition, and their attackers almost took out a fourth. This is not a game. Their lives are not pawns on a board.”

General Solomon leaned forward. “Aren’t they, though? Someone is eliminating them one by one.” Ferocity laced his words. “For what reason?”

“The end game,” Paolo put in. “Something has changed recently that made this person go after your team.”

Trace considered the man who voiced a thought he’d had many times. “Or, he finally figured out where the last one was.”

“C’mon, that’s as unlikely as—”

“A SEAL helping a Green Beret?”

Paolo grinned. “We’re on the same side, ultimately.”

“Are we?”

“Whoever is hitting your team,” Paolo said, his voice quiet, his gaze focused, “is hitting them now because their existence jeopardizes something important to this individual.”

Trace raised his hands. “Okay, fine. Assuming you’re right, how are we supposed to find that out?”

“I’m already making headway. I have access to files and situations neither of you do.”

“Why? Because we’re Army?”

“No, because you’re immersed in the mess. You’re being watched.” Paolo’s gaze slid past Trace and locked onto something. “Trace, I want you to get up right now and walk to the back of the restaurant. Find an exit. Do not look back.”

Trust. This is where it came down to trust. He’d trusted him seven years ago on that operation in Kandahar.

“My sister just walked in.”

Trace

Fort Belvoir, Virginia

11 May – 1445 Hours

Had they set him up?

Trace’s nerves vibrated as he slid into his dark gray Dodge Charger and started it. He pulled out of the parking lot and headed back up toward Reston. He’d hit Route 7 and narrowly avoid rush hour. Either way, there’d be traffic. And lights. Lots of lights. But he was too much a miser to take the tollway. He hated the congestion of the Beltway, but once he hit the Dulles toll road, he’d get home faster. He’d talk to Boone.