Operation Zulu Redemption--Complete Season 1 (2 page)

One side of his full lips lifted into a smile. “How my babe?” The thing with Bardo, he considered every girl who walked the streets—those who did it professionally and those who didn’t—his. And he looked out for
his
. And right now, even though she’d hooked up with him once or twice in the last couple of years, it was better to be with Bardo and his brothers than to be alone. Hide in a crowd.

Behind her, tires squalled.

She swallowed. Held the question. Gave a sidelong glance, begging God not to let it be them. The beams of the Suburban struck them. Snap!

“You in trouble, Church Girl?”

Jessie spun back to him, widened her eyes.

“Go,” Bardo said, brandishing a gun. “We got this.”

Hope surged. Then deflated. She couldn’t put them in this kind of trouble. “I… they’re dangerous, Bardo.” She glanced at the SUV—stopped now. The thugs were deploying again.

“Go!” Bardo pushed her behind him, muttering something about someone stepping in on his girls in his ’hood.

Guilt chugged through her veins, as thick and heady as some of the drugs she’d fallen into living in Sin City. Tears blurred her vision as the sound of guns exploded. She jerked with the violence of the noise intruding on the busy night.

The peppering of bullets and the wail of sirens threw Jessie around. She sprinted. Ran her heart out. Prayed—When had she last done that?
Really
prayed?—God wouldn’t let Bardo die for her stupidity. Awareness shot through her. She spotted her apartment building. Took the stairs two at a time.

“Is that you, Jamie?”

Her landlady’s singsong voice trailed through the hallway, but Jessie hurried. Let herself into the apartment that she, as Jamie Hendricks, had rented two years ago, after her restless journey dropped her in this forsaken city. Forsaken just like her. She slapped the deadbolt. Flung the chain lock. Poor excuses for security, she knew. No wasting time to put a chair in front of it. Wouldn’t work. They’d bust in one way or another.

No, she had more important things to worry about.

Flung herself around. Stared at the wall with van Gogh’s
The Starry Night
on it. Cheaply printed and bought at a craft store. But her favorite. The heavens were endless, free. That’s what she wanted. To be free.

“Yeah, free of this freakin’ nightmare,” Jessie muttered as she walked to the kitchenette, climbed on the counter, and reached into the thin gap between the cabinet and wall. She gripped the laptop and pulled it out. Turning it over, she verified the burner phone was still taped to it. When a roach scampered across her hand, she flicked her wrist, sending the pest across the room.

Jessie hustled to the window, unlocked it, and pulled it open. Wait. She glanced at the van Gogh. Then to the carpet. Saw a mark.

Heart in her throat, she rushed to the tufted chair spilling its filling and moved it to the wall. Adjusted the table and lamp. Stood back. Assessed it. Craned her neck.

She lifted the Gideon Bible and set it on the rickety end table someone had thrown in the Dumpster.

He’d know, right? He’d know it was a clue.

An ache, a five-year-old ache burned in her chest. Jessie grabbed the Bic pen from the kitchen counter. Raced to the Bible. Scribbled in it.
May it be a lamp unto your boots…

Thud! Crack!

Jessie snapped the cover shut. Dropped it on the table. Raced to the window, laptop beneath her arm. Powering on the burner phone as she folded herself through the small window, Jessie prayed she could make the call in time. She rushed around the landing and down the steps. The call connected. Her boots thudded against the rear parking lot as she heard the thunderous crack of her door breaking. She sprinted across the parking lot.

“Harry’s Antiques.”

An ungodly force punched the air from her open mouth. Thrust her forward. Face first into a puddle.
Splash!
Only as a strange warmth spread across her back and she realized she was paralyzed, Jessie knew she had been right:
Tonight, I die
.

Annie

Manson, Washington

27 April – 2015 Hours

“Hey, Calamari.” Annie Palermo used the back of her hand to brush away the strands of hair that had sprung free from her hasty updo. “Usual?”

Eyes like a brownie—with warm caramel inside—held hers. Samuel Caliguari’s grin never left his face when she was around. Even when she called him by the absurd nickname. “You know it.” The former Navy SEAL had it going on in all the right places—including his heart. Perfect in every sense of the word: handsome, a dozen inches taller than her own five-five height, short-cropped black hair. A slight cleft in his square jaw. Rugged. Dangerous.

Too dangerous.
He can dig up every secret you’re protecting
.

Sobered, Annie focused on crafting his cheeseburger sub, a Green Dot Sub Shop specialty.

“Sam.” Owner and manager, Jeff Conwell, emerged from the kitchen. “How’s it going?”

“Good, good.”

“How’s your brother?”

While the two caught up—as they did every time Sam came into the shop, which was often, and not because of the subs but because of his appetite for Annie—she layered on the lettuce and tomatoes.
No olives
. Her hand slid over the container of black slices and on to the mayo, and…slid right back again to the olives. Head down, she stole a glance to make sure he wasn’t looking. Eyes on Sam, she dropped one olive onto his sub. Lathered the thing in mayo and marinara.
Ew!
His order still made her want to throw up a little in the back of her throat, but you didn’t argue with the owner’s best friend, who was a man who’d been trained to kill.

Annie wrapped the sub in paper then cradled it in a red basket with Sam’s favorite barbecue chips. She placed it on the tray before moving on to the next customer, guilt hanging over her like a giddy concoction.
Hates olives. We’ll see
. She’d bet he wouldn’t even taste it. Even the most macho men could be such wimps when it came to healthy food.

Minutes fell off the clock, Jeff and Sam still talking. Annie buried herself in her job. If Sam did notice the olive…oh, he’d kill her!

Maybe something needed washing in the back. She headed that way, her ears burning. Only the drone of the evening news and chatter in the small shop made it back to her. She slipped through the back and waited.

“Ashland,” Jeff called, using the pseudonym Annie adopted for life in Manson. “Need a hand—”

Metal groaned against vinyl in a massive protest. Clearly the sound of a chair scooting back—hard. “Augh!”

Annie froze, a smile pulling against her effort to fake ignorance.

A long gagging noise came next. As if someone had unleashed a demon out front.

“Sam,” Jeff called out. “You okay?”

Coughing ensued. Then Jeff offering to get more water.

A thump against something solid, probably Sam pounding his chest. “An olive—I swear those things…”

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

That was it? Sam just chalked it up to an accident? Was he really not going to figure this out? An ounce of disappointment clunked through Annie. Chewing the side of her lip, she stood just out of sight of the eating area. Telling herself it wasn’t a big deal. A joke that fell flat. Might as well get back to work.

“Thought”—hot, quiet breath skated down her neck—“you got away with it, didn’t you?” His powerful presence loomed behind her. A vise clamped onto her wrist. Yanked her back.

With a yelp, Annie thudded against his barrel chest. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Had she hidden her smile that time?

“Right.” His rich brown eyes bore through her. “You just had this total brain fart and put an olive on my sub.”

“There was an olive on there?” Were her eyes big enough to feign ignorance?

Sam pinned her in the corner, thunder in his gaze. “You did it on purpose.”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“You put that nasty black olive in my sub!”

Annie tried to feign surprise, but a giggle leaked past her facade. She swallowed the laugh. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” But she was laughing now. Hard.

“You think it’s funny? I about choked on that nasty piece of crap!” Sam’s thunder-and-rain demeanor lightened. “You trying to kill a guy?”

“I had no idea it was so easy to take down a guy your size.”

“That is cruel and unusual punishment, ma’am.”

“A SEAL who can’t handle his olives.” She smirked at him, trying—and failing—not to appreciate all the good looks he had going on. “Good to know.”

“Give me bin Laden over
bin Olives
any day.” Laugh lines pinched the sides of his eyes. “Now. You owe me….”

Annie’s laughter, her lighthearted mood, vanished. She straightened, pulling herself off the wall, knowing full well the joke behind his words. Sam had never been quiet about his feelings for her. Six months in Manson and he hadn’t given up. But did he know how close she was to giving in? To saying yes to this guy who was relentless in his pursuit of her? Everything in her wanted to try because of him, who he was.

Military hero. Strong. Protective. Funny. He’d never let his dark brown hair grow long but kept it short and tight. Naturally tanned from his Italian side, Sam had the brooding spec ops persona down. Even without tac gear. Bulging muscles and personality, he’d swooped into Manson months ago, buying up the cottage next to his sister’s two-bedroom place that Annie had rented for the last several years.

Sam’s expression slid from playful to serious. “Just one date, Ash,” he said in a quiet, husky voice.

He smelled good. Looked good. Talked good. With one hand on his pec and another on his bicep, she struggled to think past the corded muscles she felt beneath his shirt. “Sam…” She barely heard herself as disappointment pushed his gaze down to the vinyl floor. She drew in a breath. “I…”

Bobbing his head, he said, “Remember?”

She couldn’t help but smile. He’d told her many times not to answer. Until she could say yes. She’d said yes many times—in her dreams. He was never far from her thoughts. Or far from her. He was in the parking lot every night she locked up. Followed her home. Gave her salutes each morning she sat on her deck overlooking Lake Wapato.

Five years she’d been here. Been safe here. But one date with Sam and Annie knew this guy would unglue and unseat every secret, passion, and terror.

“Ashland, need your help,” Jeff called from the front.

With a lame shrug, she weaseled out of Sam’s grip. “Work calls.”

“Hey.” He caught her fingers—and her heart.

She turned to him, enjoying his touch. Not pulling away. Not wanting to. But she should. She had to. She did.

He grinned that heart-melting grin. “You can put olives in my sandwich anytime if it means I get to corner you again.”

“That’s the best you’ve got, Calamari?”

He didn’t even flinch at the nickname this time. Instead, he took a step forward, challenge lurking in those rich eyes. “You want my best?”

Trace

Joint Base Elmendorf-Richardson, Alaska

28 April – 1020 Hours

Brittle and icy, the air in the room mimicked the unsanitized environment outside this theater. Two arcs of tables huddled against the recessed floor in the amphitheater-style room, facing the long, rectangular formation of dignitaries seated on the dais that elevated the dignitaries and senior personnel above the rest. Ten military officers hosting a press conference about joint operations and training under the command of newly installed Lieutenant General Charles Perrault. Beside him sat Brigadier General Haym Solomon.

Lieutenant Colonel Trace Weston sat listening to the drone of conversation. The suggested changes were not unexpected, especially since Solomon had briefed him en route from Virginia. The last several hours had pulled on his patience. He was getting older and had been through enough to hate waste of time and resources. He could be back at Fort Belvoir planning the latest technology efforts, both equipment and personnel. Or digging into the past.

Trace tucked his chin in an effort to hide the yawn clawing through his chest and throat. He blinked and straightened.

“At this time,” General Perrault said as he leaned into the microphone, his mechanically amplified voice bouncing off the sound-buffering panels in the ceiling, “I think it would be foolhardy to shift away from our projected troop placements, but technology and the political map demand changes. We can’t have a repeat of Misrata.”

It felt like an RPG had struck Trace center mass. He stilled. Coiled his reaction into a ball in the pit of his stomach. Let his training kick in. He wouldn’t flinch. Wouldn’t blink. Not now.

He flicked his gaze to his mentor.

General Solomon’s brow creased as he adjusted his microphone—a squawk snapping through the room, silencing the murmurs. “General Perrault, your concerns are understandable. Conflicts will arise. Teams will go in to deal with situations. We act on the best intel we have.”

“And sometimes,” came the gravelly voice of General Leland Marlowe, “you don’t.”

“Sorry, I thought we were here to discuss plans for the next phase—”

“We are here to ensure our soldiers and airmen are guaranteed the best chance to return home and reduce the casualty risk to innocent civilians.”

“It is our highest mission,” Solomon said, his chin raised. “Now, moving on.” The general glanced down and slid a folder to the side. “Ah, yes. The TALOS—Tactical Assault Light Operator Suit.”

Trace let out a breath—slowly—that he didn’t realize he’d held. Misrata. Even now, five years later, his gut still clenched. The screams. Haunted shouts through the coms…

Marlowe was behind tossing the hand grenade of Misrata into the discussion. He’d tried to run Trace up the flagpole more than once. As he sat near the back of the room, Trace let his gaze rest on the general’s. Waited. And he’d wait however long necessary until the man found his manhood and faced Trace.

Finally, brown eyes rammed into his.

Trace didn’t flinch. He schooled his facial features. Wished for the beard he had five years ago. Wished for the modified M4A1. Or better yet—M24 sniper rifle.