Operation Zulu Redemption--Complete Season 1 (22 page)

Chewing him out would only make it worse.
It will only make it worse. It will only make it worse
. No matter how many times she said the words in her head, she couldn’t calm herself down.

“… a Francesca Solomon here, seeking access to the INSCOM building.” He rattled off her SSN and her ID number.

“Access denied,” squawked a voice.

“No!” Frankie shook her head. “I work here. That’s a mistake.”

“Sorry, ma’am.”

His radio squawked his name then, “… ordered to escort her off base immediately.”

“
What?!
” Frankie couldn’t contain her outrage. “Are you freakin’ kidding me? Do you know who I am? Who my father is?”

“Frankly, ma’am, I don’t care. I have my orders.” He pointed her to the parking lot. “Do you have a car?”

“Wait,” she said. “Do you have a phone I can use? I’ll call my CO and get this cleared—”

“Ma’am, I’m trying to be nice here. I can let you walk, or I can cuff you and haul you out of here.”

Frankie drew back, only then noticing the small crowd forming down the sidewalk. Flashbacks of what happened to her father forced her to comply with the order to leave. She drew up her courage, glanced at the specialist’s name patch, then started walking. “You’ll regret this, Specialist Buzard.”

He said nothing but escorted her to the red compact rental car. As she tugged out the keys, she remembered he had her DOD ID card. “My card.” She held out her hand.

“Sorry, ma’am. They ordered me to take it.”

“What?! That’s my job—my ID. I can’t get into my office without it.”

“Reckon that’s so—but I don’t think you have a job anymore, ma’am.”

Furious, Frankie toyed with grabbing it from him, but she saw his hand move to his weapon holster. She stamped to the car and climbed in. After starting it, she deliberately pealed out of the spot, whipping toward him as close as she could. She wouldn’t hurt him, just give him a good dose of what he made her feel right then.

“Augh!” she groaned, her side aching from the way her own foolish driving whipped her around. Once clear of the gate, she felt her nerves thrumming. She so needed a Chick-fil-A Cookies & Cream shake. She hit the highway then veered off when she spotted the red-and-white sign. Pulling up to the speaker, she rolled down her window.

“Hi! Welcome to Chick-fil-A. How can I serve you today?”

“Yes—I need the biggest Cookies & Cream shake you can give me.”

The speaker laughed. Probably mocking her. Frankie didn’t care. She needed a fix. After totaling her car, burning her leg, losing Trace, and now—whatever was happening at Belvoir—she needed
five
of these things.

After getting her total, she eased up to the window and handed off her card. She brushed back her long, black hair, desperate for a breeze, for a break.

“Sorry—the card’s not working. Would you like to try another form of payment?”

Frankie stared at her. How could her card not work? “Can you try it again?”

The teenage host held up the card and gave her a sympathetic frown. “Sorry, I did.”

Stunned, Frankie took the card and dug in her purse and found a five stuffed between receipts. She handed it over, shaken. What was happening? Shake in the cup holder, Frankie pulled away from the restaurant, numb.

As she made her way home, she couldn’t get rid of a daunting feeling. The phone…the access card…credit card… It was starting to read like a bad spy novel. She reached for her phone, a second-nature move, only to lift it and remember she had no service.

Bling!

Her gaze slid to the light on her dash. Gas. She needed gas.

“No way,” she muttered. Weren’t rentals supposed to have a full tank? With the way her luck was going, she probably couldn’t get her credit card to work either. No, she wanted to get home and call her dad.

Running to Daddy
.

Well, who else would she run to? She didn’t have anyone else. Frankie parked along the curb, grabbed her purse, and hoisted it. The strap broke. “Are you—?” Rage shot through her. “For the love of—augh!” She snatched the black bag and tucked it under her arm as she lifted the shake.

She slid out, angling to clear the door.

When the lid popped off the cup, ice-cold ice cream plopped onto her leg. Frankie screamed. Stood next to the car, staring down at her pant leg. Kicked the cup with the remaining shake. Slammed the door. Trudged up to her front door. She aimed the key at the lock.

And froze. Wood splintered along the jamb. The door hung open.

Trace

Lucketts, Virginia

12 May – 1000 Hours

After verifying a dozen times that he wasn’t followed, having taken ridiculous routes to get to the barn of the bunker, Trace hustled down the steps into the secured area. He coded in and the door swung open. Good thing Boone had been bored in life and worked on this place, or they wouldn’t have anywhere to hide the girls. Keep them out of sight and out of trouble. Though he’d known for a while he couldn’t keep them down here forever. They needed to solve this nightmare. Which is why he’d been shooting scenarios, working angles. Something—there had to be a solution.

Across the room, working at the workstations set up in an X pattern, Houston and Boone looked up at him.

“Any more word on Augsburger?” Trace asked as the door thunked closed behind him. Locks engaged with a heavy thud and hiss.

“Still critical,” Boone said. “Family found him unconscious. No visible injuries. Doctors aren’t sure what happened but suspect he might’ve had an internal injury they missed. They’re doing blood panels, but the results aren’t in yet.”

“And Shay?”

Grim-faced, Boone bobbed his head and shoulders. “Stable. Vitals are normalizing but still critical.”

“What—”

Boone snapped to his feet, his gaze locked on something behind Trace.

Trace pivoted. Saw a form moving forward. When he didn’t recognize the person, he drew his weapon. “Stop right there.”

The scrawny guy stopped, eyes wide beneath a mop of shiny black hair. Houston’s muttered curses whispered through the place as he shifted to a safe location.

“Boone?” Trace wanted to know how this happened.

“Got me,” Boone said.

Sidestepping the table, Trace closed in. “Hands up!” The guy’s compliance didn’t alleviate the dread sinking through Trace. He’d been in the back. With the girls.
Where are they?
“Annie! Téya!” He shoved forward, his finger moving to the trigger. “What were you doing back there?” How’d this guy get in here? Trace sure didn’t want to have to shoot someone in here. That’d be a bad mess to clean up, both with the Brass and literally.

Boone said nothing but edged in from the right to flank the kid.

How in blazes did the kid think he’d get out of here alive?
How did he get in?

When the kid didn’t speak or move, Trace knew it was time to take him down. “On your knees! Now—on your knees.”

“Trace.”

His mind bungeed around the voice. Around the eyes. Felt like he’d been sucked into some wigged-out vortex. Brain warring with what his eyes saw, Trace didn’t trust himself to so much as flinch.

The kid lifted a hand to his head.

Trace firmed his grip. “Don’t move.”

With a quick swipe, the kid gripped a clump of the ebony strands and tugged back.

“Stop!”

The black hair fell away. Something spit from the kid’s mouth. Now, instead of the kid, Annie stood there. She stared at him with a blank expression, her demeanor shifting.

Trace lowered his weapon, his mind blank as if it’d had a massive nerve block. Slowly, Téya and Nuala emerged from the lounge area and stood slightly behind Annie. A defensive posture if he ever saw one. “I don’t understand.” Anger vaulted his confusion. “Do you know how stupid that was? I could’ve shot you!” The realization made his head light. Almost shot Annie…

“It was a risk.” Annie fiddled with the wig, never removing her gaze from his. “But one we felt we had to take.”

He holstered his weapon. “Why?”

She looked to her sisters-in-arms and then back at him. “You trained us to be soldiers. To fight. You did a good job, carefully selecting us.”

Arms to the side, Trace waited. He was being trapped. Could feel it. But he wasn’t stupid enough to step in it.
Or maybe I already did
.

“So you know us.” Her voice remained calm and strangely quiet. “Though we’re each different in how we handle stress, we’re all fighters. We won’t take some things sitting down. Including this.”

Wariness crowded into his tension. “Including
what
?”

“Being kept here under lock and key.”

Trace opened his mouth.

Annie held up a hand. “You walked in here, into what you believed was a secure bunker, and you thought there was an intruder. Right?”

No way would he feed this frenzy.

“You drew your weapon on me, convinced I was trouble.” Annie smiled.

“What’s your point, Annie?” He hated getting played. Hated that whatever point she thought she’d made, it was going to work against him. Silently, he begged her not to force his hand. Or will.

“We want to help solve the puzzle. Actively.”

“How’s that?”

Annie held up the wig. “We’ll go disguised for now.” She pointed to the wall. “We need to start with Jess’s notes. The names. Interview, investigate.”

Though he hated to admit it, she might be right. With disguises, they could go out there and triple the efforts he’d made. Go over stuff he’d been over a thousand times, but with their fresh eyes. With their experience of being on the other end of the mission.

“There’s been too much collateral damage,” Téya said, stepping into the conversation. “It’s time to put all of our wits and knowledge to work.”

“We just want redemption,” Nuala said. “To prove that we aren’t the cold, calloused killers we were made out to be.”

“Redemption,” Trace repeated, eyeing them.

They stood staring at him, expectancy in each of their eyes. He ached that the other half of their team was missing, that he hadn’t been able to protect all of Zulu. Six amazing women who’d taken on the daunting task of being Special Operations soldiers. Who’d succeeded and kicked some serious butt in the field. Now they were his team. His responsibility. Annie with her formidable tenacity. Téya with her forthright fervor. Nuala with her focused resolve.

Formidable. Focused. Fervent.

God help the man who tried to get in their way.

Trace turned and went to the command station.

“Trace, you can’t say no or ignore us,” Annie said, apparently following him to the dais. “We can do this. Trust us.”

“Keeping us kenneled here is not going to go well,” Téya added.

“I’m ready to climb some walls, so let those walls be the ones the traitor put between us and the truth,” Nuala said. “I’m ready to end this. We all are. Aren’t you?”

Trace studied Herring’s data chart. The names. The places.

Annie hovered at his elbow. “Please, Trace. Don’t hold what happened between us over this time.”

He scowled at her. “Is that what you really think of me? That I’d kill an innocent man, that I’d punish someone because—” He snatched a picture off the data wall and thrust it at her.

Annie frowned at the picture, confusion etched into her face. “What?”

“Kellie Hollister,” he said, tapping the image as he looked at the others. “Cofounder of Hope of Mercy, International. We found her.”

Nobody spoke. They seemed as confused as Annie.

Trace grunted. “Well, I thought you ladies wanted an assignment.” He rested his hands on his tac belt. “You’re going to Denver to find out what she knows.”

Annie

Denver, Colorado

14 May – 1325 Hours

Four and a half years had passed since Kellie Hollister was last interviewed regarding the ministry of HOMe—Hope of Mercy, International. It’d be interesting to see the difference in her testimony then and now. Annie had read and reread Mrs. Hollister’s accounts of Misrata, and not without a great deal of nausea and anger.

Annie climbed out of the dark blue Ford Escape and adjusted her lightweight sweater.

On the other side, Téya stood at the bumper eyeing the building. “Quite a place.”

“Maybe someone donated it.” But even as Annie said it, her gaze hit the cars in the parking lot. Lexus, Acura, Infiniti… “Maybe not.”

Téya laughed as they strode around the fountain and made their way to the glass and steel structure. Another fountain tossed light-colored streams of water in a dance choreographed to some classical piece. “Must be some good money in orphanages and shelters,” she muttered as they approached the front desk.

Annie showed the guard her ID. Or rather, the fake ID Trace had gotten her. “Angela Pennington to see Mrs. Hollister.”

The guard took her ID, motioned for Téya’s, then took them both and made a very hushed call. He replaced the receiver in the cradle then lumbered to his feet. “Step through the scanners, please.”

Annie resisted the urge to look at Téya—they’d both wanted to take weapons, but Boone warned them that security would not allow weapons on the premises. Although they really didn’t expect trouble, sometimes it came to them anyway. Like Misrata. Like Manson.

Sam
.

Annie cleared her throat as she waited for the elevator, working to calm her nerves. She wasn’t Annie Palermo with curly white-blond hair. She was Angela Pennington with a short brown crop. Téya, on the other hand, had a more drastic change, wearing the black wig that had convinced Trace to let them start working on the case rather than being sitting ducks. But the wig wasn’t the drastic change. It was the dress uniform—skirt, pumps, and a blouse, that had startled even Annie.

“Stop staring,” Téya said once they stepped into the elevator.

Annie smiled. “Sorry. It’s just so…
not you
.”

On the fourth floor, they were greeted by another security station. Two sentries stood by the double doors, while a third stood and smiled at them. A flirt. “Morning, ladies.”

Projecting an air of indifference, Annie presented her ID.

The guard took her card and swiped it on something. Annie’s heart gave a little start. Would it work, being a fake? Where was that data being streamed to?