Operation Zulu Redemption--Complete Season 1 (36 page)

Disappointment chugged through Trace that the only one ready for the fight, wanting the fight, was Nuala. That they were all but shirking off his hard work. “How do you think we’ve been able to keep you hidden? If you’d been discharged, you would’ve been on your own.”

“Maybe it would’ve been better that way,” Annie said with a shrug.

“Right,” Trace said, an anchor of disbelief sitting on his chest. “Because you would’ve had so much more success avoiding the sniper’s bullet. Oh, and your SEAL boyfriend—would he be alive now if you’d stayed?”

“I’m in, sir,” Nuala said. “All the way.”

Trace nodded.
That
was what he’d expected and hoped the others to say. For the quietest and youngest to speak reason—that was a shock, too.

Outside the briefing room, Boone strode into the bunker, spotted them, and headed their way. He stepped into the room.

Nuala straightened and her gaze hit Boone. Almost instantly, her cheeks pinked. Trace glanced at his friend then back to Nuala, who had now lowered her head. Since when did Noodle have a thing for Boone?

“Welcome to the debate,” Quade said, holding his arms up.

Boone didn’t frown, but his expression wasn’t far from it. “What’s going on?” he asked Trace.

“I was about to explain to them that Solomon has a tip about Misrata, but One and Two decided they aren’t interested in serving anymore.”

“Interested?” Boone gave them a look that seared. “You signed up—this isn’t about
interest
. It’s about duty. And it’s your gig—I’d think nobody would be more interested in the truth than those being held responsible for the deaths of twenty-two innocent civilians.”

“Do not get self-righteous with us,” Annie said. “We’ve had our lives dissected, disassembled, and then ripped apart again.”

“Hooah.” Boone didn’t seem to care. “Welcome to the Army. Think my life has been simple since signing up? Think any soldier who’s lost a limb or come home with invisible wounds like TBI or PTSD didn’t have their lives ripped apart? And you think you can just walk away because it’s getting hard? What about Keeley, up there fighting for her life? How would she feel knowing her sisters-in-arms are back here whining about it being too hard?”

“That isn’t—”Annie snapped her mouth shut. And good thing, too, for the ferocity in Boone’s expression.

“Six?” Boone placed a hand on Nuala’s shoulder. “You’re in?”

Now the girl’s face went beet red. “I am, sir.” Nuala swallowed. “Sniper is all I’ve wanted to be. Glad to be a part of the team.”

Boone smiled at her. “That’s my girl.”

A nervous smile flitted across her face as she ducked, clearly torn between the praise Boone gave her and the loyalty to her friends. “Not doing anything special, sir. Just what I love and what I signed up for. I’m glad for the diversion. Being a civilian was boring.”

“Regardless of whether we like it,” Trace said, cutting into the awkward tension, “you
are
soldiers. Solomon’s office got a break—there’s a lead on a family in Greece, the Lorings, who can give us some answers about HOMe. But they are in hiding. Priority one is securing their safe exit from Greece.”

“After this, once Misrata is settled, I’m out,” Annie announced.

“You’re out when the Army says you’re out,” Trace countered.

Anger writhed through Annie’s face, but she said nothing.

“I’m not trying to be a jerk about this, but you signed a legal, binding agreement to serve. You haven’t fulfilled that obligation.”

“If you’re going to hold us to that, then I want to speak to a JAG officer, to determine my rights.” Man, once Annie got fired up, she was like a heat-seeking missile.

“I’ll inform Solomon.” He tried to shrug off his disappointment with Annie. She’d been a very different person and soldier five years ago. Then again…so had he. “For now, bed down. Flight leaves at zero dark thirty.” He headed out of the room, anxious for some air that wasn’t thick as mud and laden with tension.

Where had he gone wrong? Doing everything in his power to protect her—them, and it gets thrown back in his face?

He hustled toward the kitchen area, desperate for a drink.

“Hey.”

A weight on his arm pulled him around, and he found himself facing Annie.

“What was that?”

“That’s what I’d like to know.” He extricated himself from her hold and opened the fridge. Orange juice. Apple juice. Skim milk. Soy milk.

The door flapped shut and Annie wedged herself in between him and the metal box. “What is with you pulling that stunt about us being obligated?”

“No stunt. You are.”

“I never expected you to stoop to such a low level and—”

“Since when are you scared, Annie?”

“I’m not scared.”

“Then why are you running?” Trace leaned down into her face. “The Annie I knew would’ve faced this head-on and with a baseball bat. The woman standing in front of me wants to slink back to some isolated community with a slick Navy SEAL and play house.”

“Just because I found someone—”

“Did you? Or were you just desperate for company?”

Her hand struck hard and searing across his face. Annie gasped, covering her mouth.

The spot where her hand hit stung, but Trace nodded, knowing for that much anger to erupt, he’d hit a nerve. “Thought so.”

Francesca

Alexandria, Virginia

29 May – 1310 Hours

“Hey, beautiful. What can I get ya? The usual?”

“Hey, Mick.” Messenger bag slung over her shoulder, Frankie tugged out her wallet and flashed her best smile at her favorite barista. “I think today I’m going for the biggest skinny french vanilla latte you can do.”

“Living on the edge, eh?”

Frankie smiled. “Need the juice.” Her dad had made some calls but only managed to turn on her utilities. He gave her some money to get gas and food. A neighbor had pity on Frankie and gave her a Starbucks gift card, which was nice since she didn’t have Internet back yet either.

There were strings she could pull that would make it all go away via hands more powerful than even her father could manage, but Frankie wasn’t going there.

As she moved to the end of the counter to wait for her drink, her phone rang. She glanced at the caller ID then answered. “Hey, Dad.”

“Just wanted to update you,” he said.

“Okay.”

“Utilities are back on—water, electric, gas,” he said. “But the others are going to take awhile.”

“Did you have any luck finding out who did this?”

“Not yet. But I’m working on it.” Noises carried through the line, a grunt, then he said, “I’ve got to go. I’ll talk to you later, Angel.”

She smiled at his old nickname for her. “Okay, Dad. Thanks.”

Mick slid her drink toward her and winked. Frankie smiled her thanks and looked around the coffee shop.

Armed with her caffeine and determination, she planted herself in a quiet corner away from windows and traffic and pulled out her laptop. She might’ve told her father she would leave Weston alone, but she hadn’t made any promises about Boone Ramage, Weston’s right-hand man. Interesting thing was that Ramage had bought an old farmhouse in Lucketts. The very location where she’d crashed. Was Weston visiting his friend? Or was something more sinister happening there?

Sinister.
This isn’t a Batman movie, Frankie
.

An hour’s work today, combined with the several she’d spent over the last couple of days, only netted her his work history, which he’d so kindly posted on LinkedIn, and renovation permits for an old home in his name. Boone entered the Army at eighteen and had served until an injury medically discharged him in…“Huh.” Frankie eyed the date. “A month after Misrata. Fancy that.”

And having a father as a general and her work in the months leading up to Misrata, she knew very well that some soldiers were written out as discharged, but their service had not been terminated. They’d gone black.

Is that what Boone had done?

Or was the back injury so bad that he couldn’t serve anymore? He just didn’t seem like the type to walk away. But…she’d had enough. And never in her life could she have imagined that day would come. Not with the fierce competition she had with her special ops brothers. Three brothers. One sister. All serving. She didn’t want to be the wuss. Getting drafted through INSCOM for some dark-cover operations seemed like the perfect way to prove herself. Her abilities. Until some situations and personnel made her feel like she’d been standing on quicksand instead of the firm ground of morality and patriotism.

With a shudder, determined to leave those memories in the past, Frankie directed her energy, her attention to the photographs and files—in particular, Boone’s house. Built in the late 1880s. Once served as an antique shop till a fire gutted the upper level. Ramage’s family owned the surrounding property, and now he owned the farmhouse and its property. She’d asked a friend who lived in Point of Rocks, Maryland, to stop by and take pictures of the house.

Frankie studied them now. The two-story home with front porch looked largely restored. At least, on the outside. The roof had been replaced. Windows and doors seemed new. Having updated her condo’s bathroom, she knew the pretty penny all this work must have cost. Where was he getting the money?

“Check for bank loans,” she wrote in a notebook.

The plat map showed that the house sat on thirty-plus acres bordered on the south by a tree-lined creek. That bed of water separated his land from his parents’ hundred. Convenient. He could do whatever he wanted and nobody would be the wiser.

Of course, she’d been someone who’d seen an evil plot behind every curtain.

And she’d lost her job, her utilities, her credit rating, her car…

Frankie slapped down the laptop. Palms on the top, she rested her head on her hands. What was she supposed to do? She wanted to respect her father’s wishes. Wanted to believe he wasn’t hiding something from her, but he’d never been so curt and tight-lipped with her. That told her he had concealed things.

Or was he just trying to stop her from digging a bigger grave?

Which way was up?
Who’s on First?

She whimpered.
What am I supposed to do?
Frankie sat up, flipping her black hair out of her face. Her heart jackhammered—a man sat at the table with her. “Varden,” she hissed.

Thirty-five, brown hair, chiseled jaw, and yet so common anyone might mistake Eli Varden for a decent human being. She had. And it’d been a fatal mistake.

“Franny.”

She shivered, the feel of his voice icy against her eardrums. “What do you want?”

He leaned over the table, folded his arms on her laptop, and probed her gaze.

Frankie steeled herself. Gritted her teeth.

“You’re digging up stuff on Trace Weston.”

“Actually,” she said, feeling triumphantly defiant. “I’m not.”

A smile that didn’t make it to his lips pinched his eyes. “You’re right,” he said in that smooth baritone that had coaxed more than information out of her. “Now you’re digging into Boone Ramage.”

Frankie’s pulse tripped over his words and the fact that he always seemed to have one up on her. “What do you want, Varden?”

“What happened to calling me ‘sexy’?”

“I grew a brain,” she spit back.

He laughed.

At the counter, Mick watched over the espresso machine, giving her a silent “do you need help?” signal with his raised eyebrows.

“You’re drawing attention to yourself,” Frankie said, knowing this was a sore spot for the operative.

“Nobody ever notices me, you know that.” He lifted her drink and took a sip. “Now
you
, on the other hand. Guys notice you as soon as you enter a room.” He grinned. “I sure did.”

Frankie ripped the laptop out from under him and stuffed it in her messenger bag. “I’m done with you.”

“I have proof your dad is connected to shutting down your life.”

Frankie hesitated. And she cursed that weakness. Cursed Varden for stepping into her life again. “What do you know about anything, Varden?”

“I know he was ordered to suffocate your will until you broke.”

Trembling, she packed up the papers. Secured her bag. How did Varden even know about that? “What? Are you spying on me?”

“I’ve never stopped.”

Bile rose in her throat. “I left the agency. They cut me free.”

“Free is a relative term, Franny.”

She grabbed her bag and scooted her chair back.

“Don’t draw attention,” he said, his tone filled with warning.

“What do you want?” she hissed.

“I want you to talk to a man named Samuel Caliguari, a former Navy SEAL.”

“Why would I talk to a squid?”

Varden only gave her a thin-lipped smile. “He’s on a hunt. I think you should join that hunt.”

Sprawling and stunning against the backdrop of the Aegean Sea, the golden-plastered property sprawled over a rich green carpet of grass. Even on the screen, the place screamed wealth and beauty. “The estate is owned by Giles Stoffel.” Trace stared at the multimillion-dollar property and shook his head. Was it built with blood money?

“You’d think he’d be a prince or something with a sweet piece of land like that,” Boone said, leaning against a credenza. Ankles crossed and arms folded over his chest, he exuded a confidence that Trace appreciated. It’d taken a lot to convince Boone to leave Virginia—to leave Keeley, especially knowing she could come out of the coma any day—but the team had to start acting like a team. That meant they all had to gear up and get their hands dirty. Besides, Trace could tell by all the woodwork Boone had done on the main house at the bunker that he was getting bored. The man had warrior in his blood.

“Why are we looking at this place?” Téya eased onto the edge of an overstuffed chair where Annie sat. “I thought we were here for the family, the Lorings.”

With a nod, Trace uncapped a bottled water. “The Lorings are priority one. But Spirapoulos Holdings has come up a few times in my search for the Misrata architect. While rumors abound that they aren’t averse to black market purchases, there’s little proof, if any.”