Operation Zulu Redemption--Complete Season 1 (41 page)

“Of course,” Annie said, perfecting her accent as she turned to the ADS owner. “Defense? You deal in weapons?”

“Not just,” Titus said as he lifted two glasses of champagne from the tray and handed her one. “We have many branches, including electronic and virtual training…we manufacture farm equipment and large machine tools.”

Annie rolled her eyes at the last few. “Droll,” she said with a sufficiently snotty tone. “My father, he started building farm equipment, but he said the real money is in weapons.”

“It’s interesting that I have not heard of your father, and I’m very familiar with weapons builders around the world,” Batsakis said, his dark, beady eyes roaming over her. “But had I suspected he had such a beautiful daughter, I would have met him sooner.”

That made no sense, but she laughed anyway. A small tremor raced through her when his arm slid around her waist. “Mikalos says you wish to invest?”

“
Da
, my father gave me one-tenth of my inheritance, and if I can double it before my next birthday, he will give me all of my inheritance now. But if I cannot, or if I lose, then I will get nothing.”

Trace appeared with what looked like a cocktail and handed it to her, taking the champagne. He gave her an intentional nod, one that the ADS owner wouldn’t see, and moved away.

“What was that?” Titus asked, sounding indignant.

“Sorry,” she waved a hand dismissively. “I cannot be trusted with champagne, so Mr. Volkov keeps me stocked with cocktails.”

His dark eyes assessed her.

Annie wondered if they’d gone too far but sipped the drink—one that was apparently nonalcoholic by the taste of it—and intentionally moved her attention toward the balustrade that spanned a large, gorgeous second-story balcony. “A beautiful view. I’m not sure I’d ever leave this quaint villa if I got to see that every morning and evening.”

“That is what I tell Giles often,” he said, admiring the view—her. Not the landscape.

“You live here, too?”

“More than Giles,” he said with a laugh. “My sister is in residence here, but Giles’s business often takes him around the world.”

“I love traveling the world,” she said, finding more truth in those words than she realized she felt. Maybe it was just five years wrapped in the solitude of Manson. She’d been in Paris, Germany, London, and now Greece…

“Your father,” he began again. “What was the name of his company again?”

Unease squirmed through her. This is where it began. This where his doubts bred or died.

“Mr. Batsakis,” Annie said with a teasing reprimand to her words, “Please—do not bait me. We both know you were digging into my personal files the last twenty-four hours. If you cannot remember the name of my father’s company, then perhaps I will be better off doing business elsewhere.” She looked out over the view again. “Somewhere with water, since I find it so relaxing.”

He gave her a leering smile. “You are an incredible, forthright woman.”

“I find it serves no purpose to be otherwise.”

He stepped in, his hand going to her waist. Men were so primal, trying to physically possess anything, including women. Over his shoulder, Annie did not directly look at Trace, but she was sure his lips were moving as he stood alone in the corner. No doubt talking to Houston.

“Excuse me, Mr. Batsakis,” a waiter said as he approached.

Titus turned, his expression growing dark. Very dark. Frightening.

“Forgive the intrusion, sir,” the waiter said as he lowered his head in deference. “The prime minister and Mr. Stoffel would appreciate a word.”

With a disgusted sigh, he straightened his jacket. Met her gaze but only long enough for her to see the fury. “I must see to them. I won’t be long, dear Natalia.”

Annie smiled her consent for him to leave. “Don’t be gone too long. I bore easily.” And with that, stirring her virgin cocktail, she wandered away…toward Trace, guessing he had a message for her.

She feigned interest in a massive portrait of a half-nude woman, something she would really never understand people fawning over.

“Something’s wrong,” came Trace’s quiet voice.

“Agreed,” she said with a smile.

“You want out? We can make that happen.”

His words about not putting her in a situation that would jeopardize her stilled her. “Would you leave?”

When he didn’t answer, she looked in his direction. Trace was staring at her—intensely.

She saw it—saw the turmoil behind his silence. “When you recruited us, you promised you’d never make a gender-based decision.”

“This isn’t about gender,” he hissed, stepping closer. “This is about a piece of slime pawing you. If he gets you alone…”

Annie swallowed. Mostly because she knew what he didn’t say. But also because of the jealous rage clouding Trace’s face. “I’m an operative. Let me do my job.” More ferocity filled her words than she felt. Had he heard the tremor in them? Her uncertainty?

His nostrils flared as his lips went flat. He gave a nod and slowly blended back into the crowd. Something about watching him vanish like that left a sickening dread in the deepest part of her soul. He’d vanished like that once before and what dawned next proved to be the blackest time of her life—utter isolation from everything and everyone she loved.

“You like it?”

Annie jumped then laughed as she smiled up at Titus. “You startled me.”

“You seemed rather focused,” he said. “My brother’s decorator chose the piece. I’m not fond of it. I prefer impressionistic works over realism.”

“As do I,” she said.

“Come.” He motioned to the balcony. “I could do with some fresh air.”

“Is everything okay with the prime minister?”

Hand on the small of her back, he guided her onto the balcony. “In politics, is anything ever okay?”

She arched an eyebrow at him. “True. Wow,” she said as she rushed forward. “It is beautiful!”

And it was. The far right provided a breathtaking view of the water, which spread out in a foamy kiss from the cliff’s base. To the left and opposite a meticulously manicured lawn rushed up to a copse of trees that grew denser the farther up they went.

But the water…

Annie sighed. She loved the water. It’s why she’d chosen Manson—the lakes and river. Quiet. Solitary.

“You like our Salamis Bay, I see.”

“Is that what it’s called?” So odd. To have the freedom and expanse of the sea before her and the dense barrier of the forest behind. “I never knew there were forests in Greece.”

He laughed. “Most people who haven’t visited tend to think that way.” His hands slid up her back, caressing.

Gross!

She had to be strong. Turn this into her corner. “So,” she said as she peered up at him. “What do you think—?”

“I think you’re quite beautiful.” He was leaning down to kiss her, and she fought a shudder.

Annie steeled herself. Then put her hand to his chest. “I’m sorry, but you move too fast.”

Out of the corner of her eye and close to her face, she saw a glint of something metal. A sharp pinch at her neck.

Her vision swam.

Trace

Salamina, Greece

1 June – 1730 Hours

“Houston, what’s going on?”

“It’s crazy. The whole freakin’ board is lighting up.” He let out a moaning groan that wavered, evidence of his not wanting to believe this. “Get her out of there, Trace. Get her out now.”

Trace pivoted toward the balcony.

An explosion of light and smoke erupted directly in front of him. Screams and shouts stabbed the air. Training threw him through the smoke fog instead of away from it. He cut through into the open, his eyes burning as he scanned the balcony. The
empty
balcony!

“Houston,” he subvocalized as he hurried toward a set of stairs he hadn’t noticed before. “Where is she?”

“Uh…”

“I need help now, Houston.”

“She’s…she’s gone, Trace.”

He cursed. Hit the bottom step and turned a slow circle, drawing his weapon. He spit out a few more expletives. “Find her!” he hissed.

“Where is the bodyguard?” a man demanded.

Trace slammed himself against the wall, staring up at the upper balcony.

“He came out here.”

“Find him and kill him!”

Sam

Manson, Washington

1 June – 0730 Hours (PST)

Sam hit the trail, jogging around Wapato Lake a couple of times to burn off the frustration. Days and still no word from Otto on the print. And thankfully, no men in black showing up to cart either of them off to prison.

His Bluetooth signaled a call and he connected. “Caliguari.”

“Sam, hey, it’s Nolan. Just wanted to touch base about Colombia.”

Sam dropped out of a run, squeezing his eyes.
Shoot. Completely forgot about that
.

“The plane will be there tomorrow at 0800.”

Pacing the path, Sam wrestled with the decision. Tomorrow.
I can’t
. But he had to if he wanted to keep paying his bills. If he ever wanted another gig. One thing he knew about Nolan Patterson was that he didn’t appreciate last-minute cancellations. “Right. Tomorrow.”

“Is there a problem?”

If he didn’t go, he wouldn’t be working for Dynamic Security Solutions ever again. Or any other security firm with military connections. Nolan would ostracize him. Sam looked around the lake. Tomorrow—he didn’t have anything planned. Still waiting on those prints. “No, not a problem.” He swept the sweat from his face.

“Good. This VIP asked for you by name, so if you screw me on this—”

“I’m good.” Had to be. “What do I need to know?”

He resumed his jog as Nolan rattled off the information, including the pickup, drop off, and connections. The contact. The VIP. “We’ll supply what you need. Just be there at the airstrip first thing. Clear?”

“Crystal.” Sam crested the incline and trekked around the vineyard. He ended the call, cursing himself for losing track of time and commitments. A week in Colombia routing sweaty, cigar-smoking, foul-mouthed drug lords—maybe it’d clear his head.

My head isn’t clogged
. He just had to find Ashland.

But the more he thought about it, the more he began to wonder if walking out of Manson had been her doing.

No. He wouldn’t buy that. He’d have to hear that from her own mouth.

Sam made one last circuit, determined to reset his mind. Get mission minded about Colombia. Expectations. The VIP was an American attaché who had more power in his little finger than most U.S. seal-embossed dignitaries held. At least, with the Colombians. And often—with Sam, too. The gig often entailed security as the attaché made his way into hostile territory and Sam made sure the guy made it out alive and intact.

As he jogged back down Wapato Lake Road toward the house, he slowed. Something was off. Sam cast his gaze about, searching for the trouble. And then he saw it—the car. The same one he’d confronted last night parked in his driveway.

Fifty yards out and his Bluetooth buzzed again. “Caliguari,” he said as he moved to the side of the road, walking as a portion of it rose.

“Sam. Otto.”

Sam stopped. “You have something?”

“Um, yes.”

The words made Sam’s heart thud hard against his ribs. “Ser—”

“But not what you think.”

Should’ve known better
. It was then the panic in the guy’s voice registered. “What’s going on, Otto?”

“I’ve been trying—trying to get it back.”

“Get what back?”

“The results.”

Sam shook his head. “Otto, you’re not making sense.”

“Nothing makes sense about this!”

Holding up a placating hand—to whom, he wasn’t sure, because Otto wasn’t here to see it—Sam squatted, his gaze on his house. “Easy there, big guy.”

“Listen, Sam. They know.”

“Who?”

“If I knew that, don’t you think I’d tell you?!” Otto was shouting now. “They know we’re searching for her. That print—I think we’ve set off a firestorm, Sam. My computers are fried. Everything is locked up with some vicious virus.” Breathing hard, Otto gasped. “Be careful Sam. I think they might be coming.”

“You’re overreacting,” Sam said, more to reassure himself than to quiet Otto.

“Yeah, well two big black SUVs are pulling into the parking lot right now.”

“Get out of there!” Sam jerked around, nervous for the tech geek.

“Duh, genius. I’m not there. I left as soon as they fried my systems. Just keep your eyes out.”

“Thanks. I’ll do that. Stay safe.”

“Yeah, you too, though I think we’re beyond that.”

Sam started toward his house. Had to get a few things before the MIB thugs showed up on his doorstep. Including getting rid of the nosy woman, whoever she was. Or…was she one of them?

He entered the gravel drive.

The car door swung open and the dark-haired bombshell stepped out. “Listen—I know you said to leave.”

“I also said I’d shoot you if I saw you again,” he said as he slid the knife into his hand. “But all I have is this knife. And not a lot of time.”

“Then I’ll talk fast.”

On second thought, he didn’t have time for this. Not if the thugs were already at Otto’s. “You get a pass today,” he said and stalked to the deck. He tugged back the sliding glass door and went to the bedroom.

“Thank you. I won’t take much of your time—”

Sam spun, lifted the Glock from the holster strapped under the counter. He aimed it at her. “What’re you doing?”

“You said I got a pass.”

“Yeah, as in I wouldn’t kill you.” He waved the gun to the door. “Now.”

“I need to talk to you about Ashland Palmieri.”

“Never heard of her.”

She nodded to his living area, to the credenza by the wall. “That photo says otherwise, along with all the interviews you gave.”

“Know what? It’s your funeral.” Sam turned around. He went to the bedroom and tugged out a rucksack. Nolan said he didn’t need anything, but with the MIB squad coming, Sam might have to lie low for longer than a week.

“My father is General Haym Solomon,” she spoke from the hall, standing by the bathroom. “Five years ago he was tasked with sending an SF unit to Misrata.”

Libya. Yeah, so?

“Something went very wrong. Twenty-two women and children died in a warehouse the team hit. I believe the man leading the mission, then–Captain Trace Weston, is responsible.”