Operation Zulu Redemption--Complete Season 1 (43 page)

Téya’s heart jammed. He was firing at John! She sighted. Eased back the trigger. The man crumpled. The van spit rocks and dirt as it sped down the alley, out of sight. Téya wanted to unloaded her weapon on it, but it’d be futile.

With a pat on her arm, Nuala rushed toward the fallen, her weapon ready. The girl was indefatigable. Until she slept. Tonight, Noodle would have nightmares.

Téya trotted forward, her pulse racing. “John?” she called out.

Nuala checked the man who’d fallen out of the shadows. “He’s dead.” She dragged him back into the shadows.

“What’re you doing?”

“Buying us time,” Nuala said. She tossed her jaw toward the other. “Him?”

Even as she knelt, something near the alley caught her eye. The bag of bread and cheese. She nodded to it. “Check on John.”

The man lay curled away from her, but she saw the dark circle spreading over his back

Careful of the wound, she turned him—and froze. Not at the wound. Not at the dark stubble lining the jaw.

Only one thing stopped her—the tattoo of the star-crescent.

Cold steel bit into his wrists. Sam shifted where he sat—
which is where, exactly?
—and felt the cuffs make another greedy imprint on his arms. He gritted his teeth, noting the sound of chains scraping against metal. The vibrations worming through his entire body and the deafening roar of massive engines combined with the hollowing of his hearing warned him he was on a plane. In fact, his fourth one. If he’d been counting right. Then again, could be the same plane refueled and they’d placed him in different locations to confuse him. Aboard the first aircraft, he’d been strapped into a cushioned seat. They’d progressively gotten worse from there. Now, he’d been placed on a Globemaster in a strap seat on the uncomfortable-as-possible transport.

They’d cuffed him on scene, stuffed him in the SUV—but not before he spotted a glimpse out the heavily tinted windows of Solomon’s car hidden down the road. As soon as the door closed, he’d been hooded and taken to a chopper—a private one, he guessed—that ferried him to an airstrip. Nobody talked to him as they secured him into that first seat.

He knew two things from this little seek-and-find game: One, they didn’t want him knowing his location or destination. But this wasn’t the first time Sam had been a hostage. He had survival skills beyond most men, probably even more than those holding him. And two, patience would deliver him to whoever was behind this kidnapping. Patience would help him connect the dots of this incident to Ashland.

Ash…

Faced with the very real possibility of seeing her again, maybe even face-to-face, fear streaked through him. Stabbed his confidence. Mutilated his courage.

What if she didn’t want to see him again? What if she was some sick psycho who used men and loosed them?

Sam snorted and shook his head. She might’ve been able to hide her real name, but there was so much about Ashland she hadn’t been able to hide. The meticulous attention to detail that spoke of someone aware…
very
aware of her environment. Of threats. The hunger in her eyes for companionship and understanding. The way she responded to his kiss.
That
wasn’t faked, not simply because she’d kissed him back or
how
she’d done that. But because of the heat of passion in her face. That wasn’t something a person could fake.

Distinct and obvious, the descent pushed aggravation through his veins. Would this stop be one of many more? He’d tolerated a lot already, but his fuse wasn’t endless.

Tires screeched against the tarmac, jolting him forward as the engines and the reverse thrusters slowed the aircraft.

Ashland…sure hope you’re at the end of this journey
. The thought of her
not
being there lit that fuse. All he’d put up with. All he’d endured. The punches. The way they’d walked him into a wall more than once.

As the craft taxied, boots thudded across the steel floor.

Sam stilled, focusing on his environment. More than one person coming. His mind played a quick mini-movie of him yanking free of the chains and breaking some noses then sprinting off into the sunset. Right. That would work in Hollywood. Not so much in real life. As the plane quieted, the chains around him rattled and a heavy whine filled the air. He guessed that a rear-loading door had been opened.

Grabbed by each arm, Sam was hauled to his feet. It was too much to hope they’d remove the hood. They guided him, steel vibrating through his shoes as he shuffled like a maximum security prisoner. No light filtered through the hood, so he used that to guess darkness had fallen. The familiar whine of a rear-loading tail filled his ears.

“Step,” someone said gruffly.

Sam went a little more tentatively and felt himself on a decline—the ramp he’d predicted. Shards of light stabbed through the fabric. Not sunlight, but bright lights emanating from certain locations. Had to be dark.

“Watch—”

Sam struck something. Tangled his feet. Hands chained to his feet, he pitched forward unable to break a fall. Hard grips yanked him backward, along with a chuckle.

He had the distinct feeling he’d been tripped—intentionally. Clenching his jaw, he pulled himself straight.
For Ashland. I’m doing this for Ash
…. Wind tugged at his clothing and pressed the hood against his face.

“Where is he?” someone shouted, his voice muffled by the dying engine noise.

“He’ll be here,” the man holding Sam’s right arm said. Voice gruff. “Eyes out.”

“Spend too much time and there will be questions. Can’t stay much longer.”

“You will if you want to get paid.”

“Since when have you been someone’s lapdog?”

The hand around his bicep tightened; the talkative guy was ticking off the thug.

“Hey,” someone said just before Sam was guided to the right. The engine noise quieted some more, both as they cut it off and as the distance grew.

The hood was yanked off, along with a clump of hair that felt like fire prickling his scalp. Sam winced and cringed then immediately devoured his surroundings. Yes, it was dark. Sun had gone down. Lights on the tarmac revealed things that stepped into its beams but shadowed that which stood between Sam and the source. Taking in everything, he did his best to gain orientation. In the distance a smattering of multistoried structures stuck out of a semi-mountainous terrain. Thick copses of trees lined the hills. Far away but still visible, a hillside was lit up with golden lights. Sam’s gaze rose to the top of the mountain that towered over the rest to the ruins.

No way. The Acropolis?
What the heck am I doing in Greece?

Téya

Roma Slums, Greece

1 June – 1840 Hours

There was something strangely beautiful about this man. Of course, mostly because he lay unconscious at her knees. But with his dark hair and stubble lining what looked to be a strong jaw—not to mention the curious star-crescent inked on his left cheekbone…

He moaned and shifted, his brows knotting.

Téya pressed her hand to his side, eyeing the puddle forming beneath him.
I am so dead. I shot The Turk
.

Nuala’s gasp drew Téya’s gaze up. The girl’s pale wide eyes echoed the panic banging through Téya’s chest. “We have to get out of here.”

Swallowing hard, Téya glanced down at the assassin. It didn’t make sense. He stood out in the open. “I can’t leave him here to die.”

“Yes, you can. He would’ve left you. In fact, he almost did.” Nuala squatted and caught Téya’s arm. “C’mon. If his people come…”

“How many assassins do you know who work with people in the field? They have a mission. They take care of it.” Téya couldn’t move. Couldn’t stop staring at the man who’d plastered her face all over the underworld to get her killed. And here, she’d taken him out. “I can’t leave him here, Noodle.” Her words hardened her resolve. “Help me get him up.”

“What? No!” Nuala knelt opposite her. “Are you insane? We leave him.
Now
.”

“No.”

Nuala tugged her back. “John. We have to find John. Remember? And we have to get out of here. It’s almost dark.”

“If he dies, his life is on my conscience. His blood on my hands.” Téya flashed her eyes at her friend. “You realize what that means? How many people will be after me
now
if he dies?”

“We have no car, no way to get him out of here.” The voice of reason, Nuala only told the truth, but it angered Téya that her friend wanted her to walk away. “And think about it—Trace will kill you himself if you take him back to the hotel.”

Right. So not back to their hotel. That shortened the distance necessary to transport him. She had combat medic skills, so…. Téya scanned the buildings beyond the ten-foot fence. Barely visible was a store of some kind. Next to it loomed an office building. Behind it, another building peeked out, its brick darker, older. Fire escapes. A blinking sign hung on the corner, flashing a price and T
HE
A
EGEAN
H
OTEL
.

Perfect
.

“Help me get him up.” Téya moved to his head.

“Are you
insane
?”

“Yes,” Téya said. “I just shot the assassin who tried to have me killed, and now I want to make sure he doesn’t die.”

“So he can finish the job he started in Paris?”

Téya cradled his head against her shoulder as she slid her arms under his. “So I can find out what I did to make his hit list.”

“Right,” Nuala said, moving toward his legs. “Because he’s just going to tell you that. There’s no chance he’ll wake up after you save his life and put a bullet in that pretty, stupid head of yours.”

Téya glowered.

“Fine. But I’m not bringing flowers to your funeral.”

“They’ll only die anyway.” Together they carried him down the alley toward a section of broken-out fence. Backs aching, arms quaking, they hurried across the street. Almost to the curb, Téya spotted a police car coming toward them. Her heart hammered as they scurried into the shadows of the building.

The cruiser slowed and a bright beam of light exploded, shattering the darkness. Téya sucked in a breath as they pressed into a doorway.

“Ugh. His blood is sliding across my arms,” Nuala whispered with a tinge of disgust.

The cruiser moved on, but Téya’s arms were rubbery now. “Stay here. I’ll get a room then come back.”

Nuala’s eyes widened in the dark alley. “
What
? No way. I’m not staying with—”

But Téya sprinted off. As she rounded the front of the building, she checked her clothes to make sure she wasn’t covered in blood. A small smudge at the bottom of her shirt glared back at her. Quickly, she tied the corner in a knot, like some ’80s throwback, and stepped into the lobby.

Thank God Trace and Boone insisted they carry their passport and money. Contingencies…
Bet Trace wouldn’t see this coming
. Téya went to the barred window, having to press closer than she’d like as a couple tangled in each others’ arms and mouths stumbled past. Suppressing a shudder, Téya asked for a room. “First floor, please—if you can.”

The man eyed her. “What you doing on this side of town this late?”

With an impish smile, she shrugged. “You know…”

“A pretty girl like you shouldn’t be here. You want me to call you a taxi?”

“No,” Téya smiled. “I’m meeting someone.”

He clucked his tongue. “You are too good for him if he makes you come here.”

Okay, dude. What’s with the lecture? Can I get a room or not?

He slid the check-in book across the eight-inch ledge. Téya used her left hand, which would be messier than her right and illegible, and signed. Handed over the money in exchange for the key, along with lectures on taking more pride in herself and not ruining her life on a loser who’d bring such a pretty girl to a place like this.

She hurried down the hall and slid the key into the door on the right. Inside, she rushed to the window. Though the window had locks, they weren’t
unlockable
. Well, not technically. Téya kicked the lock free of the jamb and slid open the window. She climbed out and ran down the alley.

She came around the corner and found herself staring down the business end of a weapon. Arms up, she met Nuala’s pale eyes at the other end. “Easy.”

“I could kill you myself for leaving me here.” Together, they hauled the assassin to the window and propped him against the wall. Téya climbed through. “He’s losing too much blood,” Nuala said as she crawled after them.

Laid out on the bed, The Turk hadn’t moved, blinked, or groaned.

Téya checked his pulse. It wasn’t thready yet, but the guy was out of it like a cement block. “Put the dresser in front of the door.” She headed for the bathroom. “I have to get some supplies.”

“What?” Nuala hiss-shrieked. “You are
not
leaving me with him again.”

“Tear the towel into strips and tie his hands.”

“There’s no bedpost, Téya!”

“Be creative,” she said as she once more slipped through the window.

“You’re covered in blood.”

Téya glanced down as she ran to the small convenience store she’d seen when they crossed the road with him earlier—right before the cops spotted her. Shoot. The red smudges over her shirt weren’t indicative of gross bleeding. She had to come up with an idea fast. She stepped into the store. The clerk immediately eyeballed her with a worried look.

Téya grabbed up alcohol, bandages, a pair of scissors, and a sewing kit—along with a few boxes of candy and drinks. When she dumped the items on the counter, the clerk didn’t move.

“What?” Téya asked, her gaze catching a tower of name-engraved multitools. She turned it as if looking for a particular name and picked the one that said David. She placed it on the counter, too.

“You need this much, maybe you should go to doctor.” The clerk’s English was enough for conversation but not for grammar Nazis.

Téya shrugged. “I can’t afford to take my eight-year-old to the doctor. Good thing I was once a nurse, huh?”