Operation Zulu Redemption--Complete Season 1 (44 page)

The clerk started ringing up the items. “You are young to have an eight-year-old.”

Téya grunted. “We all make mistakes. Not that he’s a mistake.”

“Right,” the clerk said, who couldn’t be more than eighteen himself.

Téya paid for the items and hurried back toward the hotel. As she rounded the corner, a glint slowed her pace. Cops.
Keep moving. Act normal
. She shifted the bag in front of her to hide the blood. If she went in the back, she’d really draw the attention of the cops. Going through the front…

The desk clerk eyed her. “I did not see you go out.”

She shrugged. “Guess you were busy.” She left him with his mouth hanging open and hurried down the hall, cursing herself when she remembered she’d told Nuala to put the dresser in front of the door. She rapped quietly. “Noodle, it’s me.”

A heavy scraping sound preceded the metallic
shink
of locks being released. The door opened. “What are you—”

Téya pushed in, cutting off her friend and the words. “Lock it back. I had no choice—the cops were on the streets still. Let’s hope my lies to the store clerk were believable enough.” She dumped the contents on the dresser once it was back in place in front of the door, then turned.

And froze.

“I know…” Nuala said with a grimace in her tone. “He came to. I had no choice.”

A bright red knot rose on his head. But what really caught her attention was the fact that while Téya was gone, Nuala tied The Turk’s hands out to the sides, connected to wall-mounted lamps. But she’d also torn his shirt and tugged it away from the wound near his quite-toned abs and pecs. A bloody towel sat on the wound.

“Tried to stem the flow,” Nuala said, “but answering the door…”

Téya nodded. “Had to go around front. Cops would’ve been suspicious.” Téya spread out the crude, limited supplies. “Sterilize the blades of the pocket knife.” She dumped three sleep aids into a bottle of water and lifted it to his lips. Though out of it, he still swallowed, a natural instinct. With that she went to work, cleaning the wound, probing it.

The knife wasn’t razor sharp, but it would do. She used it to gently dig out the bullet. The Turk moaned, arching his back. Sweat mottled his forehead, beads forming in and around the tattoo. She cleaned the wound, the alcohol sliding over his bloody injury.

He let out a howl, head coming off the bed. His eyes snapped to hers.

Her pulse ricocheted off her ribs as his wild brown-green eyes focused on her. Widened with a
You!
message.

Téya pressed her hand against his injury, nausea roiling through her, knowing how much it would hurt him.

He growled then his eyes rolled back into his head. They couldn’t risk that happening again, so she quickly went to work stitching then cleaning and bandaging the wound.

Exhaustion tugged at her limbs and mind as she scrubbed his blood from her hands—in more ways than one. By saving his life she kept her hands clean. Maybe she could buy her own life with this idiocy. She stared at herself in the mirror. This was stupid.
What were you thinking?

She hadn’t been. She’d reacted. Something…something stirred in her. Something she couldn’t explain. Didn’t want to explain—because it didn’t make sense. After scrubbing up, she stood in the doorway drying her hands.

Nuala stared at him. “It’s practically a résumé, don’t you think? All those scars…”

Impossible not to notice. Some were marred messes that reminded her of the film that covered warmed milk as it cooled. Those were probably bullet wounds. Other marks were clean strikes, like from knives. He had a wicked scar across his right abdomen that seemed like it could’ve been life threatening. And the one over his shoulder and up the back of his neck—she’d like to know that story.

No, she wouldn’t. She didn’t want to know anything more about this man. Despite the tug of curiosity and compulsion to know more about him, she had to sever this connection.

“What do we do now?” Nuala said. “Boone will be panicked that we didn’t come out of the slums.”

With a nod, Téya tossed down the towel. “I gave him something to help him sleep. We’ll leave him here and return in the morning.”

“Trace—”

“Will never know.” Because if he did, he’d kill her himself. Besides, this was between Téya and The Turk.

Annie

Salamina, Greece

1 June – 2310 Hours EEST

A hard jolt to her back sent Annie sprawling in the darkness. She hit pavement, scoring her hands and knees.

“Up, move!” someone behind her snarled.

From her position, she glanced forward, squinting against the lack of light. A long, dark tunnel stretched beneath the estate, leading—she had no idea where. They passed several doors, and at one in particular, a gust of air—
fresh air
—swept her hair across her face.

Her head still throbbed, and she had no delusion that they had drugged her, despite Trace’s attempts to protect her. Shouts and screams carried distantly as she floated out of consciousness, her mind crying out for Trace but knowing it was too late.

A strange thrum carried through the cement walls as they descended deeper into the belowground area. Like the constant hum of air-conditioning units. Large ones. Whatever enclosed this space—was it completely cement?—blocked sound. Which meant calling for help wouldn’t do any good.

She’d given up on that hope long ago. If the broken pieces of memory surrounding her capture were right, Trace probably fled the estate. Though her vision had ghosted quickly, it’d taken her mind a while longer. And in those precious seconds, she’d heard gunfire and shouts. If Stoffel and Batsakis were so thorough as to rout her true identity, they wouldn’t have left a stone unturned hunting down Trace. Now the question was—had Trace escaped or was he a prisoner, too?

“Find him!”
The fragment gave her hope that Trace’s black ops skills had gotten him to safety.

Now.
My turn
. Annie wandered through the storage room, eyeing the pieces. She lifted a hefty candlestick and tested its weight. Her stomach turned, knowing she could crack a skull, even kill a person with the right strike.

Him or me
.

She knew that’s what it came down to, though keeping her a prisoner made her wonder what intentions they had. Nothing good, that’s for sure. And sticking around for them to dig information out of her brain, break her will so she’d betray her friends—

Not happening
. She’d memorized every detail as they’d pushed her into this room. Every door. Every access point. Cool and damp, the underground cellar served as the perfect place to lock Annie away. The ruse of her fake identity clearly hadn’t worked. But what, exactly, had Stoffel’s people discovered? Did they know her real identity or just that she wasn’t Natalia Policek?

She paced the cement floor, eyeing the pieces that lined the shelves. A door led into a deep cellar filled wall-to-wall with wine. Another held random accent pieces that were likely switched out during different seasons. As she took in the shelves, she couldn’t help but believe that they spirited her away because she wasn’t Policek.
They don’t know who I am
.

If they had known, they wouldn’t leave her with so many options to take them out. The brass candlesticks were a prime weapon. Hefty enough to knock out even the stoutest of men. Then again, Trace had taught her how to use a pen as a weapon. Straight into the carotid artery of any attacker, and she’d be free.

But, she didn’t need them dead. Just immobilized. Ignorance would be their saving grace. Having lost friends and watched those children die, Annie placed a high value on life and preserving it. Including her own.

Voices carried down the cavernous space.

Annie rushed to the door, candlestick in hand. Spine pressed to the chilled surface, she focused on controlling her body. Adrenaline could make her choke. Or mess up. She had one shot. At least two men were coming—she could tell by the chatter.

The heavy arched wood door swung inward. Annie sidled up alongside it, candlestick to the side.

A suited man stepped in.

Another grunted something.

Annie swung up and down, carrying the most momentum with her. The brass weapon cracked against the man’s head, a sickening vibration rushing up her arm at the impact. He dropped like a lead weight.

Behind her, she heard a gasp. Annie pivoted away from the noise but also into it, giving herself safety from a strike but enough room to make her own move. The man brandished a gun.

Again, she swung in and upward, dislodging the weapon from his hand.

His eyes went wide.

Holding it like a baseball bat, Annie swung a third time. Hit the guy in the temple, and immediately regretted it as blood spurted. Struck her face with its sticky warmth. Her stomach roiled.

No time to be sick. No time!

Dropping the candlestick, she grabbed the man’s gun. She bolted out the door, taking in the corner perches. Cameras. Just as she expected. That meant time was ticking down before she’d have a big mess on her hands.

She sprinted to the door where the air had pushed her hair into her face, and tugged. Locked. She glanced around. This was her only chance to get out into the open. She tried kicking it, but without her heavy boots, it was futile. She took aim at the lock and fired once. Twice. Again, she thrust her heel against the door.

It budged.

She kicked again and it flung open.

Annie rushed through the door and went right, grateful for the cement wall at her back. One less perspective to cover. Weapon down, she stuck to the shadows of the overhanging wall and eyed her surroundings. The three-story home towered over her on the left, interior lighting creating the effect of a floodlight over the entire patio area. A massive wall to her right. Dense forest beckoned to her, but it was at least thirty yards away. Though she wore the dress, she would just hike it up and sprint.

If it weren’t for the open courtyard. The
lit-up
open courtyard, where stately wrought-iron furniture huddled in groups amid shrubs, trees, and ornate flowers. An illuminated fountain tossed sprays of water in arcing directions beneath what looked like it might be a Grecian god. The quiet conversation of the water might possibly be enough to cover the slap of her feet against the pebbled terrace.

Home. Terrace. Wall.

Guess that leaves me one choice
.

The terrace. Cheeks puffed, she blew out a breath. Okay. Here goes noth—

Laughter spilled from french doors on the first level of the home. Guests dressed in gowns and suits filtered out onto the terrace.

Seriously?

Wouldn’t the guests have gone home already? Who’d stay here after hearing shots and explosions? Annie wasn’t sure how long they’d held her, but it had to be nearing midnight. And of course, thanks to the excitement earlier when they’d taken her, guards took up positions around the terrace.

Annie remained in the shadows with her path to freedom blocked. To get out of here without being noticed, she’d need a distraction.

Sam

Unknown Airstrip, Greece

1 June – 2310 Hours EEST

The guy on his right—head shaved bald and arms built like a tank—tugged Sam forward as a blue SUV pulled to a stop fifteen feet away. The random lights of the airstrip made it hard to decipher anything within that vehicle. Passenger-side door opened, a man stepped out and started toward them. He had short-cropped light brown hair with a receding hairline. All the same, the guy looked thirty-five, maybe forty at most. Though the late hour cast shadows over the man’s face, it only added to the grim, terse expression he wore. Ticked. How Sam knew, he couldn’t be sure. But that anger combined with at least two concealed weapons that Sam could detect—one beneath a lightweight jacket and one at the ankle—put Sam on edge.

The way he moved, head up, gaze swiveling to take in their surroundings, identify threats or trouble, the grim set of his mouth and jaw, the way he homed in on Sam without reservation…this guy had military written all over him. Usually that worked to Sam’s benefit, able to connect on a brothers-in-arms level. But with the way he stalked toward them, staring—no,
glaring
—Sam knew there was nothing brotherly here.

“He say anything?” the new guy asked the man on his right.

“Not a word, Colonel.”

Military
—
yeah, pegged that one
. Being called a colonel didn’t mean the guy was still active duty. Active or not, he wasn’t in uniform, so this was either an unofficial mission or worse, unsanctioned.

“Just sat there like a good Boy Scout,” the tank-like guy said.

The colonel raked a gaze over Sam, his green eyes both assessing and condemning. “Too busy trying to figure out what’s going on.”

Sam felt naked the way this guy could read him. And angry—he’d surrendered too much control to them. Had to swing some power back into his court. “Thinking you could fill me in.”

“Might want to stop thinking before you hurt yourself.” The colonel turned slowly, his irritation evident as he took a few steps away. “Let’s go.”

Tank tugged him toward the vehicle.

No. It wasn’t happening like this. They weren’t going to get the luxury of him going quietly. Not anymore. He had a theory to test. A question burning his mind. In a defensive posture, Sam moved his right foot back.

Tension cracked the air.

Tank shifted. “Hey!”

But Sam trained on the leader. “Annie Palermo.”

Lightning fast, the colonel spun around. His fist drove into Sam’s jaw. The strike whipped Sam to the right. Out of the Tank’s grip. Though pain spiked through his face and neck, Sam rolled with the momentum and stayed on his feet—barely, thanks to the chains. Straightening in the face of the attack, he gave a grin, one he knew would stoke the fires of contempt, and ignored the warmth sliding down his chin and neck.

The driver’s side door of the vehicle now hung open, a Dwayne Johnson wannabe standing there in the beam of a massive lamp. But Sam kept his gaze on the colonel in front of him. The man he would guess was none other than Trace Weston, the man Francesca Solomon mentioned. The responsible party, and that he’d riled the man gave Sam a sick sense of pleasure. “Hit a nerve,
Colonel
?”