Operation Zulu Redemption--Complete Season 1 (68 page)

Okay, that was a lie. She was just too tired to heat it up.

Leaning her head back, she closed her eyes. Truth be told, she was tired of fighting. Of swimming upstream against everyone else. It left her alone, friendless. For crying out loud, even Walter on
Fringe
had a cow for a pet. What did she have? What did her pursuit of justice, of making sure the right thing was done, get her but cold Chinese, old reruns, and a lonely apartment?

Depression had crept in. No denying it anymore. That plus a sizable amount of defeat. She just couldn’t win. Sitting there, she felt the tug of sleep and promised herself a few minutes of rest. She deserved it after the week she’d had.

Frankie found herself standing in a park. It looked like Central Park, but she hadn’t ever been there, so she couldn’t be sure. She stumbled around, her legs feeling like they weighed a hundred pounds each. A low-hanging branch reached toward her. She pushed it away, but the craggy sticklike fingers coiled around hers. Startled, Frankie tried to pull free. She turned to extricate herself when she realized the brown branches had suddenly become delicate fingers.

Frankie looked up. And froze. The woman—she recognized her—stared back. Her eyes were hollow, lifeless. Her lips blue. What was she—some Goth or Emo punk?

“My family,” she said. “I can’t find my family.”

“S–sorry,” Frankie stammered, tugging against the woman’s hold. “I can’t help you.”

“But they don’t know. They don’t know what happened. Help me.”

Panic ripped through Frankie. “Let me go!”

And like that, the woman was gone. Frankie didn’t know where she went or why she’d even talked to her, but when Frankie looked around, the greenery of the park had taken on a darker, creepier feel.

She stood in the center of a hedgerow that formed a circle. Turning, she searched for a way out. “I can’t find you!” she shouted then remembered she was supposed to be looking for him. “Don’t leave me. You can’t do this.”

She blinked and turned, the branches tussling apart and creating an opening. Frankie threw herself toward him, frantic. Though it was only a very short distance, it took her dozens of steps. Countless steps. She couldn’t get there. No matter how much she ran, that opening stayed just out of reach.

A thud behind her sent her pulse racing.

She looked back but only saw more branches. Waving—no, no. Not waving. Reaching. Trying to capture her. Unable to breathe, legs stuck in what felt like cement, she scrambled for the opening.

It was closing! “No!” She cried out and threw herself at the opening. She landed with a thud and scrabbled out of reach of the vines as they cleaved together, leaving not even a breath of space between the leaves.

Pulling to her feet, she dusted herself off, leaning against a large stone as she untangled a vine that had wrapped around her boot. But as she did, she noticed markings on the boulder. She angled away, hand still on the rock for balance.

Though she brushed away dirt and grime, it did no good. So she wiped more. And kept wiping. Until her heart jammed into her throat. It wasn’t a boulder but a headstone.

The lettering was strange, broken. But she knew instantly it was the marker for the Children of Misrata. And like a lasso, the vine she’d pulled off her boot snaked from her hand, growing, spinning, curling, and twisting until it finally latched onto the headstone. Then coiled around it. One time. Two times. Ten times. It pulled until she was pressed against the cold stone, hugging it. Then, the vine hauled harder, crushing Frankie against the stone. Face against the cold stone, the moonlight caught something. A glint. She saw silver. Silver oak leaf. What…? She strained to pull away to get a better view. That’s when she saw the boulder wasn’t a headstone anymore. It was the broad shoulders of a man in uniform. And not just any man, but Colonel Weston.

Two loud booms rocked through the cemetery.

Frankie jerked. Then blinked. And sat up. On the floor in her living room, she groped for coherency. What happened? A dream…it was only a—

Thud! Thud-thud!

Her heart beat in cadence with the banging at the front door.

On adrenaline-weak legs, she made her way to the foyer. She squinted back into the living room and blinked sleep from her eyes that blurred her vision. 11:00? Who would be here this late?

“Who is it?” Frankie called through the door, then reached for the weapon she kept in the front closet.

The door crashed inward.

Frankie froze, realized her mistake, then made a last-second attempt to grab the weapon.

The man rammed into her. Shoved her backward. She screamed, but he thrust his forearm into her throat, severing her air. Frankie’s shock shifted to panic.

“What were you doing there?”

Struggling for oxygen, she tried every street fighting tactic she knew, including jabbing him in the side. But he had a vest on. That’s when her mind let in the small fact that her attacker was none other than Trace Weston. She blinked again.

In the distant thunder of her pulse against her temple, she heard him slam the door shut.

“Why. Were. You. There?” he growled, his face red, his eyes a torrent of rage and anger.

Air. She had to breathe. Her head felt like it’d explode. She batted his arm, trying to signal him to release her. But her eyes started rolling. He was going to kill her. Just like the others.

Then the force against her throat was gone.

Frankie cough-gasped, greedily hauling in air, still pinned to the wall.

“I’ll ask you one more time,” he said, his voice dead serious, “then I’m done talking—why were you there?”

She kept both hands on his arm in case he decided to follow through with killing her. “Wher—”

He slapped a picture at her. “Talk!”

It took a moment for her eyes to focus on the image. But when they did, Frankie knew she was in a lot of trouble, and that was only if Trace Weston didn’t kill her first. She snapped her gaze to him.

“Yeah,” he breathed into her face. “I know.”

“It’s not what you think.”

He sneered at her. “You have no idea what I think.” And he brought up the handgun.

“Now, wait,” Frankie said, her heart jostling against her ribs. “You can’t just kill me when—”

“Quiet!”

Trace Weston was formidable in court, but in a confrontation like this…well, the courtroom version was tame. The man standing before her let Frankie know he meant business. He had the muscle, the skill, the determination. That last one burned through his irises, making those green eyes even more prominent. “On the couch.”

Frankie obeyed the order.

“Hands on your knees.”

She complied with that one, too.

“Talk!”

Frankie raised her hands. “Okay, okay.” She was breaking a dozen agency rules. She would lose her clearance. “I could lose everything if I tell you—”

“How do you think I feel, with you trying to pin your mess on my team?”

“My mess?” Frankie’s words came out shrill. “You don’t think I—”

He stood there, his back to the wall, arms extended but not straight. He was comfortable in that position. Though he was intent on his mission, he wasn’t stressed. This wasn’t new to him.

“I was recruited very quickly into Army intelligence. Quick thinking and tenacious, I was then put on assignment as an operative.”

“A spy.”

Frankie bit her tongue. Last thing she needed was to set off this man.

“Misrata.” He had thin lips that pulled into a flat, straight line, emphasizing his anger. That and his thick brow line that creased fiercely around those green eyes. “That’s all I care about.”

Reticent to unlock that vault, she let out a breath. “I will lose my job.”

“Three of mine lost their lives. Think I care about your career?”

She couldn’t argue that. But as she sat there, Frankie started riffling through the information, the facts, Trace being here…her dream. Being entangled with him in that cemetery. Both of them laid at the headstone.

“INSCOM had been tracking weapons that were supposed to be disposed of through proper channels but were, instead, showing up in skirmishes and in the hands of our enemies. We had credible intel that Misrata was a weigh station.”

His jaw muscle jounced.

“They said they needed a fresh face, someone their assets wouldn’t recognize, to go in and talk with the locals. Since I have darker than average skin and hair, I was tapped.”

“Bull.”

She looked at him in surprise.

“Missions like that don’t get filled with newbs. Too high value.”

Frankie swallowed. “I wasn’t a newb.”

He eyed her. “How many missions?”

She licked her lips. Hated admitting anything to this man. “My second.”

He snorted. Shook his head. “If you were there, if you were so keyed into HUMINT, how can you possibly think I’m behind what happened there?”

“What? You think just because you have a photo of me there, that this gets you off?”

“I did my job. My team went in. They blew the warehouse. That those kids were there was a mistake. A tragedy. Nothing else.” He hadn’t lowered the weapon. “But you…”

Frankie scowled at him. “What about me?”

“I have this photograph of a man known to be dealing with shady people.”

“Varden?”

He gave her a look, one that somehow showed she’d just revealed her hand. “Why was Varden there?”

“To oversee the operation.”

Trace hadn’t so much as flinched or relaxed. “Your father says you’re an intelligent young woman.”

“Do
not
bring him into this,” she snapped, the heat of anger rushing through her. “I will not let you bring him down—”

“Me?” He held up the picture. “You go forward with this insane trip to crucify me for something I haven’t done…” His jaw muscle flexed. “I can take it. You’ve dogged my steps, harassed me for five years, but so help me—if you go forward with those names, if you put the rest of my team in jeopardy”—his nostrils flared as he shook his head—“then I will make sure this makes it into the hands of some very well-known, powerful journalists. They’ll know you were there.” He rubbed his jaw, a glimmer of arrogance infiltrating the anger she noticed a second ago. “I might even suggest you’re trying to cover up your own actions by targeting me.”

Frankie punched to her feet. “You can’t do that!”

He snapped his weapon up, firming his posture. “You’ve done it to me for five years, saying I’m letting your father take the blame for something I did.”

She held up her hands. “Going to kill me?”

“I can. And I will, so help me.” He meant it. That much was evident in his posture, words, and gaze.

“Just like you did Reyna in Alaska and Herring in Vegas?”

Weston scowled. Seemed to deflate, but then surged again. “I have three team members I’ve fought to keep safe for sixty-two months. Now your insane vendetta against me is putting them at risk.”

“Then come clean!”

He took a step forward, the weapon nearly touching her chest.

Frankie drew up short, her breathing going shallow.

“You are endangering their lives.” He flared his nostrils. “I can’t let that happen. No more are dying on my watch.”

“So, what? You want me to just—”

“Your own father told you I wasn’t guilty.”

“My father tells me what he thinks I need to hear.” It hurt to admit that, but Frankie had grown up as a general’s daughter with pampered information. “He still thinks of me as a fifteen-year-old.”

“Then maybe you should start acting your age.”

She gaped at him.

“You have a good brain. I’ve seen it. You’re dangerous only because you are on the wrong warpath.”

Frankie propped her hands on her hips. “What warpath should I be on, Weston? Because if you think I’m walking away just because you roughed me up and put a gun in my face—”

“Help me.”

Frozen by his words, Frankie stared at him. He seriously did not just say that. “Help you what? Help you get out of jail? Help you frame someone else?”

“Help me and my team—your father—find who’s funding and controlling Varden. His name keeps coming up as my team fights to find the truth.” He held the picture up next to his face again. “You know him.”

Her heart gave a crazy thump at the thought. She could get into Trace’s network. Get his information. “He was my handler!”

“Then maybe it’s time for you to handle him.”

“No.” Frankie breathed deeply. “Kill me if you have to, but I’m not doing this.”

“How can you be so smart and so stupid at the same time? I’m not the enemy.”

“Pointing a weapon at me isn’t exactly working in your favor.”

Weston snorted and lowered the weapon. Holstered it. Raised his hands to her. “Fine.” He touched his temples then flicked his hands out in an irritated way. “Bury me. But leave them out.” He inched forward, his bearing raw and powerful. Torment hovered in those intense eyes. “If you believe this, if you really think I’m guilty, then lay that at my feet. They were part of a horrible mistake. If saying I’m to blame helps you, great.” He placed a hand on his chest. “I’m to blame. Just leave. Them. Out.”

The air thickened with tension and his plea.

“Too many have died already because of Misrata. Don’t add to that number, Francesca. Please. Not with more innocent lives.”

Francesca

Alexandria, Virginia

12 June – 2330 Hours

Note to self: Get a dog
. A big one—like a German Shepherd. No—a Belgian Malinois like the military working dogs down at the base. Something big and unafraid of protecting her from predators like Trace Weston. Lying on her bed, she rested her arm over her eyes, trying to force herself to sleep.

His invasion of her home and life felt like a massive breach of protocol. And it was. Surely he knew what kind of trouble he’d be in if she reported his actions. He’d be arrested, if not court-martialed, not only for trying to forcefully sway her testimony but for assaulting her.

Okay. It wasn’t technically assault. He never hit her.

But was the man out of his ever-loving mind to come in here and do that? He had to have a really big chip on his shoulder.
“I’m to blame. Just leave. Them. Out.”