Operation Zulu Redemption--Complete Season 1 (80 page)

“I told you,” Nuala said triumphantly, “he’d never betray us.”

Téya tossed a couch pillow at her. “You’re just glad he’s back.”

Nuala went crimson, her humiliation screaming. “Of course I’m glad. We’re a team. He’s part of it.”

“Uh-huh,” Téya said, but left it alone.

A knock at the door made Trace hesitate. They weren’t expecting visitors. He shared a look with Boone then gave his buddy a nod signaling him to answer it.

Weapon held low, Boone called, “Who is it?” through the door.

“Cantor.”

Boone gave Trace a startled look as he unlocked and opened the door.

Cantor entered, wearing a pair of slacks and a button-down shirt. By the clean smell wafting off him, he’d showered. His salt-and-pepper hair looked wet still. Eric Goff wore a loose dress shirt and a pair of jeans as he trailed the general into the room. Cantor met Trace in the middle of the room and shook his head. “How’s everyone?”

“Beat up but alive,” Trace said.

“Well,” Cantor continued. “Sorry to interrupt, but I wanted to talk with you.”

“Okay,” Trace said, motioning to the adjoining room.

“No, actually, I meant to the team. To all of you.” Cantor stood at ease as he faced the team. “First—I am truly sorry for the loss of your sisters, Herring, Reyna, and Shay.” At the mention of Keeley, Cantor’s gaze hit Boone, who gave a small nod. “The loss of their lives cannot be justified, but I hope that tonight’s operation and events will give you a sense of vindication.”

“Sir,” Annie asked, scooting forward a bit. “Can you explain this to us? What happened? How were Solomon and…”

He held up a hand. “Glad to. As you might know, Solomon came to me with information about illegal weapons sales of U.S. military-grade weapons. I tasked him with solving the problem—which is exactly what he counted on.”

“I just can’t believe he’d kill children,” Annie whispered.

“That,” Eric Goff added, “was not his doing. We have a trail that shows my father was supposed to get the warehouse cleared out before your team hit it so there’d be no evidence. It’d look like a dead end. Instead”—his gaze dipped, marked with disgust and shame—“he wanted to send a message or something, so rather than clearing out the warehouse, we believe he tipped off Ballenger.”

A nervous quiet fell over the team. Most likely aware of the price for vindicating their sisters. For not being able to
enjoy
that cost. But appreciating it all the same. A somber, bittersweet thought.

“We are still in pursuit of Berg Ballenger.” Cantor glanced at Goff. “We won’t give up until he’s found, nor will we rest until he answers for what he’s done. Colonel Goff will face a full court-martial.”

“Doesn’t that mean the reverse is true of Ballenger, too?” Téya asked, sitting forward. “I mean—he still wants the rest of us dead, right?”

“I do not believe that’s true,” Cantor said. “It’s our belief that Ballenger was retaliating against those who ran the weapons. That wasn’t you.”

“Somehow,” Téya said, tapping a pen against her lips, “that’s not entirely comforting.”

“My point tonight is that I don’t want this to be the end of Zulu.”

Trace pulled straight, glancing at the general. Then at his team. Half his team. Remembering how they’d stripped him of rank. That he wasn’t an officer anymore. If he was going to keep Zulu active, then it meant he was doing it without Trace. Maybe that’s why Goff was here.
My replacement
.

“It wouldn’t make sense,” Francesca spoke up from her nested place in the couch, clutching the tan blanket, “to ask a team to continue on when you’ve stripped their commander of his career.”

Surprise at her words spiraled through Trace. He started to look down at her but then stopped. What was she doing? She didn’t have anything vested in this fight. Was this her guilt talking? Her regret?

Cantor stepped back and placed a hand on Trace’s shoulder. He gave a small, breathy laugh. “You didn’t know?”

Trace frowned. Looked at Goff, who looked pleased as punch at this situation. “Sir?”

“I signed off on your discharge for publicity reasons only. The public needed to feel like Misrata got justice.”

“So, punish me.”

“Son, you need to think bigger.” Cantor laughed. “Your name is blacked out from records because I wanted you off the grid to lead Zulu in more missions.”

“Sir, respectfully—it doesn’t make sense. I have three team members left.”

“Actually, you have four.” Cantor nodded toward Francesca. “And I’ve asked Goff and Caliguari to step in as advisers and handlers. We’ll get you fully ramped up and ready to go. You have six months to get in shape.”

“Sir, again—I appreciate this, but I can’t do this. Not again. I thought we had clearance before, and it all went south.”

“I understand that.” Cantor nodded, undeterred. “But son, I’m it. I’m the top of the line. If Zulu goes out, it’s because I or the president has signed off on it.” Cantor slapped his shoulder. “This isn’t the end, Weston. It’s just the beginning.”

Téya

Reston Town Center, Reston, Virginia

July 5 – 0115 Hours

Téya stood on the balcony, overlooking the square that had just hours before been a riotous scene of bloodshed and death. She tried to come to grips with the fact General Haym Solomon, the man who’d been like a father to the team, turned out to be smuggling the very weapons they’d been sent to destroy.

She stood in her pajamas, listening as Nuala readied herself for bed in the other room. Cantor had been kind enough to pay for the team to stay here rather than make the hour-long drive back to the bunker.

Tree lights sparkled over the trendy shopping area and gave the little light Téya needed to see the pen’s rose.

“It’s a twig.”

The Turk huffed, turning it over, as if that made a difference. “It’s a rose.”

Téya held it up. “A twig.”

“You are seriously lacking in imagination.”

The door opened and gently clicked shut. Téya leaned against the sun-warmed wall, staring up at the night sky. “D’you forget something?” she asked Nuala.

“My pen.”

At the sound of the man’s voice, Téya lowered her chin, heart rapid-firing. Hid the smile she felt filling her with warmth. She turned her hand, looking at the pen. She angled to the side, now pressing both shoulders to the wall, but her ankles crossed.

Majid Badem, aka The Turk, stepped onto the balcony. He wore a black silk shirt and black slacks. Slick as snot and handsome to boot. His hair hung curly and loose around his face, seeming to accent the tattoo on his left cheekbone.

She held up the pen and gave him a lazy grin. “It’s a rose.”

He came closer. “It’s a pen.” He tried to pluck it from her hand.

“You are seriously lacking in imagination.”

Ronie Kendig is an award-winning, bestselling author who grew up an Army brat. She and her hunky hero hubby have a fun, crazy life with their children, their Maltese Menace, and a retired military working dog in Northern Virginia. Author and speaker, Ronie loves engaging readers through her Rapid-Fire Fiction. Ronie can be found at
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