Operation Zulu Redemption: Out of Nowhere - Part 2 (5 page)

Sittin’ in church on a chair hooked to his mother’s, Boone sat forward, his forearms resting on his knees. His parents had raised him to have loyalty to God, family, and country. His family were true-blue patriots in the deepest sense of the words. But after all he’d done and seen. . .coming each Sunday—when not deployed—he sat here with one thing on his mind:
God, make me whole again.

Today, and the last few weeks, he sat here begging God for Keeley’s life. Wondering if he could take things a step further if she survived, re-integrate into her life and heart. After Misrata, he steered clear of her to keep her safe. A move that almost killed him. But when she woke up. . .she’d go back to the bunker with the rest. Could they pick up where they’d left off? Make good on the relationship he hinted at with words that made her eyes glitter with hope. Words he’d had no business uttering, but the heat of passion made a man do foolish things.

After service, they headed back to his parents’ home on the property adjacent to the one he’d purchased where he’d built the bunker that harbored three vital American assets. Three women who had government and black ops organizations hunting them.

And here he sat at his family’s table eating fried chicken and mashed potatoes on a calm, pretty Sunday afternoon.

The screen door to the back porch slapped, drawing his attention. Boone grinned at his little brother, who made it to the table in three large strides. “Thought you were on call.”

“I am, but I’m not missing mama’s fried chicken for the world.” Landon grabbed a biscuit and poured himself some sweet tea. “ ’Sides, it’s my lunchtime.”

“Can you have a seat with us, Landon?” Mama lowered herself to the chair and set a napkin in her lap.

“Just for a few,” Landon said as he set the walkie-talkie on the table.

“Has it been quiet up there?” Daddy asked from the head of the table.

“For the most part,” Landon agreed. At twenty-four, he had made the family proud becoming an EMT. Boone’s kid brother talked about going to medical school someday, but he’d hated school enough to stay away for a while.

“The whole town was abuzz with that accident—ya know, the one where the car burst into flames.”

Boone lowered his gaze, his pulse skidding into his ribs.

“Yeah, speakin’ of that,” Landon said as he heaped potatoes onto a plate. “The lady came by the station a couple days ago.”

“Was she pretty?” Dad asked, winking at Landon.

Boone struggled to think around his panic. This was Solomon’s daughter they were talking about. The woman who’d been hunting down Trace and him. “What’d she want?” Boone tried to keep his tone neutral.

“That’s the thing of it,” Landon said and took a swig of tea. “Firefighters thought she’d dragged herself free of the burning car, but she says someone pulled her out.”

“Who?” Mama asked.

“She has a theory that the man who called it in is the one who pulled her free.” Landon took a couple of bites of chicken before washing it down with more tea. “But then the guy vanishes before we can get there—and we were less than two minutes away.”

“Why would he leave?” Mama asked, scowling. “You’d think he would want to make sure she was okay.”

Landon shrugged. “Not my problem, but I sure didn’t mind her showing up again.”

“Did you give her your number?” Daddy said with a chuckle.

“Actually,” Landon said with a mischievous smile, “she gave me hers. Said if anything unusual came to light—”

“Unusual?” When Landon’s gaze hit Boone, only then did he realize how his question sounded. He gave a one-shouldered shrug. “What could be unusual? She flipped her car—there are accidents out here all the time caused by deer.” He met his little brother’s gaze. “That’s what the news reported, right? That she swerved to avoid a deer?”

“That’s right.”

“So what are we missing?”

“The mystery caller, I guess,” Landon said. “Either way, I don’t plan to call her. Something felt off, but I’m not sure if it’s her or something else.”

“Maybe someone named Melissa Sue.”

Landon’s eyebrows flung up. “Melissa?”

“She asked after you at church.” Mama smiled, looking well younger than her sixty-plus years. “A mother knows, Landon Ramage. You’ve never been able to hide things very well.”

“This isn’t a family of secrets,” Dad declared. “We keep things open and honest.”

“Well, most of us do,” Landon said as he shot Boone a look. “Anyway, Melissa is a child. She’s only seventeen.”

Though something in Boone itched to get out of the house—maybe the fear that he’d give away his knowledge of the situation, that Trace was the one who’d pulled Frankie free—but he didn’t have anywhere to rush to. No one to protect. He glanced at his watch. Trace and Zulu were en route to France right now. But with Frankie snooping around, maybe he should steer clear of the bunker.

A white envelope slid beneath the door of their hotel room landed Téya at the café on Rue de Renard. The busy street, just around from the metro, was a perfect tourist stopping-off point for lunch. And by the crowds, the perfect place for a covert encounter.

“Not exactly how I wanted to visit Paris,” Annie said softly through the microphone to her friend and Zulu team member sitting at the café across the street.

“But we’re here,” Téya said with a grin as she scooted her salad around on the plate. “How long do I wait?”

“Until he comes. He delivered the note. We wait. Stay on task,” Trace warned from his hidden spot where he sat with Houston and Annie, monitoring the situation. “Noodle,” Trace said, using Nuala’s nickname/handle. “Sitrep?”

“In position and set up,” Nuala replied.

Trace couldn’t resist the urge to glance across the square to the Saint-Jacques Bell Tower where she laid in wait with her Remington Precision Sniper Rifle, a recent acquisition he’d managed to finagle. Even her sharp shooting skills didn’t ease his concerns. They basically had a triangular set up, and though he would’ve preferred a fourth team on the north side of the café, their limited resources and the covert nature of this mission required they make do.

But something just didn’t feel right.

Trace stood with his arms folded over his chest, one hand scratching the side of his face. This is what they did—tactical missions. Covert operations. They weren’t spies, but in this situation, they had to perform like them.

He keyed his mic. “Keep your eyes out. Take no risks. This meet smells rotten.”

“Not everyone has something bad up their sleeve,” Annie whispered.

“Just remember—he was there the same night we were,” Trace bit back. “Hollister said he lost a kid and wife. Might be looking for someone to pay back.”

“I have joy,” Nuala said, indicating she had a clear line of sight on Téya at the café. If the situation arose, she’d neutralize Ballenger.

“Copy that,” Trace said.

Quiet settled through the coms as another ten minutes fell off the clock. Téya ordered a ham and cheddar panini with potato wedges, all to buy time and look like a tourist. “Holy cow,” Téya muttered. “There’s a whole school of teens headed this way.”

No sooner had she said the words than the area was flooded with over a hundred teens, marching north along the sidewalk.

Trace tensed. That cut their ability to see Téya. “Noodle—”

“No joy. I have no joy,” Nuala replied.

Trace balled his fists. “Téya—”

“I thought there were two of you,” a male voice crackled through the hidden mic in Téya’s fashion ring shaped like a giant flower.

“There were—she’s back at the hotel puking up her guts. Too much revelry in Paris last night. We were so excited about finally getting to talk with you.”

“So, you’re irresponsible.”

“Stay calm,” Trace intoned. “He’s testing you.”

“Actually, no. My friend isn’t a drinker. In fact, she’s allergic to alcohol. We ordered a virgin Long Island Iced Tea and the waiter screwed up the order. Now.” Téya’s tone went dark. “Anything else you want to know about us before you decide to cut the bull and talk to me?”

“Easy, easy,” Trace said. But Téya—this is why Téya was sitting out there and Annie in here. Téya knew how to take the bull by the horns. Besides, he was not going to sacrifice both of them if this was a trap.

“I’m sorry,” the man said.

The teens were finally clearing out.

“I have joy,” Nuala radioed.

Trace could breathe a little easier as Houston announced he had a good facial image and was running it through recognition software. “Start the stress analysis,” Trace said.

“Roger,” Houston said, activating a software program that would monitor the stress in Ballenger’s words, so they could hopefully steer this conversation and prevent it from going very bad.

“So, why are you hiding?” Téya asked.

“You know about Misrata, yes?”

“Of course.”

“Well, my wife and child were killed in the bombing.”

Trace cringed at the words. Though it was accurate, it was also painful.

“Why didn’t that information ever make it into the official reports?”

“Who are you? I mean, I know you gave Hollister a name, but I think we both know it’s not your real name.”

Trace’s chest squeezed. “Noodle, stay on here.” He glanced to Annie. “Be ready.” This was going downhill already.

“What you need to know is that I’m trying to get behind the truth of what happened in Misrata.” Through the feed, Trace watched Téya lean forward at the table, sliding her salad plate to the side. “You want justice, don’t you, Mr.
Ballenger
?”

Nice.
Put the guy on the defensive. Make him think she wasn’t buying the story.

Silence dropped on the conversation, and though Trace felt the tension knots tighten in his shoulders, he studied Téya. She didn’t look stressed, and the vocal analysis didn’t reveal stress.

“Should I—”

“No,” Trace said to Annie. “She can handle it.”

“If you wanted justice,” Téya continued, “why vanish? Why go into hiding?”

“Have you been shot at, Miss Ritter? Anyone ever tried to kill you? Is that why you’re using a false name?”

“How does he know that?” Annie’s voice pitched as she swiveled toward Trace.

“He doesn’t.” At least, Trace hoped he didn’t. But the readouts weren’t showing stress. “He’s still testing her.”

Beside him now, Annie covered her mouth. She turned to him. “Can we get to her fast enough, if. . . ?”

She knew the answer to that. They were at least thirty to forty-five seconds away in a full sprint. Bullets could reach their targets in a second.

“I’m former military, so of course I’ve had someone shoot at me. And I’m sure they weren’t shooting to say hello. They were shooting to kill, so I have had someone try to kill me.” Téya remained unperturbed. “What can you tell us, Berg? Why did you hide? Where have you been? Or should I leave now so you can make up more questions to delay?”

Ballenger went silent. The bustle of the city droned on around them.

She pushed to her feet.

“Wait.”

“That was a spike,” Houston said, pointing to a screen that had the stress analysis in thermal imaging. “She hit a nerve.”

“Okay, Téya,” Trace said quietly into the mic. “You hit a nerve. Tread carefully but keep going.” He watched as she resumed her seat, exuding confidence.

“I hid because after my family died in that warehouse, I went to Tripoli where I managed to lay low for a while. One night at the hostel I was staying at, someone attacked me. Gave me a wicked knot on the head and left me for dead—then burned the place down.”

“I’ll want to verify that.”

“I don’t care if you verify it,” Berg growled. “Everywhere I go, they’re there. They’re hunting me. I fled to Europe for a bigger hiding ground.”

“So that’s why we couldn’t find you.”

“Using my dead uncle’s name helped me stay hidden.”

Dropping back against her chair, Téya shoved her long brown hair from her face and sighed loudly. A sign she was still in control but frustrated. “This isn’t making sense, Berg.”

“I’m glad you see it that way.”

“Listen,” Téya said as she leaned forward again. “I went to your last-known address in Denver and got the crap beat out of me.”

“Denver?” Berg frowned. “I haven’t lived there since before. . .”

“Kellie sent us there.”

Berg let out a loud bark of a laugh. “Kellie Hollister?” He shook his head. “That’s your problem right there. She’s the cofounder of Hope of Mercy. You know that, right?”

“I do.”

“Do you also know that the only person I ever gave a forwarding address to was that very woman?” Ferocity deepened his words. “Funny how I give her my address and suddenly, I’m attacked. Within two weeks of every communication with them, I was attacked. When I confronted her about it, she denied it. Said it wasn’t her. But who else could it be? Look, I don’t have all the answers, but I know a few things having lived inside a HOMe facility. Mercy Chandler—whom Hope of Mercy was named after—was having an affair.”

“With whom?”

Ballenger shook his head. “I never was able to find out. But I believe that man is the reason for Misrata. She starts sharing a bed with this man and suddenly HOMe is in all kinds of money and has sway in locations they couldn’t ever breach before. I believe”—he glanced around, swiping a hand over his face—“I believe they were hiding weapons in the buildings. Moving them at night.”

Thankfully, Téya didn’t respond. The weapons, they’d long known, were the initial reason Zulu had been sent into that mess in the first place. The DOD knew the weapons were illegal and wanted them destroyed. Zulu verified the weapons and the location. But how Ballenger knew about that. . .

“Ask why he believes that,” Trace prompted Téya.

On the monitor, he watched Téya look out over the road, quiet and thoughtful.

“If you don’t believe me—”

“It’s a lot to take in,” Téya said. “Weapons—why would you think weapons?”

“One night, I heard a noise outside the warehouse, and I went to investigate and saw these trucks. That night—it went up in flames.”

“That’s a lie,” Annie said.

Trace held up a hand.

“I’ll need to research what you’ve said. But. . .I really appreciate—”

BooOOOOooommm!!!

One minute Trace had a clear line of sight, the next second all he could see was smoke and fire.