Operation Zulu Redemption: Out of Nowhere - Part 2 (6 page)

Ears ringing, smoke choking her lungs, Téya lifted herself off the ground. A gritty taste filled her mouth as she mentally probed her body for injuries.

“Go,” a man’s gruff voice growled in her ear. “Get out of here!”

Téya blinked, recognizing Berg’s voice, thick with warning. Someone grabbed her. Hauled her to her feet. About to shake free, she snapped back to the present.

Berg’s eyes seared with meaning. Dust and ash coated his dark hair and smeared his face with lines made dark by sweat. “They found me. Get out of here! Go now, or you’re dead.”

“Contact me later,” she said, gripping his arms.

With a nod, he thrust her away from the café.

Téya stumbled, her only thought to get back to the safety of her team and Trace. Wading through a quagmire of chaos, disorientation, shock-riddled tourists, and a glut of vehicles, Téya made her way south. Away from the café. Away from Berg.

Weaving around cars, she pressed a finger to her ear and felt a sticky warmth. She glanced at her finger and found blood. “Zulu, this is Zulu Two.”

Nothing. Only the ringing. The explosion must’ve damaged the coms piece. Which meant the explosion was close. Not so close that it blew off a limb, but. . .
Enough that I could’ve been the target, too.
She was running again, this time down Rue de Renard.

Going back to the team could draw the enemy.

Téya stopped cold, her body pumping adrenaline and heat through her in overdrive. Her gaze surfed between the tree limbs straight to the pristine length of the Saint-Jacques Tower. She wouldn’t bring trouble to the team. They’d had plenty already. She made a sharp left. Stumbled down Rue de Rivoli, in the opposite direction, praying Nuala saw her. Ducking, afraid her dirt-streaked and bloodied face might draw attention. Praying she’d let Trace know where she’d gone. They couldn’t be seen together. Not here.

Behind her, she heard crunching.

Téya glanced in a window of a shop, saw her own image—definitely bloodied and dirty—but focused behind her. Just as she looked, a shadow blurred out of view. Her heart kick-started. Someone was following her.

She lowered her head and started walking again.
Just stay calm. Act calm.
She had training. Quade had put them through Torture 105 with his training.
You can handle this.

The soft padding of feet behind her spilled heat down her spine, the rush of adrenaline soaking her limbs. Fight or flight kicking in, she quickened her step, though she told herself not to. She scanned the road before her and decided on an alley up ahead. Make it there and she could make a run for it. Get around the corner and just sprint.

One. . .
She passed a white super-compact vehicle.

Crunch.

Whoa. That sounded closer.

Two. . .
She saw a black blur in the car window.

Forget three. Téya banked right, straight into the street. A car screeched to a stop. “Sorry,” she said, lightly. Trying to keep the panic and awareness from her voice, she skipped around the car, narrowly avoided a second, then rushed up onto the sidewalk.

No more tire screeches or horns honking, so maybe whoever followed, wasn’t. . .

A flurry of French came from behind her.

Téya glanced back. Parisians could be so—

The man in black ducked.

Téya jerked around, terrified. Not only was he still following, but he’d closed the gap. She hurried her steps. Angled toward the building where she’d targeted the alley. Skipped a step—and a heartbeat.

Easy, easy, Trace would say.

But Trace hadn’t just survived a bombing. Wasn’t being chased by who-knows. . .

Téya felt the surge of adrenaline spike as the opening grew closer. She wouldn’t even count this time. She was just. . .

Téya threw herself in front of a crowd of people and dove into the alley. Darkness dropped like a blanket on her, but she sprinted forward anyway. In a hard run, she made it to the end of the alley in a matter of seconds. Only one route presented itself—left. She bounced off the wall and ran fast.

She wanted to curse when that juncture also ended, feeding her to the right. At least she had an opening. Then a left, that dumped into a small square. An exit to the right and left. Téya froze for a second, trying to work out her route. Figure out which way—

“Oh forget it!” she raced toward a small archway that veered to the left. She could smell the water, a strong, pungent odor in this city. She ran. Rounded a corner.

A cement wall slammed into her chest.

She bounced backward, her breath knocked out of her.

Coughing, Téya rolled, agony squirming through her as she fought for air. It was then she saw the booted feet. Followed the black pants up to a black shirt. Corded muscles. And a face of fury.

She hadn’t hit a wall.

The man who’d followed her hit her.

He grabbed and yanked her up off her feet.

Blinded by pain and groping for air, she struggled to think. Then oxygen flooded back. She swung her arm back then aimed for the side of his throat.

He blocked and nailed her with one of his own.

Again unable to breathe, she dropped to her knees, straining for air. Feeling her temples pound. She wobbled to her feet.

But the man shoved her forward.

Her head hit the wall. Bounced off. Stars sprinkled across her vision. Téya braced herself, then threw her head backward.

But he deflected. Moved away.

She stumbled backward, her feet pedaling too fast. She flopped onto the ground. Anger lit through her. She’d been one man’s punching bag already this month.
Not happening again.
In that split second, Téya took in her surroundings. His position. She swung her legs to catch his.

He hopped back—and laughed.

Indignant, she flipped onto her feet.

His punch nailed her jaw.

She spun, gritting her teeth and tasting the blood his hit caused. His hits came again. And again. Driving her back. . .back. . .

Water!

She heard it now—the river. Heard the lapping against a wall or rocks. Smelled it. Felt the dampness. He was going to knock her into the water, no doubt hoping she was unconscious. She had to control this. Own it.

Téya dove to his right and straight into a roll. She came up and spun around.

His booted foot flew at her face.

Crack!

Téya fumbled her footing. Scrambled backward, not wanting to fall.

And he was on her. Forearm crushing her windpipe, he slammed her against the wall. Téya’s training flew out the window in the instant she knew he intended to kill her. Right here. Right now. This wasn’t a punishment. She fought for survival. Fought to live.

She grabbed onto his crushing arm and pried it back as hard as she could. She wouldn’t remove it. Just a little air. That’s all. Craning her neck for even the smallest particle of air, she met his gaze.

Wild. Fury. Singular focus.

Head down, his light brown hair shaded a face marked by rage. And a tattoo on his left cheekbone, just below his eye. Those eyes. . .roiling and untamed.

She struck with her left fist, aiming for his head.

Losing oxygen, limbs heavy, she knew her punch went soft.

But it angered him more. He shouldered in, pressing harder against her throat.

Téya whimpered. Hated herself for it. He would not defeat her!

He growled something, words that were unintelligible to her. French?

She met his gaze again. Churning brownish-green eyes.

He said something else. Then something more. Then, “Who are you?”

A siren wailed nearby.

Her attacker growled. Stepped back, a large fist around her throat, pinning her to the wall. Téya whimpered again, clawing at his hands to free herself.

He held up a phone. Aimed it at her. He pressed something to her face. “If you want your friend in the tower to live, I suggest you run.” He dropped the item, shoved her—though she had no room to give beneath his force—and sprinted off as the
nee-eu nee-eu
of a police siren roared past the opposite end of the alley.

Téya collapsed to the ground, coughing. Gasping and hauling in greedy breaths of air. By her hand, she saw a syringe.
“If you want your friend to live. . .”

Nuala.

The syringe held a vial of amber-colored liquid.

Antidote.

“Where is Téya?!” Trace roared at Houston, who didn’t dare look up at him.

“I don’t know. She went the wrong way. I didn’t have surveillance equipment prepared for that!” Houston sounded like he was squealing.

“Why didn’t she come back here?” Arms wrapped around herself, Annie paced the small room they used for the recon location.

“Noodle,” Trace barked into the coms again. “Noodle, talk to me.” He snatched off the headset and threw it down.

“Dude, I told you—something happened with that explosion. We lost radio communications. Doesn’t make sense but we did.”

Trace started for the door. “I’m going to the tower!”

“But Téya—”

“She’s AWOL. King is the only one I can verify is still alive.”

He stepped out into the sun and his phone rang. Trace glanced at the caller ID as the door behind him opened.

“Trace, wait.” Annie came out of the safe house.

He didn’t recognize the number, but few people had it, so he answered. “Weston.”

“Trace,” Annie said from behind, her words colliding with the caller’s.

“Nuala’siintrouble.Gettohernow.Hepoisonedher.”

Trace froze. Blinked. The words untangled themselves. With an intake of breath, he lurched forward. Then turned back to Annie. “Go back. Help Houston clear out. Meet at the extraction point.”

Her face went white. A barely there shake of her head.

“If we don’t make it, just go. We’ll follow.”

Annie shook her head harder.

“Go, or our lives are on your head!”

She went back. Trace bolted across the street, through the square. He leaped over shrubs. Hustled down a sidewalk, almost toppling a baby carriage thing, and kept going. He threw himself through the opening to the tower. Hauled himself up the stairs two, sometimes three at a time. “Noodle!” he shouted. Looked up the spiraling steps but saw nothing.

Exhaustion and fear weighted his limbs, but he wasn’t stopping. He used the walls to pull himself faster. Rounding the last curve, he grabbed the wrought-iron rail. Propelled himself to the lookout.

Saw Nuala slumped to the side.

Trace skidded over to her, dropped to his knees. He thrust two fingers against her neck.

Nuala’s eyes snapped open.

“Nuala, stay with me.”

A trembling, wobbly hand came up. Then thumped to the ground. A feathered tranq dart rolled out of Nuala’s hand.

“Son of a—”

A gurgling sound came from her throat.

“Nuala, stay with me.” Trace laid her out. Heard the hiss of breath escaping through what sounded like a pinprick opening in her throat. He pressed an ear to her chest, listening to her heart. Noticed her lips were going gray. Her pulse was erratic. Slowing.

Crap! What could he do? He started compressions and breathing, but knew with the poison—whatever it was—in her body, this probably wasn’t going to work. But he wouldn’t give up.

Thuds below alerted him to someone coming up the stairs. It’d better not be whoever had tranqed her. Trace plucked his weapon out and set it beside Nuala’s hip for easy access. So help him, if anyone but Téya came through that doorway. . .

Feet thudded. Grunts. Coming fast.

Whirl of black and purple. Then Téya burst through the opening.

A syringe went airborne toward him.

Trace caught it and slid it into Nuala’s hip and pressed the plunger. Glaring at Téya, he kept doing compressions on Nuala. “What happened?”

Slumped against the wall and holding her knees, she gulped air as if trying to drink from a fire hydrant. She straightened, holding her side, and swallowed. Her face was cut, bruised, and bloodied. Her fists bore the telltale marks that she’d fought back—and hard. “I was foll”—desperation for air choked off the word—“followed from the. . .café. A man tried to. . .kill me. Sirens scared him. . .he gave me that and ran.”

Nuala writhed and cried out.

“Easy,” Trace said. “Easy. You’re safe.” He guided her into a sitting position. “Just—take it slow.”

Nuala held a trembling hand to her head as she leaned against the wall. “Whoa, my head hurts. What happened?”

Holding up the tranq, Trace supplied the answer. But he wasn’t worried about that. Not directly.

“Did you recognize the man who attacked you?”

“No, and I’m really sick of men attacking me.” Téya grunted, watching Nuala. “What happened to chivalry?”

“We need to get out of here.” Trace knelt beside Nuala, who was slowly regaining a healthy color in her lips again. “If we assist, can you walk?”

Nuala nodded faintly. “Whatever they did to me, really sapped my strength.”

Supporting her between them, Trace and Téya helped Nuala down the stairwell. Trace had her equipment slung over his shoulder as Téya gave her support. Trace phoned in. “Bring the car.”

“Leave it. Come get Noodle. Two and I can pack up the rest, get a cab. Noodle needs to see a doctor.”

A cab pulled to the curb as Téya and Trace guided Nuala there. Annie hopped out to help situate her friend.

Trace caught her arm. “Get to the hotel. Contact Boone for a safe house—they can get Nuala the medical help she needs.”

“What about you?” She blinked. “And Téya?”

“We’ll grab the gear and go back to the hotel. We may need to rendezvous outside France.”

Her eyes were wide with understanding and fright, but she nodded, handed him a set of keys. “The van.” Then climbed in and left.

“C’mon,” Trace said as he headed back to the monitoring site. They grabbed the gear and loaded the rest into the back. They had little time, and this equipment had to go back to the safe house, along with their weapons.

Trace’s phone rang again. He tossed a box into the van, then yanked out his phone. “Weston.”

“Trace, someone trashed our hotel room,” Annie said.

He dropped his gaze to the ground. “Get out.”

“We’re at a coffee shop.”

“Okay, I’m going to give you a number. You call it, then do whatever they tell you. Clear?”

“Yeah,” Annie whispered.

He heard the strain in her voice and it mirrored what was building in him. After he gave her the number, he told her not to worry about him and Téya. “We’ll find our way out. Rendezvous Plan B.”

“Right.”

Trace hung up, not trusting himself—he’d break rank when it came to Annie. Do anything to keep her safe.

“What’s wrong?” Téya asked.

Pocketing the phone, Trace turned. “Cover’s blown. Hotel was trashed.” He hoisted a box into the van. “We’re on our own.”

“A tattoo,” Téya suddenly announced as Trace squatted beside a steel case, securing the locks.

“What?”

“The man who followed me—he had a tattoo. On his left cheek, below his eye.”

“What was it?” Trace lifted the heavy camera and stacked it on top of two others, wedging it to be sure it didn’t fall and break while they were clearing out.

“I. . .I’m not sure. He was kind of off his rocker. I think he took a picture of me—I guess he has a trophy case of those he beats up or kills,” Téya said, coiling up an endless sea of snaking cables. “A moon, I think. And a star.”

Trace froze. Hands on the steel case, he stared at it. He straightened. “A moon and star. You mean a
star-crescent
?”

Téya smiled. “Is there a difference?”

“Yes. A big, important one.” He grabbed a pencil and drew the
star-crescent
, then held it up. “This? Is this what you saw?”

Téya frowned, her unease evident. “Yeah, I guess. Why?”

“No guessing, Téya.” Trace snapped the picture and stepped forward. “Is this it?”

“Yes. That’s what I saw.”

Trace cursed. Pivoted. Punched the van a couple of more times as he cursed. He turned. Ran his hands over his shorn hair, then held his head.

Téya watched, her face ashen. “What?”

“We have to get out of here.” Even as he said it, he moved. “Now. Move!”

“What?
” When Téya got scared, Téya got angry.

Trace went to close the van doors. All this equipment. . .it’d slow them down. Make them easy targets. “We have to leave the equipment.”

Téya yanked his arm around. “What aren’t you telling me?”

He held her eyes and let out a heavy sigh. “That man—the man who tried to kill you? He’s not just some guy. He’s called The Turk.”

Téya’s smile wavered. “Ooooh,” she said, her sarcasm wavering like the smile on her lips. “That sounds. . .scary.”

“Should be. He’s one of the most terrifying assassins known in the covert world.” Trace clicked his tongue and gave a lone shake of his head. “I’m surprised you’re alive right now.”

“But. . .but he—”

Holy—the sudden thought struck him like a bolt of lightning, singeing his confidence and electrifying his fear. “Téya.”

She stilled, her face blanching.

“You said he took a picture?”

Her smile slipped.

Trace cursed again, God forgive him. He kicked the tire of the van. Kicked it again.

“Congratulations,” Téya said, “you’re scaring the crap right out of me.”

“He took your picture to run it, to get a facial recognition and find out who you are. He didn’t leave you alive, he left you to take care of later. It means you interfered with his agenda.” Trace ran a hand over his head. “Leave the gear. We have to leave. Right now.”

“Why?”

“Once you’re on The Turk’s map, he wipes you off.”