by Ronie Kendig
Sam pinned her in the corner, thunder in his gaze. “You did it on purpose.”
“I have no idea what you mean.”
“You put that nasty black olive in my sub!”
Annie tried to feign surprise, but a giggle leaked past her facade. She swallowed the laugh. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” But she was laughing now. Hard.
“You think it’s funny? I about choked on that nasty piece of crap!” Sam’s thunder-and-rain demeanor lightened. “You trying to kill a guy?”
“I had no idea it was so easy to take down a guy your size.”
“That is cruel and unusual punishment, ma’am.”
“A SEAL who can’t handle his olives.” She smirked at him, trying—and failing—not to appreciate all the good looks he had going on. “Good to know.”
“Give me bin Laden over bin Olives any day.” Laugh lines pinched the sides of his eyes. “Now. You owe me….”
Annie’s laughter, her lighthearted mood, vanished. She straightened, pulling herself off the wall, knowing full well the joke behind his words. Sam had never been quiet about his feelings for her. Six months in Manson and he hadn’t given up. But did he know how close she was to giving in? To saying yes to this guy who was relentless in his pursuit of her? Everything in her wanted to try because of him, who he was.
Military hero. Strong. Protective. Funny. He’d never let his dark brown hair grow long but kept it short and tight. Naturally tanned from his Italian side, Sam had the brooding spec ops persona down. Even without tac gear. Bulging muscles and personality, he’d swooped into Manson months ago, buying up the cottage next to his sister’s two-bedroom place that Annie had rented for the last several years.
Sam’s expression slid from playful to serious. “Just one date, Ash,” he said in a quiet, husky voice.
He smelled good. Looked good. Talked good. With one hand on his pec and another on his bicep, she struggled to think past the corded muscles she felt beneath his shirt. “Sam…” She barely heard herself as disappointment pushed his gaze down to the vinyl floor. She drew in a breath. “I…”
Bobbing his head, he said, “Remember?”
She couldn’t help but smile. He’d told her many times not to answer. Until she could say yes. She’d said yes many times—in her dreams. He was never far from her thoughts. Or far from her. He was in the parking lot every night she locked up. Followed her home. Gave her salutes each morning she sat on her deck overlooking Lake Wapato.
Five years she’d been here. Been safe here. But one date with Sam and Annie knew this guy would unglue and unseat every secret, passion, and terror.
“Ashland, need your help,” Jeff called from the front.
With a lame shrug, she weaseled out of Sam’s grip. “Work calls.”
“Hey.” He caught her fingers—and her heart.
She turned to him, enjoying his touch. Not pulling away. Not wanting to. But she should. She had to. She did.
He grinned that heart-melting grin. “You can put olives in my sandwich anytime if it means I get to corner you again.”
“That’s the best you’ve got, Calamari?”
He didn’t even flinch at the nickname this time. Instead, he took a step forward, challenge lurking in those rich eyes. “You want my best?”
Trace
Joint Base Elmendorf-Richardson, Alaska
28 April – 1020 Hours
Brittle and icy, the air in the room mimicked the unsanitized environment outside this theater. Two arcs of tables huddled against the recessed floor in the amphitheater-style room, facing the long, rectangular formation of dignitaries seated on the dais that elevated the dignitaries and senior personnel above the rest. Ten military officers hosting a press conference about joint operations and training under the command of newly installed Lieutenant General Charles Perrault. Beside him sat Brigadier General Haym Solomon.
Lieutenant Colonel Trace Weston sat listening to the drone of conversation. The suggested changes were not unexpected, especially since Solomon had briefed him en route from Virginia. The last several hours had pulled on his patience. He was getting older and had been through enough to hate waste of time and resources. He could be back at Fort Belvoir planning the latest technology efforts, both equipment and personnel. Or digging into the past.
Trace tucked his chin in an effort to hide the yawn clawing through his chest and throat. He blinked and straightened.
“At this time,” General Perrault said as he leaned into the microphone, his mechanically amplified voice bouncing off the sound-buffering panels in the ceiling, “I think it would be foolhardy to shift away from our projected troop placements, but technology and the political map demand changes. We can’t have a repeat of Misrata.”
It felt like an RPG had struck Trace center mass. He stilled. Coiled his reaction into a ball in the pit of his stomach. Let his training kick in. He wouldn’t flinch. Wouldn’t blink. Not now.
He flicked his gaze to his mentor.
General Solomon’s brow creased as he adjusted his microphone—a squawk snapping through the room, silencing the murmurs. “General Perrault, your concerns are understandable. Conflicts will arise. Teams will go in to deal with situations. We act on the best intel we have.”
“And sometimes,” came the gravelly voice of General Leland Marlowe, “you don’t.”
“Sorry, I thought we were here to discuss plans for the next phase—”
“We are here to ensure our soldiers and airmen are guaranteed the best chance to return home and reduce the casualty risk to innocent civilians.”
“It is our highest mission,” Solomon said, his chin raised. “Now, moving on.” The general glanced down and slid a folder to the side. “Ah, yes. The TALOS—Tactical Assault Light Operator Suit.”
Trace let out a breath—slowly—that he didn’t realize he’d held. Misrata. Even now, five years later, his gut still clenched. The screams. Haunted shouts through the coms…
Marlowe was behind tossing the hand grenade of Misrata into the discussion. He’d tried to run Trace up the flagpole more than once. As he sat near the back of the room, Trace let his gaze rest on the general’s. Waited. And he’d wait however long necessary until the man found his manhood and faced Trace.
Finally, brown eyes rammed into his.
Trace didn’t flinch. He schooled his facial features. Wished for the beard he had five years ago. Wished for the modified M4A1. Or better yet—M24 sniper rifle.
Marlowe broke contact.
He had nothing on Trace. Only conjecture. And “my gut,” as Marlowe had muttered during the meetings with JAG officers in the attempt to get Trace court-martialed.
Almost five years and Marlowe still didn’t know the truth.
Neither do I.
Trace balled his fist.
A vibration against his thigh snapped him out of his fuming. He tugged the phone from his pocket and glanced at the caller ID.
His heart jacked into his throat but not before pounding against a few ribs first. Trace pushed out of the seat, which flipped up as soon as he’d vacated it. He pivoted and started for the doors. An MP nodded and opened the door for him.
Trace hit the TALK button as he swiftly moved down the window-encased corridor. “Tango Whiskey Six.” He tried to breathe normally, but this wasn’t a social call. They kept their distance, using this number only in cases of dire emergency.
“Bravo Romeo Five.”
“What’s going on?” Trace shoved through the main door and stepped into the frigid air and pristine purity of the Alaskan tundra, and slid on his cover, shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun and snow.
“They found them.”
The words stopped him in his tracks. He shoved his gaze around, making sure nobody had seen him. Irrationally praying he’d imagined those words. “How?”
“Don’t know.” The voice belonged to Chief Warrant Officer Boone Ramage, the man who had, for nearly three years in Afghanistan and two elsewher
e, been Trace’s right hand. A man he trusted unlike anyone else. “Zulu Three is dead.”
Trace slammed his eyes shut, a rancid taste coating his mouth. He turned, lifted his hand, and gripped his forehead. Adjusted his hat. “The others?” His heart started beating a little faster, chugging through the tragic news.
“Checking now. You’re at JBER, right?”
“Yeah.” Trace skated his gaze around the joint base where the Army and Air Force trained and deployed from.
“Zulu Four is up there.”
Trace heard the words, but his mind had lodged between a pair of sultry blue eyes. “Zulu One.” Annie…
“You can reach Four faster.”
His heart punched him—hard. “Right. You’ll—” Trace’s brain caught up with him. He wouldn’t ask where Boone was, but he knew the guy had been on a month-long vacation. More like doing contract work south of the border. He had the brains and the brawn, not to mention the experience covert agencies liked. Though they didn’t use the phones often since anything could be located these days, Trace wouldn’t give the enemy more ammo. “Five?” He verified he wasn’t being followed or watched. Unless a sniper…
The hairs on the nape of his neck prickled, anticipating a lethal strike.
He quickened his step.
“En route now to Five.”
“Good. And—”
“I’ll swing back and get Two. I’ve tapped Gray. He’ll give the warning signal.”
“Good.” Trace climbed into his car, barely remembering the trip to the vehicle. “I’m leaving now. Keep me posted, and I’ll do the same.”
“Copy that.
Five years they’d hidden them. Five years they’d buried the truth. Five years they’d come up empty-handed on who’d baited Zulu and sprung a deadly trap.
Now he had to get to Four. And One. His pulse sped. His tires spewed dirt and rocks as the car bucked and found purchase on the road.
Racing down the highway, he squinted up at the High One looming in the distance. Denali spread its brutal terrain across the landscape in a menacing challenge. Snow capped the peaks and pines dotted its spine. And somewhere…in the thousands of miles of tundra and glacier, he had to find her.
Candice
Denali National Park, Alaska
28 April – 1100 Hours
Candice Reyna climbed out of the Bronco she used as a Denali Park Ranger. Her boots crunched noisily on the snow covering the pine needle–littered path. “Charlie here,” she said, using her alternate identity—Charlotte Reynolds, adventurer, wildlife lover—for her life on the lam. “I’m up at the lake.”
“Roger that,” came the voice of Beth, the ranger in charge of the ranger station. “Brad and the chopper are leaving now.”
“Copy.” That meant they were still at least fifteen to twenty minutes out. If someone was trapped… “I’m going to check it out.” She grabbed her pack from the back of the Bronco and started up the path to the hidden lake that had become a hotspot for tourists. At least—for those who knew its location. Hidden and miles from any cabin or free range, it was a perfect spot. In fact, no place on earth matched it for solitude and tranquility.
“Take care,” Beth admonished.
“Yep.” Nobody knew she’d been through much worse.
Well, nobody on this mountain. Facing the High One each time she worked fueled her. Challenged her. Reminded her that even though she’d been a part of something horrible once, she could redeem her days by protecting this land.
Crazy.
The steep climb up the path gave her legs a good workout. Reminded her how crucial staying in shape was up here, where the air was thin and help a distant hope. She’d been out this way, checking campsites, assisting a family of four with a cherub of a four-year-old girl who’d started showing signs of hypothermia. It never ceased to amaze Candice what people would do. Who would bring a child into this frozen tundra? Challenge Denali on its own turf?
Candice rounded a copse of pines and for a second was caught breathless at the scene before her. The lake appeared out of nowhere, a stark, pure contrast to the dark foliage of the pine trees huddled around it, as if protecting it.
Protecting me.
And they had for the last four years. She’d called this place Sanctuary.
She grabbed her radio as she walked the perimeter, seeing nothing. “Beth, Charlie again. I’m not seeing anything.” No broken surfaces. No depressions. No black spots against the white. But there was a small inlet in the kidney bean–shaped lake that hid itself behind some trees.
Candice followed the path around—and stopped. Two trees lay across the path, their trunks snapped. Strange. The trees were young but not enough to be bowled over by winds. She’d have to come around the other side of the lake. A bit longer though.
She backtracked and came up around the northern lip. Cold dug into her bones, the biting winds no friend to humans. Which begged the question and sanity of the parents who brought the little girl. She’d like to think she would’ve been a better parent. More responsible. Sensible.
God doesn’t give child killers their own children.
They get isolation. Depravation—of society. Of friendships. Of acceptance. Of forgiveness.
She swallowed, pushing back the memories, and lifted the hood of her jacket. Fur trim tickled her quickly numbing cheeks. Then she saw it.
Candice stopped short. Saw the dark spot. In the ice. She hurried forward, eyes on the frozen lake, feet traversing the treacherous terrain closer to the bank, where snow blurred the point where dry land gave way to ice.
Edging closer, she hunched. Keyed her mic.
A strange pulse shot through her when she saw the body. “Oh God, help me.” She tossed down her pack. Yanked it open. Drew out her rope and carabiners. “Charlie here—I’ve got something. I see…” She didn’t want to say it. “I see…someone.”
“Tell me,” Beth’s voice crackled. “I’m tying in Brad.”
“They’re half submerged.” She lowered her radio and shouted out over the lake, “Hello? Can you hear me?”
“Charlie, don’t go out on that ice without a raft or tube of some type.” Nearly drowned by the thwump of the chopper’s rotors, Brad sounded like he was shouting. “Do you have one?”
“No.” She scratched her head.
“Then wait for us,” Brad said. “We’re ten minutes out.”
Ten minutes. The person could be dead in ten minutes if she didn’t get to them. In fact, they weren’t moving. “Hello? I’m Park Ranger Reyna.” She roped up and anchored herself to a boulder. She hit her mic again. “No response. I’m going out.”
She stepped out onto the ice, testing it. When no cracks or pops happened, she scooted out, carefully. “Hello?” The rope draped along her thigh, batting it with each step as she made progress.
Brown hair. Matted. With ice in it.
As if the body had been there a while.
A knot grew in her stomach. This person could’ve been here for days.
“Hey, Beth?”
“Yeah?”
Her foot slipped, nearly face-planting her into the ice. “Whoa.” She swung out her arms and steadied herself. “Who called this in?”
“Some hiker.”
“Uh-huh.” She was almost there. The light blue and black jacket looked bloated. “And why didn’t they help?”
“I… don’t know.”
Right. Most people let fear stop them. Candice let fear propel her. She lowered herself to her knees. “Almost there.” She reached out with a winter-tek-gloved hand, suddenly terrified of what she’d find.
She yanked back her hand as a memory intruded. Smoke. She could smell smoke.
On all fours, Candice lowered her head. Shook off the thought. No smoke here. Just the snow and ice. Just snow and ice, she repeated and reached once more.
Fingers coiled around the collar, she tugged the person back. “Hello? Are you okay?” She drew them up, the weight fighting her. Sodden and fro
zen, the person wasn’t moving.
Bracing herself, she used both hands to haul the person free.
They budged only a few inches. She grunted. Flipped them over. And screamed.
It felt like a caged animal trying to get out of her chest as she stared down. “A dummy.” What…? A laugh of disbelief snaked up in her warmed breath that floated on the air before her. “Who would—”
She keyed her mic. “I—”
Pain exploded through her shoulders. Slammed her forward.
Red—her blood.
White—the snow.
Black—icy death embraced her.
Téya
Bleak Pond, Pennsylvania
28 April – 1100 Hours
Wind blew in a different direction here. It came softer, warmer. More inviting.
Katherine Gerig wrapped her arms around herself, savoring the breeze that carried across the plain, rifling through the stalks of corn that separated the Augsburger property. The strings of her prayer kapp surfed the breeze. Things were so different here. So much quieter. Better. More peaceful.
Way more peaceful than the life she’d lived as Téya Reiker, a Special Operations combat veteran. Though that life and what she’d done must cease to exist, even in her memory. She pushed it as far back as she could, embracing the new person she’d become.
“Katie?”
She turned on her heels, the simple dress flapping against her legs, compliments of the wind, as she did. “Ya, Grossmammi?” She stepped through the screen door and entered the small kitchen where her maternal grandmother shuffled in from the sitting room.
“Is that pie ready, liewi?”
Katie bent before the oven and tilted back the door. “A few more minutes,” she said, closing it.
White-haired and wrinkled, her grandmother was sturdy and firm. “It will be nice to go with the chicken and fixings, while they go through this hard time, ya?”
“Ya.” Katie gave a sad smile. “Zech and Hannah have been through so much already.” It hurt to think of the older couple facing yet another trial after losing their youngest to drowning. “It is good, though, that David has the car, so the family doesn’t have to hire a driver going back and forth to the hospital.”