by Ronie Kendig
“Going light tonight?” Quade asked as he eyed the sweating water bottle.
He’d shared more than a few beers with Quade back in the day. It had been a way to relax, to let go of stress and forget what they’d seen and done in the field. But he’d felt himself slipping…slipping into the arms of a fierce seductress known as alcoholism.
Trace took a swig of the water and watched Boone flip the patties over. “How are they coming?”
“They hate me,” Quade snickered, sitting in a lawn chair, a pair of binoculars in hand.
“If they didn’t,” Trace said, “I’d wonder why I brought you.”
“Right?” Quade’s grin shone with pride. “They’re good. I’ll give you that.”
“But?” Trace heard it coming. Tried not to feel irritated with the criticism, because he knew they’d gotten sloppy. Five years hiding, stifling their once razor-sharp skills, made the girls vulnerable.
“But they can be better.” Quade took a swig and set it down, peering through the binoculars. He came to his feet. Lifting his Airsoft, he aimed.
Trace tensed, gaze roaming the field lit only by the orange streaks of the setting sun.
Quade fired.
The next several seconds stretched into one of the longest minutes Trace had experienced in days. When only the wind answered Quade’s shot, Trace let out a breath he didn’t realize he held. “Nice try.”
With a grunt, his buddy dropped back into the chair. Took another gulp of his drink.
“Okay,” Boone said, “I think—”
“What is going on here?” Téya demanded as she appeared out of the barn with Annie. “I thought we were lying low? Staying out of sight.”
Quade tipped his bottle at her. “You are supposed to be lying low, Freckles.”
Trace scowled at his friend. Was he trying to tick off the girls?
“Look, you,” Téya hissed.
“Trace,” Annie cut in, her expression stone cold. “We’d like an explanation.”
She’d always been tough. Straightforward. Bordered a little on insubordinate as they grew more…acquainted with each other. He watched her, waiting.
Her nostrils flared. “You will not let Téya see David. You block me from talking to Sam. Yet you bring him”—she stabbed a finger at Quade—“to sit out here, drinking beer and goofing off.”
Boone delivered a platter of cooked burgers. Quade was right there, undeterred about Annie and Téya’s objections.
“Seriously,” Téya said. “Are we supposed to learn how to outrun sniper bullets? Because if I remember correctly, that’s how Candice and Jessie died. I’m not imagining all the laps in the world around this godforsaken place would enable us to do that.”
They were ranting. Upset. Neither of them had wanted to come back. Though he hadn’t interacted with them, he knew what they’d been up to. Kept tabs on them. On every piece of communication or significant event in their lives. Jobs. Moves. Major purchases. He had to so he could catch anything that might draw attention to them.
“Ah, ha, ha-haaaa,” Quade said as he dressed his burger.
The ambivalent attitude was one intended to anger the girls. Make them see him as a source of their problem. Get them to hit hard and not give up. It worked well on most grunts. But these two ladies weren’t grunts.
“So help me,” Téya said, glowering at Quade, “I will shove that thing down your throat.”
Thwack!
The sound startled everyone, including Trace. He stilled then saw the paint that had exploded all over Quade’s shirt, face, hair, and burger. He dropped it with a curse, lunging to his feet.
Téya and Annie frowned, confused, as they looked around trying to figure out what was happening.
But Trace knew. And smiled.
“Show yourself,” Quade shouted, his face red and his vein throbbing near his temple. “Show yourself!”
The girls turned in the direction he shouted. Boone’s chuckle seeped into the darkening night as grass shifted just inside the yard’s perimeter. The blades rippled and rose…up…up.
Pride spiraled through Trace.
Dressed in a ghillie suit, Nuala removed the head covering she’d created from local vegetation to conceal her movement. With an Airsoft sniper rifle slung over her arm, she stared back, a hardness in her eyes Trace hadn’t noticed before. The same kind darkening the eyes of her teammates.
A raucous applause broke out as Quade started laughing. “Well done, young lady! I’m impressed.”
“Thank you,” she called as she crossed the field and set down the gear. She straightened and looked at Boone, who grinned unabashedly. “I had the best instructor.”
“I showed her a few things, but Noodle has skills that can’t be taught.”
Quade made a puking sound. “Y’all are nauseating with all this sappy stuff.” He slapped Boone on the shoulder. “Brother, I need another burger. Seems this young lady poisoned it.”
“Just because we care about and look after each other—that isn’t a bad thing,” Téya snapped.
“It is when you’re in the field and it compromises your decisions,” Quade countered.
“Well,” Annie said, her voice quiet but her tone deadly. “You don’t have to worry about that where Trace is concerned.”
Her words sliced through him like a knife.
“He was always a tough mudder,” Quade said. “Singular focus to the team and the mission. Kept personal feelings out of it, which is why he’s where he is now.” Surprisingly, admiration glinted in the man’s eyes as he looked at Trace. “Isn’t that right, Colonel?”
Trace set down his water. “I think you’ve had too much to drink. You’re going soft.”
“You should’ve seen this guy when we were in Iraq.” Quade launched into a tale that was very exaggerated and puffed up his own role in the takedown of some notorious Taliban leaders.
Hanging back with a burger, Trace watched Annie. She hated him. He couldn’t blame her. He’d made a decision that had kept her safe. One, it seemed, she would forever hold against him. But what was she worried about? She had that Navy SEAL to keep her cozy.
They’d never be on friendly terms again. He’d hurt her after Misrata. And once she found out about the SEAL… that he’d hurt her again…the pit of hatred would be deep enough to bury him.
Appetite lost, Trace chucked the burger and the hope that she’d forgive him.
Sam
Manson, Washington
19 May – 1645 Hours
Rock music blazed through the night as Sam stood on his deck, hands shoved in his jeans pockets as he stared at the small tan cottage. More accurately, the one that had set his life on a collision course with a quiet, demure woman who’d intrigued him from the first day he saw her sitting on that deck. The sunrise had created a halo around her golden-blond hair that looked as messy and windswept as any model.
Sam glanced down at the object in his hand. A gold circle, just like that halo. But not just a halo, a promise.
“Where are you, Ash?” He tucked the ring away and turned, roughing a hand over his mouth and down his neck as he slumped against the railing. Okay. Enough. He wanted answers. And they were coming as efficiently as a jammed M4.
Sam climbed into his Camaro and headed to the Green Dot. There was something about Ashland Palmieri that had quieted his soul. Getting out of the SEALs had been the hardest decision he’d made, but the back pain and hypervigilance that never went away convinced him it was time. That and the mission that cost him three buddies, who left behind a girlfriend, two wives, and four children.
When he arrived in Manson, he had no intention of sticking around longer than the summer, longer than the time it took to get a gig with a private security contractor. But then Ashland all but dared him to figure her out. Not directly. She was too private for that.
But was that need and demand for privacy more than just being a loner?
He parked near the Green Dot Sub Shop deck and strode swiftly ins
ide. A line snaked back six or seven customers deep, but he went around them. Straight to the counter.
Jeff came around the corner with a tray of freshly chopped lettuce. His light expression vanished as he met Sam’s gaze.
“C’we talk?” Sam said, making sure his tone warned Jeff this wasn’t an invitation.
Jeff hesitated, his gaze tracking to the food bin propped against his green-and-yellow apron, then gave a curt nod even as Sam walked back outside. He leaned against his car and waited, hands in his pockets. The safest place for his fists right now. A few minutes later, the Green Dot owner emerged, sans apron.
“Why’d you lie to the reporter?”
Jeff held his ground. “Wasn’t a lie.”
“You said she hadn’t been there in weeks.”
“Yes,” Jeff said, “and mentally, that was true.”
“I’m not following.”
“Easy,” Jeff said, holding up his hands.
“I’m not tracking. Ashland considered you a close friend and you—” Sam shook his head. “I’m not sure what you did. But not talking to me, hiding things from that reporter—how does that help Ashland?”
“It keeps information about her contained. You should know about that.”
“Contained?” Sam cocked his head. “Why do you think it needs to be contained?”
“Think about it. Think about what you told the cops.”
“How do you know—” Sam bit off his question. Jeff knew everyone in town and they knew him. This was his turf.
“You said a pro sniper took hits at you both. Then Ashland vanishes after a man nobody knows or has seen around town—and that’s something for Manson—shows up.” Jeff thumped the back of his hand against Sam’s shoulder. “Put that lethal brain of yours to work. Doesn’t it sound a lot like she might be in trouble?”
“Why do you think I’m trying to find her?”
“What if finding her is what puts her in danger?”
Sam hesitated.
“Look, I don’t know half the stuff you do with your experience, and I’m certainly no cop, but this sounds a lot like a witness relocation thing or something.” Jeff edged in. “You’re not the only one who cares about Ashland and wants to know that she’s okay.”
I don’t just want to know she’s safe—I want her safely back with me. Sam tugged his hand free from the pocket and rubbed his forehead. “None of it makes sense. Cops find nothing. I can’t find anything.”
A car whipped into the parking lot and Sam automatically tensed. He glanced over and saw Lowen Miles emerge from the silver vehicle. “Hey, I was headed out to your place but saw you here.”
Sam started forward. “You find something?”
“Yes and no.” Lowen handed him a paper. “First—remember I told you someone tipped me off, said to look into the women who were killed?”
Sam nodded, vaguely recalling that.
“Well, that person called again.” He slid a piece of paper to Sam. “Two more names to look into. One’s in Pennsylvania, one in Virginia.”
Sam’s head hurt. More questions, but no closer to finding Ashland.
“Annnd,” Lowen said, producing yet another paper. “Remember those sites you created—‘Help Find Ashland Palmieri’?”
Unfolding the paper, Sam cast a furtive glance to Jeff then to the paper. His eyes raced over the words, dragging his mind through a quagmire of muddy panic. Leave her alone? A minute flicker of betrayal slithered through him. Why would she…
No. This couldn’t be right. Conviction stabbed him. “She didn’t send this.” As the words left his mouth, the conviction deepened.
Jeff was at his side. “What is it?”
He shoved the paper at his friend as he focused on Lowen. “Did you trace it?”
“Tried,” Lowen said, adjusting his sunglasses. “It bounced all over the place like a racquetball. Never seen anything like it.”
Sam nodded. “Proves it wasn’t her.”
“How’s that?” Jeff asked.
“Ashland didn’t even have a computer or laptop.”
“Maybe she had hidden skills,” Jeff said, but Sam shot him a scowl and Jeff held his hands up. “Just mentioning possibilities.”
“How are those pages doing?” Sam was ready for some progress. Ready to get Ashland back. Whatever it took.
“Good, good. We’ve got well over 500k on the Facebook one—but then someone complained or something. Said we were spam or porn or some lie. We got shut down, but we appealed it. It’ll be back up by the end of the day.”
“Half a million?” Jeff asked, his eyes rounding. Then he looked at Sam and went still, his gaze dropping to the parking lot.
Agitation wound through Sam. While he couldn’t explain it, there was a massive knot of irritation in his gut, and it needed an outlet. He tried to keep it from hitting Jeff. But that look… “What?”
Jeff met his gaze for a second. “Ah, it’s—”
“Just spill it.” Sam heard the impatience in his voice and drew in a calming breath.
“I was just thinking”—Jeff nodded to Lowen—“this page on Facebook…it has a picture of Ashland?”
“I gave him the one of me and her at the Fourth of July fireworks show.”
Jeff drew up and gave a half nod. “Ashland’s picture…half a million people seeing it—if we explore the possibility I mentioned, that she’s intentionally hiding for some reason—”
“You really believe that?” Sam didn’t want to. Didn’t want to believe Ashland would hide, not from him. Not after what they’d shared. Not after she let him into her protected zone.
Staring at the picture for a few more minutes, Jeff finally grunted. Then shrugged. “I don’t know. I just would hate to be putting her in danger by bringing attention to this.”
Sam turned away, exhaling hard. He scratched the side of his face as he paced. Thought through the possibility. How would they know? “If she’s not hiding, then she’s in danger. How can you expect me to just sit here?”
“Don’t.”
Sam frowned. “Come again?”
Again, Jeff looked to the reporter and his friend. “You posted that page and then got the e-mail, right?”
The two men nodded.
“I see where you’re going,” Sam said, his mind spinning possibilities.
“Ask for proof that Ashland’s the one telling you to back off.”
An idea took root. “I have a better idea.”
Trace
Lucketts, Virginia
21 May – 1645 Hours
Ridiculous. Trace sat back in the chair at the briefing table and tossed down his pen. Despite the litter of papers strewn across the brown surface and the years of work he’d put into discovering who had been behind Misrata and who was still targeting Zulu, he had nothing.
Either he was entirely incompetent or…
They’re just better than I am.
And Sam Caliguari. Like a cancerous tumor on Trace’s back, the guy just wouldn’t go away. He’d sent a message that read normally, but something nagged at the back of Trace’s mind. Warned him Caliguari was testing the response. Trying to verify Annie had sent the e-mail, no doubt. He lifted the printout of the e-mail and read it again.
My only concern is for your safety and well-being. One word will reassure me and I will step off. Answer this—olives: yes or no?
They hadn’t answered. They couldn’t ask Annie what it meant because she didn’t know they were warning the SEAL away. And she’d be ticked off with Trace if she found out. Considering how things were going, that was the last thing they needed.
Back to the mission. To the task at hand. His radar was homing on Berg Ballenger after the attack on Téya that left her with a broken nose and black eyes. Hollister sent them to an address she’d never visited. At least, that’s what she said. Trace had Houston monitoring every bit of data and all calls in/out of that organization. He’d even had the tech geek dig through old records. Nothing smelled rotten.
/> Except Berg Ballenger. Where was he? Why had he dropped off the grid? That smelled fishy.
Trace pushed away from the endless pile of nothingness and stalked out into the command center, straight to Houston. “What’d you find on Ballenger?”
Boone looked up from a nearby system and adjusted his ball cap. “You look ticked.”
“Sick of not having answers,” Trace admitted. He jutted his jaw toward Houston. “Well?”
“Uhh,” Houston said as he pulled up files and splashed them over the wall screen. “Not much. One passport photo—the one you gave me is the only one.”
“No renewal?”
Houston shrugged. “Not that I can find.”
“What did you find then?”
“I found out that his parents were Robert and Penny Ballenger. His mom’s maiden name was Eddington. She has a brother named Bertrand.” Houston looked up at Trace through his eyebrows. “That is an interesting man. A businessman with a lucrative stock portfolio. World traveler.”
“How does that help us?” Boone asked.
“Guess it doesn’t, but Eddington’s passport has some interesting stamps.”
“Yeah?”
“Morocco, Greece, Paris, Palestine”—his gaze locked with Trace’s—“Libya.”
Though his heart kicked, Trace wouldn’t read into that. “Lot of businessmen travel there. What else?”
“Nothing,” Houston said. “The trail dies after the last U.S. stamp.”
“Point of entry?”
Houston pulled up the image of the passport stamp.
“Denver,” Trace muttered.
Boone pushed back, his boots tipped on the toes as he held his hands behind his head.
“Nothing after that. We’ve known that for years, right?”
“Why would he vanish?” Houston asked. “It’s not like someone was deliberately trying to kill anyone. What happened in Misrata was an accident. No need to run, hide, or conceal your identity.” Houston leaned back in the chair, causing it to squeak.
“Unless you had something to do with it.”
Houston shot him a look. “Dude, seriously? Berg Ballenger?” He pointed to the screen. “The guy was what? Twenty-four when Misrata happened?”