by Ronie Kendig
“An accountant fresh out of college,” Boone said, repeating the information they’d hammered into their brains over the last five years, no doubt.
“He married a Libyan orphan who’d aged out, according to Kellie Hollister.” Houston shook his head.
Annoyance chugged through Trace. He knew every option to what happened in Misrata. And he knew every counter-option, every reason why the option couldn’t be right.
He rubbed his eyes. Needed a shift in focus or some miraculous breakthrough. “What about Pennsylvania?”
Houston gave him a quizzical look.
“Erasing Téya’s digital footprint…”
“Oh. Oh, right. Yeah, I did that, but…”
“But what?”
“Well, there was this”—Houston wagged a finger at each of the three monitors on his left—“image at the hospital in Pennsylvania. It’s been bugging me.”
A grainy picture of a man in a baseball cap talking to a doctor appeared on the screen.
“Why would that bother you?” Tech geeks were good, but sometimes they were anal. And wrong. “Don’t waste your time—”
“I… It just seems…familiar.”
“What? The hospital, the doctor, or the guy?”
“Yes.” Houston came up a little straighter in his chair, his head angled to the side. “Yes,” he said more firmly. “That’s it!”
A frustrated groan begged Trace to give it release. Instead, he waited. Guys like Houston—their brains worked in ways he couldn’t fathom. Didn’t want to fathom, but he was grateful for them because they made connections that were otherwise missed.
“Keeley.”
Warm anger splashed through Trace’s gut, making him wary. “What about Shay?”
Houston’s fingers flew so rapidly it sounded as if several people were typing at once. “Look look look,” he said, glancing from one monitor to another. “Yes! I was right.”
Trace saw the security footage of the hospital where Shay was recuperating. A half-dozen people sat in a waiting area. “What? What am—” And he saw it. Saw the same guy. Same clothes.
“I review the footage every night, just to review who’s been in and out of Keeley’s room and the ICU ward.” Houston tapped on the shape of the guy. “He’s there, too. Tell me that’s not creepy. What’s he doing there?”
“Can you zoom in?” A buzzing began at the back of Trace’s brain and washed down his neck.
“Even better. Here you go.” Houston ran a program over the face. “Connecting it to facial recognition right—”
“No need,” Boone said.
Anger sparked through Trace. “Sam Caliguari.”
“He’s close, West.” For Boone’s face to telegraph the concern Trace felt was not a good sign. Things had progressed beyond a salvageable situation. “What do you want to do?”
“He has to be dealt with.”
“Arrest? Persuasive negotiation?”
“Whatever it takes.”
“Hey!” Excitement snapped through Houston’s voice. “Look! Ballenger…” His eyes were wide as he stared at the monitor.
Trace moved toward him. “What?”
“Ballenger left a message. I have that voice-to-text on that number Annie and Téya left with Hollister. Ballenger just left a message on it.”
“What’s it say?” Boone asked.
“He says he’ll meet them—but in… 75004 Place…” Houston’s voice trailed off as his fingers took over. “It’s a hotel. Hôtel-de-Ville, Paris.”
“Paris?”
Trace and Boone looked toward the lounge area where Téya stood, watching them. How long had she been there? “Ballenger left a message agreeing to meet—but in Paris.”
Téya crossed her arms as she drew closer. “That’s intriguing. Kellie Hollister had an invitation on her desk for a benefit gala—for HOMe. In Paris.”
“When?” Traced asked.
“The twenty-fourth.”
“Friday,” Boone said, meeting Trace’s gaze. “Think we have time?”
“Seriously?” Téya said with a cheeky grin. “I’m going to Paris, right?” Nuala and Annie emerged from the bunk rooms. “Who’s going to Paris?”
Francesca
Leesburg, Virginia
22 May – 1030 Hours
The town had its charm, its history, and its more than fair share of historic homes. And narrow streets. But that’s about all Frankie would give it. Though it wasn’t her speed—especially with the 25 mph speed limit through the blink-and-you-miss-it-downtown—Leesburg held one benefit: it wasn’t a big city, so finding Trace Weston should be easier than trying to track him down in a place like DC or New York.
After making a couple of rounds through the congested downtown, she headed north on King Street and back onto the country roads she’d given chase to the always-scowling Weston. The man even looked mean with that knot line between his intense greenish eyes. Thin lips always in a flat line didn’t help.
What would he look like if he smiled?
“Probably scare off any nearby children,” she muttered as she kept a slow, normal pace through the countryside, her gaze constantly to the side. Silently, she begged the deer to stay off the roads so she could stay on the road.
Frankie explored a few side roads that she hoped would lead her to some hidden, secret facility. His hideout. Brushing her black hair from her face, she groaned. “Where are you hiding, Trace Weston? It’s not like you’re Batman and have a bat cave.”
Or did he? Well, not a cave with bats. But some underground place.
She sure hoped not. If he was underground, she’d never find him. Not without access to some serious satellites and technology. Neither of which she had access to since she still didn’t have a job.
“ ‘Extended leave of absence,’ ” she mimicked what her boss told her over the phone. “ ‘Take time. Rest. Recover. Get a clear mind.’ ” Frankie rolled her eyes as she guided her Toyota Camry rental off the dirt road. Her tires caught purchase on the cement and pulled her onward. She made her way to the village of Lucketts and turned right onto Old Lucketts Road past the antique shop. She eased her car around the slight bend and pulled into the volunteer fire station.
She parked out of the way and headed inside.
“Can I help you?” a voice called from the side of the building.
Frankie turned, her long black hair whipping into her face as she spotted a man wiping his greasy hands on a rag, the hood of a car engine up behind him. “Yeah, I’m looking for—”
“Prius.”
Confused, then stunned as well as markedly embarrassed, Frankie stood mute.
He grinned, tucking the grease rag in his back pocket. “I’m Landon R—”
Air brakes hissed on the road, a large delivery truck breaking for the sharp curve before the stoplight, startling Frankie and momentarily drawing her attention from the man. When she glanced back, he was holding out his clean hand. “I was the EMT on duty that day.”
Color heated her cheeks. “Not my most shining moment.”
He grinned, his blue-green eyes sparkling in the morning sun. “Just glad to see you up walking around after an accident like that.”
“You and me both.” She tucked her hair behind her ear. “Hey, I was wondering…did you ever find out who called in my accident?”
He shrugged, pursing his lips. “I never went looking.” Landon studied her for a few seconds then thumbed toward the building. “There a reason you’re asking?”
Think fast, Frankie. “Well…” A little faster. “Remember you’d mentioned I pulled myself clear of the fire?”
He gave a slow nod.
“I didn’t—in fact, I think someone pulled me out.”
Landon gave a low whistle. “Ah, I see—and you want to thank this hero for coming to your rescue.”
Relief flooded Frankie that she didn’t have to add any lies to this dialogue. “You understand.”
“Well, the police report would log whoever was o
n scene.”
“Yeah, it didn’t list anyone, but I wondered…would the 911 record list who called in the accident?”
“Well, it’d give the number if it was open, but it’s not uncommon for a number to be blocked. That would’ve shown up on the report, too.” He thumbed toward the building. “But we can ask Irene.”
Hope lit through her. She had to play dumb about Trace’s name for now. Landon led her inside and found the dispatcher, Irene. The woman had very short hair, cut stylishly. But her stocky build and fierce disposition made Frankie’s insides churn.
“Hey, Irene. This is the lady whose car flipped and caught fire last week. Is there a record of who called it in? She wants to thank them. Can you check to see who called in the accident?”
“Now, Landon, you know full well that would’ve shown up on the report.”
“But what if it didn’t?” Frankie asked, trying to insert herself and stop Landon from getting in any trouble or perpetuating lies.
A skeptical look flitted through Irene’s tough expression. “If a call was made, it’d be logged, whether from an identified, listed number, or a blocked number.”
“Blocked?” Frankie repeated.
“Yeah, some people have to block their numbers for security reasons.”
“The report didn’t mention a call at all.”
Irene frowned. “That’s unusual. Let me see…” She turned to her computer and started typing. “What date?”
“Eleven May,” Frankie said.
A few more keystrokes and Irene’s gaze darted over the monitor. “Okay, yep—here it is. A 911 call came in at 2:08 p.m. from…” She sat back and smiled at them. “A blocked number.”
“And there’s no way to find out who it belonged to?”
“Oh, there’s a way,” Irene said, “but you’d need a compelling reason to go digging through the phone records. And that’s not something I can do here.”
Disappointment slowed Frankie’s pulse and pushed her shoulders down. “Oh. Right.” She managed a fake smile. “Of course. Thank you for looking.”
“Sure, no—”
A voice squawked through the radio, and Irene turned abruptly away from them.
Landon leaned in, and Frankie knew this was her time to exit.
“Well, thank you both.”
Back in her car, she sat there staring at the dash. She did not crawl out of that car on her own. She was certain of that. She’d checked the bottom of her shoes and saw the scuff marks that would only come from being dragged across pavement.
Did Trace pull me out?
“Ha,” she said with no small amount of sarcasm. “He’d throw me in, not pull me out!”
Boone
Lucketts, Virginia
26 May – 1300 Hours
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, reintegrate 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 answered. 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.
Trace
Paris, France
27 May – 1400 Hours
A white envelope slid beneath the door of their hotel room landed Téya at the café on Rue de Renard. The busy street, just aroun
d 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.