Operation Zulu Redemption--Complete Season 1

by Ronie Kendig

  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 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.”

  VI

  Téya

  Paris, France

  27 May – 2020 Hours

  Darkness chased away the light of day, immersing Téya and Trace in shadows that bred fear and danger. Though they’d been on the go since the tower, Téya’s mind had not stopped racing. Nor her pulse. Acute awareness of her mortality flooded her with hypervigilance. Kept her alert to those around her. Fear that The Turk might discover her aw
oke a side of Téya she didn’t know existed. A side that thrived on the state of hypervigilance.

  “You okay?”

  Téya blinked at Trace. “What?”

  He angled his head and considered her. “You’re tense. Like a primed det cord.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Get him out of your head,” Trace said. “Don’t let it eat at your confidence.”

  “It’s not.” Téya gritted her teeth as she pushed through a thick throng of tourists disembarking from the metro. “I’m just…mad.”

  “About?”

  Uncertain she could put it into words, Téya muddled through the feelings. The memory of his fury-filled eyes boring holes into her wouldn’t go away. His lightning-fast strikes. The inability to breathe beneath his muscular arm.

  “That he beat up a woman?”

  “I couldn’t care less about that. I’m just ticked that I couldn’t stop him.” She hunched her shoulders. “If that siren hadn’t wailed, I’m not sure I’d be breathing this rank, Parisian air.”

  Trace nodded. “Good, let it get you mad. You’ll be stronger and better for it next time.”

  “I don’t want a next time.” But she did. She wanted to settle the score. Prove she wasn’t a weak nobody some jerk assassin could level with one blow.

  “Here.” Trace banked right into a multistoried townhome. But instead of climbing the half-dozen steps up to the front door, he cruised down between the two buildings. The stench of rotten food, waste, and a musty smell she couldn’t identify closed in around them, making the darkness and walls feel closer, heavier. Suffocating.

  He stopped at a boarded-up window and glanced both ways.

  Confusion settled in on Téya, drenching her body with exhaustion. “What—are we lost?”

  Trace gave her a sidelong glance then stepped forward and rapped on the boards.

  Closing her mouth, Téya realized how little she knew or understood. About this mission, about Trace, about the deadly covert world.

  A hollow crack made Téya jump.

  Trace stepped back when the boards—as an entire unit—swung inward. “Zulu Actual sent by the Gryphon.”

  A pair of eyes, wreathed in darkness and shadows, peered out at them. Dim light cast a sheen across the person’s nose and cheekbones. They seemed masculine, but she couldn’t be sure for the poor lighting. Some traumatized part of Téya half expected the person to lunge out and attack. But she’d be ready. Never again would she be caught unaware. Or taken down so easily.

  “In,” the person said—definitely a man.

  Trace and Téya slipped through the small opening created as the man stepped out of the way. A blanket of black dropped on them as the slat door slammed shut. Téya stilled, her ears groping for sound, her vision for sight.

  “This way,” said the man.

  Only then could she decipher the form of the man from the other shadows. Trace followed without hesitation before Téya had taken her first step. They wove through a series of halls, and she couldn’t help but wonder how the man had gotten to the door so fast after Trace knocked.

  Surveillance.

  Made sense.

  Before a steel door, the guy looked over his shoulder. Directly at Téya. His gaze lingered there, not with admiration. Not with attraction. With…disdain.

  Téya forced herself to stand straight. To not cower.

  “There a problem?” Trace asked, stepping between her and the operative.

  “Yeah,” he said, nudging open the door then waiting for them to enter.

  Despite the subtle ambiance and quiet, the room they stepped into buzzed. Three other men worked at computers planted in the middle of the area. Wire lockers barricaded walls. Two rooms abutted the space and sported cots but little else.

  The man who let them in strode to an empty station. He swiveled the monitor toward them. At what she saw, Téya drew in a breath and froze.

  Another expletive escaped from Trace. He lowered his head. In disappointment? Anger? It wasn’t her fault the image of her being beaten up was on this computer.

  Was it?

  “You’re all over the board,” the man said, his Parisian accent thick. “Getting out of Paris will be challenging. Getting out alive…” He arched an eyebrow as a woman walked up to him and handed him a packet and left, but not before giving Téya a long look.

  Téya’s stomach squirmed. She turned to Trace, about to defend herself when Trace silenced her with a quick shake of his head.

  “That’s right,” the man said as he dumped the contents into his palm. “Listen to Slayer. Follow him close and maybe you’ll live through this.”

  “Slayer?”

  “Don’t ask questions,” Trace muttered as he took the items the man handed off. Passports. IDs. Money. Credit cards. What looked like theater tickets. Probably alibis.

  “They expire in three days,” the man said.

  Trace nodded as he passed Téya her bona fides.

  “I can’t help but wonder,” the man said, his brown eyes assessing, “what you did to tick off The Turk.”

  Téya cast a furtive glance to Trace, who stiffened.

  “You know what,” the man said, “I don’t want to know. If you’re stupid enough to cross paths with him, maybe you shouldn’t be living.”

  “Wrong place, wrong time,” Trace snapped as he pivoted and caught Téya’s arm. “We need to get going.”

  “You’ll take the Eurostar straight to London.”

  “Isn’t that obvious?” Trace asked.

  “Absolutely, but there’s no faster way to get you out of the country. The SNCF—French railways—have too few connections.” The man shifted. “The train leaves in an hour. Don’t waste time, especially out in the open. And I suggest you stick together,” the Parisian operative said. “He’ll be looking for her alone.”

  Téya thought about that. “Unless he saw—”

  “Agreed,” Trace cut in, his expression more severe than ever.

  “I’ve contacted your people. They’ll be waiting in London.”

  Trace hesitated. “You contacted—”

  “It’s better your voice and your identity are not logged here,” the Parisian interjected. “That’s why I took the liberty of getting your passage out of here.”

  “That’s…generous,” Trace mumbled.

  “Not generous.” The Parisian’s brown eyes hit Téya. “We’re merely looking out for our own interests here. We don’t need the trouble of The Turk.”

  “In other words”—Téya felt her courage returning in full force—“you want me out of your country.”

  “Can you imagine the PR nightmare that will plague Paris if an American woman is murdered in cold blood on our streets? Or the frenzy that will ensue in the covert world that an ignorant woman was targeted and hit by The Turk on our soil?”

  “Your concern for my well-being is touching.”

  He smirked. “This goes well beyond you, Miss Reiker.”

  Téya drew up at hearing her name on his lips.

  “There are operatives and operations that have been working quietly, secretly, who will flee if they get wind of The Turk’s presence here. Operations that will automatically be deemed compromised because of him.”

  “If he’s so bad, why hasn’t anyone stopped him?”

  This time he sneered. And Téya knew she’d crossed the line.

  Trace hooked her elbow. Held up the bona fides. “Thanks. We’d better get going.”

  “Indeed,” the man intoned. “Slayer, I would remove her quickly before her ignorance and quick tongue incur more damage.”

  Trace nudged her away, into the corridor they’d come through earlier.

  “What—”

  “Walk, don’t talk.” Trace’s grip tightened on her arm, almost painfully, as he guided her out of the building. Back through the slat-board portal and into the dank alley.

  Téya jerked her arm free and spun to him. “What—”

  “Not now, Annie.”

/>   She blinked, her mind bungeeing on the name. “Téya. I’m not Annie.”

  Trace frowned. Swiped a hand over his mouth then shifted closer. “The train leaves in an hour. It’s a forty-minute walk.”

  She shrugged. “Plenty of time.”

  “No, because we need to scout it, make sure we’re not being followed and that the station isn’t being monitored.”

  “But we should count on that, shouldn’t we? I mean, if he’s after me, then he’d watch all possible exits.”

  The fold between his eyes pinched into a knot as he gave her a sidelong glance.

  “Right?”

  “It’s what I’d do.”

  “And you’re Slayer? How did—”

  “Not now.” He gave her a fierce look. “Let’s get you changed and out of Paris first.”

  Trace

  Paris, France

  27 May – 2310 Hours

  Trace could not have designed a more perfect nightmare. What were the odds that one of his elite female operatives would cross paths with The Turk? And not just cross paths. The Turk had followed her. Somehow seen her as a threat.

  “Act casual,” Trace said, catching Téya’s hand in his and praying she didn’t misinterpret the move. “We’re a couple.”

  Gratefully, the 5’9” woman didn’t hesitate. They cleared the ticket area, and he walked straight toward the platform where their train to Calais waited. Even as he moved with ease, he remained watchful, scanning the sides of the station. Looking for anyone not moving. Anyone on the hunt. Anyone watching them…too casually.

  “Hard not to think of Jason Bourne,” Téya said as they made their way around the cluster of umbrella tables littering the walkway.

  Trace frowned at her.

  “The sniper…in the train station.”

  “That was Waterloo,” Trace said. “And as long as you don’t panic and make a break for it, we’ll be fine.” He meant it to be funny, but the intensity rolling off Téya was almost palpable. “Relax.”

  The terse eyebrows and taut lips softened.

  Then Trace stiffened. Saw a man in a baseball cap. He’d seen him back at the entrance. Trace diverted to a small café and got in line.

  “What are we doing?” Téya asked, her voice low. “They just announced our train.”

  “Ordering hot dogs.” He stuffed a few bills in her hand. “I’ll be right back.”