Operation Zulu Redemption--Complete Season 1

by Ronie Kendig

  Her hand struck hard and searing across his face. Annie gasped, covering her mouth.

  The spot where her hand hit stung, but Trace nodded, knowing for that much anger to erupt, he’d hit a nerve. “Thought so.”

  Francesca

  Alexandria, Virginia

  29 May – 1310 Hours

  “Hey, beautiful. What can I get ya? The usual?”

  “Hey, Mick.” Messenger bag slung over her shoulder, Frankie tugged out her wallet and flashed her best smile at her favorite barista. “I think today I’m going for the biggest skinny french vanilla latte you can do.”

  “Living on the edge, eh?”

  Frankie smiled. “Need the juice.” Her dad had made some calls but only managed to turn on her utilities. He gave her some money to get gas and food. A neighbor had pity on Frankie and gave her a Starbucks gift card, which was nice since she didn’t have Internet back yet either.

  There were strings she could pull that would make it all go away via hands more powerful than even her father could manage, but Frankie wasn’t going there.

  As she moved to the end of the counter to wait for her drink, her phone rang. She glanced at the caller ID then answered. “Hey, Dad.”

  “Just wanted to update you,” he said.

  “Okay.”

  “Utilities are back on—water, electric, gas,” he said. “But the others are going to take awhile.”

  “Did you have any luck finding out who did this?”

  “Not yet. But I’m working on it.” Noises carried through the line, a grunt, then he said, “I’ve got to go. I’ll talk to you later, Angel.”

  She smiled at his old nickname for her. “Okay, Dad. Thanks.”

  Mick slid her drink toward her and winked. Frankie smiled her thanks and looked around the coffee shop.

  Armed with her caffeine and determination, she planted herself in a quiet corner away from windows and traffic and pulled out her laptop. She might’ve told her father she would leave Weston alone, but she hadn’t made any promises about Boone Ramage, Weston’s right-hand man. Interesting thing was that Ramage had bought an old farmhouse in Lucketts. The very location where she’d crashed. Was Weston visiting his friend? Or was something more sinister happening there?

  Sinister. This isn’t a Batman movie, Frankie.

  An hour’s work today, combined with the several she’d spent over the last couple of days, only netted her his work history, which he’d so kindly posted on LinkedIn, and renovation permits for an old home in his name. Boone entered the Army at eighteen and had served until an injury medically discharged him in…“Huh.” Frankie eyed the date. “A month after Misrata. Fancy that.”

  And having a father as a general and her work in the months leading up to Misrata, she knew very well that some soldiers were written out as discharged, but their service had not been terminated. They’d gone black.

  Is that what Boone had done?

  Or was the back injury so bad that he couldn’t serve anymore? He just didn’t seem like the type to walk away. But…she’d had enough. And never in her life could she have imagined that day would come. Not with the fierce competition she had with her special ops brothers. Three brothers. One sister. All serving. She didn’t want to be the wuss. Getting drafted through INSCOM for some dark-cover operations seemed like the perfect way to prove herself. Her abilities. Until some situations and personnel made her feel like she’d been standing on quicksand instead of the firm ground of morality and patriotism.

  With a shudder, determined to leave those memories in the past, Frankie directed her energy, her attention to the photographs and files—in particular, Boone’s house. Built in the late 1880s. Once served as an antique shop till a fire gutted the upper level. Ramage’s family owned the surrounding property, and now he owned the farmhouse and its property. She’d asked a friend who lived in Point of Rocks, Maryland, to stop by and take pictures of the house.

  Frankie studied them now. The two-story home with front porch looked largely restored. At least, on the outside. The roof had been replaced. Windows and doors seemed new. Having updated her condo’s bathroom, she knew the pretty penny all this work must have cost. Where was he getting the money?

  “Check for bank loans,” she wrote in a notebook.

  The plat map showed that the house sat on thirty-plus acres bordered on the south by a tree-lined creek. That bed of water separated his land from his parents’ hundred. Convenient. He could do whatever he wanted and nobody would be the wiser.

  Of course, she’d been someone who’d seen an evil plot behind every curtain.

  And she’d lost her job, her utilities, her credit rating, her car…

  Frankie slapped down the laptop. Palms on the top, she rested her head on her hands. What was she supposed to do? She wanted to respect her father’s wishes. Wanted to believe he wasn’t hiding something from her, but he’d never been so curt and tight-lipped with her. That told her he had concealed things.

  Or was he just trying to stop her from digging a bigger grave?

  Which way was up? Who’s on First?

  She whimpered. What am I supposed to do? Frankie sat up, flipping her black hair out of her face. Her heart jackhammered—a man sat at the table with her. “Varden,” she hissed.

  Thirty-five, brown hair, chiseled jaw, and yet so common anyone might mistake Eli Varden for a decent human being. She had. And it’d been a fatal mistake.

  “Franny.”

  She shivered, the feel of his voice icy against her eardrums. “What do you want?”

  He leaned over the table, folded his arms on her laptop, and probed her gaze.

  Frankie steeled herself. Gritted her teeth.

  “You’re digging up stuff on Trace Weston.”

  “Actually,” she said, feeling triumphantly defiant. “I’m not.”

  A smile that didn’t make it to his lips pinched his eyes. “You’re right,” he said in that smooth baritone that had coaxed more than information out of her. “Now you’re digging into Boone Ramage.”

  Frankie’s pulse tripped over his words and the fact that he always seemed to have one up on her. “What do you want, Varden?”

  “What happened to calling me ‘sexy’?”

  “I grew a brain,” she spit back.

  He laughed.

  At the counter, Mick watched over the espresso machine, giving her a silent “do you need help?” signal with his raised eyebrows.

  “You’re drawing attention to yourself,” Frankie said, knowing this was a sore spot for the operative.

  “Nobody ever notices me, you know that.” He lifted her drink and took a sip. “Now you, on the other hand. Guys notice you as soon as you enter a room.” He grinned. “I sure did.”

  Frankie ripped the laptop out from under him and stuffed it in her messenger bag. “I’m done with you.”

  “I have proof your dad is connected to shutting down your life.”

  Frankie hesitated. And she cursed that weakness. Cursed Varden for stepping into her life again. “What do you know about anything, Varden?”

  “I know he was ordered to suffocate your will until you broke.”

  Trembling, she packed up the papers. Secured her bag. How did Varden even know about that? “What? Are you spying on me?”

  “I’ve never stopped.”

  Bile rose in her throat. “I left the agency. They cut me free.”

  “Free is a relative term, Franny.”

  She grabbed her bag and scooted her chair back.

  “Don’t draw attention,” he said, his tone filled with warning.

  “What do you want?” she hissed.

  “I want you to talk to a man named Samuel Caliguari, a former Navy SEAL.”

  “Why would I talk to a squid?”

  Varden only gave her a thin-lipped smile. “He’s on a hunt. I think you should join that hunt.”

  VII

  Trace

  Athens, Greece

  31 May – 1310 Hours

/>   Sprawling and stunning against the backdrop of the Aegean Sea, the golden-plastered property sprawled over a rich green carpet of grass. Even on the screen, the place screamed wealth and beauty. “The estate is owned by Giles Stoffel.” Trace stared at the multimillion-dollar property and shook his head. Was it built with blood money?

  “You’d think he’d be a prince or something with a sweet piece of land like that,” Boone said, leaning against a credenza. Ankles crossed and arms folded over his chest, he exuded a confidence that Trace appreciated. It’d taken a lot to convince Boone to leave Virginia—to leave Keeley, especially knowing she could come out of the coma any day—but the team had to start acting like a team. That meant they all had to gear up and get their hands dirty. Besides, Trace could tell by all the woodwork Boone had done on the main house at the bunker that he was getting bored. The man had warrior in his blood.

  “Why are we looking at this place?” Téya eased onto the edge of an overstuffed chair where Annie sat. “I thought we were here for the family, the Lorings.”

  With a nod, Trace uncapped a bottled water. “The Lorings are priority one. But Spirapoulos Holdings has come up a few times in my search for the Misrata architect. While rumors abound that they aren’t averse to black market purchases, there’s little proof, if any.”

  “But you think they’re connected to what happened? The weapons we saw and verified in Misrata?” Annie seemed shaken.

  “The weapons that had vanished and were never recorded in the arson investigator’s notes?” Téya opened a package of Oreos and dumped two in her hand before offering the rest to Annie, who refused, and then to Nuala, who readily accepted them.

  Gulping water did little to help Trace voice his thoughts. He heaved a sigh. “I do. The relative wealth and thriving accounts of Spirapoulos Holdings when most of Greece is poor and flailing give me cause to wonder what’s funding their success.” He set down the bottle then moved to the small coffee table littered with a pile of papers. He lifted one and sent it around the room. “Jessie had a slip of paper with Spirapoulos written on it.”

  “Coincidence?” Nuala said, shrugging.

  “Unlikely, but the probability does exist.” He slid his hands into the pockets of his slacks, his ‘uniform’ for this mission. “Since we are here, Annie and I will do some looking around the estate and do some recon on Spirapoulos while Téya and Nuala head into the Roma slums to find the Lorings.”

  “Slums?”

  “Boone will shadow you, but we want it to look like you’re on your own. The Lorings are hiding for a reason, which means they’re unlikely to easily trust strangers.

  “Don’t worry,” Boone said. “You’ll never be out of my sight.”

  “The slums are…tragic.” Trace had entered a similar situation in Russia once, and it left an indelible impression on him. “It’s not just a slum like you might find downtown somewhere. It’s an entire city—a large city, filled with third world conditions. Trash, disease, crime.”

  “I think that’s his way of encouraging you to get in and get out.” Annie’s wry comment brought nods all around.

  “It is. But I just also want you to be prepared.” Trace held a hand over his balled fist. “Remember entering Misrata, the poorest of the poor?” he paused to intentionally meet each of their gazes. Hope they had strong memories and stronger constitutions. “I recall how it tugged at each of you.”

  That night was as clear as if he were watching a movie. Zulu had stolen into the city and headed straight for the warehouse, while he and Boone stayed a mile out, monitoring their position and progress. Thanks to the use of helmet cams and mics, he’d been able to track reactions. Children, faces blackened by filth and dirt, clogged their path. Begged for money. Food.

  “They shouldn’t be out this late,” Nuala said.

  “Out? They have no ‘in’ to go to,” Téya countered, her tone hard, a trait he’d seen often with the tough woman when she got perturbed.

  “We have to do something.” Jessica wanted to play good Samaritan.

  “Get in, get out,” Trace replied through the coms, trying to redirect the team back to their mission.

  “Okay.” Trace broke free of the memory, noting the others had gone quiet. Probably lost in the same past tragedy that nearly sucked him dry. “Two and Six, head out with Boone, who will recon and feed me updates. Houston will stay here, monitoring all of us.” He met Annie’s gaze. “Ready?”

  She stood and held up a finger then moved to the bedroom she’d shared with the other two. In the five minutes before she returned, Boone, Two, and Six left. Houston went to work setting up a station near the window—“better Wi-Fi and view,” Houston had explained—and Trace slid on his suit jacket. He checked his sat phone for any more updates from Solomon but found nothing.

  “Okay,” Annie said.

  Trace turned—and stilled. She wore a light gray pantsuit that made her eyes seem…big. Innocent. That was good. It’d work in their favor at Spirapoulos. But the updo and her tangle of gold curls against her neck…maybe that was too far. Too mature. Too alluring.

  He remembered slipping his hand around her neck and tugging her closer…

  “What?” Annie asked, glancing at her attire. “I thought it was a good compromise—business yet casual. No skirt to distract.”

  Thing of it was, Annie didn’t need a skirt to be distracting.

  “It’s fine,” Trace said, gathering his nerve. “Houston, you have the fort.”

  “Don’t worry about me, Boss. I’m good.” Houston spoke around a breadstick.

  As they headed into the hall, Trace steeled himself. A quick dart of panic stabbed him. It’d be the first time in over five years he’d been alone with her. But that shouldn’t matter. This was business. They had a mission. This time wasn’t pleasure.

  Stepping into the elevator ahead of him, Annie moved as a woman of confidence and means. She would nail the gig, posing as a potential investor. But no matter what Trace wore, where he went, people pegged him as military. A soldier. It wasn’t something he could turn off. Not that he wanted to, but in times like this, the mission demanded he not be a soldier—in appearance.

  The doors slid closed. Silence gaped like a foghorn, buzzing his nerves. Not even elevator music in this steel trap.

  “You look nice,” Annie said with a smile. “Not every day we see Lieutenant Colonel Trace Weston dressed in a slick suit.

  “Same could be said of you,” he deflected.

  “What? That I look nice or that it’s not every day…”

  “Both.” Safe answer. Wouldn’t get himself in trouble. Not with them heading into an important meeting.

  Annie wrinkled her nose and faced the door. “You should’ve been a politician.”

  Trace snorted. “I’d kill everyone who didn’t agree with me.”

  Her soft laugh did crazy things to his breathing. They’d always had a natural camaraderie. One that had gotten them in trouble. The best trouble he’d ever experienced in his life. A trouble he now couldn’t afford. “Once we get in there…,” he said, leaving off the rest for her to fill in.

  “I’m Natalia Policek, daughter of Anton Policek, a Russian billionaire turned diplomat,” Annie said, not missing a beat as she recited her cover story. One she carried well even into the third-floor offices of Spirapoulos Holdings.

  “And how did you hear about us?” the wiry little man asked.

  Trace tucked aside his irritation, immediately recognizing by the cubicle-style office that this man was not high enough up to serve their needs. They’d gone over this at the hotel, rehearsed what to do.

  Annie turned to Trace, her face not quite pale but definitely distressed.

  Now it was his turn. In as thick a Russian accent as Trace could muster, he demanded, “What is this? A joke? Ms. Policek comes here to make significant deposits and investments, and you expect her to deal with a minion? Someone who does not even have an office?” Trace raised his voice, higher with each word,
until several workers around them stalled their productivity to gape. “Insult!”

  “No.” The man came to his feet, waving at Trace. “Please. Let me call my boss.” He gave Annie a sympathetic look. “Would that be better?”

  “I am sorry for my bodyguard’s anger.” She managed a weak smile. “It is just his job to protect, you know?”

  “I must advise, Ms. Policek, that you not speak here. It is too open. And this man—his clearance is not high enough. You could jeopardize everything. The danger—”

  Wide-eyed, Annie looked around, playing the part. “Oh…yes… I think you are right, Mr. Volkov.” She gave the wiry man a shaken expression. “I’m sorry. We must leave.”

  “Is there a problem here?”

  Trace smiled inwardly as he turned.

  “Mr. Christakis,” the wiry man said, scuttling forward. “This is Ms. Policek.”

  Christakis—the CFO. Perfect.

  Annie lifted her chin, staring down her nose at the man. “I am here to make investments, yes? But I cannot do it”—she waved a hand dismissively at the maze of cubicles—“in the open, where so many ears listen.”

  “I am Mikalos Christakis, Chief Financial Officer of Spirapoulos Holdings.” Debonair and slick as snot, Christakis had turned the charms on full force with Annie. “Would you come to my office, and we can discuss your options?”

  Annie beamed at him like a schoolgirl. “That would be wonderful.”

  Téya

  Athens, Greece

  31 May – 1330 Hours

  A pregnant woman squatted at a massive heap of trash, picking through the stinking, rotting refuse. Two children, who couldn’t be older than three, played with a white, oval disc. The littlest draped it over his head and wore it like a necklace. The elder giggled.

  “Please tell me that’s not a toilet seat,” Nuala said, sounding as if she might puke up the lunch they’d eaten before heading out.

  “Okay,” Téya said. “It’s not.”

  “You’re lying.”

  The pregnant woman called harshly to the two children.

  “You told me to say it.” Téya’s gaze was stuck on the pregnant woman. What future did she have to offer her child?