Operation Zulu Redemption--Complete Season 1

by Ronie Kendig

  “You like it?”

  Annie jumped then laughed as she smiled up at Titus. “You startled me.”

  “You seemed rather focused,” he said. “My brother’s decorator chose the piece. I’m not fond of it. I prefer impressionistic works over realism.”

  “As do I,” she said.

  “Come.” He motioned to the balcony. “I could do with some fresh air.”

  “Is everything okay with the prime minister?”

  Hand on the small of her back, he guided her onto the balcony. “In politics, is anything ever okay?”

  She arched an eyebrow at him. “True. Wow,” she said as she rushed forward. “It is beautiful!”

  And it was. The far right provided a breathtaking view of the water, which spread out in a foamy kiss from the cliff’s base. To the left and opposite a meticulously manicured lawn rushed up to a copse of trees that grew denser the farther up they went.

  But the water…

  Annie sighed. She loved the water. It’s why she’d chosen Manson—the lakes and river. Quiet. Solitary.

  “You like our Salamis Bay, I see.”

  “Is that what it’s called?” So odd. To have the freedom and expanse of the sea before her and the dense barrier of the forest behind. “I never knew there were forests in Greece.”

  He laughed. “Most people who haven’t visited tend to think that way.” His hands slid up her back, caressing.

  Gross!

  She had to be strong. Turn this into her corner. “So,” she said as she peered up at him. “What do you think—?”

  “I think you’re quite beautiful.” He was leaning down to kiss her, and she fought a shudder.

  Annie steeled herself. Then put her hand to his chest. “I’m sorry, but you move too fast.”

  Out of the corner of her eye and close to her face, she saw a glint of something metal. A sharp pinch at her neck.

  Her vision swam.

  Trace

  Salamina, Greece

  1 June – 1730 Hours

  “Houston, what’s going on?”

  “It’s crazy. The whole freakin’ board is lighting up.” He let out a moaning groan that wavered, evidence of his not wanting to believe this. “Get her out of there, Trace. Get her out now.”

  Trace pivoted toward the balcony.

  An explosion of light and smoke erupted directly in front of him. Screams and shouts stabbed the air. Training threw him through the smoke fog instead of away from it. He cut through into the open, his eyes burning as he scanned the balcony. The empty balcony!

  “Houston,” he subvocalized as he hurried toward a set of stairs he hadn’t noticed before. “Where is she?”

  “Uh…”

  “I need help now, Houston.”

  “She’s…she’s gone, Trace.”

  He cursed. Hit the bottom step and turned a slow circle, drawing his weapon. He spit out a few more expletives. “Find her!” he hissed.

  “Where is the bodyguard?” a man demanded.

  Trace slammed himself against the wall, staring up at the upper balcony.

  “He came out here.”

  “Find him and kill him!”

  Sam

  Manson, Washington

  1 June – 0730 Hours (PST)

  Sam hit the trail, jogging around Wapato Lake a couple of times to burn off the frustration. Days and still no word from Otto on the print. And thankfully, no men in black showing up to cart either of them off to prison.

  His Bluetooth signaled a call and he connected. “Caliguari.”

  “Sam, hey, it’s Nolan. Just wanted to touch base about Colombia.”

  Sam dropped out of a run, squeezing his eyes. Shoot. Completely forgot about that.

  “The plane will be there tomorrow at 0800.”

  Pacing the path, Sam wrestled with the decision. Tomorrow. I can’t. But he had to if he wanted to keep paying his bills. If he ever wanted another gig. One thing he knew about Nolan Patterson was that he didn’t appreciate last-minute cancellations. “Right. Tomorrow.”

  “Is there a problem?”

  If he didn’t go, he wouldn’t be working for Dynamic Security Solutions ever again. Or any other security firm with military connections. Nolan would ostracize him. Sam looked around the lake. Tomorrow—he didn’t have anything planned. Still waiting on those prints. “No, not a problem.” He swept the sweat from his face.

  “Good. This VIP asked for you by name, so if you screw me on this—”

  “I’m good.” Had to be. “What do I need to know?”

  He resumed his jog as Nolan rattled off the information, including the pickup, drop off, and connections. The contact. The VIP. “We’ll supply what you need. Just be there at the airstrip first thing. Clear?”

  “Crystal.” Sam crested the incline and trekked around the vineyard. He ended the call, cursing himself for losing track of time and commitments. A week in Colombia routing sweaty, cigar-smoking, foul-mouthed drug lords—maybe it’d clear his head.

  My head isn’t clogged. He just had to find Ashland.

  But the more he thought about it, the more he began to wonder if walking out of Manson had been her doing.

  No. He wouldn’t buy that. He’d have to hear that from her own mouth.

  Sam made one last circuit, determined to reset his mind. Get mission minded about Colombia. Expectations. The VIP was an American attaché who had more power in his little finger than most U.S. seal-embossed dignitaries held. At least, with the Colombians. And often—with Sam, too. The gig often entailed security as the attaché made his way into hostile territory and Sam made sure the guy made it out alive and intact.

  As he jogged back down Wapato Lake Road toward the house, he slowed. Something was off. Sam cast his gaze about, searching for the trouble. And then he saw it—the car. The same one he’d confronted last night parked in his driveway.

  Fifty yards out and his Bluetooth buzzed again. “Caliguari,” he said as he moved to the side of the road, walking as a portion of it rose.

  “Sam. Otto.”

  Sam stopped. “You have something?”

  “Um, yes.”

  The words made Sam’s heart thud hard against his ribs. “Ser—”

  “But not what you think.”

  Should’ve known better. It was then the panic in the guy’s voice registered. “What’s going on, Otto?”

  “I’ve been trying—trying to get it back.”

  “Get what back?”

  “The results.”

  Sam shook his head. “Otto, you’re not making sense.”

  “Nothing makes sense about this!”

  Holding up a placating hand—to whom, he wasn’t sure, because Otto wasn’t here to see it—Sam squatted, his gaze on his house. “Easy there, big guy.”

  “Listen, Sam. They know.”

  “Who?”

  “If I knew that, don’t you think I’d tell you?!” Otto was shouting now. “They know we’re searching for her. That print—I think we’ve set off a firestorm, Sam. My computers are fried. Everything is locked up with some vicious virus.” Breathing hard, Otto gasped. “Be careful Sam. I think they might be coming.”

  “You’re overreacting,” Sam said, more to reassure himself than to quiet Otto.

  “Yeah, well two big black SUVs are pulling into the parking lot right now.”

  “Get out of there!” Sam jerked around, nervous for the tech geek.

  “Duh, genius. I’m not there. I left as soon as they fried my systems. Just keep your eyes out.”

  “Thanks. I’ll do that. Stay safe.”

  “Yeah, you too, though I think we’re beyond that.”

  Sam started toward his house. Had to get a few things before the MIB thugs showed up on his doorstep. Including getting rid of the nosy woman, whoever she was. Or…was she one of them?

  He entered the gravel drive.

  The car door swung open and the dark-haired bombshell stepped out. “Listen—I know you said to leave.”

&n
bsp; “I also said I’d shoot you if I saw you again,” he said as he slid the knife into his hand. “But all I have is this knife. And not a lot of time.”

  “Then I’ll talk fast.”

  On second thought, he didn’t have time for this. Not if the thugs were already at Otto’s. “You get a pass today,” he said and stalked to the deck. He tugged back the sliding glass door and went to the bedroom.

  “Thank you. I won’t take much of your time—”

  Sam spun, lifted the Glock from the holster strapped under the counter. He aimed it at her. “What’re you doing?”

  “You said I got a pass.”

  “Yeah, as in I wouldn’t kill you.” He waved the gun to the door. “Now.”

  “I need to talk to you about Ashland Palmieri.”

  “Never heard of her.”

  She nodded to his living area, to the credenza by the wall. “That photo says otherwise, along with all the interviews you gave.”

  “Know what? It’s your funeral.” Sam turned around. He went to the bedroom and tugged out a rucksack. Nolan said he didn’t need anything, but with the MIB squad coming, Sam might have to lie low for longer than a week.

  “My father is General Haym Solomon,” she spoke from the hall, standing by the bathroom. “Five years ago he was tasked with sending an SF unit to Misrata.”

  Libya. Yeah, so?

  “Something went very wrong. Twenty-two women and children died in a warehouse the team hit. I believe the man leading the mission, then–Captain Trace Weston, is responsible.”

  “Great. Congratulations.” He squinted at her as he stuffed a couple of tac shirts and pants into the bag, then pushed past her to the bathroom. “What’s this got to do with me or Ashland?”

  He grabbed a new bar of soap and his shampoo.

  “I believe Ashland was part of the team that hit the warehouse.”

  Sam straightened and stared at her. Hard. “Ashland.”

  She nodded, her wide brown eyes confident yet wary.

  Slinging the ruck over his shoulder, he stalked forward. “Five years ago.”

  She nodded again.

  “That alone tells me you’re barking up the wrong tree. Women weren’t in combat roles like that five years ago, so that tells me you have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Zulu.”

  Sam frowned. “What?”

  “That’s the name of the team that hit the warehouse. It was said the team was the last thing anyone would expect.” She planted her hands on her hips. “Wouldn’t expect females on a special ops team, would you?”

  “No, because they weren’t legal.” He nudged her aside and reached for the picture she’d pointed out earlier. After removing the back, he slid the picture free and tucked it in his back pocket. “Now, I don’t know what you think you might know about Ashland, but unless you plan to answer a lot of questions under the threat of electroshock therapy, I suggest you leave.” Sam swung open the door.

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “I’m warning you, Miss Solomon.”

  “How’d you know my name?”

  “I read minds,” Sam said, his irritation growing.

  “Ashland’s real name might be Annie Palermo.”

  “Come back when you have something stronger than pea soup to feed me.” Sam waited for her to exit then locked the door, something that felt futile once the suits arrived.

  “What will it take for you to listen to me?”

  “A hundred years.”

  The long blast of a horn drew his attention around. At the other end of Wapato Lake Road, he saw a caravan of black SUVs. Crap! Sam ran to his Charger and tossed in the sack.

  “What’s going on?”

  As he slid in, he said, “If I knew that, I wouldn’t be running.” Sam revved the engine—she’d parked him in. “Go!” he shouted to her.

  She raced to her black sedan and backed out.

  “C’mon, c’mon,” he said, revving the engine. She’d barely made it onto the road when he let ’er rip. The tires spun and rocks spit out, pinging the car. He didn’t care. Not now. The Charger roared back.

  He spun the wheel left and let it straighten out, then rammed it into DRIVE and gunned it again.

  A black Suburban tore up the road behind him.

  Adrenaline ripped through his veins.

  It seemed like slow motion. The six-point-six seconds it took his car to rev up to sixty felt like minutes, with that SUV growing larger and larger in his mirror. Sam pushed his driving skills. Spotted Woods Road. Aimed for it.

  He downshifted to take the turn, ignoring the big vehicle.

  The roar of an engine blazed through his ears seconds before a deafening crunch. A horrendous impact rammed the Charger to the right—off the road. Sam’s head cracked against the windshield. The car came to a dead stop.

  Silence and ringing warred for his hearing. Warmth sped down his temple. He groaned, shaking off the stun of the impact. He reached for the steering wheel, a haze filling the car from the deployed airbag, and then his gaze hit the half-dozen suits surrounding the Charger, weapons aimed at him.

  Defeat pushed Sam’s hands into the air that still reeked of the powder from the side-curtain airbag.

  Téya

  Roma Slums, Greece

  1 June – 1815 Hours

  Her heart skipped a beat. “You know them?”

  “No, but I know where they stay.”

  Could they trust him? Normally she could tell with kids and teens when they were pulling her leg, but this young man…he’d learned a lot living here. She couldn’t read him.

  Nuala held Téya’s gaze, question curling her dark brows.

  They really had no choice. If they didn’t follow him, and the Lorings really were there… But following this teen… Flashes of the mob last night and the searing pain of the mark. Téya drew her chin up. “Two loaves,” she agreed.

  “Cheese, too.” He held out his hand.

  “And the cheese—but only after you show us where they’re living.”

  He hesitated, glanced over his shoulder at something behind them. Though she scanned the distance, the windows, alcoves, shadows, she saw nothing. Finally, he gave a nod. “A’right then.”

  With half a bag of bread and one chunk of cheese left, they trailed the kid through the passages. He moved through the spaces like a pro, no doubt having grown up here and discovered all the ins and outs.

  As they neared the far side of the slums, her apprehension grew. Taller buildings towered over them, blocking light and seeming to hold them in the fist of danger. Shadows skittered around them, half of the movement from fluttering sheets or wind gusts that snapped up cardboard and metal roofs. Each snap elicited a flinch or jerk from Téya. Noodle wasn’t faring any better.

  “This is getting creepy,” Nuala said.

  “Getting?” Téya searched for a familiar landmark, but being closed in on all sides with tall buildings and cement, she shrugged and shook her head, as if she could shake off the chill that had nothing to do with the cooling day. This was like falling deeper and deeper down a rabbit hole. Though she tried to keep her bearings, Téya could feel those cords of control turning into the thin tendrils that defied her grip.

  Ahead, dark-headed John continued on without hesitation. She wasn’t sure if it was comforting or discomfiting that he knew where they were going and she didn’t. If it were Trace or Boone ahead…yeah, good. But this kid? The one bribing them for bread in exchange for vital information?

  “You sure you know where they live?” Téya mentally reached for her weapon, knowing she would use it if they were faced with an untenable situation. Whether she’d use it on the teen…she couldn’t imagine doing that. Not unless he held a weapon on her, too. Of course, she guessed Trace would argue information could be a weapon and he was holding that on them.

  This is crazy. I am not shooting a kid. Not tonight. Not…ever. She already had the blood of eighteen children on her hands.

 
Téya skidded her gaze to the shadows, shoulders tense, anxiety high. Every crinkle of paper or tink-tink-tink of a soda can dancing down an alley made her want to reach for the HK USP Compact.

  “John, I’m losing confidence in you,” Téya said with warning.

  “You’re not the only one,” Nuala said, her pale eyes tracing rooftops. “Wish I were on high ground.”

  “I wish I were back at the hotel eating the parmesan steak and shrimp special.” As if echoing her thoughts, her stomach growled.

  “Not sure how you can think about food right now.”

  “It’s comforting.”

  “Okay, that you can eat food for comfort and be that thin makes me sick,” Noodle said.

  Téya shrugged. “High metabolism.” She turned a circle, checking their six, as they walked. “Johnny?”

  “It’s just around the corner” the kid said.

  “What’s your name?” Téya asked, stepping carefully around a shanty that looked like one breath could bring it down.

  “John.”

  “Right,” she muttered. “Let me guess—your last name is Smith.”

  He threw a grin over his shoulder. “How’d you know?”

  “Great.” Nerves fractured, Téya considered heading back. They’d been walking for forty minutes already. The setting sun hid behind the buildings making it darker. Batman would do well here.

  “Just ahead,” John said.

  Téya studied the buildings a little more carefully, plotting courses to safety. Searching for trouble. They rounded one more corner, and John stopped and thumbed to a brick building on their right. “Third floor. Maybe fourth.”

  Four floors? Taking in the building only stirred more apprehension. Téya tilted her head back and let her gaze trek up the levels. Ha. Four floors would be easy. There were six here…well, on one side. The other had been wiped clean of half the floors. Unease slithered through her stomach when she saw the way half the building leaned to the left. The other half seemed to be pulling to the right. If they went in, their weight alone seemed like it could offset the balance and bring it all tumbling down. The stoop seemed the stopping point for fliers and boxes in various states of decay. It didn’t look like anyone had been through that door in months, if not longer.