by Ronie Kendig
Téya nodded to the door, and Nuala made for it. They were in the hall, the door almost closed, when Houston shouted, “Hey! There’s no cafeteria in a hotel—and Trace said to stay put!”
Laughing, they hurried out of the hotel and back onto the street. Adrenaline thrummed through Téya’s body. She skipped a step as they made their way back toward the slums.
“Think he’s awake?” Noodle asked.
“Maybe,” Téya said, her stomach clenching. “I gave him sleeping aids in his water, but who knows if that will keep him under at all.” She hated herself for remembering how toned his abs were and the larger version of the star-crescent over his left, well-defined pectoral.
“Wouldn’t he flee?”
She wanted to say nobody with that injury would flee. Maybe stumble out and collapse from the pain. But this wasn’t an ordinary person. This was The Turk. “I hope not. He needs to answer a few questions.”
“What if he doesn’t speak English?”
“Then he’s not a very good assassin.”
“What does speaking English and killing people have to do with each other?”
“To integrate into someone’s life to figure out how best to kill them, he’d need to master the language.” In theory, at least.
“I don’t have to speak any language but sniper for a kill shot,” Noodle said, panting as they walked. “And would you slow down?”
Téya rounded the rear of the hotel and jogged to the window. She hesitated at finding it open. Hands on the ledge, she hauled herself inside. The smell of something burnt snagged her senses first. Then the silence.
“I thought we closed it,” Nuala came in after her. “Whoa.”
The room had been meticulously rearranged. Bed made up. No sign of blood. No stains on the carpet. No bloody towels. In fact, new ones hung in perfect array on the plastic silver rod. Téya took in the cheap, framed print. Not a trace of dust. “He scrubbed it.”
“Didn’t want to leave evidence we could use to track him.”
“We don’t need to. Everyone knows who he is—The Turk.”
“We know what he wants us to know,” Noodle said as she went into the bathroom. “The last time this bathroom was this clean was probably ten years ago.”
A rap against the door put Téya’s heart into overdrive. Nuala reappeared and gave a curt nod. They were ready. Téya went to the door, not daring to look through the peephole and end up with a hole in the head. She yanked open the thin barrier.
Disheveled and drawn, the bearded man looked as surprised as Téya felt. “Are you Miss Reiker?”
Her heart spasmed, and her mouth went dry. She couldn’t move. How would he know her name, her real name? She hadn’t used it in Greece at all. Which put this man on the deadly side of the Richter scale.
With a nervous glance down both ends of the hall, he pushed a large hand through a mop of tangled, dirty-blond hair. “I don’t mean to be rude, but can I come in? I–I’m not safe.”
“Tell me who you are first.” She said, easing her weapon to a visible position.
His gaze went to the weapon. “H–hey. Easy now….” He licked his lips. “You’re looking for me. I–I’m Carl Loring.”
Trace
Somewhere over Salamina, Greece
2 June – 0515 Hours EEST
Sitting on the edge of the Black Hawk, boots dangling in the predawn air, Trace used his thermal scope to scan the forest below. Boone and Caliguari were scoping the terrain as well. Three pairs of eyes were better than two, though Trace hated having the guy with him.
Hated that it was possible Caliguari would find her first.
The thought pushed Trace to pay attention.
“I’ve got something,” Boone spoke through the coms. “Chopper’s two.”
Trace looked to his left where the chopper’s two o’clock position lay. Sure enough, a handful of heat signatures—small ones—raced over the ground.
“Goats?” Caliguari said.
Trace shook his head. They were too agile, moving too fast. “Dogs,” he countered. “Hunting party.”
“Yeah, and One is the quarry.”
That’s when Trace saw it—a heat signature alone, about a half mile away from the dogs. “Toomer, take us half klick to your three.”
“Copy that,” the pilot said as the bird swung in that direction.
Trace zoomed in on the position, but the image had vanished.
“What’d you see?” Boone asked.
Maybe he’d imagined it. “Not sure,” Trace said, scanning, agitation growing. She was out there. Had been for hours. Daylight was on the horizon, which put Annie’s odds at being recaptured higher. “Lost it.”
“Hang on,” Toomer pulled away and came back at a different angle. “There’s an incline. If someone’s hiding in the cleft…”
As they raced up the slope one more time, Trace spotted the signature again. “One o’clock.”
“I see it,” Caliguari called.
“Can we put down?” Boone asked.
“Negative,” Toomer said. “No room.”
Trace harnessed and hooked up to the steel rings riveted to the floor of the chopper. Just before he stepped off, he looked over and spotted Caliguari doing the same.
Sam
Hot in his gloved hands, Sam fast-roped out of the helo. Wind fought him, its needling fingers tugging at him as he made the rapid descent. He landed with a soft thud and went to a knee, his M4 sweeping the area. Weston hadn’t been pleased about Sam having a weapon, but he also hadn’t been able to argue against it. The man hated Sam, and it felt very personal.
Sam wasn’t worried. He had no ill intent here. His only mission and purpose was to find Ashland and make sure she was okay.
Then kiss her senseless.
The trees were quiet sentries on this Greek island, providing cover against the moonlight and the early morning lightening of the sky. He saw no visible threat. “Squid clear,” he said, hating that he had to use that term, but it was a concession. If it meant finding her…
To his right, he spotted the colonel kneeling behind a large boulder. He signaled Sam forward. Moving along a dense copse of saplings, Sam hustled toward the rendezvous point—the location they’d spotted the heat signature. No way of knowing if it was Ashland, but it’d be a long shot if it wasn’t her.
Thwack! Thwat!
Heat seared across his shoulder. From behind. Sam hurtled himself over a fallen limb and scrabbled up against the decaying wood. “Taking fire.” He gritted his teeth, refusing to admit he’d been nailed. Hand near the spot, he eyed it. Blood glistened under the moonlight, but it wasn’t much. Just a graze.
To his six, he heard a flurry of shots being exchanged. Sam rolled onto his stomach and low-crawled to the end of the log. Sliding his weapon, he eased into position. Traced the wash of illuminated terrain for the targets.
A head peeked out.
Sam took his time lining up the sights. “Target sighted,” he spoke quietly against the mic.
“Take the shot,” the colonel said.
Sam fired. The man pitched backward. “Target down.”
“Tango at your eleven, Squid,” came the near twang of the big guy, Boone.
“Copy,” Sam said, spotting the shooter. He wasn’t a sniper, but the men chasing Ashland were reckless. It was like picking cans off a line at a fair. “Target acquired.” He pulled the trigger back and, “Target down.”
Patiently, he waited, eyeing the terrain. Watching for more unfriendlies.
“Clear. Let’s move,” the colonel said.
They picked their way with stealth and deliberation toward the rocky cleft where they’d spotted the person. He’d worked contract gigs in the jungles of South America and the Middle East, but there was something about being part of a team. Having an objective you believed in. A purpose you’d die for.
He’d die for Ashland every day of the year.
Twenty minutes later, Sam grew wary. They’d gone too far. Should�
�ve come across the person by now. Unless the person is evading…
How would Ashland know they were friendly?
He nodded, sorting the thought. He reached for his mic to ask the colonel when a whistle sailed through the air. “Col—”
A weight slammed into Sam’s back. Pain detonated across the back of his head.
“Augh!” He pitched forward but had enough presence of mind to know if he went down, he was probably dead. He went to a knee to break his fall, coiled to strike. He swung out his arm.
Something flew at him.
Slammed him backward. He struggled against the person, wrestling with them. He swung a hard right. It barely glanced off the person’s jaw, but their legs were locked against his chest, squeezing.
Beams of light bobbed around them.
Blinding. Confusing.
Only in that chaos, Sam saw the glint of a gold curl.
“Stand down, stand down!” Heart thudding, Sam rammed out a hand against the chest of his attacker, holding them back so he could see the face.
Hands raised over their head, a large rock braced between their fingers, the person looked down at him. Blue eyes registered wild rage.
Then shock.
“Sam?!”
Francesca
Alexandria, Virginia
2 June – 1815 Hours EST
Having her job back, having her access returned, Frankie hesitantly made her way through the first few days. If she retrieved the wrong file or made the wrong call, everything could come crashing down on her. Again. The bitter taste of that defeat hung fresh in her mind, a strong warning. Tomorrow she would go back to work and throw herself into the job. Prove to her father and her boss that she could play by the rules.
Oh, she wasn’t quitting. That wasn’t in her genes.
She just had to be more careful. Play by their rules—and not get caught. She’d grown up with three brothers who treated her like their father’s fourth son. She could play with the big boys and not get hurt.
Tucking her legs up under her, she sat down on her sofa. After a quick glance around the living room she’d spent too much time fixing back up, she tugged her laptop over the cushion. She thumbed through the file from the accident and searched for the report from the EMT. Scanning, she dropped her gaze to the bottom. The signature was about as legible as a doctor’s. “Okay, so not much help yet.”
Frankie went to the laptop. Typed in Luckett’s Volunteer Fire Department. She found a handful of results and images but no EMTs. At least, not the one she was looking for.
Wait…wait… She forced herself to recall the lettering on the side of the ambulance. Loudoun County. She typed that in along with EMT.
“And voilà!” Frankie smiled down at the image of the EMT with a group of others. A feature from Leesburg Today with a picture of the men—and a caption. “God loves me,” Frankie muttered as she read the names. “… and one Landon Ramage.”
Ramage. According to the article, the Ramages were fixtures in Loudoun County since the early 1800s, having owned land and horses dating back to almost as late.
Frankie’s grin widened as she typed in his name and city. A half-dozen pictures from local events erupted. Including one with Landon and his older brother, former Army Special Forces sniper—sniper? The back of her neck prickled—“Boone Ramage.”
A wild tendril of an idea rushed through her. She went to land records. Searched.
No MATCHES FOUND.
Frankie frowned. “How can there be no matches?” The article had explicitly stated the family owned land there in Loudoun, had for nearly two hundred years. Maybe she typed it wrong. She tried again.
No MATCHES FOUND.
Despite attempts to locate other records, she came up empty. Frustration tightened a noose around her neck. If she kept pushing—this is what got her in trouble last time.
“I am not easily scared off,” she murmured.
But she hated losing.
Curiosity caught her by the throat. She accessed her work login and navigated into the secure databases. A strange squirreling wormed through her belly. He had to have a driver’s license. Did he even own a vehicle? Or have a credit card?
If she didn’t know better, she’d say Boone Ramage and his family didn’t exist. But she’d met the man. She’d seen him. There were photos on the Internet of him and his younger brother. Frankie glanced at the screen from the local paper. She had to admit—the Ramages bred well. Both sons were striking, handsome. “Well built, too,” she murmured around a smile. “And not married.”
The page automatically refreshed—and Frankie froze. She tilted her head. “Wha…?” She hit the manual refresh icon. But the page was blank. “I was just there. How can it be blank?” After verifying she still had Internet access, she refreshed again. This time, a single line of text vaulted her stomach into her throat.
THE PAGE YOU HAVE REQUESTED HAS BEEN REMOVED.
Nausea swirled. Fingertips to her temples, she tried to weigh what this meant. It wasn’t a coincidence that she’d just looked up Ramage and suddenly he disappeared from the face of the planet.
When her phone rang, she yelped. Glanced at it as if it had the plague. Carefully, as if they could remotely see her through it somehow—she peered at the caller ID.
UNKNOWN NAME.
Right. No way would she answer that.
It went to voice mail. A few minutes later, her phone signaled a message had been received. Frankie played it.
“Contact Leland Marlowe. He can help.” It’d come from Varden. No wonder the identity didn’t show up.
Frankie’s breath rushed out of her. Leland Marlowe? As in General Leland “Freeland” Marlowe, the firebrand general who’d swept the military clean as one of the joint chiefs last year?
Annie
Athens, Greece
2 June – 0615 Hours EEST
Annie rolled off him, careful of her injured ankle, and slumped to the ground. Sam? Sam was here? How was that even possible?
He shifted toward her, the predawn hour barely providing enough light to see his face. “Ash, you okay?”
Ash.
He was on his knees.
Numbness rolled through her, soaking her muscles. Drenching her brain. What was he doing here? Sam didn’t belong here.
“Ash—you okay?” he said, more urgently, cupping her face.
His deep, rich brown eyes broke through the daze that fogged her mind. “Sam. Why…?”
“I’m here. It’s okay,” he said, his voice…weird.
Annie drew back, a strange spike of anger bursting through her. Get off. But that was rude. And he was Sam. But why was he here?
He tried to pull her closer.
With both hands, she shoved him backward. “Stop.”
Boots thudded closer.
“One, you hurt?”
Annie glanced up. Trace stood over her, his face unreadable. But perfect. Exactly what she needed. “My ankle.”
He offered his hand and she reached up, clasping his forearm. His strong fingers tightened around her arm and pulled her up. Hissing through the pain, she struggled to stay balanced. “What happened?”
“Dogs.” A shiver traced her spine, the morning cooler than she’d realized.
Trace nodded. “Chopper’s on the way back. But we have almost a full klick to cover.”
At their side, Boone communicated with the chopper, shedding his pack then removing his tactical jacket. He wrapped it around Annie’s shoulders, and she shuddered in the cradle of its warmth. “Thanks, Boone.”
He gave a nod and lifted his gear and weapon again. “Two mikes to rendezvous.”
This was better. The precision, the strategy, the focus. “Okay,” she said with a single nod.
Trace’s arm slipped under hers and hooked around her waist. “Other injuries?”
Annie gave a quick shake, her gaze skirting to Sam.
He stood to the side, his expression dark. Stricken.
Unable to sort what
she felt, the confusion, the anger, the…she didn’t know what. It was a tangled mess like a plate of spaghetti.
I hate spaghetti.
“Squid, give a hand,” Trace said.
Without hesitation, Sam trudged over to Annie’s right and hooked an arm beneath hers. The two men formed a cradle and supported her. They hurried up the hillside to a clearing. They’d no sooner gotten there and the chopper, still blacked out, hovered over them. Ropes snaked down.
Trace quickly worked a rope into a harness and helped her into it, creating an awkward and unladylike mess of her dress. Annie no longer cared. She just wanted to get out of here. Once the men were on board, the chopper veered away from the estate.
Sam took the seat beside her, and Trace remained in the jump seat, eyes trained out. Weapon ready. Boone sat on the other side, watching as well.
Guilt choked Annie. She could feel the tension she’d created between Sam and her. It was palpable. But he—it didn’t make sense for him to be here. He had no business entering her life like this.
Does he know who I really am? That I lied to him for two years?
She thanked God a thousand times on the twenty-minute flight to the airstrip that the rotor wash and engine noise were too loud for any conversation to take place. Mostly because she had no idea what to say.
Before the wheels touched down, Trace hopped to the ground. He shifted the sling so his weapon was against his back. He turned and looked into the chopper at her. It was crazy. Really crazy how much she just wanted Trace to be here. Only Trace. It made no sense. Made her feel like a traitor. Unfaithful.
“Will your leg hold?” Trace hollered as the chopper whined down. He held out a hand.
Terrified to face Sam, to face the hurt she’d inflicted, to face the deep, bewildering confusion she felt, Annie scooted across the strap seats toward Trace, keeping her leg elevated.
She reached for his hand.
“Here,” he said, tugging her into his arms.
Annie tumbled, her foot jarring against the chopper. She tensed at the burst of pain but relaxed as she felt Trace’s firm hold tighten. He carried her to the SUV where Boone had a door open. Inside the vehicle—that’s when Annie finally felt safe. When the terror she’d felt, the hypervigilance she’d needed to survive began to melt away.