by Ronie Kendig
Sam climbed in next to her.
The doors shut and Annie realized they were alone. Her conscience pricked, warned her she should apologize.
For what?
For shoving him away. With both hands. In front of Trace.
But she wasn’t sorry.
“You’re mad.” His voice poured over her like warm chocolate. As always.
Annie steeled herself. Told herself to talk to him. Explain what she felt. Why she was angry—and that it was so weird to be angry with him. Hadn’t she spent the last five weeks pining over the fact that Trace wouldn’t let her see or talk to him?
The doors opened and the vehicle rocked as Boone and Trace climbed into the front seats.
Trace looked over his shoulder at her. “We’ll have a doctor at the hotel waiting.”
She nodded. Had all but forgotten about her ankle.
But her mouth was dry. Her body exhausted. Sam’s strong hands wrapped around hers. Her heart…jammed. She wanted to snatch her hands free.
What’s going on with me? What’s with the anger? The animosity churning in her chest stunned her. Sharing the passionate kiss with Sam on the deck in Manson felt like a lifetime ago. Why? Didn’t she want him? Want the hope of the life they’d taken the tentative steps toward starting?
One question gaped at her more than any other. Why am I not happy to see Sam?
Trace
Athens, Greece
2 June – 1020 Hours EEST
With Annie huddled between him and Sam again, Trace hustled her into the hotel room. A million alarms blazed when he registered a man and two children sitting at the small dining table in the far corner of the room. He nearly dropped Annie.
“Uh,” Houston punched to his feet and pointed to another man. “Dr. Foster is here.”
“Got it,” Boone said, nodding Trace toward the others with a “take care of it” look as he slipped in and aided Sam in delivering Annie to the bedroom.
A short, stout man with dark hair and a medical bag rushed after them.
Trace closed the door and locked it then turned to face the others. He rested his hand on his Glock.
The side door opened and Téya emerged with a middle-aged woman with wet brown hair. She wore clothes that didn’t quite fit her short frame.
Téya’s eyes widened. “Commander.” She waved the woman to the table then went and passed the woman a bowl from a room service dining cart.
“Anyone want to fill me in?” he asked as he watched the woman cast nervous glances at the man.
“Commander,” Téya said in a voice that was entirely too calm, “this is Carl Loring and his wife, Sharlene.”
Stunned, he stared at the couple. The children. So, Zulu had accomplished their objective. “What took so long to find them?”
Nuala rose from a chair where she’d sat undetected until now. “The slums—it’s like its own small city. It’s a”—Noodle’s gaze darted to Téya’s—“miracle, really, that we found them at all.”
“We were hiding,” Carl Loring said. “And when you don’t want to be found in a place like that, it’s possible to stay hidden for”—he shrugged—“probably forever.”
Something smelled rotten. Trace stared at Téya. Then Nuala. They wouldn’t look at him. Or at each other.
“I can help you,” Loring said. “I was the financial officer for HOMe for the last eight years.”
“So why are you living in the slums?” Trace folded his arms.
“Hiding in the slums,” Loring corrected then glanced at his wife. “We aren’t sure what changed, but about two months ago, a man came to our door. He said some things were going to come to light, but if I’d help him, he’d make sure my family and I were safe.”
“What things?”
“Financial statements. Black market transactions between HOMe and various organizations.”
Trace scowled and searched their faces. “You have this proof?”
“N–no,” Loring muttered, looking to his wife. “I was in the process of uncovering the information when everything went crazy.”
“Someone burned down our home,” Mrs. Loring said, her eyes glossy.
“He got us into the slum and told us to stay there. Then he came to me early this morning and said you would help.”
“Who are you talking about?” Trace asked. “Who told you we’d help?”
“Not you. He said she would.” Mr. Loring pointed to Téya. “Miss Reiker.”
Trace unfolded his arms and pulled straight. “Who gave you her name?”
“The man,” he said, flicking a finger in the air around his cheekbone. “He said you saved his life, so he owed you.”
Téya darted her gaze around nervously, swallowing.
“Who?” Trace demanded.
Wetting her lips, Téya drew up her shoulders. Let out a long breath. “The Turk.”
“You saw The Turk and didn’t tell me?”
“I shot him.” She said it so plainly as if she were telling him about a doughnut she ate. “It was a mistake. He was going to die, so—”
“You should’ve let him!”
Téya’s eyes flashed. “I wanted answers.”
“You only needed one—that he was dead!”
Trace’s phone buzzed. “We’ll sort this out in Virginia.” He pivoted to Houston, who sat with his head down, hand over his mouth. “Get us back there, Houston. ASAP.”
The geek nodded and went to work.
Livid and boiling, Trace moved to the private suite. His phone buzzed again and he lifted it, checked the caller ID, and answered. “General, how are you?”
“Trace, sit down.”
Stilled by those words, Trace felt as he had the night of the warehouse disaster. “What’s wrong?”
“Know I’d rather spit on this than tell you, but—”
“Just say it,” Trace bit out.
“You are being ordered back to DC. General Leland Marlowe has given orders for you to stand down all operations and return to DC at once to stand before a full congressional hearing regarding Misrata.”
The world whooshed out from under Trace’s feet. “They can’t do this. I was already cleared.”
“Separate charge, Trace. They can and they are. You are temporarily relieved of duty until this matter is settled.”
IX
Boone
Approximately 34,000 Feet over the Atlantic Ocean
3 June – 0730 Hours
The mood had shifted among the team, weighted by exhaustion. Dim lights provided a serene atmosphere in the cabin of a hired private jet ferrying them back to Virginia. The Lorings were tucked away at the back, resting. Trace had opted for the quicker route rather than the predictable one. He wanted the Lorings on U.S. soil as soon as possible. Boone couldn’t blame him, especially now that there was a chance Misrata could get laid to rest with a healthy dose of truth.
Across and one group up from the Squid the girls sat, mostly quiet. On second thought—Téya and Noodle were in animated conversation. Annie sat with her hands in her lap, looking down. Boone could see from his seat that every now and then her gaze slid toward the Squid. Now, wasn’t that interesting that she wasn’t sitting with him? Wasn’t talking to him? She’d given them grief over not being able to talk to the guy, and now that he was here, she wouldn’t give him the time of day.
Renewed focus surrounded Zulu and propelled them to action. Along with that came a new level of tension and agitation, partially laid at the feet of Téya Reiker for her unwilling connection to The Turk. Having that type of breathing down your neck was the equivalent of a nuke’s skin-melting fire. Especially with the fury rolling off Trace.
Trace dropped into the chair across from Boone and ran his hand along his closely shorn hair with a heavy sigh.
“Things a’right?” Boone asked as the plane seemed to level off to make its trek back to the States.
Shaking his head, Trace leaned back against the headrest. “Couldn’t be worse.”
&nbs
p; Boone adjusted in the chair. Concern knotted his shoulder muscles. He knew things had gone a bit crazy with Téya making contact again with The Turk. And with the addition of the Squid. But Trace…he’d been a storm brewing since they started packing up. “Something I don’t know about?”
After another long sigh, Trace leaned closer, his elbow resting on the arm of the seat and his hand hovering near his mouth. “They’re launching another hearing about Misrata.”
“What?” Boone angled toward Trace and kept his voice down so the others didn’t hear them. “Why would they open that thing up again? There’s nothing to prove.”
Trace shrugged. “I’ve been ordered to stand down. Cease all operations.”
Boone went still and eyed the man he considered both a friend and a confidant. Shutting down Zulu now… “We must be getting close.”
Jaw out, Trace gave a slow nod. “That’s one way of looking at it.”
“Do the girls know?”
“No, and they won’t. We’re making progress, but we need to speed things up.” Trace stretched his neck. “We need to get the Lorings back to the bunker and get every mote of dust out of their brains about Misrata.”
“Still don’t get why they weren’t listed among the survivors.”
“There was a lot wrong with the information provided,” Trace countered.
“True.” Boone nodded, lips pursed as he seemed to think through things. He sighed and met Trace’s gaze. “Kinda strange, the way The Turk sent Mr. Loring to Téya, don’t you think?”
“Definitely. She’s going to answer for that,” Trace said, a warning in his words.
“Think The Turk will be a problem?”
“I’m going to be a problem. She broke the rules. She stepped outside to do what she wanted. She put everyone in jeopardy,” Trace said.
“And if she hadn’t, we wouldn’t have found Loring.”
After shooting him a look, Trace pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m getting too old for this stuff, Boone-Dawg. I feel like I’m trying to corral second graders.”
Up the aisle a bit, the Squid scooted across the seat. Angled around to face Annie. He said something softly to her, and she slowly met his gaze. She seemed to be considering something. Maybe he’d asked a question. Or commented on something. Her expression seemed pained, what with her knotted eyebrows and tormented eyes. That’s when she finally shook her head and looked away.
“What about the Squid?” Boone asked as the Squid sat straight and pushed his gaze out the night-darkened window. “Annie didn’t give him the reception he expected.”
“She never does,” Trace muttered.
“What’s that about anyway?” Boone muttered. “Why’s she ignoring him?”
“Annie compartmentalizes. She’s an ace at it, which is why she’s good at ops.” Closing his eyes, Trace leaned back against the white leather seat. “He stepped into the wrong box, and she can’t cope with him being in this part of her world.”
“So, what? They’re over?”
Without a word, Trace pushed out of his seat. Away from the Squid. Away from the girls who sat two seating groups up from Boone. Away from Boone and this conversation.
It didn’t take a genius to see the pleasure Trace took in Annie’s cold shoulder toward the SEAL. But Boone struggled to figure out why his buddy didn’t make the move he so clearly wanted to make. To fix that bridge he’d wrecked five years ago.
Maybe that’s what perturbed Annie, too. Not so much the compartmentalization but the fact that with Squid back in the picture, the chances were rickety that she could figure things out with Trace. Even now, her gaze trailed Trace to the rear of the plane.
They’d set the girls loose on an unsuspecting populace five years ago, and each of them had found a romantic interest at one time or another—well, all except Noodle. The pretty little thing didn’t lack for looks or sweetness, so he wasn’t sure why she stayed single. Maybe the men she met were afraid of the siren who could slay with looks and a Remington 700. Boone found himself grinning. Noodle’s pale blue eyes came to his, and something in his chest knocked funny.
Annie
Annie saw Trace stalk to the back of the plane and hurried after him, careful to slide by Sam without looking. She hated herself. Hated being right here with him and wanting nothing more than to jump out the nearest emergency exit. He confused her. Mixed her up too much by being on this mission.
With his back to her, Trace stood at the small galley fridge guzzling a bottle of water. He lowered the bottle and met her gaze, lowering it the rest of the way slowly.
In her periphery, she could still see Sam, so she took a step forward, though it put her almost toe-to-toe with Trace. “What is he doing here?” she demanded.
After swallowing the rest of the water, Trace tossed the bottle in a small trash bag, his gaze never leaving hers. “I needed him where I could see and control him.”
“What does that mean?”
“That he plastered your name and likeness all over the Internet. He ran your fingerprints through databases.”
“Fingerprints? Where’d he get those?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Trace said, hooking his hands on a thin counter behind him. “He had them, and we couldn’t afford you popping back up on the grid when you’re supposed to be dead.”
“But here?”
Trace said nothing, just gave her that look. The one that said he didn’t have a regret. That he made the right decision.
“Just like Albuquerque.”
He flinched.
“This is just like that because you think it’s the right thing.”
Remaining tight-lipped, he didn’t move.
Annie scooted in till she stood wedged between him and the counter. “Trace, I can’t do this. I can’t operate with him here.”
“Fine.”
She breathed a little easier.
“I’ll send him to max-sec.”
“Prison? Are you serious?”
Again, he went tight-lipped.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Sending him away, where I can’t speak to him.”
“I want him where he can’t do any more harm to you or the others. It’s not just about you, Annie.”
She leaned in, her heart thundering. “Isn’t it, Trace?”
“What does that mean?”
“You brought him here because you knew I wouldn’t like it. You wanted him to see that. To see me blow him off.”
“I wanted his hands out of the fire. Do you realize, have any idea, what his hunting you almost did to this entire team? Do you know what it’s done to me?”
“To you?” She scoffed. “You did this because you couldn’t have me, so you didn’t want him to have me.”
“It was five years ago, Annie. I got over it.”
“Yeah?” she said, her lungs squeezing tight. “Well, I haven’t.”
Trace went still, his green eyes probing hers.
The heat rushed through Annie’s face, disbelieving she’d said that out loud.
His frown deepened, digging a deep groove between his eyes. That look is what darkened the intensity around his eyes. What had drawn her in…every time. She could smell him. Smell the woodsy scent that mingled with the smell that was uniquely Trace.
His hand came to her cheek, smelling of antiseptic soap—probably from the onboard bathrooms. Despite calloused fingers, his touch was light. Soft as he traced his thumb along her jaw.
Annie felt her body responding to his touch as it had all those years ago. The tremor in her chest strangled the hope of a steady breath.
He leaned closer, his gaze on her mouth.
Breath backed into her throat.
“Need something, Squid?” Trace said, his breath skidding across her cheek, then he eased away.
Annie jerked, realizing Trace was actually looking over her shoulder. She glanced that way and froze. Darkening what served as a doorway, Sam stood there, a wicked storm brewing in his expression. When she
moved backward, she bumped the counter, so she sidestepped and turned. “Sam.”
His upper lip curled. “This how you keep her loyalty, Colonel?”
Trace moved toward Sam, and Annie planted her hands against Trace’s abs. “Trace, don’t.”
Eyes on Sam, Trace touched Annie’s shoulder. “It’s okay.” Trace almost looked ambivalent. He moved past Sam, every taut second it took him to move past him filled with crackling tension.
Fists balled, Sam gave her commander a look that could kill.
Annie breathed a cold, painful breath as Trace returned to his seat. Then slapped Sam’s gut. “What was that? Do you really have a death wish?”
This time, Sam seemed ambivalent. “Talking to me now?”
Fingers to her forehead, Annie slumped against the wall of cabinets. “Sam… I’m sorry.”
“For what?” He stepped into the clogged space. Arms folded, he looked much larger than she remembered. “For lying to me for two years? For faking your attraction to me? Or for attacking me in Greece?”
“That’s not fair.”
He smirked. “You’re right. It’s not. None of it. But here we are.”
Heart aching, Annie lowered her head. It was too much to take in. Too much to process. That he was here. That she had a lot of truth-catching-up to do.
Sam edged in closer, his hands catching her arms and holding her in place. He peered down at her with those rich, dark eyes of his. The last few days had to have been rough on him, because his five o’clock shadow looked closer to midnight now. “Just tell me what happened between us was real.”
“Sam…”
“Just tell me that, and we can sort out the rest later.”
“Ye—” The word caught in her throat, forcing her to swallow.
“Hesitating? Seriously?”
“Sam, there’s a lot happening. A lot of deadly things.”
“Yeah, I know. My car was rammed off the road. I was there the night—shortly after a heavy make-out session with you, if I remember correctly—that a sniper tried to take our heads off. I get stress. I get combat.” His eyes darkened. “I don’t get your reticence about us. Was I just convenient?”
Annie stepped back, flaring her nostrils. “Don’t do this to me.” She set her jaw. “Give me time, Sam. I can’t sort through anything right now. I haven’t had time to think, and being sarcastic about us doesn’t help.”