by Ronie Kendig
“But you want to work it out?”
“Yes.” Annie blinked, not at his smile that ensued but at the doubts that lingered in her mind. I think so.
Nuala
Lucketts, Virginia
4 June – 0930 Hours
Being an introvert always put her on the outside of conversations and goings-on. But it also left Nuala very intuitive and perceptive of others’ feelings. Rarely did people ask what she thought—not that she’d volunteer her inner workings because she’d never forgive herself for hurting someone, and she’d die inside a little if she was wrong and humiliated herself. They viewed her as quiet, maybe even demure. Thankfully, at least one person in this underground bunker saw her strength. It wasn’t the six-pack abs or bulging bicep strength, but one at the center of her being. A strength that wouldn’t let her quit or give up. It challenged her and pushed her to do better, be better.
Maybe if she’d been better or stronger Boone might’ve chosen her instead of Keeley.
Which wasn’t a fair thought. Because Keeley had everything Nuala didn’t—confidence, humor, an outgoing personality, and… Boone.
An old, familiar ache wormed through Nuala’s chest.
Stop.
He’d made his choice. And they were a happy couple. Everyone involved with Zulu knew that. Though it went against regs, nobody opposed them dating. It was a tough gig. Much like it must be for Carl and Sharlene Loring, who sat at the table with Téya. Their single-digit kiddos were on the floor of the lounge area, watching TV. The little girl multitasked between the cartoon and the coloring pages Houston had printed out and turned over to her with his array of colored pens. How did two people work in a missionary setting with two children and come out of it happy?
But…were they happy? Nuala eyed the two. Mrs. Loring had brown hair and matching brown eyes. Her husband had a Swiss appearance with his blond hair and blue eyes. Tall and lanky, he was taller than his wife even when seated. Right next to each other. And yet his hands were on the table.
Though Mrs. Loring looked distressed, Mr. Loring offered no sympathy. Nuala wouldn’t deal with that. She needed a man who would devote time and concern for her. Understand her idiosyncrasies and fears then offer encouragement. Strength.
Boone often did that.
Stop. It!
Nuala shifted in her seat suddenly, drawing the attention of the Lorings and Téya, who sat at the other end. With a fake smile plastered on her face, Nuala met their curious gazes. “Anyone want a glass of water or tea?”
“Water, please.” Mrs. Loring gave a relieved smile.
“Look,” Mr. Loring said, not taking his gaze from Téya and Trace. “I’m telling you, Chandler and Hollister are a waste of time.”
“How’s that?” Trace seemed agitated. And not necessarily about the Lorings. Or maybe it was.
Nuala wasn’t sure she trusted her assessments right now since her emotions were too tangled up in the nightmares and the events in the Roma slums. Though she had the same combat medic skills Téya had—they all did, in fact; it was part of their training—Nuala had never put them to use to extract a bullet and sew up someone. Especially not a notorious assassin who’d put their lives in jeopardy.
“Ballenger,” Mr. Loring said. “You need to talk to Berg Ballenger.”
Nuala poured two glasses of ice water, her attention trained on the conversation.
Téya gave a soft laugh. “We met with him in Paris. He blamed HOMe. He basically said Chandler and Hollister were trying to kill him.”
Loring shook his head and looked at his wife. “Those ladies don’t have it in them to hire a hit man, but I wouldn’t blame them if they had.”
A commotion to the side drew everyone’s attention and silence. The eight-year-old girl and her brother were arguing under their breath. The girl, Cora, seemed distressed and insistent upon something Charles refused. He caught her hand and whispered something quite harshly to her.
Nuala slid her gaze to the parents, who watched but hadn’t moved.
Why isn’t the mother going to her children?
Just then, Sharlene Loring rose from her chair and went to the lounge area. She squatted with her back to Nuala and the others. Quiet words were spoken, then Sharlene returned with a weary smile. “They are tired of being on the run, of not having their own space.”
Back at the table, Nuala handed Mrs. Loring the water then slid into her own chair.
Trace’s arms were folded. “Back to Ballenger,” he said. “Why wouldn’t you blame HOMe if they wanted to hurt him?”
Mr. Loring nodded to his wife, who gave him a reticent look. “Go on,” he said. “Tell them.”
She hesitated again.
Trace leaned forward and rested his arms on the table. “Mrs. Loring, I promise we are only after the truth here.”
“It’s disconcerting,” she admitted, “with the way you’re keeping us here. Won’t allow us to go outside.”
“My superiors are working on setting up a home for you and your children as we speak,” Trace said. “You will all be safe. You can start over. But we also need whatever you can give us to settle what happened in Misrata.”
She swallowed and gave Nuala a smile then Téya. Took a sip of water. Set the glass down. Turned it. Then let her hands rest back in her lap. “It was Berg.”
Trace—and in fact, all of Zulu—blinked. “What was Berg?”
“He’s the one who told Miss Hollister about the warehouse.” Sharlene tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and gave a shaky smile. “I’d been out walking in the small garden outside the building we were being evicted from. When I came back in, I heard them arguing. He told her he’d found a place for us to go till the new permits came through for the other building. But she said she wouldn’t move us to a rundown warehouse in what was basically the slums. He told her there wasn’t a choice and reassured her it was safe.”
Téya and Trace shared a long, meaningful look.
Expression taut, Trace got that knotted-up look that clouded his handsome features when he wasn’t happy. Nuala could practically smell the fury burning through him. “You’re sure? You are absolutely sure Ballenger is the one who sent you there?”
“I am,” Mrs. Loring said.
“I need to make some calls,” Trace said as he pushed out of his chair. “I’ll find out about your house, but I’m sure we’re going to have more questions.”
The Lorings gave a mute nod before moving to join their children.
Nuala and Téya huddled by Houston’s workstation. “That was interesting,” Nuala said.
“Right?” Téya chewed her lower lip. “But it sure explains a lot.”
Though she had her own ideas, Nuala wanted to hear what her friend was thinking. “Like?”
“Like why the man disappeared after Misrata. Like why I got the snot beat out of me in Denver.” Téya’s nostrils flared. “And why The Turk was there in Paris. It wasn’t an accident. He was after Ballenger, saw me, and then I became a soft target.”
“Maybe not so soft,” Nuala said. “But I have a question.”
Téya eyed her.
“Why aren’t the Lorings acting like parents?”
“What?”
Nuala stole a peek at the family, noting that once again the Lorings were sitting apart from the children and talking in hushed tones. “For two people who are supposed to be very loving, why don’t they touch?”
Téya frowned. “Not everyone is a softie like you.”
The words stung, but Nuala buried it, as she always did. “They just don’t seem keyed into each other. They seem…separate.”
“They’ve been through a lot. Maybe that’s what you’re seeing.”
Nuala gave a halfhearted, one-shouldered shrug. “Maybe.” She hated thinking the worst of people, and it was true. The Lorings had been through a lot, having endured Misrata years ago. “They’ve been hiding all this time?” Her gaze struck the children. That didn’t make sense.
Téya no
dded, a frown creeping into her tawny features. “What now?”
The tone, the expression, even her stance bespoke Téya’s irritation. Téya wanted her to let it go. And she would. “Nothing.” But…
Boone sprinted through the warehouse, his face pale.
Heart in her throat, Nuala rushed after him. “What’s wrong?”
But he said nothing, only sprinted out and up the darkened steps out of the bunker. Nuala turned, searching for an answer.
“Houston,” Téya barked as she stalked toward him. “What happened?”
The geek lowered his head, his mouth set in a grim line. “The hospital called. Something’s wrong. Keeley’s vitals are all dropping. Her organs are shutting down.”
Nuala felt a bitter, metallic taste in her mouth. “But…but she was better.” This couldn’t happen. It’d shatter Boone. “They were just waiting for her to wake up.”
“And now,” Houston said softly, gently, “she may never wake up.”
Trace
Fort Belvoir, Virginia
4 June – 0945 Hours
“I gotta tell you—it looks bad, Trace.” General Haym Solomon clicked a pen and set it on the desk in front of him. The pen doubled as a jamming device to block the inevitable listening devices that picked up chatter. They’d have a few minutes before it clicked off and their conversation would resume being recorded.
“When doesn’t it look bad?” Trace lowered himself into the seat across the desk from General Solomon. There were few days Trace felt more choked and awkward than in his uniform, but today—coming here, addressing the topic at hand—he was sure the collar had taken the form of a noose. “And just when progress is on the other side of the door.”
Solomon’s salt-and-pepper eyebrows rose, creasing his forehead. “The Lorings?”
Trace nodded. “We have them. And while they don’t have a full road map, they’ve given us a pretty decent tip.”
Solomon’s bushy eyebrows rose again, this time in impatient expectation.
“The wife says Ballenger is the one who sent the orphans and staff to the warehouse that night.”
“Ballenger?” Haym pushed back in his chair and rubbed his lower lip. “How would he know anything? He was supposed to be a cradle-robbing loser.”
“The cradle was robbed,” Trace said with no hint of the humor his words begged. “But I think we need to talk to Ballenger again.”
“Agreed,” Haym said.
“I’ve got Houston hunting him down. After what happened in Paris, it might be tricky getting him to talk to us again.”
“Speaking of Paris—what about Two?”
Trace gave a hefty sigh. He knew this would come up. “We’ve had a complication there, too.”
“You do know you’re supposed to avoid complications, right?” The wry smile on Haym’s face did nothing to appease the guilt and frustration Trace felt.
“When she was in Athens, she got ganged up on in the slums. Someone burned The Turk’s mark into her hand. Then she shot him in an alley—”
“Shot The Turk?”
Trace stilled, measuring the general’s response to that statement, then gave a slow nod. “She didn’t realize who he was when she pulled the trigger. She’d been trying to protect a boy she believed had information on the Lorings’ location.”
“Is he dead?”
Trace snorted. “You forgot the part where things are complicated.”
“So, he’s alive. And he knows she shot him?”
“And that she sewed him up and put him back on his feet.”
Haym’s expression went from wide-eyed disbelief to scowling fury. “You realize—”
“Fully. She and I will be having a long talk. The only good thing that came out of her foolishness was that The Turk sent the Lorings to her.”
Haym muttered something, shaking his head. “We do not need to owe that cold-blooded assassin anything.”
“Agreed. I’m hoping that Téya’s moment of weakness in having compassion on that murderer will even the score, that The Turk will call it even and walk away.”
With a loud, long guffaw, Haym held a hand over his chest. “You aren’t that naive, Trace.”
“No, sir, but I’m feeling that desperate.”
Thumbing away moisture from the corner of his eye, Haym shook his head. “All right. Back to the hearing.”
Trace nodded. There wasn’t much else to say or do. He was at the mercy of those who held more power than they should and made more money in one month wearing silk suits and ties than he made in a year running operations in the desert. When those suits got raises, he and his men went without a warm breakfast.
“I’m going to tell you something you won’t like.”
Again, Trace nodded. Waited.
Solomon’s gaze moved to the wall of bookcases where a framed print—Is that new? Trace hadn’t seen that before—smiled back. Make that, two dark-haired beauties smiled back. One, clearly older, the other—Francesca Solomon? Trace frowned. She had her hair down and makeup expertly applied. They both did. But Trace’s mind snagged on the younger woman. Francesca. She could easily be a model or actress. But…where was that Francesca Solomon, the softer one, the one with a warm smile and rare beauty? He’d only met the hard-as-nails one, the one who wore her hair tied back and skipped the makeup. The one who had steel in place of the Italian femininity evident in the picture.
“Hard to believe she’s mine sometimes—like that picture. Taken at my niece’s wedding. Frankie and her mother looked like angels. I was the luckiest man on earth that day.” He sighed.
Trace shifted uncomfortably. The general’s daughter might be able to dress up and play pretty, but she couldn’t fool him into believing she was anything other than a demon in disguise.
All that aside, what was the general’s point?
“I think Frankie’s behind this.”
“Sir?”
Haym slid something across the desk.
Trace lifted it and opened the file. A dialogue transcript. He scanned it and asked, “What is it?”
“Surveillance transcript of a meeting between Francesca and a man named Elijah Varden.” Trace heard the sneer in the general’s voice as he scanned the document. “He’s a major, serving under—”
“Marlowe.” Trace’s gaze stuck to the name at the bottom.
“Afraid so.”
Slapping the folder shut and tossing it on the desk did nothing to appease the burn in Trace’s chest. “It’d be too much to ask them to stand down and let me get this solved, wouldn’t it?”
“They’d blow you off, say you’ve had the last five years.”
“What about when they learn of the deaths?”
“You mean the Three, Four, and Five?”
Who else would he mean? “Five’s not dead.”
“Honestly,” Haym said, “I don’t think it will matter to them. In fact, they may try to blame you for their deaths.”
Figured as much.
“And Frankie knows you’ve been to Vegas, not to mention Marlowe and Perrault both know you were in Alaska for the TALOS demonstration.”
“Which is when I found out about the hits.” And rushed to save them. “You know, I’m tired of this fight. Maybe it’s better if I step aside and they put a full task force on this.”
“Trace,” Haym said, his words filled with sympathy as well as chastisement. “You know they’re just looking for a fall guy. Pin the blame on you and they can wash their hands, tell the public Misrata finally has justice.”
Click!
“Justice,” Trace spat, his gaze flicking to the pen and realizing the conversation was now recording. “They wouldn’t know the meaning.”
“Easy. I know you’re mad—”
“You really don’t have the first clue what I’m feeling. No disrespect, sir, but someone up that chain of command gave you the order to have me select, train, and deploy Zulu. Now my mission entails protection against the very people who gave those orders, to
find out who sabotaged us, who wanted those girls dead or arrested. It didn’t make sense then and it doesn’t now. And I’m certainly not giving up, not when this person has now stepped into the arena of premeditated murder.”
“You’ve been ordered to stand down. Your clearances are being revoked, pending this investigation.” General Solomon reached to the side and lifted a small paperweight and set it in front of him.
Trace recognized the resin piece with the inlaid gold-embossed gryphon. They both had one, a symbol of the ultrasecretive team they’d put together: Zulu. And with that gesture the general had just given, Trace mulled the last few words. Was that the general’s way of saying one thing but feeling another?
Defiance and rebellion had never been his SOP, but they were imperative now, and that’s exactly what the general inferred in his doublespeak. “So I hear.”
“You understand, Trace, that I can’t help you. If I—”
“Understood, sir.”
“Being vague with the committee will only cost you time.”
“Yes, sir.”
General Solomon huffed. “You’ve gone stiff on me, son.”
“Protocol, sir.” Tensing his jaw helped him sound angry and agitated, the way he believed the general wanted. “I’m here at your request regarding an investigation. You’ve informed me I’m stripped of my duties and security pending the outcome. What is there to talk about, sir?” Tension coiled in his gut, ready to erupt.
“I’m not your enemy, Trace. I’m just—”
“Doing your job, sir.” Trace stood. “You’ve made yourself clear, sir. Thank you for taking the time to refresh my memory.”
Solomon tapped the gryphon paperweight twice.
Trace nodded. He understood. All too well. The general was in a position to lose a lot if things went south, but he also wasn’t a coward who’d hide under his desk until the storm blew over. That double tap on the gryphon was all the encouragement Trace needed to keep moving forward with their investigation.
Boone
Reston Hospital, Virginia