by Ronie Kendig
“It has, sir.”
“You have no family?”
“Parents in an assisted living home.” Even if he’d told them, they’d never remember if he existed outside their confusion-trapped minds. “My sister makes sure they’re taken care of. My younger brother is in the military.”
“But what about a love life? A dog? Best friend?”
Trace frowned. Looked at Solomon then back to the Army service chief. “Sir, I’m not sure that’s relevant.”
“Of course it is,” Cantor barked, his amusement and lighthearted banter gone. “You just told me you have no family connections. Psychologist will tell the counsel that means you’re disconnected and have trouble forming healthy relationships. That information will turn you into a soldier with a thirst for blood to avenge the bad upbringing you had.”
“I didn’t have a bad upbringing,” Trace snarled.
“And your inability to form bonds also affects your leadership of the ultrasecret black ops team named Zulu.”
Anger rising, Trace fought the tug of those demons. What was this? A trap?
“Tell me, Colonel Weston, when was the last time you were with a woman?”
Fury colored his world red. He punched to his feet. “That’s none of your concern.”
“Of course it is. I need to know her name so I can talk to her, determine what kind of relationship you had. Determine how it ended—assuming it did end.” His gaze lingered on Trace, then he snorted. “Good. You don’t need to be dating right now anyway.”
Heart crashing into his ribs, Trace fought to maintain his hold on the ultrathin line of control.
“Do you make it a habit to be involved with women, potentially compromising the safety of classified information you’ve been trusted with? How many women have you slept with, Colonel?”
“If it were any of your business, I’d tell you I hold marriage sacred, and when I utter those vows before God, it will be for one woman for the rest of my life.”
“God.” His hazel eyes flashed. “So, you’re a religious zealot.” Cantor hadn’t slowed down. “You do realize that the military and government classify religious zealots as domestic terrorists.”
Trace cursed.
Cantor rose and met his gaze, steel to steel, his expression fierce. “Sit down, Mister Weston.”
Trace couldn’t move. Didn’t trust himself to move.
“You need to realize, Trace, that Marlowe is going to throw everything at you that he can. He’ll play dumb, play nice, then he’ll rip your heart out.” He pointed to the chair. “Sit down. Let me tell you what you’ve already revealed to me.”
He didn’t dare ball his fists in front of the Army service chief, but every muscle in Trace trembled with rage. Slowly, gaze still on Cantor, he lowered himself to the seat again.
“You’ve just told me that you are alone. That you have nobody you go to for counsel. That your relationship with a woman ended poorly, and that your anger is easily aroused. All points the counsel will use against you in determining whether your duties and your job should be returned to you.”
Trace said nothing. Did nothing. He remained frozen, convinced one wrong breath would detonate the rage within him.
“You’re heading into a maelstrom, Trace,” Cantor said, his voice more friendly, less accusatory.
“That’s been my life the last five years.”
“No,” Cantor said. “You’ve been at the eye of this storm for the last five years. You’re about to feel the full intensity.”
“Good to know, sir.” Trace gritted his teeth, maintaining a civil tongue almost impossible.
Cantor’s left eye squinted as he looked at him. “Trace, you should know something.”
He waited.
“I’m not your enemy.”
“Forgive me, sir, but if this is friendly conversation—”
“Consider it friendly fire, iron sharpening iron.”
Trace lifted his chin. He reserved phrases like that for friends. “Why would I do that, sir?”
“Because I’m the one who tapped you to assemble Zulu.”
Nuala
Lucketts, Virginia
5 June – 1140 Hours
It hurt Nuala’s heart to see Boone in such misery. And it killed her to know that he was in such shape because the woman he loved—which wasn’t her—lay in a hospital mysteriously failing. Of course, that made her feel worse because she shouldn’t begrudge him. He had no idea how she felt. She’d never given him any indication that he held the moon and stars in her world. Even if she had, he would’ve rejected her. Nuala King wasn’t the type of girl guys fell in love with.
Now, Annie…and Téya…and Keeley…yeah. Guys tripped over themselves trying to get a date with them. But Noodle? The nickname alone told her what they thought of her.
But Boone. Like Rock of Gibraltar. Impenetrable. Solid. That he had enough muscle to make up two humans meant little to her.
Oh, who was she kidding? He was as physically attractive as he was kind. As bulked up as he was compassionate. Which is why it hurt all the more to see him in pain like this.
She poured a cup of coffee, added cream—oops. Not too much. Nuala carried it over to the workstations where Boone sat in a chair, staring at the computer. Which she knew from the blank look on his face either wasn’t on or he wasn’t paying attention. “Here,” she said softly as she set the mug before him.
Boone glanced down at it but seemed as if he didn’t see it. Then shifted. “Did I ask for that?”
Heat crept into her cheeks, but not enough—she hoped—to make the blush evident. “No, you looked like you needed it.”
Boone’s gray eyes came to hers, a shade of disbelief coloring them. “Thanks, Noodle.”
Would he call her anything else but that stupid name? Something with respect? Something with meaning? But she had no meaning to him, other than being a member of Zulu. And a top sniper.
They had that in common. And she loved to talk shop with him. Really, she’d talk about anything with him. Am I pathetic?
“Wow, I sure would love someone to bring me coffee without having to ask,” Téya murmured loudly from the dais, where she sat studying the wall. “Must be nice, Boone.”
Again, his mind seemed jogged back to the present. “Maybe you should try being nice to someone,” he said, almost not missing a beat. But then he glanced at Nuala and lifted the cup and nodded. “Thanks.”
She smiled.
“You think you’re nice to Nuala?”
Oh no. This wouldn’t end well. Nuala knew where this was going. And suddenly knew what Téya was up to. She swept across the room and stood over her friend, glaring deliberately at her, warning her to stop.
Téya, unrepentant as always, just shrugged. “I’m just saying—he should be more grateful.”
Okay, time to clear out before this got really embarrassing. Nuala headed for the bunk room. Maybe she’d journal. Work on a scene in her space opera. Pluck out her fingernails. Anything less painful than being humiliated by Téya, who had somehow figured out Nuala’s feelings for Boone.
Hushed, harsh whispers skated out of the corner bunk room, slowing Nuala. Holding the swirl necklace her mother had given her as a teen, she stood outside the room she shared with Téya, listening.
The whispers continued, stiff and hurried. The Lorings were in there, their children visible on the lower bunk and napping. How’d they get older children like that to nap during the daytime? When Nuala had been that age, she wanted to be with the adults. Didn’t want to miss anything.
“No…you don’t…”
The broken pieces didn’t make sense. What was going on? They sounded pretty upset. With each other? Or with the team?
“… they’ll know.”
“… no choice.”
“… keep doing this…what if…”
“… figure it out.”
Nuala edged closer, putting her stealth sniper skills to use, but even with her straining to hear, she could
n’t make out the conversation. What she wouldn’t do for her long-range microphone. Or a well-placed listening device.
Footsteps came toward her from their room.
Hurrying into her room, Nuala forced her heart to slow. Bring her breathing under control.
“Hey.”
Nuala pivoted, surprised to find Annie on the upper bunk. “Oh. I didn’t know you were there.”
Annie wrinkled a brow. “You okay?”
“Sure. Yeah.” She shrugged.
“You’re a bad liar.”
Should she tell Annie? Téya hadn’t believed her. Why would Annie?
Because Annie had a stronger balance in terms of weighing pros and cons. She didn’t go on gut reaction alone the way Téya often did.
Nuala wanted affirmation that she was as vital to the team as the others. That her assessments were just as valid. She had to make judgment calls in the field with a sniper rifle pressed to her shoulder. They trusted her to do that. Why not listen to her now? “I just—”
“Oh, hey. Glad you are in here,” Sharlene Loring said as she stepped into the room, freezing Nuala’s words in her mouth.
Annie sat up. “Need something?”
“Carl and I were talking.”
Arguing was more like it.
“It’s probably nothing,” came Carl’s voice from the hall.
Annie and Sharlene moved out there. In order to keep up with the conversation, Nuala had to follow them.
The Lorings wrapped their arms around each other. Carl pressed a kiss to Sharlene’s temple. And though Nuala wasn’t sure, she thought she saw a grimace. A split-second tweak of Sharlene’s lips. But their arms were around each other.
“We both think that there is a connection between Giles Stoffel and Titus Batsakis that cannot be overlooked,” Carl said firmly.
“We pretty much figured that out,” came Trace’s deep, firm voice as they all gathered by the computer stations. “Stoffel’s sister married Titus Batsakis.”
“That’s not illegal,” Téya mumbled. When everyone looked at her, Téya shrugged. “What? It’s not!”
“Not to disappoint you,” Trace said, arms folded over his chest as he leaned against the tables, “but Annie and I got into the bank. Houston went through their systems and found nothing out of the ordinary.”
“So, you think they’re innocent?” Sharlene said, her voice pitching.
“No way,” Annie said. “They kidnapped me. We know they’re dirty, but we have no way to prove it.”
“We might,” Carl said, looking at his wife in a sickeningly adoring fashion. “We believe they keep their secrets on their yacht.”
Trace straightened. “Yacht?”
“Aegean Mercy,” Sharlene said. “Named after—”
“Mercy Chandler,” Annie put in. “Stoffel’s wife.”
Sam
Lukewarm. Jesus threatened to spew those who were lukewarm out of his mouth, but Sam couldn’t quite bring himself to that point regarding Annie. She hadn’t been nearly as warm with him as she had been that night on the deck. Then again, Trace Weston hadn’t been there.
Was the guy as tripped up on power and as dangerous as Francesca Solomon had said? Sam hadn’t seen proof of that, even if his own jealous streak over the way the guy looked at Annie bordered on ballistic. They had history.
“A yacht,” Trace muttered again. “That’s tricky.”
Sam edged into the room, listening. Yacht meant water. He was trained on water. Would they let him run another op? Would that prove to Annie that he could hold his own? Crazy how she felt the need to protect him when he’d vowed back in Manson to do that very thing for her. If it hadn’t been so ridiculous, he might be offended that she tried to do that.
“Houston,” Boone asked from the station. “What’ve you got on that boat?”
“Almost got it,” Houston muttered, his fingers working quickly. “Okay—it left port…ha! Left port the night of Annie’s escape.”
“Running.”
When the eyes in the room turned to Sam, he realized he’d said that out loud.
Trace nodded. “Agreed.”
“Makes it more challenging to get on board,” Boone said.
Sam grinned. “Not for me.”
The team commander’s green eyes held his. For a long time. Silence chilled the room.
“No,” Annie finally said, moving not to Sam but to Trace. “You can’t do this. We can’t ask Sam to do this.”
He scowled. “Nobody asked me.” Had to admit, she’d dented his pride with a sledgehammer this time. “I volunteered.” He met Trace’s assessing gaze. “You know this makes sense.”
“Can you get on board with it moving?”
Not without killing myself. “Yes.”
“And without being seen?”
If I have an invisibility cloak. “Yes.”
Trace just stared.
Sam took the leap. “When do I leave?”
Sam
Mediterranean Sea
7 June – 0120 Hours
Sam stretched out on the roof of the ultrafast patrol boat beside Annie’s friend with the weird name. It was easier for him to call her Noodle, but somehow, that felt a bit insulting. She had a sniper rifle snug against her and long-range binoculars pressed to her eyes.
“What’ve you got?” Sam asked quietly, waiting for his turn.
She handed over the nocs. “Two armed guards walking the boat. Four passengers inside—the Stoffels and Batsakis plus one.”
Sam verified what she reported with his own assessment. He lowered the binoculars and stared out with his bare eyes, unable to see anything but the glint of moonlight off the dark sea. “You can take out the patrols.”
“Can but won’t,” she said, her voice sweet, soft, and confident.
Sam glanced at her.
She met his gaze, looked away, then jerked her gaze back. “If I hit him from this distance, there won’t be much left of his chest or head. If I do that, they’ll know it was long-range, and every boat in the area will be searched.”
Sam nodded. “Good, good.”
“What?”
“Thinking it through.” He sighed, his mind whiplashing back to two nights ago when he volunteered for this gig. “How many were on your team?”
Nuala glanced down. “You know I can’t answer that.”
“Can you answer why Ashland hates me?”
“Oh, she doesn’t hate you,” Nuala said. “In fact, I’d just about say she loved you with the way she doesn’t want you out here.”
“That makes no sense. Explain that to me.”
Nuala smiled. “You have a lot to learn about women.”
“Apparently.” He borrowed the nocs again and stared at the yacht he’d board in the next hour. “She makes out with me like a fiend one night, then the next time we see each other, I’d swear she’d rather kill me.”
“She doesn’t want to kill you,” Nuala said softly. “She wants you alive.”
Sam considered her with a sigh. “I’m going to guess something really bad went down with your team.”
Her wide, pale eyes came to his. “Why would you say that?”
“Because both of you said the same thing. That tells me there’s probably a pretty significant loss that occurred for her to think she has to protect a Navy SEAL and for you to believe that’s what she’s doing.”
The roof of the wheelhouse banged, his signal from Leo that they were in position and ready. Sam clambered down and paused at the rail, watching the waves that churned beneath the ultrafast patrol boat, but his mind was on the mission. Getting on board the yacht without being detected. Retrieving the necessary information. Returning to the dive prop, which would get him back to the boat and Annie.
She hadn’t spoken much to him since he ignored her protests regarding his doing this. What would it take to convince her this was what he did, that she didn’t need to protect him, that he’d do this and more just for her? Just to convince her of his feeli
ngs for her.
He glanced at the gear he’d already prepped and checked. The vest, the regulator, the tank valve, the air pressure. All good. Any number of things could go wrong with a water insertion, but this is what he knew better than anything.
Two men, associates of his Navy buddy who owned this boat, emerged from the wheelhouse. Leo, the older, balding diver, nodded. “Harry said it’s time.”
Fins on, Sam shouldered into the vest, hoisting the tank onto his back. Leo double-checked his weight belt for right-hand release, tangles, and trapped equipment, as Sam verified the coms device strapped to his arm. He’d relay information through that to the team during the mission.
Leo patted his shoulder, giving Sam the okay. Strapped to his leg, his gun would provide an extra layer of assurance should he get into trouble. Sitting on the side of the boat, Sam reached for his mask.
Annie’s white-blond hair anchored his attention to where she stood. The interior lights of the wheelhouse behind her haloed around her curls. They needed to have a talk. About this whole mess. About them. About the future.
But did she even want that?
Arms wrapped around her midsection, she eased away from the safety of that lit area and stepped into his darkness. A kiss for good luck? Is that what she was coming to do?
“You don’t have to prove anything,” she said softly—but loud enough to be heard over the ripping wind and the engine noise.
Sam gave a snort. “I’m not proving anything.” He took hold of her waist, pulling her closer. “This is what I do. I’m a SEAL. I dive.”
“You got out.”
“I contract now. You know that.”
“But this,” she said, hesitating. “What you’re involved in is crazy dangerous, Sam. Those people will kill you if they catch you.”
He couldn’t help the grin, squeezing the hold he had on her waist and tugging her closer. “Most enemies will.”
She scowled at him.
“Annie, if you expected me to just be a doting house-husband, you picked the wrong guy.”
“I never expected—that’s not—” Her nostrils flared.
Sam smiled. “There’s a lot of mystery surrounding your past, and if you aren’t going to let me in, then I can’t establish my place. Especially if you want me to be some weak-kneed—”