Operation Zulu Redemption--Complete Season 1

by Ronie Kendig

  “A long time ago,” he said as they took positions on the seating group.

  She tucked herself into a chair, hands in her lap, feeling every bit as if she’d been called to the dean’s office.

  Sam sat there for a while, rubbing his hands. The bandages around his shoulder poked up against the fabric of his T-shirt. Finally, he brought his dark eyes to hers. “I’m going back to Manson.”

  She came forward. “What? No, you—”

  “With my shoulder messed up, I’m out of commission for a good three, maybe five weeks. I’m not going to be able to help here.”

  “You can! You can research, do computer stuff with Houston.” Her heart thundered as she realized the last thing she wanted was for him to leave.

  “Annie, I need to leave…you.”

  She stopped breathing. Tears stung her eyes.

  “I think you need to figure out what you want.”

  The tears spilled over, rushing down her cheeks, hot and fast. That’s when she knew. “You saw us.”

  A pained expression streaked across his face. “No, but I had a feeling. It’s all over your face.”

  “I’m sorry, Sam.” She scooted forward in the seat. “You’re right—I have to figure out some things, but I don’t want to do it without you.”

  “That sounds good, in theory,” he said with a smile. “But in real life, with us here, I don’t think it’ll work.” When she opened her mouth to object, he held up a hand. “If you go forward, I want you to know my intention up front. I want a future with you. I’m not going to yank you around. I’m not going to leave you.” He drew something from his pocket. A gold solitaire lay in his palm.

  She swallowed a sob. How long had she ached for someone to say those words to her? And to have Sam… “Oh, Calamari,” she sighed. Her gaze landed on the ring, and Annie knew what she wanted. “I want that life, Sam. I want it with you.”

  “Yes, but do you want it because it’ll hurt Trace? Or do you want it because you love me?”

  “Because—”Annie froze, realizing she didn’t know the answer to that question. She did want to hurt Trace. He’d devastated her. Left her with more than just a broken promise, but she’d never exposed that secret to the light of day. And she never would. Truth was, she had strong feelings for both Sam and Trace. In different ways that she couldn’t sort out.

  “Yeah,” he said with a nod that made her aware she hadn’t answered. “You have some things to work out. Because if ‘us’ is just about hurting him, what happens when your anger wears off?”

  “It hasn’t worn off in five years.” She batted her golden curls out of her face. “Look, yes—I have to sort this. Trace devastated me. He left me when he’d promised to be there for me. I gave him everything.” She paused intentionally to make sure he caught her meaning.

  Understanding spread through his features, and he got up from the seating group. Paced. Though she wasn’t sure and she’d never heard Sam utter an oath, she was pretty sure one seared the air.

  He started for the bunk rooms then pivoted back. Stood there. Came toward her. Shook his head.

  He wanted to leave. But Sam, in his intense desire to be honorable, refused to break the promise he’d just made—he wouldn’t leave her.

  Annie didn’t move, because he had every right to be angry. “I trusted him. Believed him. And he left me on an airstrip, alone and—” She bit off the rest of that dark jungle of her life. “It was to protect me, he says. But…”

  “Annie,” Sam said, his tone tight, tense. “You’re not over him.”

  She swallowed. Hard.

  Nostrils flared, Sam shook his head, clearly ticked.

  “Sam, I—”

  A sharp gasp came from the command station. “Oh man.” Houston’s grave tone of voice spiraled through the open station. “Dude, I’m so sorry.”

  Annie pushed to her feet and looked toward Houston. “What’s wrong?”

  Jaw slack, Houston met her gaze and touched the Bluetooth in his ear. “All right, man,” he spoke to someone. “See you—and…and I’m sorry.” He pressed his earpiece, ending the call with a heavy shake of his head. “Keeley died.”

  The world suddenly felt a lot less bright and cheery. Annie couldn’t process it—she was gone. They’d won…again.

  Thunk! The massive locks of the main door disengaged. With a heavy groan, the steel barrier swung inward. Téya rushed in wearing battle scars—a busted lip, a cut on her temple that made the bruise around her eye seem like a bad makeup job. She lifted a hand to them but started immediately for the back.

  “Téya—”

  “Not yet,” she said tightly.

  “Keeley’s dead,” Annie snapped.

  Téya stopped, facing sideways in her trek to the bunk rooms. Lowered her head. Then continued to the back. A couple of minutes later, Nuala and Rusty entered the underground bunker, both worn and weary.

  Perceptive Nuala keyed into the problem immediately. “What’s happened?”

  Something in Annie finally broke loose. “It’s Keeley,” she said, her throat raw. “She’s gone.”

  Nuala’s eyes widened. She covered her mouth and turned, looking for something or someone. Then she came back around to Annie, eyes dribbling tears. “Boone—how’s Boone? Where is he?”

  “On his way,” Houston said, removing his headset.

  “What happened?” Annie asked, nodding in the direction Téya fled. “Did The Turk burn her?”

  Rusty moved forward. “The mission had complications. We lost coms with Téya after the first twenty minutes in—as I’m sure Houston told you.”

  “Indeed I did,” Houston said, cracking his knuckles. “And I might not be a black ops soldier, but even I know something else went on after all that.”

  “Téya and The Turk fled the facility. She was missing for two hours. We got a call from The Turk’s people, who promised to deliver Téya to the airstrip. She showed up and hasn’t spoken a word since.”

  A phone line tweedled. Houston rolled his chair back to his monitors and caught the call. “What can I do for you, sir?”

  Annie knew who it was. Houston only gave that deference to one man—Trace. Out of the corner of her eye, she detected Sam moving toward the bunk room. She met his gaze, briefly. His anger still hung like a neon sign around his neck. She’d failed him. While the intimacy she’d shared with Trace happened prior to meeting Sam, the kiss they’d shared hadn’t. And Annie had admitted she was confused. What a great way to ruin one of the best things that had happened to her.

  Then again, she’d once said that about Trace.

  Maybe Annie just couldn’t trust herself where love was concerned. Maybe she didn’t have the ability to rightly discern love from loyalty.

  “Trace has called an AHOD.”

  Great. More bad news coming. She could feel it. Sense it in the air. Feel it digging into the pores of her flesh.

  Boone

  Lucketts, Virginia

  10 June – 0900 Hours

  The sun had fallen from the heavens. That’s how the world felt without Keeley in it. The cloudy sky seemed apropos, as if ready to birth grieving. Boone trudged into the bunker. Though he wanted to keep his head down so he didn’t have to see the glum, sympathetic looks cast his way, he walked across the open area with his head up.

  Yeah, he noticed the way everything froze, as if breathing or talking might upset him. As if not acknowledging Keeley’s death would keep it from being true. He didn’t want or need sympathy. What he needed was vengeance. He wanted to be the justice-bringer to those who’d done this to them.

  He met Annie’s gaze. As Zulu’s leader, it was only right he addressed her first. “The commander here?”

  “No,” she said, her voice soft.

  “He’s on his way,” Houston offered. “How ya doing, Big Guy?”

  Right, because small talk right now would fix everything. Because how he was doing mattered. Nothing mattered except giving Keeley’s death meaning. Bringing honor
to the woman who fought so courageously on the battlefield. And who brought even the stoutest to their knees. Even him. In a different way.

  “I’ll be in the briefing room. Let me know when he’s here.”

  He shut the door and dropped into a chair, his back to the team. Sat straight and tall, remembering his dad’s admonishments to never let them see your pain. He didn’t want their apologies and offer of prayers or positive energy or whatever they had to offer. He wanted a plan. One to bring down this group behind the killings.

  They killed her. That was the only explanation for her sudden decline. He might not have a PhD, but Boone had seen enough to recognize poisoning. Somehow, despite their efforts, despite Rusty being on watch 24-7, they’d slipped her a lethal cocktail of some kind. He’d asked the doctors to run panels, but the results hadn’t come back yet. But Boone knew in his gut what happened. They’d won. Again.

  And the brightest lights in his universe winked out. “My shoes are sparkly.” The last words she’d spoken to him. Over a pair of silly, clear sequined shoes. A ridiculous purchase. But that was Keeley. Bohemian in style. She’d wear cargo shorts and a no-nonsense tank top, then add a pair of pink sparkly shoes.

  Or the time she put that stark white streak in her hair. It was from some kids’ cartoon she’d seen. Fierce fighter, fiercer friend. She gave everything a hundred percent then went an additional fifty. They hadn’t crossed God’s commands, but he’d come close to ignoring a few where Keeley was concerned. “That you stopped,” Keeley had said as they lay on the sand that night, “makes me love you more.”

  He’d realized in that hour how much he wanted to be a better man just to make her love him more. In fact, he had plans to introduce her to his parents somehow. To convince Trace to let him bring her to Lucketts. Marry her. Finish what they’d started on the beach that night.

  Now she and her love were gone.

  He’d never hear her laughter again. He’d never hear the lilt of her parents’ Irish brogue in her words again. Never feel those soft, full lips on his. Or her small yet strong fingers grip his. Or see her wearing ridiculous earrings.

  Laughter was gone from his life.

  A triple rap against the glass door dialed up his agitation. Didn’t they get that he didn’t need company or a pep talk?

  “Sorry.” It was Rusty. Just maybe the man would have the decency to go away. The door clicked shut.

  Boone hoped he was alone. But resisted wiping the hot tear trekking down over his stubble.

  Rusty broke into view.

  Curling his hand into a fist, Boone gritted his teeth.

  His friend took the first chair, sitting on the edge. Cell phone in hand, he wagged it. “I just got a call.”

  Boone gave him a pointed look.

  “It was the hospital. Dr. Gates.”

  This time, he turned his full attention to Rusty. “What poison?”

  Rusty gave a snort-smile. “How do you always know…?”

  “Cyanide?”

  “Ricin.”

  “How did they miss that?”

  “He’s investigating right now, also trying to figure out who was behind it.”

  “We know who it was,” Boone said.

  “I think he meant how they got in, got past me.” Something blazed in Rusty’s eyes. And in that moment, Boone saw it. Saw the same thirst in his friend that pumped through his own veins.

  “Wasn’t your fault.”

  “I think it was,” Rusty said decisively. “At least in part. And don’t try to write this off. I had one job—to protect her.” Though younger by a half-dozen years, Rusty always had a fighter’s spirit. It’s what made it possible for the young grunt to make it into the Special Forces so fast. “I failed, Boone-Dawg.”

  Boone could eat a piece of bitter root of truth. “You and me both, brother. She was my girl, and I let her die on my watch.” Hearing those words, living their truth, felt like a KA-BAR to the heart.

  Rusty’s blue eyes bored into him. Conflict borne of a desire to be done with Zulu and a hunger to sate the beast that wanted revenge roiled through his posture, his gaze, his balled fists. Finally, Rusty hung his head between his shoulders. “This is why I got out. The thirst for blood, the yearning to kill something.”

  “Trusty,” Boone said, using the nickname they’d given the kid when he’d first come to the team, “I think maybe your head’s getting a little twisted up. You’re a warrior. It’s what we do. God doesn’t put that drive in many men, but in the ones that He does, it comes with a thirst for justice. Sometimes we might confuse that for a thirst for blood, but if we come back to ourselves, recognize that thin line in the sand, we’ll be okay.”

  “That’s just it,” Rusty said, his lip curling. “I couldn’t see the line anymore. After Misrata, I just wanted anyone and everyone in my way dead. I needed someone to take the blame for what we did.”

  “It was a mistake.”

  “No,” Rusty ground out, his face reddening. “Somebody set us up. Somebody set Zulu up to take that fall. It wasn’t a simple mistake.”

  “You’re going to suggest that someone wanted us to kill twenty-two innocent children and women?”

  “I’m saying someone wanted Zulu out of their way.” Rusty held his gaze, unwavering. “I know it sounds crazy—”

  “It sounds right.”

  They both turned toward the new voice and found Trace entering the briefing area. He looked more ticked than both of them.

  Trace

  When Boone pushed out of his seat, Trace waved him back down. He shot a cursory glance to the main area to make sure the others weren’t coming yet. “We’ve got ten minutes before the AHOD.”

  “What do you know?”

  “First—I’m sorry about Shay.” Trace said it with authority and strength. Not with pity but with promise. “It won’t go unanswered.”

  It seemed a weight lifted from Boone’s chest. He gave Trace a nod of thanks.

  “Rusty,” he said as he met the other man’s gaze. “I’m glad you’re here, though I know you’d rather be elsewhere.”

  “No, sir.”

  Boone stilled.

  “I’m right where I want to be now.” Rusty said nothing more, and nothing else needed to be said. They were the handlers of the Zulu team, the trainers, the leaders. They had a job to do. A retaliation to put into effect.

  “We have a few more puzzle pieces in place,” Trace said. “But each time we walk through a door to a question, two more open.” He jabbed his fingers across his short-cropped hair. “I’m getting fed up with the whole thing. It’s been like this for five years. Answers were merely more questions in disguise. The more they asked, the more questions bred.”

  “What about Frankfurt? What was that?” Rusty asked. “And since when are we working with the Turks? Téya was missing for two hours—should we be worried?”

  “No.” Trace could answer that unequivocally. And he had a theory on the missing two hours. One he didn’t really want to think about. One he couldn’t worry about right now. “I don’t think that’s a problem, at least—not one connected to Misrata.”

  The door opened and in filed Nuala, Annie, Téya, and Houston, who had an array of technology on a cart. Trace waited for the remnant of Zulu to find a seat then noted Houston plugging in his machines and getting things working. “Okay, let’s get this going. First thing I need you all to be aware of is the Lorings have vanished from protective custody.”

  Silence slapped through the room.

  “How is that possible? Did they miss the part where it’s protective? Why would they leave it?”

  Trace had been through these questions a dozen times on his way over and since Haym had called and warned him.

  “Do you think they’re in danger?” Annie asked.

  “No,” Trace said. “I think they willingly left.”

  “But we got their information, right?” Annie leaned forward, pressing her fingertips to the table. “They gave us Ballenger, that he wa
s the one behind moving the children there.”

  “That’s not much for them to be on the run though, is it?” Rusty scratched the side of his face. “What threat are they running from if they only had information on Ballenger?”

  This is why Trace had wished Rusty would’ve returned to the team weeks ago. This type of dialogue, talking out the problem, kept them safe.

  “Unless Ballenger is a bigger threat than we realized,” Annie said then looked at Trace. “Is he?”

  He considered the question. Ballenger. Danger. Yeah, they seemed to go hand in hand. “We won’t rule it out. Each time we’ve sought him, we’ve encountered deadly opposition—in Denver and Paris.”

  “Yeah, but that could’ve just been us. Someone trying to put us off the trail,” Annie said.

  “Ballenger could be doing that,” Nuala offered. “He plays the victim very well.”

  “We need to move on. We’ll qualify Ballenger as a high threat.”

  “With the Lorings missing, is the bunker in jeopardy?” Boone asked, arms folded over his thick chest.

  “Possibly,” Trace said, unwilling to play things safe. “Need to keep our ears and eyes out at all times coming and going.” He nodded to Houston. “He’s going to catch us up on what came off the yacht computers.”

  “There wasn’t much,” Houston said as he aimed a remote at a laptop. “I should say—there was a lot, but not much useful to us. There are innumerable files pertaining to what appear to be shipments. Port records. Munitions sales—”

  “Batsakis is in weapons,” Annie said. “Aegean Defense Systems.”

  “Yes. Right. Buuuut,” Houston said as he pulled up another file. “The pattern is fairly regular. What I looked for is irregularities.” He snickered. “Or I should say, irregular regular shipments.”

  “Houston,” Trace bit out.

  “Right.” Houston’s Jheri curl hair bobbed as he nodded. “If you look through this file, ADS has a pattern of shipments going out every few months. Same countries. To the same clients. It’s your standard fare, right?”