by Ronie Kendig
She held up her hands. “Going to kill me?”
“I can. And I will, so help me.” He meant it. That much was evident in his posture, words, and gaze.
“Just like you did Reyna in Alaska and Herring in Vegas?”
Weston scowled. Seemed to deflate, but then surged again. “I have three team members I’ve fought to keep safe for sixty-two months. Now your insane vendetta against me is putting them at risk.”
“Then come clean!”
He took a step forward, the weapon nearly touching her chest.
Frankie drew up short, her breathing going shallow.
“You are endangering their lives.” He flared his nostrils. “I can’t let that happen. No more are dying on my watch.”
“So, what? You want me to just—”
“Your own father told you I wasn’t guilty.”
“My father tells me what he thinks I need to hear.” It hurt to admit that, but Frankie had grown up as a general’s daughter with pampered information. “He still thinks of me as a fifteen-year-old.”
“Then maybe you should start acting your age.”
She gaped at him.
“You have a good brain. I’ve seen it. You’re dangerous only because you are on the wrong warpath.”
Frankie propped her hands on her hips. “What warpath should I be on, Weston? Because if you think I’m walking away just because you roughed me up and put a gun in my face—”
“Help me.”
Frozen by his words, Frankie stared at him. He seriously did not just say that. “Help you what? Help you get out of jail? Help you frame someone else?”
“Help me and my team—your father—find who’s funding and controlling Varden. His name keeps coming up as my team fights to find the truth.” He held the picture up next to his face again. “You know him.”
Her heart gave a crazy thump at the thought. She could get into Trace’s network. Get his information. “He was my handler!”
“Then maybe it’s time for you to handle him.”
“No.” Frankie breathed deeply. “Kill me if you have to, but I’m not doing this.”
“How can you be so smart and so stupid at the same time? I’m not the enemy.”
“Pointing a weapon at me isn’t exactly working in your favor.”
Weston snorted and lowered the weapon. Holstered it. Raised his hands to her. “Fine.” He touched his temples then flicked his hands out in an irritated way. “Bury me. But leave them out.” He inched forward, his bearing raw and powerful. Torment hovered in those intense eyes. “If you believe this, if you really think I’m guilty, then lay that at my feet. They were part of a horrible mistake. If saying I’m to blame helps you, great.” He placed a hand on his chest. “I’m to blame. Just leave. Them. Out.”
The air thickened with tension and his plea.
“Too many have died already because of Misrata. Don’t add to that number, Francesca. Please. Not with more innocent lives.”
Francesca
Alexandria, Virginia
12 June – 2330 Hours
Note to self: Get a dog. A big one—like a German Shepherd. No—a Belgian Malinois like the military working dogs down at the base. Something big and unafraid of protecting her from predators like Trace Weston. Lying on her bed, she rested her arm over her eyes, trying to force herself to sleep.
His invasion of her home and life felt like a massive breach of protocol. And it was. Surely he knew what kind of trouble he’d be in if she reported his actions. He’d be arrested, if not court-martialed, not only for trying to forcefully sway her testimony but for assaulting her.
Okay. It wasn’t technically assault. He never hit her.
But was the man out of his ever-loving mind to come in here and do that? He had to have a really big chip on his shoulder. “I’m to blame. Just leave. Them. Out.”
Frankie flopped onto her side and sandwiched her hands between her face and pillow. All this time, all these years, Weston hadn’t gotten riled up about anything—not like what she saw tonight—no matter what she or the committees threw at him. He’d been like this massive wall of granite, impenetrable and unmovable.
Until I’m about to go public about his team.
Was it because they were all women? Was he watching out for the girls, afraid they might get hurt?
Right. Because he puts them on an elite black ops team to keep them safe.
With a growl of frustration, Frankie grabbed her pillow and bent it over her head as if she could block out the thoughts. Really, it only kept them in. She threw herself back on the bed.
Trace Weston goes to Misrata. He’s involved in a mission through which twenty-two innocents die. And he walks away scot-free. How was that right or fair to the children and staff who died?
It wasn’t. Not at all. That’s why Frankie had to do this, had to press for justice—because nobody else would.
In his testimony that she’d read and heard, he vowed that his team had been sent in by approval of a senatorial committee. That authorization was conveniently missing.
Because it never existed. Frankie huffed with exultation.
Or maybe…maybe it did exist and someone buried it.
No, that was thinking too hard.
Weston said he believed someone up the chain chose his team and hung them out to dry. Not his exact words, but she read between the lines and remembered how angry her father was over the whole debacle.
Why was Daddy so angry?
Because he tapped Weston for the mission. Which meant—was it Daddy’s idea to put together an all-female team? Did they realize they had made U.S. military history with the creation of that team, Zulu?
What a boon that would’ve been for Weston, had things gone right.
Why would Weston deliberately sabotage it?
So this all-female team would take the blame for a tragedy. So the public would sit up and think women didn’t belong in combat.
She’d seen that attitude herself. Not from her father. More from her brothers, but only because she was their little sister.
“I’m to blame. Just leave. Them. Out.”
Why would Weston set up the team, kill the innocents, then fight so hard to protect the very women he’d sabotaged?
Frankie curled onto her side, her stomach knotted with the sickening question. It made no sense. What if I’m wrong? She reached over onto her night table and lifted her laptop. She pushed up in the bed and propped herself against the headboard. Once it powered up, Frankie dug into the files embedded deeply within a ton of security. She pulled up the dossiers of the three remaining Zulu members.
A hodgepodge of skills. Made sense. Get six team members in various fields of expertise and the breadth of missions possible increased exponentially. In that regard, sex of the operatives didn’t matter.
Attractive. The three remaining were as diverse as the other three were alike. Annie Palermo—blond, curly hair, fair-skinned. Téya Reiker—long, sandy-brown hair, freckled. Nuala King—dark brown hair, olive skin, pale blue eyes. Sniper.
Frankie grunted. “Remind me to stay behind you.”
She scanned their histories. Annie had a big family—brothers and intact parents. Téya had lost both her parents and a stepfather before ever joining Zulu. Nuala had a brother and mother back home, but no father in the picture.
So, basically Annie and Nuala not only lost their careers in Misrata, they lost their families because Trace Weston had put them into hiding. Nobody could locate them. They were presumed dead by the military. But not by Frankie. She’d researched the families. Did Annie know her younger brother was still alive and well, married and in the Coast Guard? Did Nuala know her mom was dying of leukemia? Or that her brother had been arrested for dealing—he said to pay for his mom’s treatments?
The point—they had families. They were young, attractive women who had strong careers in the military.
They’re just like me.
Trace
Lucketts, Virginia
13 June – 0730 Hours EST
“One hour of life, crowded to the full with glorious action, and filled with noble risks, is worth whole years of those mean observances of paltry decorum.” Sir Walter Scott had a point. Going to Francesca may have been the stupidest move of his career, but Trace had colored inside the lines long enough. He’d rather live one hour to the fullest, taking risks in the pursuit of what he believed to be right, than to live with the way things were now.
He strode into the bunker, surprised to find Houston at work. “Starting early?”
Houston had a powdered doughnut halfway to his mouth. He met Trace’s gaze then stuffed it in. “Never stopped,” he muffled around the fat pill. He chewed then swallowed, holding up a finger.
Trace didn’t bother shaking his head. Houston was not rehabilitable in terms of social conventions. And Trace didn’t care. The guy got the work done the way nobody else could. “I have pictures I need you to analyze.” He handed them over.
“Sure thing, Boss-man.” He plucked one of the photos, lifted a thin plastic lid on what looked like a scanner, and pressed a button before he shoved another doughnut in his mouth. “Oh!” Powdered dust plumed out, right in Trace’s face. Houston widened his eyes at blowing doughnut powder over Trace’s arm and sucked in a breath.
Then started coughing hard. Choking. He thumped his chest.
Trace dusted off his sleeve, trying to stow both his agitation and the amusement. “Easy, chief. Don’t kill yourself.”
Taking a swig of a blue sports drink, Houston held up a hand. He cleared his throat. And cleared it again, his eyes watering. “Sorry.” He thumped his chest. “Went down the wrong hole.”
“Houston, did you have something you wanted to tell me?”
“Yes!” He swigged more of his drink as he reached for something. “I got that last file decoded.”
Trace resisted the urge to lean in lest he end up with powdered sugar in his face. “What’d you find?”
Houston’s fingers flew over the keyboard. “Several files, exchanges between Stoffel and Batsakis, and some person named Red Wing.”
“Georg Hostetler.”
Houston stopped and cut his gaze to Trace. “Do what?”
“Red Wing is Georg Hostetler,” Trace said as Houston’s fingers kept moving, though his gaze was still locked onto Trace. “Isn’t that—”
“Téya’s stepfather.”
“Isn’t he—”
“Dead? No,” Trace said. “He’s in Frankfurt at an underground facility.”
“Whoa. Wait.” Houston lifted another doughnut.
Trace pushed the tech geek’s hand back down.
“Dude,” Houston said. “Step away from the doughnut.”
Trace almost laughed.
“Underground facility in Frankfurt…which—I mean, I know I’m not the super-secret agent or black ops operator like you, but you do know that Téya was in an underground facility in Frankfurt, right?”
“Houston, you have a way with sarcasm.”
He held up his hands “I’m just sayin’…”
“I know what you’re saying.” That this tidbit made Téya look like a traitor. Trace shook his head. “Téya’s not part of it.”
“And we know this how?”
“Because as soon as she found out, she came directly to me.”
“But Boss-man,” Houston said, sliding the doughnuts to the side, apparently having lost his appetite, a miracle for the boy-wonder with an amazing metabolism. “She was missing for two hours. How do we know—”
“Houston, we’re not going to second-guess our team. Got it?” He met the geek’s gaze till Houston crumbled beneath the stare with a quick nod. “Téya came to me. Told me what happened. I’m satisfied. Trust me to do my job.”
Something to the side beeped. “And trust me…,” Houston said, his voice taking on that drugged sound as his mind whirled a thousand miles an hour and his fingers went almost as fast. “… Oh dude. We have some trouble.”
Trace glanced down at the monitor and saw a rectangle with a grayscale version of the photograph Houston had handed him. Houston must’ve been running facial recognition software on the photo. A weird grid flickered over the various features of the first face. “What?”
“Just hold on to your horses, big T.”
Arching an eyebrow at the geek, Trace glanced at the other photos sitting in the scanner tray, which sucked another into its feed.
“Okay, yeah,” Houston said more firmly. “We have a problem.”
“Fill me in.”
“The photo”—Houston clicked and it popped up on the screen—“shows Varden.”
Nothing new there. He’d given him that photo just so the software would have a match from which to compare. Not just the person in front but the individual beside him. “Who’s with him?” But Trace already knew the answer.
“Well, that’s Francesca Solomon,” Houston said.
That photo had been iffy. It’d been more proof that she’d been in Misrata long enough to be involved in whatever went down. What if she was really the problem? What if she was turning the tables on them, trying to drown Zulu?
“Thank you,” Trace said as he stood and started for the briefing room, which doubled as his office at the bunker.
Having her presence verified didn’t give him anything he didn’t already know, but Trace needed to hear someone else confirm the grainy image on the second photo. He’d somehow stood in her apartment and found himself asking her to help. Thank the good Lord she’d been stunned silent. She hadn’t answered. And he didn’t ask again. The more he’d talked, the more stupid his suggestion sounded. He left in the same shape he’d arrived.
Not true. Walking out of her home, driving home, he realized the last shred of dignity he had lay on the floral area rug in her living room. He’d laid himself bare there. And she’d walked all over him.
“But that’s not the problem.”
Hand on the knob, Trace stopped, pivoted.
“There’s another face—the scanner almost missed it, I think, but…” He leaned forward. “Yeah. Someone’s looking through a window.”
How had he missed that? Trace returned to the command station. “Who?”
Houston sat back. “I hope our team is already on their way back.”
Gut tight, shoulders square, Trace waited. “Why?”
“Have you talked with Boone or Annie yet?”
“No. Why?”
“Ballenger set them up. Sent some dude from some Italian special forces or something to deliver a message.” Houston tapped his monitor. “And dude, that person in the window with your sexy but pain-in-the-butt INSCOM operative?”
Houston waggled his eyebrows. “That’s Berg Ballenger.”
Unknown Location
13 June – 1130 Hours EST
“Still feeding her information?”
“I am.”
“Think it’s working?”
“She’s like a rabid dog on a scent,” he said with a snicker. “I couldn’t pull her off it if I wanted to.”
“Now don’t get all cocky on me, Varden.”
“Oh I’m not. I’m confident.” He took a long puff on his Cuban and let the hazy smoke ring into the air. “Solomon is so hungry to nail someone to the cross her own father built with his bare hands, her eyes are crossed. She’s not seeing straight.”
“Good. We want her focused on this.” The gravelly voice grated on Varden’s nerves. “The more she hassles them, the more his attention is divided—and it’s the only way to stay one step ahead of this bulldog.”
“You’re overestimating the good colonel. He’s had five years to figure this out, and he’s still walking around scratching his head.”
“But you’ve killed three of his team. He’s ticked off, so we have to keep him busy.”
Varden sat forward, setting the stogie on the edge of the crystal tray. He looked across the club where lights and bodies pulsed. “You want another hit?”
“Don’t you think it’s time?”
“I just got rid of hospital girl. If I do too much too soon, he’ll—”
“The hearing is running interference for your slow pace. Don’t mistake that for your usefulness or effectiveness.”
Varden narrowed his eyes, resenting the words. “I’ve done what you didn’t have the stomach to do.”
Again, the gravelly voice grated along his spine: “You keep thinking that, if it makes you feel more confident and secure. Just remember who’s footing the bill for those stale cigars and raunchy clubs you frequent.” The words irritated him. The man’s disregard for the work Varden had carried out. The lengths he’d gone to so the authorities would look elsewhere…and he was blowing him off?
“Now, listen—we’ve got some things shifting in our direction.”
Varden chewed the end of the cigar, stewing.
“Weston made a mess of things at the hearing when Solomon started testifying. She’ll be back, giving the names of Weston’s team.”
“So?”
“So, it’ll put these women on the radar. It’ll make them high-profile targets. Media outlets will start running pictures of them. Talking about them. Wherever Weston is hiding them, we’ll find them.”
“You’re forgetting it’s a closed hearing. No reporters. No press.”
The man laughed. Hard and long, ending up in a choking fit. “You idiot. How do you think the press finds anything out? Unnamed sources talk to the press all the time.” He coughed and cleared his throat, the telltale rumble of a smoker’s cough. “And don’t worry. They’ll find out. You just be ready. I want them dead. A traffic fatality would be great.”
“Don’t tell me how to do my job. You just make sure this can’t come back on me.”
“Just get it done, Varden.”
The call disconnected, and Varden stared at the phone in his hand then hit the STOP button. The software he’d installed showed a call duration of 2:38—two minutes, thirty-eight seconds.
He smirked and sent the file to a dummy e-mail account. One not easily found but not too hidden that it’d be missed by experts…should Varden meet with an untimely death. Something, he was almost certain the colonel had planned. Especially since he, again, offered no reassurance that this wouldn’t fall back on him. When things went south, how long would it take the general to sacrifice him under interrogation?