Operation Zulu Redemption--Complete Season 1

by Ronie Kendig

  Defiance dug through her. She lifted her chin. “He was worried about his team. Insisted I not expose their names.” No, it was more like pleading…begging. The thought unsettled her. “He said I’d put them in danger.”

  Paolo’s strong suit had always been sarcasm, and she expected him to frost this whole conversation with a thick layer of it. When he didn’t say a word, she scrambled not to let him think she’d been swayed by this. If she was so weak she let a guy shoving into her house change her mind, then…

  “Since I started digging, my house has been ransacked. My credit destroyed. My confidence shaken.” Frankie’s heart danced a jig when she spotted Colonel Weston walking down the hall in his Class A’s. “I was convinced it was him trying to scare me off.”

  “And now?”

  Weston shook hands with other officers as he made his way down the short corridor to the hearing room. Nice smile, considering he’d just scowled and frowned at her. Broad shoulders. A chest decorated with ribbons. A half dozen or more gold slices marked his forearm sleeves, indicating his deployments. Clearly, Weston was no stranger to combat. He shook General Cantor’s hand, shared a laugh, then pivoted. His gaze rammed into hers. He hesitated for a fraction of a second. Not enough for anyone to really notice. Well, nobody but her. She noticed.

  “I’m to blame. Just leave. Them. Out.” His plea boomed through her mind.

  Paolo touched her elbow and leaned in, cutting off her view of the lieutenant colonel as he made his way into the hearing room. “Frank?”

  She flinched, giving herself a mental shake and pulling herself free of Weston’s gaze. She turned to her brother. “I… I need to talk to Dad.”

  He pointed toward the double doors. “It’s time.”

  Frankie looked inside and immediately registered Weston sliding down the narrow space between the tables at the front and the chairs of the audience. He clapped a hand on the shoulder of her father, who was already seated inside. The two exchanged a smile and handshake.

  “You believe him?” Her question had been for her father, a surprised thought, but her brother thought it was aimed at him.

  “Weston?” Paolo said as he guided her into the room. “He’s one of the best officers I’ve ever met. So, yeah, I do.”

  Frankie pushed into the room and made her way to the table where her father sat. “Do you have a minute?” she asked her dad, avoiding Trace’s gaze. She didn’t want to look at him. Didn’t want to even acknowledge him. His escapade at her home had destroyed her confidence of his guilt.

  “Frankie, it’s about to start, honey.”

  “Two minutes, Dad.” She put her hand on his arm. “Please.”

  He nodded and excused himself. She met him by the doors, her heart ricocheting off her ribs. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Weston watching.

  “What is wrong, Francesca?” her dad asked, straightening his jacket.

  “Daddy, will you please promise to answer one question for me?”

  His brow dove toward his eyes then rose again. “Okay.”

  “Promise.” It was an old joke with them.

  He smiled. “I promise.”

  She took a measured breath for courage then slowly let it out. “Did Colonel Weston request that I be on his team, on Zulu?”

  Her father paled. Slipped a quick glance to the side. Then eased in. “I can’t discu—”

  “Yes or no. Please.”

  Her father sighed, his head down. Then he raised his eyes only to her. “He mentioned you in the preliminary list, but I refused him.”

  Francesca straightened. Expelled the breath she didn’t realize she’d held till that moment. It could’ve been me. It could’ve been me. She pushed her gaze back to the table, where Weston leaned to his left, chatting with someone in a dark suit.

  I’ve got it all wrong.

  Or did she?

  Regardless, she had too many doubts to go forward. To put the lives of three young women on the line. Especially knowing she could’ve been on the opposite side of this.

  “Franny?”

  She met her dad’s brown eyes.

  “What’s this about?”

  Just then, the session was called to order.

  Annie

  Capitol Hill, Washington, DC

  15 June – 1030 Hours

  “He’s going to shoot me,” Rusty said as he slid down Pennsylvania Avenue NW.

  “I’ll take the heat. It’s nothing new,” Annie said, watching out the window of Trusty’s Ford F-150 for sign of the small red SUV.

  “Things have changed a lot between y’all,” Rusty said as he aimed into what amounted to four rows of parking availability sandwiched between the small body of water that stretched before the Ulysses S. Grant Memorial and Constitution Avenue. They’d already checked the parking spots that lined the roads around the Capitol.

  “He changed,” Annie muttered.

  Rusty snickered.

  “What?”

  He gave a one-shouldered shrug. “I’ve known Trace nearly ten years.” He cocked his head to the side. “That man hasn’t changed at all—except when he was dating you. Now he’s as grumpy as before.”

  Annie looked away.

  “Actually,” Rusty said, lifting a finger of his hand draped over the steering wheel. “I’d say he’s even grumpier.”

  “There’s a lot happening. Three of us are dead.” She felt bad for being blunt, but she didn’t want this conversation. Mostly because she still hadn’t figured out what to do about her and Trace.

  “But not a lot between the two of you.”

  Annie huffed. “What do you want me to say, Trusty?”

  “Why’d you break up with him?”

  “I didn’t.” She really had to focus on finding this car. “He left me at an airstrip. Promised he’d come. He never did. I stopped waiting.”

  “He still loves you.”

  The thought made her heart ping-pong through her chest. “Well, he’s too late.”

  Rusty applied the brake, drawing her attention. He pointed to a red SUV parked to his left. “That it?”

  “Red Ford Escape,” Annie said, as she lifted the paper with the registration number on it and compared it to the Virginia plates. “Yep, that’s it.” She reached for the door handle.

  Rusty touched her arm. “You sure about this?”

  Annie looked at the SUV. The woman had been a plague. And though Rusty blamed Trace’s mood on her, Annie knew it had a lot do to with the lieutenant who’d been applying an indecent amount of pressure against Trace—all based on speculation. “Yeah.”

  “There’s a spot on the other side. We can park there and wait.” Rusty drove up the aisle.

  As he made the U-turn, Annie spotted a uniformed officer walking down the path from the Capitol. “Hey.” It was a woman. Was it Solomon? She peered around the visor to get a better angle. “Is that her?”

  “I think so,” Rusty gunned the engine and sped down the small parking area, hurrying. He slid to a stop a few cars from Solomon’s.

  Annie climbed out, tugging the brim of the Nationals ball cap down on her brow. Gaze locked onto Solomon, she waited and timed it so they’d arrive at the red crossover at the same time. But each passing second made Annie’s heart thump louder and harder. This woman wanted to put her face, Téya’s face, and Nuala’s all over the news in her pursuit of taking Trace down. And Annie had to admit, just that the woman wanted to hurt Trace brought out every primal instinct in Annie. She might not be sure about her own feelings for Trace, but he was a good man. An amazing soldier. And a very loyal friend.

  Francesca Solomon stood about Téya’s height. Leggy in her skirt, she cut a nice figure. One Annie envied with the height and curves. Almost black hair secured in a bun beneath her cover, Francesca strode down the sidewalk. She glanced to the left and to the right, though traffic arrows clearly marked it one-way. She stepped off the curb, cutting between two sedans, and crossed toward her red vehicle. Her dark shades concealed her
eyes, but her posture and the way she carried herself seemed to say she hadn’t noticed Annie. That, or she wasn’t worried about her.

  Annie would change that. She slinked between two vehicles to come up on the rear of the Ford Escape. “Francesca Solomon?”

  The woman hesitated, shifting her satchel to her left hand. Easier to get to her weapon—one she wasn’t carrying—Annie imagined. “Yes?”

  Formal. Stiff.

  “Do you have a minute to talk?”

  She glanced at her silver and gold watch. “Sorry, I’m already late for a meeting.”

  “Well, you’re going to be more late.” Annie wished the woman didn’t tower over her, giving her a mental edge. She lifted the bill of the cap a little and met the woman’s gaze head on.

  Solomon stilled.

  “Do you recognize me?”

  Rigid, Francesca gave a quick nod then glanced around. “It’s not really smart for you to be here.”

  “A lot of things aren’t smart,” Annie said, glad the woman had given her a segue. “Like you exposing my identity to the world.”

  “Only to the hearing.”

  “You and I both know that telling those suits my name and the names of my sisters-in-arms is as good as handing a press release to CNN. By tonight, my picture will be all over the news.” Her palms grew sweaty at the thought. “You really have no idea the damage you’ve done. The danger you’ve placed our lives in.”

  “Everyone’s telling me that,” she murmured, once more looking around. “I just need justice for Misrata.”

  “No,” Annie snapped, her anger vaulting over her fears. “No, you don’t get to say that.” Her breath came in gulps. “Don’t you dare act like your vendetta against Colonel Weston is about the children. Spew your lies in that hearing, but not here. Right here, we’re on even ground, Miss Solomon. I was there. I heard those children scream as they died. I watched it while you were probably in a comfy chair in an office. So don’t do that. Play it straight.”

  Brownish-gold eyes held hers. “What do you want?”

  “I need you to go back in there and tell them—tell them you were wrong. Your information was wrong. Have our names redacted. Whatever it takes.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You can!” Annie snapped. “And you will. This campaign against us needs to stop. Three of my very dearest friends are dead—”

  “Not my fault—”

  “Did you go to Keeley at the hospital?”

  Again, the woman said nothing.

  “Were you there? Ever?”

  Another curt nod.

  “Then you bear the blame just as much as whoever poisoned her.”

  “Are you just here to try to put me on a guilt trip?”

  This time, Annie hesitated. Partially because the woman’s attitude surprised her. But also because—yeah, she had come here for that reason. Annie removed the baseball cap. “I thought if you put a face with the name you just spread all over the news…if I end up dead…”

  “Then maybe you should stop standing around in public.”

  Building Rooftop, Constitution Avenue

  Careless, foolish women. They made his job too easy. They might as well climb up on the cross and nail themselves to it, they made it so simple. Staring down the scope of the military sniper weapon system, he aligned his target. Checked the wind. Dialed the gun. Rechecked the wind.

  All while they stood in the open, nice soft targets.

  Two birds with one stone.

  Two kills with one round.

  He smirked as he pressed the stock to his shoulder, braced for the kick.

  Wouldn’t that be sweet? But he didn’t need the ball cap chick. He only needed Solomon. She’d gotten too chatty. Too used to thinking on her own rather than just following orders.

  His phone buzzed against his hip. He had time, so he answered. “Yeah?”

  “We’re coming out. Be ready.”

  “I have another target in sight.”

  “Which one?”

  “Solomon. Staring at her right now.” He dialed and shifted the scope. He tightened up on the blond. “Boss…” His heart thumped a little harder. “I think this is your lucky day, General.”

  “How?”

  “I’m staring down the scope at Solomon—”

  “How’s that lucky?”

  “And Annie Palermo.”

  “She’s here?”

  “Standing next to Solomon.”

  “No, focus on the original target.”

  “I have no joy on that target.” He lifted his cheek from the scope and glanced toward the Capitol with his bare eyes. “There’s enough distance. Solomon is isolated with Palermo. Nobody will know what’s happening by the time I hit Weston.”

  “I need Weston—”

  “I can do it.”

  “Varden!”

  He ended the call. Tucked the phone away. Then again checked the wind and temperature. Slid his finger into the trigger well.

  Annie

  Stunned at the woman’s cruelty and insensitivity, Annie shook her head. “I met your dad the Christmas Colonel Weston tapped me for the team. I was so impressed with him.”

  “Yeah,” Francesca said, removing her cover and setting it and her satchel in her car. “Is this where you—like everyone else—tell me I’m nothing like him? That he and my brothers are much better people than me?”

  Annie heard the hurt in those words. Saw the sting on the woman’s pretty face. “Actually, I was going to say you were just like him.”

  Francesca looked down. Rubbed her forehead, with one hand on her hip. “Look, I didn’t do it.”

  Did Annie dare hope that meant what she wanted it to? “Didn’t do what?”

  Francesca unbuttoned her uniform blouse and removed it, standing in the parking lot in a tank top. She loosed her hair from the tight knot at the base of her neck. Somehow, Annie knew the moves were symbols of her shedding the rules and regulations of the military. “I walked out of the hearing without giving my testimony. Without telling them who you and the others are.”

  “Why? I mean—I’m glad. Thank you.” She could breathe. Feel the air on her face. “But…why?”

  “I realized I could’ve been on your team. I could’ve been one of those girls who died. One of your friends. It’s crazy, I know,” Francesca said, leaning against her car. “But it changed things for me. When he begged me to leave you all out of it, there was something about the way he said it, the torment in his eyes. It haunted me.”

  “He?” Annie’s stomach squirmed. “Colonel Weston?”

  Francesca stood up straight. “I—”

  Crack!

  A split second carried a bevy of noises and images: the tinkling of shattering glass. The oof! of Solomon as she rammed into Annie. Solomon’s shouting “Down!” and the crackling sound of the windshield safety glass spider-webbing.

  Shots! Someone was shooting at them!

  Annie threw herself at Francesca, knocking them both to the glass-littered pavement. “Shooter!” Head down, she covered it with her arm.

  Tink! Thunk!

  That was close! Right above her head. Which meant the shooter could see her. She rolled, grabbing Solomon. “Here.”

  Without hesitation, the woman went with her, and as she did, Annie tried to shift to the side. Her hand slipped on a slick puddle. Nausea churned. Though she wanted it to be oil, she knew better.

  Rocks spat at them. Dust plumed in her face. Annie pressed herself harder against the car and road, trying to edge out of view. “You okay?” she shouted to Francesca.

  “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know,” Annie shouted.

  “Yeah…my name is Francesca Solomon,” the stiff, formal words of the woman drew Annie around. Solomon had her phone pressed to her ear. “I’m on Pennsylvania Avenue by the Grant Memorial. We have an active shooter.” She glanced around, shaking her head. “I can’t tell. Across the street, I think—what is that?” Pointing away from the water
, Francesca nodded toward another street. “I think…it’s Constitution, I think.”

  Sirens wailed in the distance. Someone else must’ve called in the shooting. All Annie could think was that she had to get out of here. But moving could get her head sniped off.

  Tires squalled, and within a matter of seconds, Rusty’s large gray and black Ford F-150 backed up into view. “Annie!”

  “Here,” she said, lifting her hand. She looked up, afraid to lift her head too high. Rusty had the door flung open, leaning out. “Did you see him?”

  “No. You okay?”

  “Yeah.” Annie instinctively glanced back to Francesca, who was on her back staring up at the sky, phone still in hand. Bloody hand.

  “Francesca!” Annie scrambled toward the woman. Her white tank wasn’t white anymore—a large dark stain spread over her waist and hip. Her Italian complexion had gone pale. “Francesca!”

  She lifted her head to look at them and cried out, throwing herself back down. A sheen of sweat covered her face.

  “Apply pressure,” Rusty said. “I’ll get my med kit.”

  Annie planted her hands on the wound and pressed.

  “We need”—Francesca grimaced, blew out a breath, then continued—“EMS. Y–yes. I’m shot.”

  Rusty was at her side, kneeling with his gear. He grabbed gauze that would stop the bleeding, lifted Annie’s hands, and then pressed her hands back down. “Hold it.” He lifted the phone. “My name is Rusty Gray. I’m a trained medic. We have a late twenties female with a single gunshot wound to her abdomen. Both exit and entry wounds. Blood loss is significant.” He tucked the phone between his shoulder and chin. “I’m running a wide bore IV….”

  Annie dropped back against the car, sagging in relief. The shooter—she couldn’t just assume he was gone, but he’d be stupid to stay there now that even she could hear sirens blazing.

  Trace

  “Colonel Weston,” General Marlowe droned on, “has shown contempt for the proceedings of this committee and the Select Intelligence Committee’s investigation. He has refused to answer questions, and what little he has volunteered is repetitive or nonissues.”