by Ronie Kendig
“This is the same complaint that I have personally heard as well,” Representative Glick said, his slicked-back hair glossy beneath the lights. He proved to be as slimy as his hair. “I believe Colonel Weston’s refusal to be cooperative with this committee and its investigation is proof positive of his hand in the deadly and tragic events of 29 April. Would you agree, General Marlowe?”
Marlowe leaned forward, keyed the microphone. “I would, sir.”
Trace sat staring forward. Not only would he refuse to answer those questions, he would refuse to acknowledge these two. Besides, this was nothing more than a scripted attempt to get Trace stripped of rank and duty. Marlowe had been after his oak leaves since before they were pinned on Trace.
Glick tilted his head to look at the chairman a few seats down on the raised dais. “I think we have what we need, Senator Moller. The Select Intelligence Committee is of the mind that Colonel Weston, due to his extreme lack of respect and compliance with this committee, be charged with obstruction of justice. And it would be our recommendation to his superiors that this is not the type of soldier we need leading a younger generation. In fact, he has failed his duty and dishonored the uniform he wears today.”
“I would remind you, Representative Glick,” Chairman Moller said, “Colonel Weston has not been found guilty, and therefore, the blame and accusation you lay at his feet is premature.” With a heavy sigh, Moller turned to Trace.
Trace knew he’d tied the chairman’s hands with the stunt the other day. And with his silence and refusal to speak today.
Trace’s phone buzzed in his pocket, but he ignored it. The guillotine was coming down on his neck. He wasn’t going to answer a phone call while it was happening.
Moller held out his hands, as if pleading with Trace. “Colonel Weston, you haven’t said much, and like General Marlowe said, what you’ve conveyed to us has been a repeat of the earlier hearings. You’ve heard what my colleague, Representative Glick, has said, what he has recommended.” He stared at Trace, and though the message was clear—please, tell us something, break this silence, don’t let them win—Trace held his peace. “Do you have anything to say, anything that can sway the minds of this committee?”
“I do not”—Trace’s mind flicked to Francesca, to her refusal—“except one thing: I would charge each member of this hearing to consider the proceedings. What happened. But more importantly, what didn’t happen. Let that speak for itself.”
His phone buzzed again. Trace slid it from his pocket, wondering what was so urgent.
“May I speak?” General Solomon asked. “Briefly.”
Houston’s number showed up with the message: SHOTS FIRED. ANNIE INVOLVED.
Before Trace could register the move, he was pushing to his feet, sucking in a quick breath.
Kneading his brow, Moller hesitated. “Briefly,” he agreed.
Solomon cast him a curious gaze and reached for the microphone.
A security guard raced to the front of the room as Solomon started talking about the inherent sensitive nature of black ops missions and teams.
Another Houston text: F SOLOMON INJURED. RUSTY ON SCENE. CALL ASAP.
“Excuse me, General,” the chairman cut in, leaning forward, his expression taut. “I’ve been advised that we are in lockdown. There is an active shooter just outside the building.”
Trace rushed toward the door.
“Hey!” the security guard shouted. “Nobody leaves.”
But Trace was already out of the courtroom, sprinting now to the foyer as he hit the autodial for Houston then aimed for a side door. “Tell me,” he ordered as soon as the call connected.
“Trace!” a shout from behind didn’t stop him.
He pushed the door open and stepped into the warm, balmy June afternoon. He sprinted behind a Dumpster, all too aware and too familiar with avoiding eating lead. What he missed was his gear, his M4, and his Glock. Being in the hearing, he was unarmed. Had to get to his Charger.
“EMTs are on the scene.”
That stopped Trace. He pulled his shoulder back, gaze skimming the surroundings. “Wait—Annie’s there? Why is Annie there? Is she hit?” his mind raced. What was she doing out there? Why wasn’t she at the bunker? All the five-and six-story buildings could offer a sweet spot for a shooter. Taller ones made it impossible for him to know if they were up there.
“No, she was there,” Houston said, “but Rusty got her out of there.”
“Rusty’s there?” What in blazes was going on?
“On scene. Told them he was driving by when he saw Solomon get hit.”
Good, good. Trusty always knew how to think on his feet. Two massive forms of relief right there. Having Annie at an accident and her name being taken in reports would not be good. Even worse would be if she’d been injured.
“What’s the situation?” Trace darted to a delivery truck parked a few yards away. “Are you into the satellites or cameras?”
“Me? That’s illegal, Colonel Weston,” Houston said, a mock in his words.
“Houston,” Trace growled as he crouched next to a truck, then sprinted to another.
“Chillax, Boss-man. What do you want to know?”
“What do you see?”
“Using cameras on the poles, I’m seeing a lot of emergency vehicles. Roads around the Capitol are shut down and blocked. Cops are hunting the shooter, according to radio chatter and the SWAT teams racing into two different buildings.”
Trace jogged toward his car. “Shooter’s still active?”
“Active, no, but out there, yes. I’ve piggybacked a satellite. Scanning rooftops.”
“He’s pretty cocky to do this in broad daylight,” Trace said. He took a step.
Glass exploded in an older model sedan.
Trace threw himself to the ground, scoring his palms. He bit back a curse. His phone clattered across the parking lot, spinning to a stop under a Volkswagen Bug. He peered beneath the vehicles, eyeballing his Charger three more down. He huffed and pulled himself into a crouch.
“Weston!” someone behind him shouted.
Trace glanced back and saw Haym jogging toward him. “Get down! Get down!”
Face white, Haym went to a knee.
“Still active,” Trace shouted to his friend, still thirty feet away. “Stay there.” Hand on the bumper of a silver Mercedes, he readied himself to run. He took in two quick breaths and blew them back out then launched himself forward.
Crack! Tsing!
He threw himself at the Bug and retrieved his phone. Shimmying along the side, he made his way to the rear of the vehicle, grateful the parking area had a curve to it. He sighted his Charger. Scanned the rooftops. There were enough trees that if the shooter wasn’t high enough, he wouldn’t have a good vantage.
“Houston—higher the better. He needs to be able to see over the trees,” Trace barked into the phone. “He’s got a bead on me.”
“You’re his target?” Houston asked, his voice unusually high. “That’s…that’s odd.”
“Why is that odd?”
“How could he possibly know you and Annie would be there?”
Trace crouched next to the Bug, thinking. “He didn’t.” Which meant—“Solomon.” Why was he after her?
He shoved into the open, sprinting for his car. Within a few feet, he dived for cover.
Fire screamed down his leg. He pitched forward. “Augh!” Trace hit hard. His breath knocked out of him. “Son of a biscuit!” Trace bit out, grabbing his leg, the trail of fire not soggy, but raw.
“Trace! Trace are you shot?” Houston cried.
Gritting his teeth, Trace unlocked his car. Flipped open the door. “Find this piece of crap, Houston. I want him.”
“I haven’t stopped. You didn’t answer if you’re shot.”
“Just a graze. Won’t be so lucky next time.” Trace dragged himself into the seat, lying across the console. He started the engine and laid back the seat. “Get me that guy’s head on a platter!”
“Ro
ger that,” Houston said. “Trace—patching Rusty through.”
“Rusty?” It was half repetition, half invitation.
“Trace. Where are you?”
“West side of the Capitol.” If he could get a little farther north, he should be out of the shooter’s line of sight. With the Capitol in lockdown, the parking lot wasn’t busy right now. That worked in his favor. “The shooter has me targeted, but I’m trying to get out of here. Where’s Annie? Why was she here?”
“That’s why I asked Houston to patch me in. She was here when Solomon got hit—”
“You’ll explain that to me when we get back.” Trace rammed his shifter into gear and gunned it. Tires pealed. He whipped to the left, keeping his head out of sight.
Glass exploded, peppering his face. The shooter had hit the driver’s side. Trace squinted, shielding himself as he turned his head away but kept his gaze forward. Aimed for the exit to Northwest Drive. “Rusty, shooter’s on Constitution somewhere. Find him!”
“Working on it…”
Trace raced down Northwest then Northeast to Capitol. He flashed his ID to the guard, who gave him a nod and directed him to the south. Routes to the north and west were blocked, he warned Trace.
“Rusty—talk to me. Annie.” Trace gunned the engine, racing down First.
“She was supposed to wait at the Grant Memorial.”
Trace’s gut churned. “Supposed to?” He flicked on his blinker, crawling out of his skin over the traffic clogging the roads. Didn’t they know there was a lockdown?
“I can’t get over there. Roads are blocked.”
“On my way,” Trace said then focused on getting to her. “Turning onto Independence now.”
He dodged cars, weaving in and out of traffic like a Capitol cabby would.
“She’s not at Grant.”
Annie… Annie…what were you thinking?
She got shot at. Or Solomon did. The sniper couldn’t have known Annie was there. But if Annie felt the threat was coming from Constitution—just as he did—then she’d head away from it. Put as much distance between him and the shooter. “I have a theory,” Trace said, driving as fast as possible while he scanned the sidewalks and pedestrians. The light went yellow.
Trace punched the pedal. Glided through the intersection. C’mon, c’mon. Where was she? He passed the botanical gardens. The wall would block a shooter, but it was too open.
Sirens whooped behind him.
He glanced in the mirror. Saw a Capitol Police car.
“For the love of…” Trace growled and pulled to the side, wanting to curse. Wanting to gun it and outrun the cop. But that would only get him jail time. Annie would be missing. He eased to the curb.
The cop revved and sped around Trace, hitting the corner hard at Third and squalling his tires.
Trace breathed a sigh of relief and guided his car back into traffic. His gaze tracked the roads. Sidewalks again. His attention hit a copse of trees just past Third. Little grass grew near the sidewalk bench—
Trace’s heart vaulted into his throat. “Annie.”
He sailed through the intersection and yanked the car to the side of the road. Ignored the No PARKING sign, shoved the gear into PARK, and threw open the door.
A horn blared.
He sprinted to the bench. “Annie!”
She looked over her shoulder. Chalky faced, she gave a weak smile. “You found me.”
He went to a knee. “What’s wrong?”
She lifted her head and managed another smile. “Two for the price of one.”
“Crap,” Trace said as he went to a knee, lifting her hand and checking the wound. “What have I told you about eating lead?” he asked, his tone chiding but light.
“Never did listen well,” she mumbled.
“Got that right.” The bullet hadn’t exited, which was good—it limited the amount of blood loss—but that could be dangerous—jarring it could push it into an organ. “Okay, we need to get you back to the bunker.”
“Sorry I left.”
“We’ll talk about it later.”
“Sounds ominous.”
“Good, I’m finally doing something right,” he said, helping her to her feet. He slipped his arm around her waist and hooked hers over his shoulder.
“I had to get away from there,” Annie said, grunting in pain. “He was still shooting. If I stayed—How’s Rusty?”
“Fine.” Trace guided her into the backseat so she could lie down. But her question nagged at him. Was Trusty doing okay? As he straightened, he heard the whoop of a police warning siren. He glanced back.
The cop was motioning him away from the curb.
Trace held a hand up, praying he didn’t have blood on it from Annie, then hurried to the driver’s side. He slid behind the wheel. “Stay down. We have a cop behind us.”
As he eased back into traffic, his phone rang. He hit the speaker. “Houston—”
“Trace. Trace, it’s bad,” came Houston’s frantic, almost shouted words.
“Slow down,” Trace said, heading back to Independence so he could catch 50 up to 66 and then fight the insanity of Route 7. “I’m on my way back with Annie. We need a doctor.”
“You’re not listening!” Houston shouted.
Trace drew up short at the terse, angry words. The laidback guy had a rocket up his rear end. This wasn’t like him. “Okay,” he said calmly. Very calmly, though his pulse probably registered on the Richter. “I’m listening. Talk to me. What’s wrong?”
“It’s Rusty!” Houston’s voice cracked. “Oh my gosh, Trace. He’s dead. The shooter hit him. Rusty is dead!”
Nuala
Lucketts, Virginia
15 June – 1430 Hours
With Houston’s help, Nuala had converted the isolated workout room into a sterile surgical environment with draped industrial-grade plastic enclosing one-third of the space. Within that enclosure were heavy lamps, metal trays, a metal table, and a complete surgical care system. All sanitized as they had waited for Trace to show up with Annie.
It was strange, watching Annie lie there, silent. Still. Sleeping death. That’s the only way Nuala had been able to cope over the years with seeing her targets in that position. Of course, they were dead. Annie was only sedated. But the fear that Annie could take a turn for the worse, that the doctor would discover the sniper bullet had punctured an organ, haunted Nuala. Just like knowing the sniper had killed Rusty. She shuddered, hating that their team had once again been affected. Targeted.
“She’ll be fine.” Houston handed Nuala a cup of water.
“Do you realize how fast a sniper bullet is?” She held the water but kept her eyes on her teammate. “It’s designed to kill. It’s messy. The speed and trajectory of the bullet create incredible damage…”
He touched her shoulder. “Hey…”
Startled by his tenderness, which made her more aware of how morose she was being, Nuala sipped her water. “Sorry.”
“No worries. I’d rather be here hearing about bullet power than sitting by my station listening to Trace and Téya shout it out.”
“They’re still going at it?”
Houston nodded. “You’d never guess Téya was his subordinate.”
“I don’t think she sees herself that way,” Nuala said. “At least, not since Frankfurt.”
“Yeah,” Houston said, scratching his curly mop. “I’m still working feeds and surveillance to see if I can find her, figure out where she went and what happened. Sometimes I get lucky. Like today—I spotted him.”
Nuala pushed her gaze to his. “The shooter?”
He nodded, his chin lifting as a touch of pride hit his expression. “Saw him on the rooftop of Washington Gas. Missed him first couple of gos, but then finally located him behind one of the big A/C units.”
“Did they catch him?”
Houston’s face fell. His shoulders sagged as he stuffed his fists into his jean pockets. “No. He was gone by the time the team made it up there. They�
��d been up there once.”
Nuala frowned. That didn’t make sense. “How’d a SWAT team and a satellite scan miss him?” A gun that size wasn’t easily overlooked, nor a person. “What if he moved?”
“What? From one building to another?” Houston shook his head. “But I’m working the image through facial recognition in the hopes of pinning him down.”
Thwap.
Nuala spun, the sound eerily like a silenced shot. Instead, she found Dr. Olson emerging from the sterile environment. Nuala straightened, taking a step forward.
He held up a hand as he removed his surgical gown, cap, and gloves, snapping them into a receptacle. “She’ll be fine. Bullet missed her vital organs, thank goodness.”
Nuala gave a relieved sigh.
“Is the colonel around?”
With a hesitant glance to the briefing area, where Téya and Trace were visible and in the throes of an argument, Nuala hesitated. “Yeah. Sure. Let me get him.”
“No,” Dr. Olson said. “My nurse will stay with her for the night to monitor her vitals. I’ll call Weston and give him my report.”
“If you’re sure… I don’t think he’d mind me interrupting.”
“It’s okay. I have to get back before questions are asked anyway.” Dr. Olson gave a nod to Nuala.
“I’ll walk you out.” Houston’s offer wasn’t simply consideration. It was necessity. Dr. Olson couldn’t access the security panels. Trace trusted him, had requested a surgeon through General Solomon so they didn’t have Annie on the grid with a gunshot wound. That would draw the kind of attention Zulu did not need.
Houston and Dr. Olson had just made it into the tunnel and closed the door when Trace and Téya emerged, still bantering.
“We can’t go on with this. Annie’s down. Nuala and I can’t pull this off alone.”
“You won’t be alone,” Trace said as he came toward her. “Where’s Olson?”
“Just left.” Nuala thumbed toward the doors. “Said he’d call you. But Annie’s going to be fine, he said. Bullet missed vital organs.”
Visible relief washed through the commander’s face. He swiped a hand over his face and sighed. “Probably slowed because it passed through Francesca first.”
“Could be,” Nuala said. It wasn’t completely implausible that the sniper had hit the two of them, but Nuala didn’t want to think about it. “Any word on Miss Solomon?”