by Ronie Kendig
“You and your sisters—how foolish to come here. To set a trap for me. You see? The one for whom you set the traps has sprung the traps.” He chuckled.
Téya shifted.
He pressed the gun harder into her back. “Uh-uh-uh,” he grunted. “Keep your hands where I can see them, or I’ll be sure you can’t lift another finger ever again.”
“What do you want, Ballenger?”
“I want to know why you’re with Queen of Sheba? Why would the angels of Zulu taint themselves with the blood of the pagan queen?”
Téya scowled. What was he talking about? “She’s helping us find you.”
He laughed loud and hard. “Helping you? Find me? But dearest, I’m right here. And where is she? Dancing with a soldier.”
“Téya, stay cool,” Trace said. “We’re coming for you.”
“Ah, my good Colonel,” Ballenger said. “No need to treat me like the enemy. We are on the same side, you and me. We want the same person dead.”
Téya’s heart thudded. He knew Trace was listening. And if he knew that—would he kill her?
“Tell him I hear him,” Trace said.
Wetting her lips, Téya gathered her courage. “He heard you.”
“Oh, I know he does.” Ballenger chuckled again. “He should be asking himself how I know that. I’ve given him the clues he’ll need to end what he’s been trying to end for five years. But I’m not convinced he’s paying attention.”
“I am!” Trace shouted, his voice panicked. “I’m listening, Ballenger.”
“He said he’s listening,” Téya said, her breaths coming in gulps.
“Oh, I’m sure he is. I have his girl here. Though, not his favorite. That’d be Palermo, wouldn’t it? Or maybe he now likes the Queen of Sheba.” Ballenger caught Téya’s hair in his hand and jerked her head backward.
She yelped but quickly braced herself.
“See, he’s not interested in you because you belong to another.”
“No,” Téya said. “I belong to no man.”
“Tsk, tsk,” Ballenger said as he drove the gun into her cheek and then grabbed her hand. “This mark says differently.” He leered down at her. “Do you know what this scar, this burn means?”
“I need plastic surgery,” Téya ground out, focusing her energy. Focusing on how to disarm him without getting her head blown off.
He guffawed. “No wonder he claimed you.” He grabbed her hair again and tugged her toward the door. “No, this mark means if I kill you, he will kill me. It guarantees your death will only come at the hand of one man—The Turk. And if it doesn’t, then there will be hell to pay for whoever robbed him of the pleasure.”
“What do you care?” Téya growled.
“Oh, I don—”
Téya snapped around. Flicked her hand in a palm-strike against the weapon, knocking it out of his hand. She drove the heel of her other hand into his chin. But he deflected just in time.
Ballenger stumbled. Reared back with the butt of the weapon.
Clink. Clink. Clink!
Téya saw the gray canister tumbling toward them. She threw herself around, opened her mouth, held her breath, and closed her eyes.
Booom!
White light exploded through her thin eyelids, searing her vision. She squeezed her eyes tighter.
Trace
Reston Town Center, Reston, Virginia
July 4 – 1955 Hours
“Where’s Téya? Anyone got the twenty—”
“Got her, got her,” Sam’s voice carried through the coms. “She’s okay. Came out the south side of the Hyatt.”
“Flash bang,” Téya breathed.
“Who threw it?” Trace demanded, feeling powerless up in the suite with the analysts and not on the ground protecting his team. Anger churned through him. Ballenger had gotten to one of the girls again. And again he hadn’t killed her. He was toying with Zulu, but Trace wasn’t sure why. What the point was.
And Ballenger had a point.
“Trace,” Téya coughed out his name. “He was here.”
“Who? Ballenger? Yeah, we figured that—”
“No,” Téya croaked out with another cough. “The Turk.”
Trace hung his head. The night could not get any worse. “Okay.” No it wasn’t okay, but what could he do? He needed time to think. “Come up here and—”
“No.” Téya’s voice was suddenly clear. But then she barked, her throat no doubt burning from the gas in the flash bang. “No, I’m not leaving the ground. He’s here. That means he wants something.”
“You in a casket?” Annie said.
“If he wanted that, he wouldn’t have saved me from Ballenger.”
“Maybe that’s why he did save you—so he could kill you.”
“Enough,” Trace said. “Get out there. Eyes open, everyone. Showtime—fireworks going off in five.”
Planting his hands on the window ledge, Trace bent forward. Pressed his head to the glass. What was Ballenger’s game?
“It was so weird,” Téya said, “the way he kept calling Francesca the Queen of Sheba.” Even as she talked, Téya moved back toward the fountain. “I thought for sure that was going to be it.”
“Trace.” Annie’s voice, clear and precise, broke through the din of chaos in the command center and into his own fried brain.
“Go ahead.”
“Something’s not right. Ballenger isolated both of us but didn’t take the opportunity to kill us.”
“Maybe he was distracted by the Queen of Sheba,” Téya said.
“I resent that name,” Francesca said. “I’m not even Ethiopian. I’m Italian American.”
“My favorite food,” Téya shot back. “But maybe that’s what we can call you now.”
“Fine as long as I get the temples.”
“The what?” Téya asked.
“Oh come on,” Francesca said. “Tell me you don’t know Bible history. King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba had a thing. So, if I’m going to be the Queen of Sheba, I want my handsome king and the temple.”
Wait. Trace froze. Wait wait wait.
“… wisest man in the world…”
Ballenger said that to Annie. He’d taunted them about the wisest man. Then he’d said something to Annie about palaces and temple.
Queen of Sheba.
King Solomon was considered the wisest man in the world. Solomon’s Temple. Solomon and the Queen of Sheba…
Trace lifted his head. The data wall! The icy touch of dread filled his gut. “Heads up,” Trace snapped. His gaze hit the man in uniform. A man he’d considered a friend. A man who had been his confidant.
Hollow ringing in his ears made Trace feel light-headed. This cannot be true. He couldn’t…it was circumstantial. Right?
“Just keep your eyes on Solomon…” Cantor’s concern about the general—it wasn’t because he was in danger. It was because he was the danger.
Trace spun to Houston, who was already watching him expectantly. “Can you get me a secure link to Six?”
Houston stared for a second, confused. Then blinked. “Yeah. Sure.”
“Do it.” Trace hurried to the tech geek’s side. Waited as he called up Nuala then handed him the phone. “Six.”
“Sir?”
“We are on a secure, isolated channel. I need you to focus on one target. And one target only. Stay on this target no matter what. If he does anything, anything you deem dangerous, you take the shot. Am I clear?”
“Yes, sir.” The tense affirmation told him she understood. “But, sir? Who’s my target?”
“General Haym Solomon.”
Francesca
Reston Town Center, Reston, Virginia
July 4 – 2003 Hours
For the first time in her life, she felt like she fit in. Only she didn’t. Couldn’t, because these ladies, this team, hated her. She had nearly ruined their lives. Had their commander arrested and imprisoned. He’d lost his career because of her. And yet Francesca never felt more at home,
never felt more herself than she did with them.
Maybe it was the action. The adrenaline rush of working a live mission. Or maybe it was the buzz of knowing someone targeted this new team who had teased her, shared a few laughs, ridden her butt…
“So,” Frankie said, wondering if this would be the true test of friendship—would Téya answer this question? “You mentioned The Turk.”
Téya’s eyes flashed to hers.
“Who is he?” Well, she knew who he was but wanted to know what this woman knew, too.
Something sparked in Téya’s eyes that bespoke anger, irritation, and fear. “Look it up when you get home and have nothing better to do.” But then Téya straightened as her gaze slid over Frankie’s shoulders. She frowned.
Frankie glanced back. Her stomach vaulted into her throat. Trace Weston stormed toward them. His brow was more tightly knotted than she’d ever seen. And that was saying something since he never looked at her without that infamous scowl. But right now, he looked like a tornado setting down on them.
Correction: on her.
She braced herself. “What—”
He took her hand. Tugged her onto the dance floor. Drew her into his arms.
Frankie swallowed hard. The coms piece went strangely quiet. Was the team listening in so closely they weren’t talking? Speaking of—he hadn’t said a word to her since they started dancing.
“Our coms are muted,” he said, his voice tight.
Frankie tried to work that out—why would he mute their coms?—but she came up blank. “Okay.”
A high-pitched whistle screamed through the night. Crack! Boom! Brilliant red and blue lights exploded across the sky. Dancers scurried to better spots to watch the fireworks. Frankie smiled up at them.
Trace grabbed her wrist, tugged her aside. To a dark spot. He pulled her close. Not to be intimate. But to be heard. “I’ve got two snipers trained on you.”
Frankie widened her eyes and tried to step back.
Trace held her tight. “Tell me what you know!”
Panic pushed her to get free. She shoved him back—or tried. He didn’t budge. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
His iron grip pressed into her flesh. “You have one more chance, and then this all ends—with you.”
Frankie tugged against his grip, frantic. “You’re insane! I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Your father.”
She stilled, scowling at him. “What about him?”
“Your father is the one who set my team up.”
Frankie froze. “No.” Tried to let those words sink in. “No, that’s…” Tried to fathom how Weston could even come up with that. “Where did you get that idea? That’s insane! My father loves you like a son.”
“No, I think he kept me close to keep me under control.” He shook her. “Think about it. The whole thing makes sense. He controlled my every move. Kept me hidden from you—why?”
Frankie couldn’t take it anymore. Couldn’t take the horrible accusations. She lashed out, thrashing against him. Screaming. Shoving. Pushing. Kicking.
Fireworks roared and popped. The crowds cheered.
“Ballenger told me. Ballenger gave me hints that your father was behind Misrata.”
“No,” Frankie growled. “You’re sick, Trace Weston. You’re a sick dog.”
“Think about it, Francesca. Why did he keep you away from us? Why didn’t he help you by showing you the truth? Why did he keep it hidden?”
“Shut up!”
Nuala
Reston Town Center, Reston, Virginia
July 4 – 2008 Hours
A slightly chilled breeze tugged against her tied-back hair as Nuala sat on her perch with the sniper rifle tucked against her shoulder. She had maintained a visual lock on the man they had all come to view as a guardian. A mentor. Though he didn’t have direct contact that often with them, General Haym Solomon had earned her respect.
So holding her sights on him, knowing she had orders to take him down, Nuala struggled. Palms sweaty, heart ramming against her ribs pressed to the tarred roof, she worked herself down. Took deep, calming breaths. What she wouldn’t give to have Boone here. To hear his voice. To know he—
Nuala’s thoughts snapped closed as the events below registered. Haym Solomon was moving away from the pavilion. “Six to Actual,” Nuala radioed in.
“Six, this is Command. Actual is offline.”
Offline? Why was Trace offline? “I need him online,” she said, too aware of the panic, the rapid heartbeat, the trembling fingers. All things that would affect her shot.
“Sorry. We’ll do what we can.”
The thump-pop of a firework warned her of the bright light. A few seconds later, the dahlia bloomed in the sky. Right. That could take forever. She could lose sight of Solomon.
What if she didn’t take the shot and he did something awful?
Or worse—what if she took the shot and things had changed? Trace realized how wrong he was?
But if Haym Solomon was responsible for setting them up, for making them kill those children…
Nuala drew on courage and strength she did not know she possessed. He’d inflicted her with the nightmares that invaded every breathing moment of her life. And he’d looked her in the eye.
She lowered her cheek to the rifle. Peered down the scope.
Thump. Pop! Crackle!
The night sky gave way to the peppering array of fireworks as Nuala took aim and slid her finger into the trigger well. Worked her calculations.
“Nuala!”
She lifted her head. That sounded close. Behind her. She glanced over her shoulder.
Boone dashed across the rooftop, waving his hands. “Go! Go!”
She scrambled to her feet, surprised. Startled. Confused. Her instincts to obey his orders without hesitation had her coming to her feet. But then her mind caught up with the betrayal. He went on television. “You shouldn’t be here!”
He came unyielding. His face a wild mixture of terror and panic.
Nuala back-stepped. Toward the edge of the roof.
He dove at her.
She screamed. His bulk plowed into hers. Knocked the wind from her lungs. They went airborne.
Téya
Reston Town Center, Reston, Virginia
July 4 – 2015 Hours
Téya stood at the fountain, watching the fireworks. Watching Trace and Frankie in a wrestling match. A shouting match from the looks of things.
The fireworks popped, the booms thumping against her chest. A chrysanthemum was quickly followed by crackles. Some in red. Some in blue. She had to admit it was weird to think of it this way, but Téya hated that everyone had someone. Annie and Sam stayed close to each other. Trace had his firebrand in Francesca, though there wasn’t anything romantic in that. Mutual disdain and hatred. But the girl was exactly Trace’s type, so it was a good thing they wouldn’t have anything to do with each other when this was over.
BooOOOOoooom!!
Screams and shouts made Téya duck. She felt thumps against her back and scurried to the side. She looked back, stunned to see the building missing its top two floors. Téya went ice cold. That…that was where Nuala had been set up. “Oh my—”
“Get back!” Eric Goff shouted to her.
But Téya pushed forward.
As she did, she saw sparks. Not just sparks—the tiny explosion visible at night from a gun. She glanced in that direction. Then an avalanche of partygoers rushed past her, screaming. Shoving. Tossing her aside like she didn’t exist. What were they running from in wild panic?
As the crowd cleared, a woman in a gold gown bent over a man. The fireworks show went on, making it impossible to hear what was being said. But she could see. The woman’s gut-birthed sobs told Téya what happened.
He’s been shot.
She spun around. Where she’d seen the sparks. Tracked movement. The wild, frenzied movement of the crowd.
But one more controlled, more
intentional pattern drew her attention. A man was running toward Democracy. Around the barricades, then sprinting down between the buildings.
Ballenger!
Téya kicked off her shoes and sprinted after him. She heard shouts behind her but didn’t dare look or take her eyes off Ballenger. He was not getting away with this. What if Nuala was dead? And Annie—where was Annie?
“Zulu! Report,” Trace’s voice—so smooth and calm—came through the coms.
“One here. I’m fine.”
Tugging up her gown, Téya dodged fleeing guests. She felt like a Ping-Pong ball as she made her way down Democracy. Past the cupcake shop. And the theater. Ballenger was past the Starbucks now. Heading toward the small outdoor amphitheater.
“Six, Two, report.”
Kinda need to breathe right now. If she took even an ounce of her focus off this mission, she’d fail. Ballenger would get away. And he’d kill again. She would not let that happen.
“Dawg here.”
Téya tripped. Her mind skidded right into that voice. Boone? What was Boone doing here?
“Six’s injured but alive.”
“Copy that, Dawg.”
Téya darted across Library Drive, narrowly missing a cabby, who gave her a blaring welcome. But she kept going. Behind her, she heard feet slapping the sidewalk.
“I’ll cut him off on Market!”
Goff. Eric Goff was with her.
Téya refocused on the mission—getting Ballenger. She ran past Mon Ami Gabi and PassionFish. She banked right onto Explorer Street. Headed toward the Reston Town Square Park.
Darkness crowded her, making her all too aware that she couldn’t see well enough.
Shadows shifted. Coalesced.
A fraction of a second too late, she realized the threat. Her body jolted with adrenaline. The massive form plowed into her. Téya vaulted sideways. Felt herself flying. Unable to control her direction. Her movement. The stone steps rushed up at her. She tumbled down the amphitheater.
Simultaneously, she registered a bright explosion. Felt its concussive boom.
She dropped hard. The stone steps jabbed her side. Punched the breath from her lungs. Téya arched against the pain and rolled onto all fours. Her ears rang. Smoke spiraled through the air, reaching her. She coughed.
Something clattered to the ground and rolled to a stop in front of her. Wincing at the bruised ribs she’d no doubt have, and the fiery pain, she reached for the item. And stilled. A pen? What…?