Operation Zulu Redemption: Act of Treason - Part 4 (11 page)

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!”

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 lay 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 all 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?”

“Not ‘miss.’
Lieutenant
,” Téya corrected with a growl. “That woman got what was coming to her for all she put Trace through and what she almost did to us.”

“But she didn’t,” Trace countered. “She left your names out. That’s what mattered.”

Nuala noticed Houston return. The guy hated confrontation as much as she did—he shimmied over to his workstation and hid behind the monitors. She joined him, moving away from Téya and Trace. Away from the tension. Sitting beside Houston, she brushed her long, straight brown hair from her face and yawned—hard.

Houston yawned through a “stop that” complaint. He shook his head. “That’s. . .too. . .” His eyes bugged.

Laughing, Nuala realized he was staring at something on his monitor. “What?”

He clicked a ticker feed. Sucked in a hard breath.

So did Nuala. The ticker was from a news program. Hand over her mouth to cover her gasp, she found herself staring at the image of Boone Ramage. Talking with a reporter. The ticker below the journalist’s face read
Lowen Miles
, then it switched to
Special Forces Soldier Comes Forward About Misrata
.

“No,” she muttered through her hand.

“Commander,” Houston said, his voice tinny, stressed. “This is bad. No, this is cut-your-losses-and-run-as-fast-as-you-can bad.”

Trace hurried over to them.

Houston pointed to the wall, where he mirrored the news feature.

“. . .and can you tell us why you decided to come forward now?” Lowen Miles asked.

Please please please don’t do this
, Nuala silently begged the man she loved. The man she held on a pedestal like no other. The man who’d mentored her. Encouraged her. Championed her. Protected her. Trained her. He had never given her a reason to think he saw her as anything other than a soldier, but she didn’t care. She got to be with him, near him. Hear his thoughts. Hear his voice.

Now. . .now his voice sailed through a national television show, revealing secrets Zulu had fought—and died—to protect. “Too many people are dying. It’s time to stop this. I’ve had enough.”

“But it’s been five years,” Lowen said.

“Yes, and someone is actively hunting anyone connected to the incident,” Boone replied.

“You mean those responsible?” Miles’s words were a challenge.

“Did you know about this?” Téya demanded of Trace, who shot her a look.

But he said nothing. Just stared at the screen. Expression blank. But then, Trace’s expression, if it wasn’t blank, was terse. He had two modes: blank and intense.

“Holy bloody back-stabbing, Batman,” Houston said as he dropped back and stared at the screen open-mouthed.

“Quiet,” Trace warned.

“Are you not seeing—hearing this?” Houston squeaked.

“Shut up!” Trace snapped. He moved closer to the wall, the image of Boone exploding in enormity—not only his visage but his betrayal.

Nuala squeezed her hand over her mouth, afraid her yelp might escape. Why was he doing this? She wouldn’t believe he did this to harm them. But why else would he do it? Why go public?

Oh God, please help us.

She couldn’t hear the rest of the interview, and she could only pray—and hard—that Boone wasn’t giving their names. That he wasn’t putting her life, or anyone else’s, in danger. But that was vain, dark hope.

“He’s betraying us and you’re sitting there doing nothing,” Téya shouted at Trace.

“No!” To everyone’s surprise, including her own, Nuala’s voice rang through the bunker. Somehow she’d come to her feet. Her heart rammed hard against her ribs, threatening to break through. “No,” she said, firmer but softer. “Boone is not betraying us.”

“Open your eyes, Pollyanna!” Téya said, her words sharp.

“I believed in you when everyone questioned your loyalty.”

Téya’s eyes widened. “My loyalty?” She scowled. “What do you mean?”

“You were gone for two hours,” Nuala said, not backing down. “Then when you return, you’re mean and hateful to everyone. To all of us, who have done nothing to deserve your anger and spite. I don’t know what your problem is, but I think we’ve endured it long enough. Give Boone the benefit of the doubt.”

“Bene—” Téya choked out a laugh. “You need to get over your lovesick crush and wake up and smell the betrayal, sweetheart.” She stabbed a finger toward the news footage, glanced at it, then froze. Her expression went from hatred to shock.

Nuala whipped around, just in time to see a convergence of uniforms covering the screen. She gasped.

“Oh, that is not good,” Houston said with a groan.

The screen minimized and another news anchor broke in. “As you can see from the earlier footage, authorities burst into the studio, tackled Mr. Ramage to the ground, and brutally and forcefully dragged him out of our New York studio.”

Anguish twisting her heart and mind into knots, Nuala flung herself around to Trace. He watched, emotionless, as Zulu’s team daddy, as they’d nicknamed him, had been dragged away. And yet, he still said nothing.

“How do we get him back?” Nuala said, her throat feeling raw and thick as she spoke around the silent tears streaming down her face.

Commander Weston’s green eyes hit hers. Hard. Cold. Unfeeling.

His phone rang and his hand moved to the holster at his hip. “We don’t.” He lifted the phone, turned and walked toward the briefing room.

“Weston.” Trace’s gut churned.

“D’you see the news?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” General Solomon said with a hefty sigh. “Have to admit, I haven’t seen things go south so bad on someone.”

“Welcome to my world,” Trace said rubbing his neck. “How’s your daughter?”

“Fine. Surgery went well. She’s already awake and talking.”

Trace lifted his head. “Talking?”

“Oh—not like that. In fact, she said she doesn’t know what hit her.” General Solomon snickered. “She’ll be laid up for a couple of days.”

In a chair, Trace bent forward, his elbows on his knees as he stared at the cement floor. At least one thing went as right as it possibly could. Not right in the man’s daughter getting shot, but right in that she was okay and she hadn’t talked. He still didn’t know what Francesca and Annie were doing together. And that unsettled them, especially with both getting shot.

“Sorry about your man,” Haym said. “I liked Gray.”

“Me, too,” Trace said. “Thanks.” Trace massaged his temple, trying to breathe. Trying to believe all he’d fought for wasn’t really crumbling and running between his fingers. But even lying to himself about it wouldn’t help. Things were seriously messed up.

His dark thoughts parted and he caught a clear thought. The general wasn’t talking. And he hadn’t hung up. “Sir?” He stood. “I take it this isn’t a social call.”

“Afraid not, son. The decision was handed down with the committee’s recommendation to move against you. Cantor’s hands are tied.”

Trace felt the room sway. His knees buckled.

“I’m sorry, son, but you’re to be discharged, other than honorably, effective immediately.”

Sixty-two months of protecting and fighting to make sure Zulu remained alive. Sixty-two months of going without the one element in life that made it worth living—Annie. Countless lies, though they’d all been done in the name of competing harms. Watching the families of the team burying an empty box and clinging to the memories of girls who were still alive.

He hated it. Hated the deception. But he’d done the right thing.

Did I?

Sitting at the table in the briefing room, Trace cradled his head in his hands. Six funerals five years ago. Four in the last two months. He hadn’t been able to stop any of them. He bore the guilt of that heavily and fully, and felt it now that Rusty had been buried with full honors. Trace shook his head. He wanted to rage and say he’d get who’d done this, but he’d said that for five years. Now, he seemed further from resolution and justice than ever before.

He’d stayed here with the remnant of Zulu who were divided and struggling with the latest events. Nobody wanted to do the mission to capture whoever was behind this. Their focus had collapsed. Their will died. As their team commander, he should encourage them. Challenge them.

But there was nothing left to say. Nothing in his defense—he was to blame. Completely. He’d been given one task: lead and protect Zulu. With half the team dead. . .yeah, he’d call that a failure.

And the decision, the one he’d narrowly avoided four years ago in the first hearing—a year after Misrata—finally came down. Fourteen years committed to the art and craft of warfare. . .gone. Forever.

Now, I’m nothing.

Not a soldier. Not a leader.

Where did Zulu stand? What would happen to the girls when Solomon was forced to hand over the reins of leadership to someone else? What would he do?

Nothing like returning home to hang his head in shame.

A light rap on the door made him grit his teeth. “Come in,” he said without looking, without lowering his hands.

Once the door opened then closed, he sat up, rubbed his hands over his face, and sat back again. His heart kick-started at who stood there. “Annie,” he said, coming out of his seat.

“No,” she said holding out a hand as she came forward. “Let’s sit. Talk.”

“You should be resting.”

She smiled. “I’m fine. A few days to heal and I’m as good as new.”

He arched an eyebrow.

“Okay,” she said with a smile. “Maybe not new. Probably lightly used.”

“It’s good to see you up and around,” he admitted as he took his seat again, watching how she lowered herself gingerly into the chair beside his.

“I confess, I was sure sitting on that bench that I might not ever get up again.” She brushed a few curls from her eyes. “But”—she nodded—“being there helped me get some things sorted. I’ve been thinking about us.”

Trace felt his gut tighten. He’d had a conversation or two like this before. And considering his track record the last few weeks. . . Weary, he resisted the urge to shake his head. It wouldn’t end well, this conversation. Just wouldn’t. Nothing ended well for him these days. “Glad you had that time to think.”

“Trace, I have to let you go.”

With a quiet snort he nodded. Raw. Bleeding raw. That was how he felt. That’s what his heart felt like. As if it’d been skinned alive. Everything he’d done, all the fighting and searching and hunting and tracking. . .all so the team could be free. So
he
could be free to go to Annie. Be with her the way he’d wanted.

And he got the kiss-off.

Couldn’t say he didn’t see this coming. “Sam’s a lucky guy,” he managed and pushed to his feet. He started for the door.

Annie leaped up, grimacing as she clutched her side, and caught his arm. “Trace, please.”

He held his hands out to the side in surrender. There was no fight in him. “It’s okay, Annie. I get it. I deserve it.”

Her grip tightened. “That’s not why I’m doing this.”

“Isn’t it?” Trace pivoted to her. “If I’d stayed with you, gone to Manson with you, I can’t help but think you and I would be together, and I’d trade war stories with Sam. You’d trust me and believe in me. You’d love me.”

Annie’s eyes widened. “Trace, I do believe in you. And I do love you—”

“No.” He held up a finger. “No, you don’t.” He shook his head. “And honestly, at this point in the game, I don’t blame you.” Considering everything that had been happening. . . “Maybe Zulu would be better off if I’d let the chips fall five years ago.”

“Let the chips fall?” Téya’s voice cut into their argument. When they looked at her, she shrugged. “If you want a lover’s quarrel, try doing it in private.” Téya stepped into the room. “As for letting the chips fall, Trace—seriously. Grow a brain. If you’d done that, we’d all be in jail or dead. Because whoever set us up wanted us out of the picture.”

“There are things you don’t know about,” Trace said, irritated with Téya’s sudden alpha behavior.

“Right. The investigation. How about Boone going off and betraying us—and speaking of, shouldn’t we be clearing out?”

“No, we’re fine here.”

“How can you say that? He went live—”

“If Boone wanted us harmed, authorities would be crawling all over this place already. We wouldn’t be sitting here having this conversation.”

“Okay, fine. I don’t agree, but moving on. What about Francesca Solomon and the hearing?” Téya crossed her arms. “Why don’t you enlighten us?”

“She said she didn’t reveal us,” Annie said. “I think, in this case, we’re clear.”

Téya shook her head with a huff. “But the hearing. Why hasn’t the commander told us anything about the hearing?”

“What’s going on?” This time, it was Nuala who came into the conversation with her soft voice and innocent eyes.

“Our dear commander was going to enlighten us—”

“I’m out,” Trace said, his anger rising. “I’ve been relieved of command and discharged. You’ll have a new leader. In fact, Solomon said to expect them today.”

Silence roared through the room.

“What?” Trace spat at Téya. “Nothing to say now?”

“Yeah, I have something to say,” Téya bit back. “Show us what you’ve got. You’ve protected us for five years, don’t back down now.”

“
Protected
you? Reyna, Herring, and Shay are dead! Dead because I didn’t
protect
them.”

“Guys.”

“You have a god complex.”

“You have an attitude.”

“Guys!”

“I think we all need to—”

“What is your problem, Reiker? What
really
happened those two hours with The Turk? I think you need to enlighten the rest of us,” Trace said.

“
GUYS!
”

“What?” Trace and Téya demanded, spinning toward Houston, who stood outside the door.

Eyes wide, Houston took a step back. It seemed even his hair trembled. He pointed to the side, to his station. “We”—his voice cracked—“we have company.”

Trace stomped out of the room, more than grateful to leave the nest of stinging hornets in there. “What kind of vehicle?”

Houston was back at his station, pecking on the keys. “Black SUV. Looks armored.”

A few more steps placed Trace behind Houston’s chair. He leaned forward, a hand on the back of Houston’s chair and one on the desk. They watched the grainy, black-and-white feed as the Suburban pulled up to the access gate, a mile out from the main road. Heavy tinting protected the occupants from view. The driver’s side window rolled down. “Can you see the face?” Trace asked, subconsciously craning his neck forward as if that would help him peer into the truck.

“Yeah, different camera.” Houston pointed to another screen. “There.”

The older, wizened face peeked back.

Trace touched his shoulder. “That’s Solomon. Let them in.”

“Uh,” Houston said with a grunt. “I don’t have to—he has the access code.” Houston shifted and let his mouth hang open. “How does he have our access code?”

“Easy,” Trace said, but he’d like to know, too. His phone buzzed and he lifted it from the holster. Glanced at the caller ID, then answered the phone. “Sir, welcome to the bunker.”

“Going to need some help.”

Trace frowned, watching from another camera, mounted in a tree if the leaves and branches cutting slightly into the view were any indication. “How so?” The general aimed into the barn with the SUV.

“Meet me.”

Trace sighed. “Be there in two.” He ended the call. “Okay, people. Look alive. We have guests.”

Though Téya and Annie and Houston all peppered him with questions, Trace stalked out of the bunker, up the cement stairs and down the narrow tunnel Boone had burrowed up into the barn. He emerged from the secret door at the back of a stall when Haym climbed out of the SUV. Trace met him at the front end and extended his hand. “Sir.”

“Sorry for the sudden appearance.”

Trace ignored the apology. It wasn’t sincere. The general had arrived here suddenly on purpose. “Who’s with you?”

“Three people—they’re hooded.”

“Prisoners?” Trace frowned. “Did you capture someone connected to the shooting?”

“No. Better.” Haym gave him a smart-aleck grin. “Help me get them inside and I’ll explain.”

Trace didn’t move. Taking three strangers into the Zulu bunker where the girls were would expose them. Put them in more danger. He didn’t trust his instincts on this, but even more, he didn’t trust anyone else.

“Son, I know. . .but you have to trust me on this one. I promise, you’ll want to talk to them.”

After another long pause, Trace finally consented. Gave a curt nod. Haym smiled as he started back toward the door and motioned Trace to the other side.

Trace complied. He lifted the handle and tugged it open. And stopped short, his gaze snapping to Haym’s on the driver’s side. Of the three in the middle row, two were females. One a male.

“Okay,” Haym said, his voice light and almost merry. “This way,” he said, taking the arm of the man who sat by the door. “Step out, then wait.”

Trace touched the elbow of the woman on his side. She flinched, but then tentatively reached out. He caught her hand and provided support and direction. Best way to do this was to have her hold his sides. He eased in front of her and placed her hands on his sides. “Take your lead from the way I move,” he said.

She hesitated, her fingers lifting off his shirt.

Trace pressed his hands against hers, forcing her to hold on. “This way or you injure yourself.”

Her hold took on more strength. Trace walked to the secret door, accessed it, then let the general, who did the same with his two charges, guiding them down the ever-sloping tunnel to the cement steps. Once they’d descended, Trace edged along the others, his hooded woman hesitating and gripping tighter when her steps grew uncertain.

He punched in the code. The steel groaned as the door hissed inward. Trace waited as the four entered the room. Zulu stood around, watching, curious. Concerned.

Trace motioned them away, mouthing “out of sight,” as he moved his hooded charge toward the briefing room, the most confined space and the only one with a door. The woman missed the first step and tripped into him, face-planting against his side. She yelped, clenched her fingers in his shirt, and gave a nervous laugh.

Once inside, Trace secured the door, turned and folded his arms over his chest. Nodded to the general, who looked like a mad scientist, anxious to reveal his exciting experiment. And this was an experiment, though not exciting. More like threatening. Had he made yet another mistake?

Haym pulled off the first hood. Then the second. Each shock more incredible than the first. When the last hood came off, Trace tensed. Came unglued. “You son of a—what is
she
doing here?”