Operation Zulu Redemption: Collateral Damage - Part 1 (21 page)

A misfit for a misfit.

David Augsburger steered the sedan into the driveway of the Gerig property that adjoined his father’s and brother’s properties. He’d left the house a little earlier than necessary to get to the hospital so he could talk with Katie’s
grossmammi
. Ask her permission to court Katie.

Heart full, he eased the car to the side—opposite from where a rig might park. Before stepping out and into this brave new territory, he bowed his head. Thanked God for sending Katie to Bleak Pond so life wouldn’t be so bleak.
I just know that I love her. A lot.

He took a deep breath and looked up at the house. Already, he saw movement. No surprise. Katie and Mrs. Gerig were early risers like everything else here. Chores were finished before it got too hot.

“Quit stalling, you big chicken,” he muttered to himself as he reached for his hat.

As he slammed his door shut, the sound echoed loudly across the plain.
Odd.
He turned, donned his hat, and started for the stairs.

The screen door punched open.

He looked up, expecting to find an excited Katie, mischief in her hazel-green eyes. Instead, he found a gun pointed at him.

“Where is she?”

Fear whipped through David. Then swiftly came the anger. “What’d you do to them?” Only as he said it did his brain catch up.

“Where’s Téya Reiker—or as you know her, Katie Gerig?”

As I know her?
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He nodded to the weapon. “You don’t need that here.”

“You’re right.” The man grinned, a malicious, loathing grin. “Because I’m done here—unless you know where she is.”

David looked toward the house. If Katie hadn’t been there. . .

“No?”

“If she’s not in the house, I don’t know.”

“Then you’re no good to me.”

Thwat! Thwat!

Headed south on Route 15, Katie. . .
Téya
barricaded herself from whatever had happened that prompted the coded signal. She’d walked to town in the wind and moonlight and climbed into the waiting King Ranch Ford truck. It’d been a relief to see Boone behind the wheel, but just a temporary Band-Aid on a now-gaping wound. As always, Boone respected her space. He’d never been an intrusive person, until you were out of line or needed a fire under your butt. That’s when his drill sergeant personality came out. He’d aimed that at. . .

The girls.

She sighed. Used the toe of her shoe to push her straighter as they crossed the steel bridge over the Potomac and headed into the winding, curvy section of the drive draped in stunning scenery.

But she felt numb to it all.

“What happened?” she finally asked. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know, but. . .

“Briefing will happen at the bunker.”

In other words, she had to wait longer. Téya nodded and watched the stretch of farmland blur past. They slowed to 35 mph as they hit a small town with a single light on the route. She caught the sign: T
he
V
illage
of
L
ucketts
. Antique stores flanked the spot where a light controlled the flow of traffic. . .past a school. An old 70s-era school. Small. Quaint-ish.

Nothing as quaint as Bleak Pond.

Téya dropped her head back against the headrest.
Let me go back, God.
Maybe. . .maybe this wasn’t forever. Maybe once they dealt with whatever threat there was, she could go back to David and—

And what, genius? Tell him—“Oh, yeah. I’ve murdered children and killed people then left your life without a word.”

Right. He’d so understand that.

The blinker set and Boone slowed the truck, yanking Téya’s morbid thoughts back to their surroundings. To their left, three homes sat back from the main two-lane route, crowded with northbound traffic. The perpendicular road broke off and curved around, out of sight.

As traffic backed up, a car slowed and flashed for them to cut through.

With a wave, Boone moved through the intersection. They rounded the bend and drove a few yards before he turned right onto a dusty road that led to an—

“Are we going antiquing?”

Boone parked in the barn. “This way.”

Right. Mr. All Business.

Téya followed him toward the back of the barn stacked with bales of hay. He hit a lever and a door appeared in the hay. Surprise flashed through her, but Boone wasn’t the patient kind, and when he angled his head toward the opening that led to stairs, she hustled through.

About halfway down the stairs, darkness enveloped her.

“Uh—”

With a soft hum and dull glow, spiral bulbs came to life. A steel door sat before them. Boone, his large frame and larger-than-life self stepped in front of her. He hit a panel and an access panel slid forward. He punched in a code.

“What? No retinal scan?”

Boone glanced back, his expression unimpressed. “You offering your eye?” The door clinked open. He ducked to pass through, and that’s when she was reminded how much taller he was—she didn’t have to duck.

But she stopped short at what met her gaze.

A dozen paces forward, a grid of tables and computers looked as if they were held hostage in a wall of chain link that snaked cables in and out of the area. Beyond that and tucked in the far right corner, a raised platform that still had tools and uncut wood laid out offered the hopes of what would eventually be a dais. Beside the unfinished area was a half-walled area with a brown collapsible table—the beginning of a briefing room, she guessed.

Boone urged her into the area and punched a code. The door hissed shut, drawing Téya’s gaze around. A series of thuds rang out as the locks engaged. Then what looked like a blast shield lowered.

“Impressive,” Téya muttered.

Boone strode toward the table, where a wild-haired guy sat hammering away, his gaze bouncing from one monitor to another. . .then another. “Houston.”

The guy kept working, his mind in the cyberworld as he worked like fire on the keyboards.

“Houston!”

With a jump, the guy blinked but still didn’t look up. “What?”

“Houston Plunkett, this is Two.”

“Numbers belong in computers.” He peered at Téya over his spectacles. “You have a name, I assume.”

Boone shifted in front of her. “Not necessary at this point.”

Houston pointed to the monitor. “You can tell me or I take two seconds longer and verify that the woman with you is Téya Reiker.”

Téya smiled. She liked this guy. Wasn’t intimidated easily. Didn’t take Boone’s tough-guy grumpiness.

But something about Boone’s use of her previous Zulu designation slid warm dread down her spine. She wanted to demand answers, to know why they’d dragged her away from her grandmother and. . .David. His name alone pulled a sigh from her.

“Get her coded in.” With that, Boone headed toward the left side of the underground bunker. He motioned her to follow.

No windows. Everything drab and dull. A prison.

How fitting, she thought as they moved around a wall that angled into an area that held two couches and a chair. He rapped his knuckles against the first door.

When it opened, Téya drew up straight. Her lips parted as the air left her lungs. “Annie.”

Hair in a hasty updo, Annie Palermo entered the sitting area. She wore a pair of black-and-gray pajama bottoms and a T-shirt. She’d always had the perfect beauty—blond hair, blue eyes, killer smile. But her face was dotted with several scratches. She’d been through something. . . .

“Trace is on his way.” Boone pointed to another door. “Shower’s in there. I’ll get some clothes for you.” He glanced between them then hung his head. While he stood there, the tension thickened and threatened to choke out a sob from Téya.

But those days were over. She’d be what she needed to be, whatever it took to get back to David.

“What about Nuala?” Annie stepped forward, apparently finding her confidence and voice. “Keeley and Candice?” She folded her arms over her chest.

Boone nodded, his voice ripped with something she couldn’t remember seeing on the man’s face—worry. “Trace’ll be here soon. Sit tight.”

Seriously? He stalked out of the area, leaving her dumbstruck. Sit tight? He wanted them to sit tight while—

“What happened to you?” Annie asked.

Téya flinched. “What?” She rubbed her temple. “Oh. Nothing—did something happen to you?”

Annie gave a soft snort with a smirk. “Sniper.”

“Sniper?” Confusion clogged Téya’s mind as she eyed the scratches and cuts.

“I was standing by a window when he tried to take me out.”

“Who?”

Annie shrugged, hugging herself. She jutted her jaw toward the main room. “Let’s wait out there. They’ve been pretty shy on details and information. I’m not going to let him get away with that.”

“You mean Trace?” Téya figured their team commander must be out securing the other members of Zulu: Candice, Jessie, Keeley, and Nuala. It’d be good but weird to be with them again. And yet. . .she didn’t want to be here. Didn’t want to renew these friendships.

Annie moved without answering. As they stepped back into the main area, Boone and his thick shoulders hovered over the guy—what was his name? Austin? Houston!

The blast shield lifted. Locks disengaged.

In walked Trace with a storm of a scowl.

But Téya’s mind snagged on one poignant fact. “You’re alone.”

Trace blew a weighted breath out through puffed cheeks as he rested his hands on his belt. “Have a seat,” he said, motioning to the various metal folding chairs placed around the underground bunker. Teeth grinding, he shoved aside his rage over this nightmare.
Stick with the facts.
“Téya, thank you for responding quickly to the signal. It probably saved your life.”

Her expression slid from stone-cold anger to a hint of alarm.

Trace didn’t trust himself to look at Annie. They hadn’t spoken a word other than necessary instructions to get them from the sedan to the airplane and, ultimately, to this safe haven.

“Look, I won’t candy-coat this. It’s bad.” Trace took a second to order his thoughts. “Three and Four are dead—both compliments of a sniper.”

“Same person who hit me?” Annie asked.

“Unlikely.” Trace looked at her and felt the cement dividers in his heart shifting like an ice shelf. “Timing suggests multiple agents.”
Get it over with.
“Keeley is on life support. Prognosis isn’t good. She has twenty-four hour guard.”

“Who?” Annie demanded.

“Rusty Gray,” Boone answered.

“Nuala is MIA. Her last known location was abandoned—for a while. I’ve got Houston and other assets working on finding her.”

“But it might be too late?” Téya asked. “I mean—if they—”

“It might be too late, but Boone and I will not stop till we bring her home.” Dead or alive. Whatever it took. He’d committed the last five years of his life to protecting these women while he hunted down the person responsible for putting them in the mess in the first place. The person who demanded they scatter and hide.

“Who did this?” Annie’s anger was palpable. “How did they find us, after all this time?”

“I don’t have those answers, but I will find them.”

He’d failed them. Especially Jessie and Candice. Maybe even Keeley. Could he find the killer? Find who’d done this?

Oh, he would. If it took his last breath.

Lieutenant Francesca Solomon stood in the conference room, watching the Friday afternoon mini briefing by General Marlowe. The three-star had a reputation for being fierce and ruthless in his pursuit of justice. And while Frankie didn’t like the man—he had, after all, gotten the promotion that should have gone to her father—she couldn’t help but admire his passion.

The same fire burned in her breast.

A fire to see the man who stole her father’s career from his hands. A man who’d turned on the man who’d mentored him and shoved dishonorable behavior in a smear across a perfect, stellar record. Even as the sense of vindication and vengeance pulsed through her veins, she started back toward her cubicle at the U.S. Intelligence and Security Command. She’d worked hard to get her position here at INSCOM. One that would not only advance her career but, God willing, restore her father’s.

She logged into her secure system and finished up a report she’d recently done on female soldiers in Special Operations. It was a massive undertaking, shifting females from support roles to direct combat. She knew without a doubt there was a breed of woman out there who could hold their own against men in the field. But more often than not, most women couldn’t. They simply didn’t have the upper body strength God had given men. In fact, the first round of female Marines failed the physical fitness test, and the military quietly swept it all under the carpet for the sake of political correctness.

“Hey, Frankie.”

Arching her eyebrow, she lifted her head at the offender who dared use that name. But when she met the brown eyes of Ian Santiago, she debated on what to do.

Eyes sparkling and flirtatious, he leaned closer, a paper in his hand. “If I gave you something you’ve really been waiting for. . .would it get me a date?”

She met his eyes, let him think he was winning that date, then plucked the paper from his hands.

“Hey!”

He tried to snatch it back, but her eyes were already gliding across the page. Her heart slowed. “Where. . . ?” She snapped her gaze to him. “This is legit?”

He shot a nervous glance around, then nodded. “Between you, me, and the paper.”

In other words, it could cost him his job.

“Our date?”

If this. . .if this was real, “Friday night,” she said.

Even without looking she could see his grin. And immediately regretted her decision. But this—

She stared at the information. LTC Trace Weston had flown to Alaska. Probably went to the same weapons testing conference her dad attended.

Then reports came in that Trace had been in the Seattle area. Shots were fired near Manson, but no fatalities. He’d also been in Las Vegas—and that chick was found dead. It made the news because of the outcry over her death by the community, who’d called the girl a saint. So, had Trace killed again? Gotten confident he’d evaded justice and now he’d stepped up his game?

Well, so would she.

And Boone was in the Caymans at the same time a woman had been the target of men doped up on psychotropic drugs and nearly killed her. But she survived. In ICU.

This was it. Though she couldn’t figure out how or why, she was certain in the pit of her stomach that this—
this
—would be enough to stop Trace Weston, pin that huge, bloody badge of dishonor on him, and free her father.

She punched to her feet and grabbed her purse.

“Solomon!”

Frankie glanced back as she lifted her cover.

“Don’t stand me up.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Ian groaned. “Fine. I’ll find another date.”

Frankie laughed and headed to her car after signing out. Fighting traffic was a nightmare, but at least she wasn’t farther north up near the Beltway. A nightmare! The forty-five minute drive to her father’s estate, inherited from his grandfather, was enough to put a few gray hairs in her jet-black hair
and leave her convinced more than ever of Trace’s guilt and now possibly more guilt. He was a murderer who walked free and acted like he owned the world!

“Francesca!” Her father greeted her as she entered the den, where he had a fire roaring, though it was nearly the middle of spring. But since Misrata, Libya, he had a chill he couldn’t shake.

“Dad,” she said as she planted a kiss on his cheek, then plopped down on the ottoman at the foot of the chair where he sat reading through some pages. He looked tired, worn. “How are you?”

He chuckled. “What does that mean?”

Right. Brigadier General. One-time Commander of Coalition Forces. “Nothing. Just—you seem”—if she said
tired
, he’d kill her—“worried.”

He waved the papers at her and tucked them inside a folder. “Work came home with me.” He sighed. “So, what brings you home so early?”

Frankie drew up the dregs of her courage. “I think I found it.”

“Found what?”

“The proof we need.”

“Proof of what? And
for
what?”

“That Trace Weston is responsible for what happened in Misrata.”

He cursed and came out of the chair. “No. We’re not doing this.”

“Dad, I have it—I have leads that place him in the same states where two former military women were killed.”

He barked a laugh. “You’re kidding me, right? I would’ve strung a grunt up the flagpole for bringing me half-cocked information like that!” His tone grew hard as stone and derisive. “You realize that we are in the same state where three men were murdered today—better, they were right here in this city!”

Frankie swallowed. Hard.

“Are we to be arrested, since I was in Misrata and now I’m here and three men die?”

“Dad—”

“No!” He stabbed a thick finger at her. “Do not do this again. I told you before—leave this alone.”

“Or what?” she spat back, her rebellious streak bouncing into position. “You’ll court-martial me?”

His eyes launched 40mm grenades at her. Nostrils flaring, he stood her down. “We will
not
speak of this again. Stay out of his life and his records. Or I will see to it your privileges are revoked!”

The ricochet of that last word hit her chest, bounced back to him, and lodged in her throat.

As his daughter and as an officer, she surrendered. But only in her posture. She would never give up this fight. She would prove what Trace had done in Misrata, murdering twenty-two innocent women and children. Then flushing the evidence right down the drain with her father’s career and dignity.

Trace Weston would meet justice. And Francesca Solomon would hand deliver it!