Operation Zulu Redemption: Collateral Damage - Part 1 (8 page)

Wisdom and prosperity were supposed to go hand in hand with the Solomon name. So why was she struggling with both? Prosperity she’d readily trade for success in actually
catching—securing
Trace Weston. But wisdom would go a long way in taking him down.

Frankie sat in her crossover, thinking. Regretting that she’d failed yesterday. He’d been right there. Slipping through her fingers like water.

Movement at the front door of her father’s home drew her attention. Frankie’s heart jolted at the sight of her brother. She lunged out of the car and darted to the porch. Launched herself at Paolo with a laugh.

He caught her, crushing her to himself with those thick arms.

“What are you doing here?” she asked when he set her down.

“Had some meetings, had to liaise with the Brass.”

Frankie held his shoulders, assessing. She saw something in his brown eyes that worried her. A heaviness. “You okay?”

He guided her into the house with a nod. “Fine.”

She glanced over her shoulder. “Liar.”

He grinned. “Okay. You tell me yours, I’ll tell you mine.”

Touché. They both knew they could not divulge information on missions or intelligence they were working on. “You always knew how to shut me up.”

Chuckling, Paolo weaved his way through the ranch-style house to the back. “They’re on the patio. Dad’s grilling.”

“When is he not?” Frankie glanced through the French doors and spotted her dad talking with—“Who’s he with?”

The guy had a high and tight, broad chest, and deep tan. His left arm was cradled in a sling. He seemed to have an easy laugh and the rapt attention of her father.

Paolo leaned his shoulder against the door as he faced Frankie. “Buddy of mine. Go easy on him.”

“Easy?” Frankie frowned, noticing her brother’s friend was pretty easy on the eyes. “I don’t even know him.”

Arching an eyebrow, Paolo opened the door. “Just remember what I said.”

Curiosity tugged at her as they stepped into the cool evening, the thick smoke of the grill seeping out. Paolo’s friend stood with a bottled water in one hand, his other hand stuffed in his jeans’ pocket. His gray shirt accented his blue eyes and tanned complexion. Casual yet confident, he talked with her father, but his gaze strayed to Frankie. Took her in.

He met her gaze once more before he nodded, apparently in response to something her father said. “That’s what I told the commander.”

“Imagine that didn’t go over too well.” Her dad chuckled as he lifted the lid of the grill.

Smoke plumed out, chasing the oxygen up over the roof.

“No, sir.” He smiled and again, he looked at Frankie.

Her stomach squirmed. She was used to attention. She got a lot of it, even in uniform. But it felt weird to get this in front of her brother and father.

Paolo punched his shoulder. “Brent.” He leaned in and whispered something to his friend that made the guy pull up. Something, Frankie was sure, that had to do with killing off guys who stared at his little sister.

“Ah, Francesca,” Daddy said as he turned and held out his arm to her. He never failed to put differences behind them. To show his unconditional love, even after they came close to ripping off each other’s heads. She wished she could do that, but she had too much of her grandmother’s fiery Italian temperament.

Frankie slipped in and hugged her dad. “What masterpiece are we having this time?”

“Steaks and shrimp.” He planted a kiss on her temple. “You’ve met Paolo’s buddy?”

She faced the man, feeling a bit of warmth as she met his blue eyes. “No,” she said as he extended her hand. “I’m Frankie.”

“Brent W—”

“Hey, heard you were in Vegas,” Paolo said, shouldering into the greeting. “D’you win the jackpot?”

“Ha. Right. Like I had time to hit the casinos, or would want to.” Frankie tucked some hair behind her ear.

“Work?” Daddy asked as he sipped a glass of sweet tea.

Frankie skirted a gaze around the three men, sensing a wave of tension lurking just beneath the surface. She wanted to share with them what happened. Nearly catching Trace. But she knew better. “Yeah.” Instead she shifted around, tucked a leg behind her, and eased into the oversized patio chair. “Where’s Mom?”

“Resting,” Daddy said as he started for the house. “I’m going to grab a few things.”

Leaving her alone with Paolo and Brent. She squinted against the remains of the sun settling over the fence behind Paolo and Brent, who’d already fallen into a conversation. Great. Home with four people and yet. . .alone.

Frankie pushed out of the seat and went into the house. She squeezed between her dad and the cabinets to get a glass of ice water.

“Was Vegas about Weston?” Daddy asked, not looking at her, but working on assembling the shrimp onto skewers.

Glass almost at her lips, she hesitated. “Yeah.”

“I take it you didn’t get what you were after.”

Frankie took a sip then rested her hip against the granite countertop, watching as his nimble fingers worked the food and veggies. “He was there, but I wasn’t fast enough.”

He shook his head, gave a soft snort, then lifted the tray of shrimp kebabs and started for the backyard without another word. Again, leaving her alone. She slumped back and thumped her heel against the cabinet. Why did he not care?

“Hey.” Paolo entered, his dark hair shorn and his beard trimmed, but the intensity he’d always had remained in place. Especially right now. “What’d you do?”

Frankie rolled her eyes. “I didn’t do anything.”

“He’s mad.”

“Then he shouldn’t have asked.”

Wariness crept into her brother’s eyes. “Asked what?”

“Why I was in Vegas.”

Behind her, she heard the door but didn’t dare look. Didn’t want to face her dad’s disapproval again.

“And why were you there?” He had that tone, the one he’d taken as oldest kid. Folding his arms, he leaned in.

“He was there. Trace. I went to catch him. A girl was murdered—”

“Frankie.”

“Don’t do that to me, Paolo. I did my job, and that includes Trace—”

“
Frankie.
”

“No,” she snapped, pulling straight. “I’m tired of you and Dad climbing down my throat. Trace Weston needs to be brought to justice, and I’m going to see that it happens.”

“What if he’s innocent?”

The unfamiliar voice pulled her around. She looked over her shoulder at Brent. He was handsome but didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. “Oh, he’s guilty. We have twenty-two bodies to prove that.”

“
Francesca!
” Her brother’s voice boomed at the same time Brent said something and stalked toward the front door.

It wasn’t her brother’s remonstration that shocked her. The three words that she heard—
thought
she heard from Brent—had stunned her. A door thudded, and Frankie felt bad for upsetting Paolo’s friend. Though she wasn’t sure how or why. What did he care?

Paolo stalked around the corner and scowled at her. She’d sworn as a ten-year-old that he killed her kitten with that look. Daddy said Duke had some disease, but she never believed him. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Did he just call me a cold-hearted b—”

“You should be grateful that’s all he did.” Paolo ran a hand down the back of his neck.

“Why? What does he care about my case? He got all worked up—”

“He’s Trace Weston’s brother.”

The soft beeping and hissing of machines greeted Boone as he stepped into Keeley’s room. She lay there, unchanged—well, maybe a little more wan than last time he was here, but nothing could make her look bad.

Rustling fabric drew him around. He stuffed out a hand to Rusty and gave a nod. “How you holding up?”

“Good,” Rusty said, his voice low but not a whisper. He held up a book. “Keeping the brain busy.” He raised his eyebrows toward the TV hanging in the opposite corner. “News, History Channel, and Military Channel fill in the gaps when things get too quiet.”

“They have that up here?”

Rusty smirked. “Not hardly. I rig up my iPad to the TV and stream via my Wi-Fi.” He lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “INSCOM’s footing the bill since I’m tasked on guard.”

“Smart man.” Boone hauled in a deep breath and shifted his gaze to the woman who’d stolen his heart years ago. “When you come back to the bunker, you’ll have to show us how to do that. All we get is soaps and the public access channel.”

Rusty’s expression faltered.

Boone tilted his head. “What?”

Rusty glanced down at the book. “I’m. . .” He squared his shoulders. “I’m not coming back.” Bending the edges of the book together, he seemed sheepish. A description Boone never would have connected to Rusty. “I told Trace I can’t do this. Not again.”

“But the girls—the team. We need you.” Boone surveilled the hall beyond the windows as he talked. “They’re in real danger. Someone’s hunting them. We need your help—”

“No.” Rusty lowered his head. “I did it once, Boone. But after what happened, after those children. . .” He gave two long swags of his head. “I just can’t go there again.”

Boone wanted to wrap his fingers around the guy’s neck and squeeze till he saw straight. Saw right. “You’re bailing on them.”

Rusty met his gaze evenly. “I gave my notice. You don’t have to worry—I’m here. I’ll watch over Keeley. But after she’s gone”—when Boone reacted, Rusty held up a hand—“
discharged,
I meant. When she’s discharged, I’m out.”

“Never saw you for chicken.” Boone couldn’t keep the snarl or the anger from his voice.

“Honestly,” Rusty said, his blue eyes sparked with determination, “me either. Misrata changed things. . .changed me. Decision’s been made.”

Did he need to remind the guy he’d signed up to be the handler for two of the girls? It hit Boone then—Candice had been Rusty’s “student.” He’d trained her, mentored her, just as Boone had trained and mentored Jessie and Nuala. As Trace had done with Téya and Annie. “Did it get personal for you and one of the girls?”

Rusty snorted. “Intensely—we lived and breathed war with them for the six months they were Zulu. Since then, I’ve lived, breathed, dreamed, eaten that tragedy. It’s with me, everywhere I turn. Every snooze I take.” He scratched the side of his face. “I’m not looking to add ammo to the nightmares, y’know?”

Boone knew. He knew very well. But leaving the team. . .abandoning them in their time of need. . .it just seemed wrong.

“Don’t give me that look,” Rusty said.

Boone held up his hands. “Hey. Your call.”

“But you think it’s wrong.”

“You don’t want or need me to answer that.” Boone grunted. “Do what you have to, but thank you for holding out till Keeley is better. I can focus on the team, on figuring out what’s happening knowing you’re here with her.”

“Did it get personal, Boone-Dawg?”

He smirked at Rusty for throwing the question back at him. After giving him a backhanded swat on the shoulder, Boone said, “Get some rest.”

Alone with his thoughts and Keeley, Boone moved the chair to the side of the bed. Pressing his knuckles against the mattress, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Hey, beautiful. You can come back to me any day now, ya hear?”

He settled into the chair, lifted the book from where he’d tucked it into the small of his back beneath his belt and jeans, and started reading—but not before double-checking that nobody was listening. If this got back to Trace. . .

Boone cleared his throat and flipped to chapter five. “ ‘In the course of time, Mr. Earnshaw began to fail. He had been active and healthy. . . .’ ”—Boone shot a furtive glance to the windows, then to Keeley. “Can we skip the death and failing stuff?”

Probably not. Keeley was fastidious. Attentive to detail. Just as Jessie had been with that crazy data wall. Had Jess figured out anything? He sure hadn’t, and that was the burr under his saddle. Someone had found the girls despite meticulous, laborious efforts to hide them. And he and Trace weren’t any closer to figuring out who was behind it all.

“ ‘. . .he grew grievously irritable. A nothing vexed him. . . .’ ” Boone grunted. “You and me both, Earnshaw.”

Sunlight stretched over the rows of headstones, caressing the arched tops with loving warmth as it reached for the two men standing on the road that wrapped through the countless rows of heroes’ headstones.

“The world is a different place. Our country is a different place today than when I signed up forty years ago, Haym.” Wistful and soft, the voice of the four-star general settled quietly amid the thick dew covering the field of green.

Haym Solomon nodded. “Changes every day.” His gaze trailed a sleek black sedan gliding along a road, slowly. Solemnly. As it should be. “But one thing remains the same.”

The four-star grunted. “The hearts of the warriors willing to defend this great country.”

Hands folded behind his back in a sign of respect and, in a way, submission.

“We chose this as our meeting ground for a reason.” The man glanced to his right and met Haym’s gaze. “Remember?”

“I do.”

Chest drawn up, the four-star let out a long breath. “So we never forget that we are dealing with lives. With heroes’ lives. So that we remember every time we consider sending them out, they might not return to the homes that sent them off.” He gave a nod to the fields that dignified the lives of those who’d made the ultimate sacrifice. “They could end up here.”

Somber and depressing. Frustrating. Would that he could put a defensive shield around each warrior who stepped into harm’s way so those back home didn’t have to. Protect those willing to take a bullet for those too cowardly to even acknowledge the enemy.

“But I take it you’re not here because you wanted a philosophy.” The four-star stabbed a finger toward the Lincoln Town Car waiting at the end of the lane and started walking.

A subtle but powerful way to say Haym had only a few minutes. Time to dispense with the pleasantries. “It’s happening—they found them.”

“We knew it was only a matter of time.”

“I’d hoped for more time.”

Laughter bellowed across the serene setting, almost upsetting the mood. “Don’t we all.” He pointed to the white headstones engraved with rank, name, birth date, and date of death. On the back, perhaps what branch the hero served. What combat theaters they’d seen. “I’m sure every one of these men and women would’ve asked for more time.”

“I have two more bodies to bury.”

Gray-white eyebrows, thick and springing up over the rim of the four-star’s glasses, raised. “And the person responsible?”

“Still out there.”

They reached the car as the driver stepped out and opened the door. “Time for containment, Haym.”

“Yes, sir. We’ll need—”

“You have whatever you need. Just keep me updated and get this resolved. It’s been hanging over your head long enough.”

“Thank you, sir.” Haym hesitated. Debated the words sitting on his tongue.

“Well, go on. I’ve got to get to work.”

“Sir, respectfully—”

“Bah. Don’t start with that crap. Just give it to me.”

“Sir.” Haym mustered the dregs of his courage. “If they found them, then—”

“I see.” With one leg in the car and his hands resting on the top of the doorframe, the four-star squinted toward the rising sun. “We have a problem.” He clicked his tongue. “I promise you, whoever or however this happened, they will not be able to betray anyone again.”