Operation Zulu Redemption: Collateral Damage - Part 1 (9 page)

Scooting back and resting against the cement wall, feet up on the edge of the bunk, Téya savored the time alone. Grateful there were enough bunk rooms that they could each have some privacy, and yet. . . If Candice and Jessie had lived. . .well, they’d have to cozy up. Which she’d gladly do if it meant bringing them back.

But that was just it. They couldn’t come back. A heavy darkness hovered over them now, the threat of death a constant. But the threat to their loved ones proved oppressive. She could handle getting shot at.
She
signed up for that. But
Grossmammi
and David. . .

She unfolded the piece of paper and stared at the picture of David in the hospital. Leg elevated and IVs digging into his arm, he looked. . .awful. In pain. His smile was gone. The lightheartedness that had always drawn her to the man, nowhere to be found.

What have I done?

Closing her eyes, she rested her head against the wall. Tried to remember the good times. The time of the quiet life that was by no means easy but had a simplicity to it that drew her in like a heat-seeking missile.

She snorted at the comparison. Thinking about Amish living and she uses a violent analogy.

The mattress shifted under a weight, snapping Téya’s eyes open. “What. . .?”

Annie sat at her feet and tugged the paper so she could see it. “Stole it, huh?”

Téya lifted the picture. “Copied, actually.” She shrugged. “They took him away from me, so this is my recompense.”

Annie’s brows flickered, as if in question or concern.

But Téya wasn’t up to discussion. Folding the paper, she slid to the edge, next to Annie. “They find anything?”

“Hey.” Annie’s voice grew firmer. “You do know you’re not the only one who lost their new life, right?”

“Did your boyfriend get shot and beat to a pulp?”

Annie eyed her, blue eyes twinkling. “No, Sam would’ve put his SEAL skills to work and taken them down.”

“Yeah?” Téya pushed to her feet and stuffed the picture in the back pocket of her jeans. “Well, David’s a sweet, hardworking farmer. He didn’t deserve what they did to him.”

Annie stood. Touched her arm. “None of us deserved what they did.” Determination hardened the lines around her lips. “Our job is to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

“And how do we do that if we don’t even know who we’re after?”

“We keep looking.”

Téya didn’t know whether to nod or shake her head. Instead, she pushed past her friend and combat buddy. “I need some fresh air.”

“Remember, stay out of sight,” Annie called.

“Thanks, Mom.” Téya flinched at her own sarcasm, but she wasn’t in kindergarten. This wasn’t her first rodeo, to use a cliché phrase. She’d been through combat. She’d been in war. She didn’t need Annie smothering her with rules, remonstrations, and chiding. In fact, she didn’t need or want that from anyone.

She slipped through the narrow passage and climbed the stairs.

“Téya.” Boone’s voice reverberated off the steel. “Where you going?”

“Topside.”

“Stay out of sight.”

“No, I thought I’d go dance in the middle of the road.” Téya grunted as she pushed her way outside. A cool breeze wafted across the rolling hills. She took in a deep, steadying breath. And let it out, savoring the country smell.
So much like Bleak Pond.
The cows, the pastures, the sloping landscape. . .

She heard the door creak open behind her and knew she’d been followed. Téya stalked toward the barn, desperate for some solitude. The realization struck her funny. Growing up and even when she first joined the Army, she’d thrived on the camaraderie. Craved companionship. Had the five years in Bleak Pond quieted something in her?

Dimness embraced her as she stepped onto the soft bed of hay. She blinked, adjusting to the reduced amount of light. To her left, she spotted a ladder nailed to the wall and leading to a loft. Perfect. She climbed up and walked to the farthest corner. Through the slats she could see Boone standing in the doorway.
Please. . .just go away.

It took awhile, but he finally did. And Téya savored the solitude. Tried to quiet the churning within. The grief that she caused David to get hurt. Would he ever forgive her?

You’re a soldier! He’ll get over it.

But she hadn’t asked for this life back. She’d wanted Bleak Pond. Wanted the slower pace, the. . .innocence
.

Though she spent hours in the loft, Téya didn’t find the peace of mind she sought. Only one way to find that: talk to David.

Climbing down, she scoffed at her own thoughts. Right. Going back to David? He’d never speak to her again.

Maybe if she explained things. . .begged his forgiveness. . .

But then she’d have to come back here. At least until those responsible were found. Which could be years.

No, she couldn’t wait that long. She had to talk to David. Explain things to him. Then, he’d accept her back. Forgive her for leaving him. That could take months. Would he understand? If she was completely honest. . .would he be that forbearing?

Téya weaved between the vehicles parked inside the barn. . .and slowed. She glanced at the older model truck. Maybe. . .maybe she didn’t have to wait after all.

They hid. And they hid well. But he was better. Nothing like a game of wits when the odds are so evenly stacked. Annoyance cluttered his mind and his ability to function like a rational being. He glanced at the Patek Phillippe on his wrist and grunted. Already the tenth of May. Crowding the schedule a bit with three of them still alive. One mostly alive. That would be remedied.

He lifted the brandy snifter and crossed the penthouse, staring out over the city through the wall of windows. Sipping, he took in the heady aroma of the brandy, the smell of oak and caramel. With that not-so-subtle fire that spreads through the stomach. He also took in the progress.

Correction: lack of progress.

At least he was doing better than Solomon or his lackey, Weston. The two had been chasing their tails since Misrata. He chuckled. A shame, that. Though he’d give them an A for effort. They had failed. Miserably.

That suited him fine. But really, he’d expected more. More fight. More drama. More pressure. Instead, he’d worked channels and connections, recruited hackers, bribed underpaid government workers, and gotten exactly the information he wanted. Needed. The names of the team members who’d come to shut him down.

Imagine his surprise when the names turned out to be all women.

Who does that? Who sends women in to kill children?

He sniggered. Not that they realized they were killing children, but weren’t women supposed to have some maternal instinct to
protect
the little menaces?

But he’d had enough. Enough of their ignorance. Once he’d gathered the final name, he’d struck. It wouldn’t have done to hit them as they were discovered. The dopes wouldn’t have put the puzzle together, that they were targeted. It would’ve seemed random.

Had it looked as such, they wouldn’t be hunting him. And where was the fun in that?

Now, things had heated up.
The game, as Sherlock liked to say, is afoot.

Most essential when targeting your enemy is to
know
your enemy. And he did. Boy did he ever know his enemy. More than they’d ever realize—and when they made the discovery, they’d be ashamed.

He turned and walked to the guest room. Scanned the walls. In other rooms hung paintings by Delacroix, Runge—and his favorite, a Regency and Medieval painter: Leighton. But here, in the second guest room hung prints by. . .the copier. Fax machine. U.S. government. Images of the women who’d destroyed what should have been a lucrative venture. Women on whose hands he’d painted the blood of innocent children. Women who would die in due course.

Four were left now. One was an easy fix. A wrong concoction in her IV and bye-bye Miss American Pie. But the others. . .they were alert to his mission. Wary of contact. Except Téya Reiker. He nursed another sip of the brandy, savoring the fire as he peered into the one-dimensional green eyes. A beauty—not as pretty as Annie, but her beauty wasn’t skin deep—it was her heart. The fire in her, much like the one sliding through his belly from the liquor. Téya. Yes, she would be next, he was sure of it.

The gray phone rang, drawing him from the thoughts of revenge and retaliation. It sat on the table amid a myriad of papers, the virtual imprint left behind by the ladies. That phone wasn’t a social call. It was a
promising
call.

Finally.

He set down the snifter and lifted the phone. “Good news, I hope.”

“You were right. She’s here.”

“See? This is why women shouldn’t be in the military or on the front lines. They can’t disengage their hearts.” Lighthearted laughter tugged at his heart—it was too easy. Far too easy. They didn’t have a prayer. “You know what to do.”

He’d been out cold since she entered his room. Téya did something she’d have never done in Bleak Pond—she held his hand. Strong, calloused hands that were no stranger to hard work. In a way, they’d both been outcasts among the community. David with his license and car. She with her past.

“I wish I could have told you,” she whispered. Tears blurred her vision as she thought of how that might have gone down, telling him she had been a soldier, that she’d belonged to an elite team of female soldiers who were the first to take a SOCOM assignment. A team with incredible talent.

The door clicked open. Téya set David’s hand down and slipped her hands to her side as she met the gaze of the nurse.

“Are you family?” the nurse asked, moving to the IV tower, checking the levels, then recording them.

“Yes,” Téya lied—though it wasn’t a whole lie. David said they would get married. She was his fiancée, of sorts. Besides, she knew the nurse wouldn’t talk to her otherwise. She glanced at David, his wavy black hair framing his handsome face. “He’s sleeping. Is that common with a leg injury?”

“There are his ribs, of course,” the nurse said as she used a stylus to enter his vitals. “But it’s his lung that’s giving him fits. We upped his pain meds so he could rest. He hasn’t slept much since being admitted.”

“Lung?”

The nurse nodded, frowning.

Right. Téya should’ve known about the lung—whatever it was. “Sorry. I just thought he was improving.”

The nurse tidied his blanket as she bobbed her head toward the leg in traction. “His leg is doing better than expected.” With a smile, she lifted her tablet. “I’ll leave you now.”

As she watched the door swing shut, Téya’s fingers found David’s. She lowered herself to the plastic chair beside the bed, her forearms stretched over the gray blanket as she lifted his hand to her cheek. “You’re the best man I’ve ever known. . . .” And yet, she still had doubts that even with all his firm beliefs in God and the Bible that he could forgive what she’d done. He’d overlook her leaving him, probably, but killing children?

Grief-stricken, she pressed his hand to her forehead.
I want it back. All of it. Innocence. My life with you.
. .

The tougher side of her, the side that had seen war, fought terrorists, told her to gut it up. Voices outside snagged her attention. She spotted David’s brother coming down the hall. On her feet, Téya squeezed David’s hand one last time. “I
will
be back.”

With that, she ducked out of the room and headed to the left, sliding on a baseball cap. Three lefts landed her at the elevator. She pushed the button, ear trained on the conversation down the hall.

“Family?”

Téya’s pulse jammed at the words David’s brother spoke.

“I’m the only family here right now.”

“I’m sorry. The young woman said she was family.”

The doors hissed open and Téya lunged at the escape. Inside, she pressed the LL button and then hit D
oor
C
lose
. It wasn’t closing. She hit it again as another woman stepped in, punching the basement button.

As the doors closed, a man rushed into the steel trap. At least it wasn’t David’s brother. She jabbed the button again. Just as the two steel panels severed her view, she noted a blur of dark clothing.
That
was David’s brother.

With a quiet expel of breath, she felt something. . .strange. Wrong. Heat spilled down her neck. The man who joined her. She glanced back at him. “What floor?”

Dark eyes flicked to hers. “Lobby. Thanks.”

Right. Same floor. He had dark eyes, but the nonchalance in his expression. . .it seemed forced. Or fake. Something.

Feeling that tingling sensation of danger prickling the back of her neck smacked Téya with a heady dose of realization.
You are really stupid.
Running from Trace and Boone, the two men most able and willing to protect her sorry self.

When the doors slid open, Téya pressed the button to hold them open and smiled at the man. “Go ahead.”

After a curt nod, he exited and banked left.

She waited a few seconds then stepped into the lobby. A quick glance to her left revealed him standing at the information desk, talking to one of the volunteers. Téya quickly went right and ducked out the side door. With a determined step, she made her way toward the truck she’d hot-wired. Breathing came a little easier as she put one more parking row behind her. More distance between her and the hospital. She used the reflective surfaces of vehicles to verify she was alone. She turned toward the truck and—

Crunch.

A weight clamped onto her shoulder.

Téya swung around, hooking her left arm over his, making it impossible for him to get away as she hauled the heel of her right hand into the side of his neck. He stumbled, disoriented. Unwilling to give him a second to regain his balance and determination, she laced her fingers around his neck and yanked him toward her, pinning him as she thrust her knee into his groin.

With a hard shove, she sent him stumbling backward, giving herself an escape. Sprinted toward her truck.

A shot cracked the quiet day. Sparks flew off the truck. Téya ducked. She knew hot-wiring the truck would give the guy too much time to take her out. She had to do it first—neutralize the target.

Weight plowed into her. Shoved her into the window frame of the door.

Pain exploded along her cheekbone. The man threw her around, slamming her spine against the truck. His forearm jammed against her throat, he brought up a weapon.

Despite her instinct to protect her throat, she stabbed her flatted hand into his side.

He curled in on the spot, responding to the pain and moving his arm.

Knowing he’d correct his mistake quickly, she used his momentary disorientation against him. She drove a hard right hook into his temple.

But he caught it. Blocked and threw an undercut into her stomach.

Shouts echoed in the distance, but no way she’d look away from this guy. He meant to kill her. She wasn’t going to become a body in a morgue. Not like Jessie and Candice.

The thoughts vaulted adrenaline through her veins.

With a growl, she curled her hand into a fist, forefinger knuckle aimed out. She drove it hard into the spot just below where his ribs met. She hit him again. And again. Determined to nail his solar plexus.

He punched her head, knocking her sideways.

Recovered, Téya threw a jab for a liver shot.

The man crumpled with a hideous groan.

Téya threw herself into the truck. Hot-wired it. Slammed it into gear and punched it forward. The door flapped open. She reached for it. Red-hot pain exploded through her side. Struggling against the fire in her side, she tugged the door shut. Shoe against the gas pedal. Pealed through the parking lot. Vaulted onto the street. She narrowly slid through a yellow light. Gunned it for the highway. Had to get back. . .

She hissed as her hand clamped over the side where sticky warmth oozed out.

Trace is going to kill me.