Operation Zulu Redemption: Hazardous Duty - Part 3 (4 page)

“She’s an excellent swimmer,” Trace countered.

“Maybe you forgot,” the SEAL said, “that she and I lived on a lake. Ashland loved to take a swim, but she often found the water too chilly. She preferred to sit on the deck with me and watch the sun go down.”

Trace held the man’s gaze—a power struggle. Most of what he said wasn’t necessary information. This was territorial dialogue. Caliguari reminding Trace he’d spent the last few years with her. That he knew her. Knew how to anticipate her.

But he didn’t. Caliguari knew Ashland Palmieri. Not Annie Palermo.

Caliguari smirked. “Besides, there’s nowhere to hide on the open sea, and the longer she’s out, the more tired she’d become. Either way, we need to get there.”

“We?” Trace echoed.

Assured and unrelenting, Caliguari glanced around the room. “You seem a little shorthanded for a rescue op.”

Boone cleared his throat and waited for Trace to look at him. “Two and Six aren’t back, and I haven’t heard from them.”

Trace hesitated. “Houston, anything on the scanners about them?”

“Negatory.”

Two and Six were behind schedule but not in apparent danger. Sometimes an op ran long. But Trace felt the tremor in the waters they’d stirred. Could something go
right
for once? “We don’t have time to worry about them right now,” he said. “We have to get up there and secure One.”

“We’ll need a chopper and thermals.”

“On it,” Trace said.

“Let me help.” The Squid looked entirely too hopeful.

“Not on your life,” Trace growled. “You’ll stay here—”

“Don’t be stupid. I’m trained and I have the same objective—”

“No.” Trace felt like an oil tanker parked on his chest. “No, you don’t.”

“You want Ash—Annie back safely. Right? I’m not the enemy here, Weston.” Caliguari held out his hands in a placating manner. “I swear—I’ll play by the rules. I’ll do whatever you ask if it means I see her again and know she’s safe.”

I should just kill him and get it over with. It’ll be less painful.

Sitting in her small corner at Starbucks, Frankie clung to the delusion that she could hide from whatever and whoever had so brutally taken Samuel Caliguari. Even now, the memory forced her to gulp back the adrenaline. She’d never seen anything like that. Hiding in the open garage of one of his neighbors, she’d watched the scene unfold.

Watched Sam rip his Charger onto a side road.

Watched the first of the Suburbans broadside him in the turn. It’d looked like a freight train ramming a sedan. It slammed his car into a ditch, the Charger sitting at a steep angle. By the time the dust and smoke cleared, three more vehicles surrounded him. Men in head-to-toe tactical gear swarmed into position, their weapons trained on Sam.

Through the cracked rear windshield she could see Sam moving slowly.

Two of the tactical team pried open the driver’s door, almost having to lift it straight up because of the steep ditch. Sam climbed out and was immediately set upon. They shoved him face-first into the dirt. Hooded and cuffed him, then dragged him to one of the SUVs.

Who were they?

She tried Sam’s cell number again, though she wasn’t sure why. He hadn’t answered any of the previous fifteen times she’d attempted it. Frankie stared at her computer and phone. Varden had sent her to Caliguari, then the handsome SEAL ends up getting arrested.

No, not arrested. She’d searched local authorities to find him and nobody had even heard of him, and the sheriff there in Manson said no raid had been conducted.

So, what is going on?

Was it Trace?

Seriously, how much power could one man have? Who was the force behind Weston? She’d toyed with calling her father, but after Varden’s comments about him, she’d been left with more doubts than a loving daughter should have.

Dad always put the military first. She hadn’t just known that, she’d
lived
that from childhood. It was no surprise then that his three sons would take a similar path. She had gone into the Air Force, not because she wanted to be like her father, but because he’d never liked that military branch and derided it much the way colleges did their fiercest rival. But taking the intelligence route—she’d done that because he’d been combat. And she wanted to show him she could make her own way in the military without Daddy’s golden glove greasing up the flagpoles the way he had for her brothers.

A familiar form strode toward her, and Frankie quickly closed the open files on her laptop as he slid into the seat across from her. “Varden.”

“A bit of unfortunate luck with Caliguari, I hear.” The beady eyes reminded her of dials on a laser scope, adjusting, calculating for a precise hit.

“So it seems.” No way would she let him know how much this mess affected her.

“I think we hit a sweet spot if that drew Weston out.”

Keeping her face neutral, she processed his belief that the colonel was behind the hit on Sam Caliguari.

“Did you talk to Caliguari before they took him?”

Frankie turned the silver fashion ring on her thumb as she considered the man. She’d been a fool years ago to find Varden attractive. It wasn’t his looks—tall, dark, not-so-handsome. It was his power that had drawn her like a moth to the flame. And telling him what Sam said wouldn’t compromise anything. At least, she didn’t think so.

“You’re wondering if you can trust me,” Varden said, leaning on the table with his forearms.

“We were all trained to ask that question, often and repeatedly with every target and asset,” Frankie said.

“You have to imagine I know more than you.”

“You’d like me to imagine that.” Frankie shifted in her seat, pushing into the neutral space he was already invading. “But you came to me, Varden. You sent me after Sam.” Why? What had he hoped to accomplish with that? “Why didn’t you go yourself?”

“The man I work for is too powerful and in too delicate a situation to dirty his hands.”

“Ha.” Frankie scoffed and dropped back against her seat. “Lazy answer. And a lie.”

Those black eyes probed her. His lips went flat and his brows tugged together.

Good. About time she’d managed to tick him off. He’d done that to her more than once in the years they worked together.

“What do you want?” Varden asked.

Frankie’s heart flipped. “Me?” She closed her laptop and folded her arms over it. “
Me?
I don’t want anything except the truth about what happened in Misrata. You knew that the day you had me shut down and turned out.”

Varden glanced to the side as a bubble of laughter erupted near the coffee bar. He was annoyed to say the least—with the noise, with her. Maybe even with Misrata. Or Trace Weston. “I can guide you to the information, but I can’t give it to you.”

Well, that was juicy. “Why?” She had the good sense and insatiable nature to question everything.

“I have another name for you.”

Frankie arched an eyebrow and huffed. “You gave me Sam and he knew nothing.”

“He knows more than he realizes.”

“Doesn’t matter now, does it?”

“Find Boone Ramage.” He tapped the table. “Find him and you find a tenable trail that will lead you right back to Weston and this mess.”

“Are you—” Frankie bit down on the tongue lashing she wanted to unleash. She’d had Boone on her radar since day one. “He’s a dead end, Varden. I’ve tried—”

“Seems to me you talked to a good-looking EMT in Lucketts.”

Unease slithered through Frankie’s belly. She should know better than to be surprised by anything Varden said or did. But she suddenly felt like she had strings attached to her arms and legs and should start talking to a cricket.

“D’you catch his name?”

She hadn’t. At the time, it hadn’t been important.

Varden winked. “See you around, beautiful.”

As he strutted out of the coffee shop, Frankie grew sick to her stomach. Varden had said her father shut down her life, but she wondered now if the culprit behind all that was in fact Varden and his overlord. She also knew in that instant that they’d been following her, tapping her phones and had probably bugged her apartment, too.

She had this crazy, uncontrollable urge to take a stainless steel pad and scrub her body down in a hot shower. They’d tagged her. Somehow, they tagged her and were monitoring her every move.

Annie cursed herself for not thinking to wrap her feet in something protective before escaping the storage area. Forest litter and debris dug into her soles as she pushed up the slope. Though not a steep grade, after the night’s adventures, the hill was enough to sap the remnants of her strength. But she’d been hiking for well over fifteen minutes. Pressed against a trunk, she took a breather and glanced back through the trees.

She’d blown a propane tank and it’d lit up the night like Fourth of July in Manson. When the tank detonated, ladies had screamed and rushed in all directions. Annie seized that chaos and sprinted around the terrace, clinging to the javelin-shaped shrubs and ornamental hedges to get out of sight. At most, she knew she’d only have a handful of minutes before they realized she’d escaped.

Though the fire still raged and spread to one level of the home, the flames looked small. Like a hearth fire instead of a blaze. She regretted that it had done so much damage to the property. That hadn’t been her intention.

Distant but strange, a sound filtered through the trees, tickling her awareness. Leaves rustled. The fingers of the branches seemingly brushing the sound closer. And then it hit her—dogs. Barking. Howling.

Hauling in a panicked breath, Annie shoved onward. Where the heck did they get dogs? Twigs and rocks pocked the soft pads of her feet. She plunged through the trees, catching the trunks and using them to propel her onward. Though she ran and pushed herself, she wanted to collapse. Give up. The fight for her life had taken a ridiculous turn. In the mountains. . .in Greece. . .barefoot.

Only you, Annie. Only you.

If she could find a creek or small river or lake, she might lose the dogs. But the chances of that were slim. What other recourse did she have? She’d seen the impressive snouts of tracking dogs work in Iraq and Afghanistan with the military working dogs. She’d seen a gorgeous Belgian Malinois catch the scent of explosives buried a couple of feet deep and save an entire unit. How was she supposed to evade the nose that knows?

Legs weak, she stumbled. Pitched forward into the grass and rocks.
Just want to sit. . .for a minute.
She slumped against the ground, breathing hard, her pulse whooshing across her eardrums.

Keep going. She had to keep going.

Annie pushed herself up.

A bark trumpeted success. He was close! Too close.

Tripping over a gnarly root system, Annie whimpered. Pushing up on all fours, she glanced over her shoulder. Saw something moving through the dark shadows. Dogs. They were right on her.

On her feet again, she ran. Dodged fallen trees. Avoided root systems. Rocks that threatened to snap her ankle.

But she heard them. Heard the dogs’ barking and snapping. She looked back. Saw them. Springers. Labs.

Panic stole her breath.

A dog flew from the side, a blur of glowing eyes and fangs. She scrabbled backward, terror ripping through her as the powerful jaws dived at her.

A blaze of fire and torment tore through Annie’s right ankle. She cried out and kicked at the dog, whose thousand pounds of jaw pressure crunched against her flesh and dug into her bone. Hot tears streaked down her face, the agony numbing her brain, shutting her down.

Annie fell backward, clamping her teeth against a primal scream. Her fingers fell against something cold and hard. She glanced through tear-blurred eyes and spotted a hefty rock.

Bite intact, the dog growled and jerked.

Tearing the muscle more.

But the beast wasn’t trying to eat her. His mission was to take her down until his master arrived.
Sorry. Not waiting.

She brought the rock down against the dog’s snout.

He yelped but didn’t release.

Tenacious bugger. She hit him again. This time, she must’ve nailed him right. He yelped and broke away. Annie jerked her mangled foot toward her, grinding her teeth against the agony.

To her surprise, the dogs broke off. Sprinted away from her.

She didn’t know what happened, but she was glad for it. Glad for the relief. Reaching down to the hem of her navy-blue dress, she searched for a frayed section. Caught one. And tore. Ripped a length off. Adrenaline must be thick in her blood right now because she almost couldn’t feel what had to be agonizing pain in her ankle.

Bending over, she wrapped the silk fabric around her leg a few times. Growling through the pain, she tied the ends, the final cinch exploding a searing pain. Her stomach heaved, bile rising against the torment.

Though she worked to calm her body, resist the bile, it surged. Annie threw herself to the side and retched.

Swiping her mouth with the back of her bloodied hand, Annie whimpered.
God, I have nothing left. Please, I need. . .
“Trace,” she whispered.

The thought of him—powerful, confident him—filled her mind. Nine years her senior, he’d had this magnetism that had drawn her right out of boot camp. She’d seen him at Bagram over the months he worked with Special Forces Command. She’d watched him as he hung out at the USO with his buddies. Laughing. But when he wasn’t, he was intense. Handsome.

Reminded Annie of her older brother, who’d paid the ultimate sacrifice for his country the year before she joined.

But that was then. This was now. Trace. . .he’d cut her heart out and served it up with a fresh batch of loyalty to their country.

She dug her fingers into the ground, forcing herself to muster the strength and courage to work around the pain and fatigue, to get on her feet and get moving, to prove to Trace she didn’t need him. She would seriously be talking to him about hazardous duty pay.

Using the tree, she dragged herself up onto her feet, unable to put pressure on her right ankle. Testing it only threatened her waves of sickening bile.

The resonant sound of an inbound chopper stilled her. Drew her gaze to the sky. She couldn’t see past the canopy, and she could only pray they couldn’t see her. She’d need to hide. Find shelter for the rest of the night.