Operation Zulu Redemption: Collateral Damage - Part 1 (11 page)

Had they set him up?

Trace’s nerves vibrated as he slid into his dark gray Dodge Charger and started it. He pulled out of the parking lot and headed back up toward Reston. He’d hit Route 7 and narrowly avoid rush hour. Either way, there’d be traffic. And lights. Lots of lights. But he was too much a miser to take the tollway. He hated the congestion of the Beltway, but once he hit the Dulles toll road he’d get home faster. He’d talk to Boone.

Traffic on the Beltway slowed as cars exited for Route 7. Trace shifted over a lane and accelerated. As he did, he noticed a small hybrid darting in and out of traffic. Gaining on him.

Right. A puny car against his Charger? What was the point?

He sped up and hit the far left lane, occasionally monitoring the hybrid as they sailed through Sterling, Ashburn, and Leesburg. When they hit 15 North, traffic slowed to a crawl as the major routes converged outside the outlet mall. Trace glided into the far left lane.

A dozen or more cars back, the Prius did the same.

Just as quick, he dove into the far right, taking the exit ramp for Business 7. Swung up and around, then made his way through the quaint and congested downtown Leesburg, hating the 25 mph limit. When he wasn’t in a rush, he could appreciate the small-town-ness.

Okay, no. He couldn’t. That’s why he lived closer to the Beltway, not out in the middle of nowhere like Boone. Country life suited his friend. Not Trace. He liked townhomes and condensed living. Easier to get to places. And quicker.

He turned right onto Catoctin then swung into the strip mall shopping center. With each thump of the speed bump, his gaze slid to the rearview mirror. By the time he aimed toward the Pei Wei, he spotted the car.

Well, if they wanted to follow him, they could waste a few hours.

Where are you going?

Frankie slid her Prius into the parking lot in front of the PetSmart, watching as Trace walked into the Pei Wei Asian diner.

Seriously? Wasn’t it a little early for dinner—and he’d just left her dad at a restaurant?

Well, considering she must’ve scared him out of the restaurant, she guessed he might be hungry. But she wasn’t overly convinced that he’d been sitting at the table beside her brother and father. The table was set, but Paolo said the man had just sat down.

And neither of them recognized him?

What? Did she have
idiot
stamped across her forehead?

Gripping her steering wheel, she banged her head on it. Why? Why would her dad meet with Trace? Clearly not to get a confession out of the guy? And Paolo—after the way he chewed her out and she humiliated herself in front of Trace’s brother?

Great. Right. That would be so great for Trace to find out and hate her more. Forty boring minutes later, Trace emerged and casually walked to his Charger.

Poised, ready to figure out where he and Boone were hiding, she shifted into D
rive
. Trace pulled away from the building and then glided in front of another strip mall in the same parking lot. Straight toward Plaza Street.

She let a car pull between them so she wasn’t obvious. He turned right on the street—what was it? She strained to see the sign at the corner.
P
something. She followed the blue car and eased into traffic. Only, as she did, Trace dove back into the parking lot.

Frankie looked to the left, afraid he’d see and recognize her. Or had he already realized he was being followed?

She eased back in, hoping—praying—he hadn’t noticed. He pulled into a stretch of the parking lot that sat empty and parked cockeyed. As she slowly drove by, she eyed him without turning her head and saw him talking on his cell phone.

“What?” she muttered as she went to the end of the parking lot, which brought her right back to Pei Wei, and turned right. “You can’t multitask?”

When she glanced back, her heart jolted. He was gone! She nailed her brake. A car behind her honked. She waved them around, searching the parking lot. There! Heading back onto Main Street!

“Shoot, shoot, shoot,” Frankie growled as she whipped her little car around and gunned it for the street. Pealed in front of an oncoming delivery truck and rushed to the intersection. She took a risk and jumped in front of a red Mustang, who also honked at her. She didn’t care. No way would she lose Trace.

She’d been trying for the last two months to catch him. And then after narrowly missing him in Vegas. . . “It’s on, Trace Weston.”

He had to hand it to her, she could handle her car pretty well. But it was borderline comical watching her little car dodging potholes and slowing at hairpin turns. She had good driving skills, but that car fought her. Where had she learned to drive like that?

“I’m not losing her,” he spoke through his Bluetooth to Boone. “Can’t lead her to the bunker, so I’m going to head back to Reston.”

“You sure? I can come out there.”

“No. I don’t want her knowing why I’m out here.”

“Roger that.”

A couple of miles ahead, a small white car lumbered down the country road. The distance between them was closing quickly. The oncoming car prevented Trace from passing. He slowed, glancing in the rearview mirror, tightening his lips as he saw the Prius gaining.

“I’ll get back out there later, or tomorrow.”

“Copy.”

The call disconnected as the oncoming truck passed them. Trace whipped around the white car. Another car came over the crest, heading straight for Trace. He bullied his way over, the white car laying on its horn hard. Brakes squalled.

Trace saw the Prius swerve and slow. She was trapped. Not quite as fearless as he believed. Which was good. Told him she had her limits.

He would never convince Solomon’s daughter he wasn’t responsible—at least, not in the way she believed. As Zulu’s commander, he was ultimately the one on whose shoulders blame rested. But he hadn’t killed those children.

She was tenacious, Francesca Solomon. Tenacious and bullheaded, just like her father.

Trace slammed the brake on, powered down and took a right. Arching tree branches stretched over the road, shadowing the car. Making it more difficult to see. To anticipate. This was good—he’d really put her skills to the test now.

“Oh come on,” Frankie said as she slowed and whipped through the next turn. Though she had defensive driving skills, as well as evasive driving techniques, she wasn’t driving a car with an engine that could handle the insanity that ensued following Trace.

He knows. He knows I’m following him.

Sunlight poked through the overhead branches, giving her momentary spots of blindness. She had to admit—it was beautiful out here. She could appreciate the setting, the beauty, but she’d never live out here. Too far from the excitement and the energy that she thrived on.

“Okay,
where
are you going?” she growled as they made two hard turns, one after another. “You’re toying with me, aren’t you?”

Just as he’d been with Misrata. Evading at every turn. Evasive at every question. The man had no honor or integrity. He wasn’t worth her time, but she would
not
let that stop her from bringing justice to the families of those workers. She would destroy his career just as he’d done to her father.

The image of Trace’s brother leapt into her mind. The guy was handsome, not as much as Trace, but he had that same
Weston
look. Brent had clearly been affected by Trace’s actions. In a twisted sort of way, she felt sorry for the guy—to have to live under the shame of his brother’s actions. To possibly be naive enough and believe Trace was innocent. She snorted.

She knew what it was like to feel the scorn of the world. She’d borne a lot of that after the fallout of Misrata, after her father stood before committee after committee, investigation after investigation. His promotions stalled. His positions shifted.

Sunlight glared through her sunroof, momentarily blinding her. Frankie squeezed her eyes and looked away—but then squinted through the windshield and ducked to block the light.

A movement on the side of the road.

She saw it.

A deer.

It leapt with all the grace and elegance God had designed it with.

Right into her path.

Frankie yelped and yanked her steering wheel to the right.

Hit a rut in the road. Spun on the gravel. Lost traction. She turned in the direction of the spin. But a heavy thud threw the car to the right. Dipped down. And she went sailing. Flipping.

Frankie screamed.

Warbling sound banged against her eardrums, pulling her from the heavy fog. Darkness—no, light. Bright light. Hot.
Too bright.
Moving her head only brought a spasm of pain. She cried out.

“Easy.”

Something pulled on her body. Tugged. Tearing and scraping hissed through vague coherency.

Her legs dropped.

Jarred, she cried out again.

“Sorry,” the voice spoke.

Disoriented, Frankie tried to open her eyes. Struggled against the colossal pull on her brain. On her body to sleep. To surrender. No fight. Too weak.

Garbled noises raided her mind. Mingled with crushing pain. Shoved her deep behind the veil of awareness.

* * *

Rocking and vibrations wormed through Frankie’s body. She dug through a haze of pain and disorientation, surprised to find herself lying down. Bright lights glared down at her, poking through her corneas. She winced and shifted her gaze to the right. A wall of clear cabinets revealed. . .
medical equipment?
At her shoulder, a man sat in a chair, adjusting something.
Ambulance. Why am I in an ambulance?

Pulse jackhammering, she tried to look around but her head wouldn’t move. Gentle pressure held her head in place, forbidding movement.

“Hi, there. Welcome back,” the man said. “Can you tell me if you’re having trouble breathing?”

She swallowed, frightened. “N–no. What happened?”

“You were in an accident. Can you tell me your name?”

Drowning in fear and uncertainty, she nudged aside the adrenaline burst and focused on his question. “Francesca Solomon.” She wet her lips and tasted blood and. . .ash? No, couldn’t be ash. “What’s wrong with me?”

The EMT made some notes then checked her vitals again. “Are you in any pain, Miss Solomon?”

“I. . .” Mentally, she probed her body. Her leg, her side. . .head. “Yeah, some.”

“Is it isolated in one area?”

“Mostly all over. My head—feels like someone hit it with a hammer.”

“That would’ve been the road. You have a concussion, thus the brace. We need to make sure you didn’t injure your neck when your car rolled.”

Rolled. Yes. The blur of trees. Road. Dirt. Grass. All blended into a terrifying concoction. The thuds, the cracks, the pops. . . They echoed in her ears as if it were still happening. As if the world tilted and somersaulted. But there was something else. Something her mind kept shutting off and refusing to let her see.

The EMT shifted.

“What are you doing to me?”

“I’ve set you up with an IV catheter, a bag of fluids, and I’m monitoring your heart rate, blood pressure, and oxygen saturation.”

She had no idea what that meant. No idea why she was here. “I don’t remember. . .”

“Take your time.” He sat beside her. “Your body’s been through some serious trauma. It’s in preservation mode right now.”

No kidding—it was like a blank canvas with unreal barriers. Come on. She had to remember something. Obviously, she’d been in her car. But where?
Why did I. . . ?

Trace.

Frankie closed her eyes as the memories of chasing him down that country road splashed across her visual cortex. Flooded her with the distinct remembrance of her bullheadedness that wouldn’t let her back off or slow down. The glittering sunlight peeking through the trees arching over the road, forming a natural canopy. Trace’s dark gray Charger
charging
through the country. Being blinded. The—“Deer. There was a deer.”

The EMT gave a soft chuckle. “Those things cause more accidents around here than you’d believe. Know a guy who’s been hit by ten over the years. We call him Venison Magnet.”

The memories rushed on, uncaring of the way they made Frankie’s body tense. Made her wish she could vanish back into unconsciousness. It hurt. It hurt too much to think about it.

Crack. Thud.
The sound of something ripping. The deafening silence that ensued when her car came to rest, right side up. A hissing noise. . .a dribbling. A—

She flinched. The memories vanished. Left a gaping void.

What. . .why couldn’t she remember anything past the silence? Did Trace just leave her there? “Was there a man at the accident?”

The EMT swam into view again, a small frown on his tanned face. “Man? Was he involved in the accident?”

“If you mean, did he cause it—no.”
Involved
depended on what the EMT referred to. Trace had been involved all right, but not by his own doing. Well, maybe—she grew convinced he figured out she’d been following him. But it was her fault for even trying to catch him going back to his secret lair, to find out where and what he was hiding.

“A man called in the accident, but there wasn’t anyone there when we arrived.”

Trace just left me there?
Why did that surprise her?

“Then again, we were only a couple of miles from the scene, so we came up on you pretty quick once the call came in.” He winked at her. “Good thing we were out protecting the town.”

She shifted, anxious to be rid of this boxed-in environment and the words, and the confusion. An irritating feeling nagged at her lower leg. “My calf. . .”

“It’s burned. Second degree, would be my guess.”

“Burned?” She tried not to let the panic douse her. “There was a fire?”

“Your car caught fire. Good thing you dragged yourself free or this might have had a different ending.”

Frankie stilled.
Dragged myself?
She had no memory of that.

Should she be worried? Was it normal to have missing pieces of memory?

The sway of gravity tugged on her as the ambulance rounded a corner. A few minutes later, it slid to a stop. Beside her, the EMT prepped her gurney as the rear doors opened. Another EMT did something, and she felt the gurney slide forward. She eased into the darkening day amid the bright lights of the emergency room. They wheeled her into the hospital. Frankie couldn’t suppress the fear, the sense of panic. Had she injured herself and she couldn’t feel it?

What would her dad say? And Trace—if she was laid up, would he get away. . .again?

“Crash victim, female, age twenty-six. Concussion, second, possibly third-degree burns to her leg. Possible bruised ribs. Right arm is swollen, possibly fractured.”

Frankie lay staring up at the panel lights that swam overhead as they delivered her into the ER. Ashamed and afraid of what she might have done to herself, she closed her eyes. She just wanted justice.

A voice in the distance, in a blanket of black, called to her.
“Francesca!”
A blur. A large, shadowy blur. Creaks. Cracks. Pops.

Boom!

“Francesca!”

She whimpered, seeing the blaze. The flames. The roaring, crackling flames! Dancing and closing on her. Hot, so hot! The heat and pain overwhelmed her.

A figure loomed through the flames and warbling plumes of heat. The door swung open. Hands reached for her. Hoisted her out. Spoke to her. Spoke over her cries and moans. Dragged her backward. Out of the searing reach of the fire.

She went down. Images flashing in and out. Trees. Sunlight. A face, shadowy and blurry.

Boom!

Frankie snapped awake.

“You okay?” Her dad stood over her, holding her hand. “You were whimpering. I didn’t want to wake you—they said to let you sleep, but I didn’t want to wake the whole hospital.” The laughter in his voice didn’t reach his eyes, which bore the concern she heard tinges of in his voice.

Disoriented yet again, she breathed a heavy sigh that was filled with relief. . .and grief. She squeezed his hand. “The fire. . .”

“They said you got out and collapsed.”

“No,” she whispered over a dry, hoarse throat. “Someone pulled me out.”

“Who?” Her father frowned. “Nobody was there.”

But someone
was
there.