Operation Zulu Redemption: Collateral Damage - Part 1 (16 page)

“Any word from the girls?”

Boone looked up from the report he’d been reading. Nuala entered the coms area as if walking on eggshells. “Not yet, but they’re not late, so I’m not worried.” He went back to the report, an intelligence brief dated from the time of the Misrata incident.

“I’m glad the commander let them go.” In her words he heard the wistful desire to have gone with them.

“You’ll go next time.”

“Maybe.” She slid into the cubicle that had been set up and assigned to her. It’d been another of Trace’s attempts to let the girls feel productive, not like prisoners. “How’s Keeley doing?”

Boone stilled, hating that people kept asking about her. Well, not that they
asked.
It was how they asked—like if they spoke too loudly, it’d be bad news or something. As if she were already dead. “Same.” It was the only answer they needed. The only answer that kept them from asking more questions.

Bing!

Boone ignored the chime from Houston’s station.

Bing!

Bing-bing!

“Uh,” Houston said, his mouth dangling open. “Oh, we are so dead.”

“What are those noises?” Nuala asked, coming out of her chair.

“Alerts. I have them on each of you.”

Bing!

“No,” Houston shouted. “No more. Stop!”

Bing-bing-bing!

“Holy—good—no—” He turned a pale face to Boone and shook his head. “This is some serious trouble.”

Houston hunched over his keyboard, watching monitors, his fingers flying. Curses and other oaths singed the air.

Boone was out of his seat. “Easy, easy.” He leaned over the guy’s shoulder, a hand braced on the tall chair. “What’s happening?”

“Hang. . .on,” Houston said as he struck a few keys, then clicked. “And—there it is.” He looked over his right shoulder to the wall they’d turned into a massive screen.

More than twenty—
thirty?
—pages were spread on the screen, landing on top of each other as if someone dealt a deck of cards. Dozens of social media sites. What was the. . .

“Son of a. . .” Boone couldn’t believe what he saw. On every site, there was now a campaign page labeled:

Help Find Ashland
P
almieri!

And there, in the right-hand corner was a picture of Annie in all her wild-haired glory.

“This is so bad. I mean—this is good in reverse, ya’ll,” Houston said, his voice squeaking. “This is popping up on every site I can think of, and probably on ones I can’t.”

“Who did this?” Boone demanded. “Never mind—can you take them down?”

“Well, yes. But it’s going to take time.”

“Do it!”

“This is
insane.
” Houston grimaced. “Every site. . .even the ones I think wouldn’t have this—
bam!
It’s there.”

“Who’s that with her?” Nuala asked, coming up next to him.

The very guy Boone wanted to get his hands on. “Sam Caliguari.”

“The hunky Navy SEAL guy?”

“You sound way too pleased,” Boone growled. “You know what that could do?”

“Yeah, get her killed. Or him.”

He pointed to another picture. “Houston, who’s on the right with her in the other photo?”

“Uh. . .”

Boone watched as the cursor moved to that image and clicked, and a dotted line formed a box around the man’s face. A drop-down menu appeared and clicked off before Bone could read the options.

A few seconds later, Houston popped another photo on the screen. “Jeff Conwell. Owner of the Green Dot Sub Shop where Annie worked.”

“I want to know who did this.” Boone’s phone belted out the National Anthem, the ringtone he’d assigned to Trace. He lifted it and answered. “You seeing this?”

“I may just make good on Annie’s belief that I’d kill that guy.”

“You think it was him?” Dumb question, but Boone would rather have proof before he lobbed off the guy’s head.

“Who else would it be? I’m on my way there. Have you heard from the girls?”

“Negative.” Boone glanced at his watch. “They should be on the plane. I’ll verify that.”

The call ended and Boone stalked to Houston’s station. “Anything?”

“I have to manually remove every one, which means hacking into each site. It will take time.”

“The origination?”

“As far as I can tell—all from the same site: Manson, Washington.”

“So it was Sam?”

“If I can verify the IP address. . .” Houston scanned back and forth. “Uh, the address doesn’t belong to Caliguari.” Houston shrugged. “He probably hired someone to do it.”

Bing! Bing-bing!

“You’re kidding me,” Houston shouted. “I am going to nuke this guy!” He did this growl thing that reminded Boone a lot of one of the Three Stooges characters.

Bing!

Houston gaped.
“I
know
you didn’t! Dude, I am sending a nuke so far up your—”

“Houston,” Boone snapped, aware of Nuala covering her mouth. If it weren’t so serious, he’d be funny. “Get the sites down.”

“It’d be
easier
,” Houston snarled, “if I just accidentally launched a nuclear warhead at him.” His eyes moved as his fingers flew over the keyboard, “But since that would be rude, maybe if I just snuck in. . .” He craned his neck. “. . .his back door. . .and. . .killed. . .his dog.” Houston sat up. “Okay, I think. . .
think
that will keep his trigger finger quiet for a while.”

“What’d you do?”

“Sent a virus into his system, crippling him from sending anything out. That should give us time to get those sites down and report his address so the site will ban him.”

“You can get someone banned with one e-mail?” Nuala asked.

“I never said
one
e-mail.”

Boone shifted closer. “Can you ghost an e-mail?”

“
Psh
,” Houston said with a scowl. “Of course I can. Who do you—”

“Send him an e-mail from Annie.” Boone gritted his teeth, knowing she’d hate him for this. “Something to the effect of, ‘If you care about me at all, please stop trying to find me.’”

The burger sagged in the red plastic basket next to the fries, untouched. Old memories of her late mother chiding her for not eating all her dinner nagged her conscience, so she lifted a fry and munched on it. Annie sat at a perimeter table, chin propped in her palm as she watched out the windows for Téya.

Half hour late. Nothing to
really
worry about. But worrying, she was.

Téya appreciated consideration, so Annie couldn’t believe her friend would willingly be late. She wasn’t a punctuality fiend—
no, that’d be me
—but she would consider it rude to be late. Especially thirty minutes.

But she was walking.

In heels.

Then again, what if she’d just gotten enthralled with some new revelation Berg Ballenger had? What if right now, Téya was solving the whole riddle?

Annie lifted her food and dumped it in the trash and headed to the rental car. She climbed in and made her way toward the address. Surely she’d come across Téya walking. Or limping in those pumps. The thought almost made her smile. The thrill of Trace saying they could buy new clothes was lost on her feisty friend when she saw what he insisted they order. Not the trendy jeans and baby-doll T-shirts Téya loved. But work attire. Slacks. Blouses.

“You put him up to this, didn’t you?” Téya had accused her with a mock slap.

Annie
had
been grateful for new clothes.

Someone walking across the street caught her attention. Annie’s hope flared—then died when she realized the woman had light brown hair. Téya’s natural color.

Annie sighed. “Where are you, Téya?” she murmured as she drove down the street and slowed. . . She came to an empty lot. No building.

Strange.

Must’ve taken a wrong turn.
She pulled into the lot and opened the navigation app on her pay-as-you-go smartphone. Working from the address the guy at HOMe had given them, she punched in the address. To her frustration, it said she was at the right place.

Annie glanced at the buildings surrounding the vacant lot. An apartment complex on the right. And on the opposite side, the back of a large store abutted the parking lot. So, if there’s no building. . .no address where Ballenger lives. . .

Where is Téya?

She entered the memorized number for Trace and pressed T
alk
.

“What’s wrong?”

How did the man always know? “I can’t find Téya.”

“What do you mean—how did you lose her?”

Annie gritted her teeth. “We split up—”

“I told you—”

“Chew me out later. She’s missing. I’m about to miss our flight. What do I do?”

The line went silent, and Annie realized she’d overstepped. Their history had to stay out of the mission.

“Sorry,” she bit out. “I’m just. . .the flight is leaving.”

“Forget about the flight. We’ll get another.” The phone went muffled, but she could hear him talking to someone else. “Okay, listen,” he said to her. “I’m going to—”

Crack!

A thousand tiny spiderweb cracks snapped across her windshield. Annie flinched, staring at the glass.

“What was that?” Trace demanded.

As his question boomed in her mind, she saw the hole on the right side. “A shot,” she said, dumbstruck. Adrenaline exploded through her. “Someone shot at me!” she shouted as she tore off down the street.

“Get out of there.
Now!
” Trace barked.

“But Téya—”

“You can’t help her if you’re dead!”

“I’m not tracking. Ashland considered you a close friend and you—” Sam shook his head. “I’m not sure what you did. But not talking to me, hiding things from that reporter—how does that help Ashland?”

“It keeps information about her contained. You should know about that.”

“Contained?” Sam cocked his head. “Why do you think it needs to be contained?”

“Think about it. Think about what you told the cops.”

“How do you know—” Sam bit off his question. Jeff knew everyone in town and they knew him. This was his turf.

“You said a pro sniper took hits at you both. Then Ashland vanishes after a man nobody knows or has seen around town—and that’s something for Manson—shows up.” Jeff thumped the back of his hand against Sam’s shoulder. “Put that lethal brain of yours to work. Doesn’t it sound a lot like she might be in trouble?”

“Why do you think I’m trying to find her?”

“What if finding her is what puts her in danger?”

~

“Hey!” Excitement snapped through Houston’s voice. “Look! Ballenger. . .” His eyes were wide as he stared at the monitor.

Trace moved toward him. “What?”

“Ballenger left a message. I have that voice-to-text on that number Annie and Téya left with Hollister. Ballenger just left a message on it.”

“What’s it say?” Boone asked.

“He says he’ll meet them—but in. . .75004 Place. . .” Houston’s voice trailed off as his fingers took over. “It’s a hotel. Hôtel-de-Ville, Paris.”

“Paris?”

Trace and Boone looked toward the lounge area where Téya stood, watching them. How long had she been there? “Ballenger left a message agreeing to meet—but in Paris.”

Téya crossed her arms as she drew closer. “That’s intriguing. Kellie Hollister had an invitation on her desk for a benefit gala—for HOMe. In Paris.”

“When?” Traced asked.

“The twenty-fourth.”

“Friday,” Boone said, meeting Trace’s gaze. “Think we have time?”

“Seriously?” Téya said with a cheeky grin. “I’m going to Paris, right?”

Nuala and Annie emerged from the bunk rooms. “Who’s going to Paris?”

~

Coughing, Téya rolled, agony squirming through her as she fought for air. It was then she saw the booted feet. Followed the black pants up to a black shirt. Corded muscles. And a face of fury.

She hadn’t hit a wall.

The man who’d followed her hit her.

He grabbed and yanked her up off her feet.

Blinded by pain and groping for air, she struggled to think. Then oxygen flooded back. She swung her arm back then aimed for the side of his throat.

He blocked and nailed her with one of his own.

Again unable to breathe, she dropped to her knees, straining for air. Feeling her temples pound. She wobbled to her feet.

But the man shoved her forward.

Her head hit the wall. Bounced off. Stars sprinkled across her vision. Téya braced herself, then threw her head backward.

But he deflected. Moved away.

She stumbled backward, her feet pedaling too fast. She flopped onto the ground. Anger lit through her. She’d been one man’s punching bag already this month.
Not happening again.
In that split second, Téya took in her surroundings. His position. She swung her legs to catch his.

He hopped back—and laughed.

Indignant, she flipped onto her feet.

His punch nailed her jaw.

She spun, gritting her teeth and tasting the blood his hit caused. His hits came again. And again. Driving her back. . .back. . .

Water!

She heard it now—the river. Heard the lapping against a wall or rocks. Smelled it. Felt the dampness. He was going to knock her into the water, no doubt hoping she was unconscious. She had to control this. Own it.

~

The door flapped shut and Annie wedged herself in between him and the metal box. “What is with you pulling that stunt about us being obligated?”

“No stunt. You are.”

“I never expected you to stoop to such a low level and—”

“Since when are you scared, Annie?”

“I’m not scared.”

“Then why are you running?” Trace leaned down into her face. “The Annie I knew would’ve faced this head-on and with a baseball bat. The woman standing in front of me wants to slink back to some isolated community with a slick Navy SEAL and play house.”

“Just because I found someone—”

“Did you? Or were you just desperate for company?”

Her hand struck hard and searing across his face. Annie gasped, covering her mouth.

The spot where her hand hit stung, but Trace nodded, knowing for that much anger to erupt, he’d hit a nerve. “Thought so.”

~

“I know he was ordered to suffocate your will until you broke.”

Trembling, Frankie packed up the papers. Secured her bag. How did Varden even know about that? “What? Are you spying on me?”

“I’ve never stopped.”

Bile rose in her throat. “I left the agency. They cut me free.”

“Free is a relative term, Franny.”

She grabbed her bag and scooted her chair back.

“Don’t draw attention,” he said, his tone filled with warning.

“What do you want?” she hissed.

“I want you to talk to a man named Samuel Caliguari, a former Navy SEAL.”

“Why would I talk to a squid?”

Varden only gave her a thin-lipped smile. “He’s on a hunt. I think you should join that hunt.”

~

Operation Zulu Redemption: Collateral Damage – Part 1

Operation Zulu Redemption: Out of Nowhere – Part 2

Operation Zulu Redemption: Hazardous Duty – Part 3

Operation Zulu Redemption: Act of Treason – Part 4