Operation Zulu Redemption--Complete Season 1 (13 page)

“Miss Solomon—”

“Lieutenant.”

Lopez gave a placating smile. “Lieutenant Solomon, I’m afraid this is a little out of our area of expertise. If you have a solid lead, a place we could start, then—”

“The victim’s apartment.” Frankie shifted. “I’m not asking for a full SWAT force, just a few agents to escort me in and look the place over. If Weston is there, I will take him into custody.”

Trace

Las Vegas, Nevada

6 May – 1330 Hours

“Now this is what I’m talking about!”

As Houston squirmed into the three-foot-by-eight-foot cubbyhole in the wall, Trace couldn’t take his eyes off the wall-to-wall clippings, photos, articles, and grease boards that swam around the shelf that ran the length of the wall. Four systems lined up at chest height had streaming data.

“What is on the systems?”

“Algorithms, feeds…” Houston bent his knees as he leaned from one side to the other scanning the monitors. “And I have no idea what else. It’ll take…
weeks
, if not months to decipher this.” He focused on one laptop. Then moved to the next. “I… I think I’m in love.”

Trace ignored the geek. Stared at the walls covered with information. News clippings of the building burned down—half the walls missing, steel supports bending at unnatural angles, flames roaring against the black of night… There in full color was the tragic night they’d all lived with for the last five years. Hidden from.

An article clipping, printed off the Internet, showed the bodies of the eighteen children lined up and covered with white sheets that bore dark stains of the deaths.

God, help me
.

Trace stepped back, as if he could put distance between that horrible night and the truth.

Despite every explicit order and command, Jessie had disobeyed. She’d been researching Misrata. His gaze hit the ceiling. Scrawled in big black marker:
I Want My Life Back!

“Behind you,” Boone said, from the other end of the crawl space.

Trace shifted around. A presentation board nailed to the wall. A Venn diagram. Names. Pictures. Yarn stretched out to the walls perpendicular to it, connecting locations on a map.

“What is it?” Annie asked from the other side of the wall. There hadn’t been enough room for all of them, and Trace had no idea what they’d find, so he didn’t want them in yet.

“Everything,” Boone muttered. He whistled and shook his head. “She was a serious head case.”

“As in she analyzed everything.” If anyone could’ve solved what happened, it would’ve been Jessie. And she’d apparently been trying to do just that.

Pictures of the girls—
where
had she gotten those? He’d wiped everything off the Internet to insure they had a clean start in their new lives. But now, they stared back. Condemning. Accusing. Jessie. Candice. Keeley. Even Annie, Téya, and Nuala, though they were alive—their teammates were not. And lives were still in danger.

He had to get out of here.
Get out. Now
.

Trace bent and ducked through the cubbyhole. Annie was there, her expectant green gaze riveted to him. He could only shake his head as he moved to the Heller side of the apartment. The air conditioner kicked on with an annoying buzz. He lowered himself to the cream vinyl sofa and perched on the edge, forearms on his knees.

Was this why they died? Had Jessie’s curiosity, her insatiable tenacity—one of the very reasons he’d hand-picked her for Zulu—been what had gotten her killed? He couldn’t imagine her doing all that research, searching all those names and locations, and not arousing attention.

How’d we miss this?

How had she hidden her trail? He had an entire team dedicated to monitoring electronic intel for any sign of her. They didn’t know why he wanted her found. It’d been his way to make sure they all stayed off the grid. If they’d chatted, he would know. He made sure.

And now, now she was dead. Reyna was dead. And Shay…

Cool air swirled as someone joined him. He flinched as Annie perched next to him. She touched his arm softly. “You okay?”

“No, I’m not okay. Half the team is dead or dying.” He gritted his teeth, steeled himself against her presence.

She sat for a few minutes without speaking. “Her data wall is pretty impressive.”

“It’s pretty stupid.” Trace didn’t intend to be mean, but—“Did she seriously think she could find what an entire branch of the Army couldn’t?”

“I think… Jessie wanted vindication.” Annie rubbed her knuckles, swaying gently. Nerves. She was nervous around him. “She had this theory”—her voice went soft—“about who was behind feeding us the bad intel—”

“We all had theor—” Trace snapped a look to Annie. “How do you know she had a theory? That she wanted vindication?”

Her fair complexion went crimson and she yanked her gaze away.

“Crap!” Anger pushed him to his feet. “You were in contact with her, too, weren’t you?”

Annie stood. “Listen—”

“Do you people not understand the meaning of ‘no contact’?” Have I spent the last five years of my career dodging bullets and ambushes by investigators for you six to sink the ground beneath my feet?”

Annie scowled. “This was
our
lives, Trace! We killed children. We lost everything we had and everyone we knew and loved. Do you have any idea what it’s like to start over?”

“At least you had the chance to start over. You would’ve been behind bars for life or dead, if I—” His phone rang and he ripped it from his belt. Glanced at the caller ID. He turned away from Annie, more than ready to end that conversation. “Weston.”

“Colonel, it’s Baker. You’ve got trouble headed your way.”

Trace pivoted toward the hidden room. “What’ve you got?”

“You have military intelligence heading your way, Colonel. Might want to vacate. They just left here.”

“How long?” Standing in front of the window, Trace eyed the street.

“Ten mikes,” Baker said even as three black vehicles slid around the corner.

Trace hung up. “Boone!”

“Yeah?” he called from inside, but the sound of crunching told him Boone was moving.

“Company!”

“What about all this…stuff?”

“Tear it down,” Trace said, remembering the Styrofoam boards Jessie had mounted all her research to. “Take it with us.”

“Uh,” Houston whined. “I need at least fifteen minutes to get the systems packed and—”

“You have two,” Trace warned, watching as the task force assembled by the vehicles. He turned to Annie and Téya. “You’re smaller. Get in there and pull that stuff down.” He unholstered his weapon and moved to the window.

Boone stalked across the apartment to the kitchenette. There he dumped the trash on the floor and stalked back to the room with the can. He packed it with items from the space. “Move, move, move,” Boone said. “We’re eating time, people.”

In the walls, Trace heard the grunts and clenched his teeth as the task force streamed up the sidewalk and into the building.

“They’re inside,” Trace called. “Out, now!”

Téya appeared with three boards stacked. Annie crawled out, dragging a stack of boards that Nuala slid toward her.

“Window,” Trace whispered, pointing to the window that looked out on the fire escape.

Nuala emerged with a stack of papers in her hands, and Boone all but pushed her out.

“Quiet, quiet,” Trace hissed.

Even with the relative silence they operated under, they might as well have had a bullhorn. As Annie and Téya slipped out the window, Trace heard movement in the stairwell. He hurried to the door and peered through the peephole.

A tactical team swarmed up the stairs like a disturbed anthill. He bit back a curse.

He glanced over his shoulder and waved Nuala toward the window. Three down. Now Boone bent to pick up the bin—and Trace saw into 312. “Close the panel!” he hissed.

Hands full, Boone hesitated.

Trace threw himself around the big guy and eased the panel back into place. Even as the soft snap of the plywood resetting, he heard feet moving on the other side.

Boone muttered an oath.

Trace held out a hand, silencing him. Then gave him a questioning look.

“
Bible
,” Boone mouthed.

Trace closed his eyes. The Bible had Boone’s name in it. A clear connection to them. Trace waved him out, toward the window, giving him a signal not to worry about it.

“That’s so strange,” a woman’s voice—the landlady!—filtered through the wall. “I never saw them leave. Oh, wait. Maybe you should check 313. They asked about her, and while I haven’t seen Miss Heller in weeks, maybe she was there. They might be chatting.”

This time the curse slipped free.

Boone gave him a wide-eyed look.

Trace waved him out. Backed up two steps. Gently pulled the closet door closed. Tugged the clothes back into place.

Houston was half out, dragging a box of computer stuff.

“Back,” Trace gave a stiff whisper.

Confused and sweating, Houston frowned. “But—”

“
Back!
” Trace forced him back by pushing in after him, dragging a shoe box up to the corner with him as he did.

Behind him, Houston dropped something.

“
Quiet!
” For a second, Trace thought of killing the guy. He had a better chance of surviving without a green grunt like the geek. But that wasn’t an option.

Several thuds against the door stiffened Trace’s spine as he worked to tug the panel back into place. Only it wouldn’t budge.

“How strange. Would you like to see inside? I’m really—this just doesn’t make sense.”

Had he made a mistake? Hiding in here? Would it have been quicker to escape out the window? Maybe by himself, but Houston never would’ve made it.

Trace tugged hard on the board. Over his shoulder, he nodded to the bulb hanging overhead. “Light!”

Darkness doused the crawl space.

Feet moved around on the other side of the wall. The panel came free. Trace clicked it into place even as beams of light probed the other side.

Trace drew back, lifted his hands, and aimed his weapon.

He’d been here. Right here. In this room. Francesca Solomon stood with the FBI agents and their tactical team. Moving only her eyes, she took in the apartment. The clean but outdated kitchen with a small brass-and-glass table and two chairs. A pleather sofa. Goodwill-looking coffee table. The bed with no headboard and what looked like a Walmart quality bedspread. Simple, cost-efficient.

Sage. She could smell sage with a tinge of something musky. A man’s cologne or that body wash stuff her brothers used.

“Ready?” Special Agent Baker asked, giving the room a visual sweep. “Unless they’re hiding in the walls, I’m guessing you missed your man.”

Frankie eyed the agent as she strode toward the closet, following the trail of body wash scent. A SWAT member was there but shifted out of her way. She stepped in, eyeing the ceiling, walls, and floor. The smell was stronger here. “Right here,” she said.

“Come again?” Baker joined her, pressing his shoulder into her back to peer into the closet.

Annoyed and wanting to punch the cocky agent, she shoved backward. “He was here.”

“Right,” Baker said from behind. “I’m pretty sure we established that possibility.”

“Not possibility. Fact.” She envisioned herself sparring with this guy, taking him down the way she had her brothers. Dosing him with humility. “Mrs. Higginbotham identified the photo of him.”

Baker shrugged, nodding. “ ’Kay. He was here. Now he’s not.” He looked at Lopez. “And why are we still here?”

Assistant Special Agent in Charge Lopez lifted her chin. “We can set up surveillance on the building. If he comes back, we’ll know.”

“Surveillance.” Frankie sighed, turned a circle. It wasn’t like he could be hiding anywhere, but to have been so close… They must’ve just missed Weston by minutes. What did he come back for? Quite a risk. What evidence had he found, ripped out of their hands by mere seconds? “I’ll survey the building tonight. I’m not letting him get away a second time.”

Trace

Paper-thin walls made it easy for Trace to hear. Why? Why’d it have to be Francesca Solomon? He wanted to lean against the wall but didn’t trust the flimsy building material to not creak or pop, giving away his location. He owed Baker a steak for playing dumb about his location. For ribbing Solomon, making her tenacity seem foolish and ridiculous.

If she was going to watch the building…it’d only be one person. She couldn’t cover all possible exits. That worked in their favor. What
didn’t
work in their favor was waiting till nightfall. The team would have to hang out at the tarmac for his return.

Hold up. If the team went to the airport—he and Houston would have no way to get back to the airport. And they had the equipment. He wanted to curse. Trace pinched the bridge of his nose as they stood in the darkness, listening and waiting as Solomon and the FBI cleared out. Once he heard the door close, he pressed his watch. The timepiece lit up: 1515 hours. They’d have to wait till dark. Not just first dark, but late dark. Enough time for her to get bored. Believe there wasn’t anything to monitor.

“They’re—”

Trace clapped a hand over Houston’s mouth. Using the illumination of his phone, Trace mouthed, “
We wait. Four hours
.” He wouldn’t put it past her to be sitting on that sofa all night.

Houston’s eyes bulged. “
Four
?” he mouthed back, clearly distressed at having to stand in the box of a closet for that long.

An hour into their wait, legs aching and air stale, Trace wondered if they could push their luck and sneak out now. Right. And have her standing there with her weapon trained on him? Victory in her brown eyes?
No, thanks
.

Creaking in the first apartment, 312, stiffened Trace’s spine. He held up a finger to his mouth, warning Houston they had company. Solomon must’ve gotten anxious. Glock up, he aimed it at the wall.

Creak. Groan
.

He trailed the noise. They were right in front of the access panel in 312.

A soft scraping barely made it to his ears. When the sound registered—the panel sliding back—Trace’s pulse jack-hammered. He tensed, holding the weapon firm.
I’m not going down without a fight
.