Operation Zulu Redemption--Complete Season 1 (31 page)

Téya’s stomach squirmed. She turned to Trace, about to defend herself when Trace silenced her with a quick shake of his head.

“That’s right,” the man said as he dumped the contents into his palm. “Listen to Slayer. Follow him close and maybe you’ll live through this.”

“Slayer?”

“Don’t ask questions,” Trace muttered as he took the items the man handed off. Passports. IDs. Money. Credit cards. What looked like theater tickets. Probably alibis.

“They expire in three days,” the man said.

Trace nodded as he passed Téya her bona fides.

“I can’t help but wonder,” the man said, his brown eyes assessing, “what you did to tick off The Turk.”

Téya cast a furtive glance to Trace, who stiffened.

“You know what,” the man said, “I don’t want to know. If you’re stupid enough to cross paths with him, maybe you shouldn’t be living.”

“Wrong place, wrong time,” Trace snapped as he pivoted and caught Téya’s arm. “We need to get going.”

“You’ll take the Eurostar straight to London.”

“Isn’t that obvious?” Trace asked.

“Absolutely, but there’s no faster way to get you out of the country. The SNCF—French railways—have too few connections.” The man shifted. “The train leaves in an hour. Don’t waste time, especially out in the open. And I suggest you stick together,” the Parisian operative said. “He’ll be looking for her alone.”

Téya thought about that. “Unless he saw—”

“Agreed,” Trace cut in, his expression more severe than ever.

“I’ve contacted your people. They’ll be waiting in London.”

Trace hesitated. “You contacted—”

“It’s better your voice and your identity are not logged here,” the Parisian interjected. “That’s why I took the liberty of getting your passage out of here.”

“That’s…generous,” Trace mumbled.

“Not generous.” The Parisian’s brown eyes hit Téya. “We’re merely looking out for our own interests here. We don’t need the trouble of The Turk.”

“In other words”—Téya felt her courage returning in full force—“you want me out of your country.”

“Can you imagine the PR nightmare that will plague Paris if an American woman is murdered in cold blood on our streets? Or the frenzy that will ensue in the covert world that an ignorant woman was targeted and hit by The Turk on our soil?”

“Your concern for my well-being is touching.”

He smirked. “This goes well beyond you, Miss Reiker.”

Téya drew up at hearing her name on his lips.

“There are operatives and operations that have been working quietly, secretly, who will flee if they get wind of The Turk’s presence here. Operations that will automatically be deemed compromised because of him.”

“If he’s so bad, why hasn’t anyone stopped him?”

This time he sneered. And Téya knew she’d crossed the line.

Trace hooked her elbow. Held up the bona fides. “Thanks. We’d better get going.”

“Indeed,” the man intoned. “Slayer, I would remove her quickly before her ignorance and quick tongue incur more damage.”

Trace nudged her away, into the corridor they’d come through earlier.

“What—”

“Walk, don’t talk.” Trace’s grip tightened on her arm, almost painfully, as he guided her out of the building. Back through the slat-board portal and into the dank alley.

Téya jerked her arm free and spun to him. “What—”

“Not now, Annie.”

She blinked, her mind bungeeing on the name. “Téya. I’m not Annie.”

Trace frowned. Swiped a hand over his mouth then shifted closer. “The train leaves in an hour. It’s a forty-minute walk.”

She shrugged. “Plenty of time.”

“No, because we need to scout it, make sure we’re not being followed and that the station isn’t being monitored.”

“But we should count on that, shouldn’t we? I mean, if he’s after me, then he’d watch all possible exits.”

The fold between his eyes pinched into a knot as he gave her a sidelong glance.

“Right?”

“It’s what I’d do.”

“And you’re Slayer? How did—”

“Not now.” He gave her a fierce look. “Let’s get you changed and out of Paris first.”

Trace

Paris, France

27 May – 2310 Hours

Trace could not have designed a more perfect nightmare. What were the odds that one of his elite female operatives would cross paths with The Turk? And not just cross paths. The Turk had followed her. Somehow seen her as a threat.

“Act casual,” Trace said, catching Téya’s hand in his and praying she didn’t misinterpret the move. “We’re a couple.”

Gratefully, the 5’9” woman didn’t hesitate. They cleared the ticket area, and he walked straight toward the platform where their train to Calais waited. Even as he moved with ease, he remained watchful, scanning the sides of the station. Looking for anyone
not
moving. Anyone on the hunt. Anyone watching them…
too casually
.

“Hard not to think of Jason Bourne,” Téya said as they made their way around the cluster of umbrella tables littering the walkway.

Trace frowned at her.

“The sniper…in the train station.”

“That was Waterloo,” Trace said. “And as long as you don’t panic and make a break for it, we’ll be fine.” He meant it to be funny, but the intensity rolling off Téya was almost palpable. “Relax.”

The terse eyebrows and taut lips softened.

Then Trace stiffened. Saw a man in a baseball cap. He’d seen him back at the entrance. Trace diverted to a small café and got in line.

“What are we doing?” Téya asked, her voice low. “They just announced our train.”

“Ordering hot dogs.” He stuffed a few bills in her hand. “I’ll be right back.”

“No,” Téya hissed and went rigid.

But Trace slipped away into a crowd of tourists standing near the café. He worked his way through them, marking the target with each maneuver. Keeping his eyes on the target. Wishing for his team, for backup. Easing his way around the upper platform, Trace ignored the gnawing in his gut as the target closed in on Téya. He resisted the urge to rush. To move too quickly and draw attention.

The target entered the eating area but remained enough on the perimeter for Trace’s plan to work. He rushed up behind the target, slipped an arm around his neck, and applied pressure. The man struggled for a few seconds as Trace increased the pressure, not enough to kill the man, but knock him out.

As the man went limp, bystanders noticed them. Trace met the eyes of one man. “Help,” he said, wrapping an arm around the man’s shoulder and easing him into a chair. “He was sick—dizzy. Call for the police!”

Almost immediately, people surrounded them.

“I’m a doctor,” one woman said as she knelt beside the target, checking for a pulse. “What happened?”

“He felt faint. I saw him sway,” Trace said, shifting to the back of the crowd that pressed in. In a few steps, he was clear. He rushed to where he’d left Téya by the café with the yellow and red umbrellas.

But she wasn’t there.

Panic lit through him. He spun. Scanned the area. Nothing but tables, umbrellas, people, luggage, and workers. Branches rustled hard in one corner.

Trace’s heart climbed into his throat.
Téya!
He threw himself in that direction, skidding around the corner as Téya slammed her foot into the stomach of someone, who doubled over her leg. Caught it. Drove Téya backward.

Overhead, he heard the station call for their train. Five minutes.

Trace slammed a hard right into the man’s temple.

He flung to the side, his head bouncing off the wall. The guy dropped, stunned. Disoriented. Clumsily struggled to all fours.

Trace spun Téya toward the stairs to the platform. “Go go!”

Téya

Paris, France

28 May – 0015 Hours

The metal stairs rattled beneath her feet as Téya sped down them to the platform. Trace was two steps ahead of her, but she was gaining fast. She jumped, skipping the last three steps, and ran to the train car. Trace jolted to a stop and she bypassed him, but he caught her hand and tugged her back. She swung around and into the Eurostar train.

Trace moved with purpose through the train, though he wasn’t running any longer. That would attract too much attention. But she appreciated the decisiveness with which he moved. Shouts outside drew her attention, terror gripping her as she saw the man who’d broadsided her, knocking the hot dogs out of her hands. The fight-or-flight adrenaline coursed through her, had never really left her, actually, since the encounter with The Turk.

But there was her attacker. Almost at the bottom of the stairs.

“Trace,” Téya hissed.

He glanced back. His face darkened.

“If you’ll please have your seats,” a train attendant, or whatever they were called, glided toward them in a navy uniform and bright scarf.

Shouts outside the train stilled the commotion. Téya watched in stunned disbelief as a half-dozen SWAT officers swarmed the platform, surrounding the man who’d attacked her.

“A little excitement,” the attendant said. “Well, we’re going to be behind schedule if you don’t take your seats. Your tickets?”

Trace pulled them from his back pocket.

“Ah, yes. Business class. Right this way,” she said, guiding them farther forward on the train. Two tall, tan-ish seats with coral headrests huddled up to a table facing each other.

Trace guided Téya into the forward-facing seat and then took the rear-facing, his gaze locked on the altercation.

“How…the SWAT team?”

With a slight shake of his head, Trace let out a breath. “I don’t know.”

“Think the Parisian who helped us—”

His stormy gray eyes hit hers. “Parisian?”

“The man at the safe house.”

The side of Trace’s lips quirked up. “He wasn’t Parisian.”

Téya sat back, too exhausted to be angry or whatever it was she felt. Sorting through the emotions would be too difficult right now. “Fine. But I want answers.”

His left eyebrow winged up.

The attendant returned. “Will you be eating?”

“Yes,” Téya said, refusing to let Trace answer because he’d probably say no. “Do you have a sandwich?” She shied away from looking at him as the attendant explained their options. Téya chose the ciabatta ham sandwich. As expected, Trace passed.

Once the attendant moved on, Téya leaned back, her brain leapfrogging from each incident. The safe house. The Turk. The bell tower. The Turk. The train station. The Turk. And Trace. He knew an awful lot for him to be a Special Forces soldier and now colonel. “How did you know he was The Turk?” Maybe Trace knew too much. With his tanned face and dark blond hair, he always struck a handsome pose, but there had been something about his bearing since the first time she met him that made him seem unapproachable. Intense.

Even now as he studied her, held her question hostage within that interminable expression, the knot between his eyebrows thick and forbidding… Was Trace more than just Zulu’s team commander, a former Special Forces soldier then officer at the Pentagon?
Who are you?
“Why did that operative at the safe house call you Slayer?”

“I’ve seen my share of field work,” he said, as if answering her unspoken question. Now he looked sad. Or maybe thoughtful. She couldn’t tell which.

That was it? That lame answer was all he’d give her?

Right. More questions. As if what Zulu was dealing with wasn’t enough. Should she now question Trace’s involvement in everything? Something about that question roiled through her stomach. He’d led them and protected them. Gotten them to safety.

What if it’d been all part of some colossal plan?

Téya let her attention drift out the window to the blurring landscape. At night there wasn’t a lot to see but scattered lights once they left the city.

Paris. She suddenly had no desire to go back. It held no appeal anymore. Had all that really happened? The notorious assassin trying to kill her? Throwing her name to the wolves to make sure she didn’t leave Paris alive? Why? “It doesn’t make sense.”

When Trace didn’t respond, she looked at him and found his eyes closed. Disbelief speared her. Who could fall asleep that fast? He didn’t want to talk to her? Fine. She wouldn’t get answers. Just the very real threat of dying at some unsuspecting moment because she’d set off a time bomb named The Turk.

Curiosity and fear strangled her ability to sleep. She lifted the throwaway phone and went to the search engine. There she typed in The Turk. Scanned the results. Most were about a chess robot, but she noted a few conspiracy theory sites. One blog caught her attention. A woman reported having been in the wrong place at the wrong time when a man with a star-crescent tattoo descended on a quiet evening. The woman’s fiancé was murdered—shot to death. The Turk cut a six-inch gouge into her neck and left her to die.

A shadow loomed over her.

Téya sucked in a hard breath.

Trace glowered. “What are you doing?” He growled as he snatched the phone from her hand. He dropped back in his chair, eyes locked on her as he tore apart the phone. “For someone afraid of being found, you sure are making it easy for him!”

Francesca

Alexandria, Virginia

28 May – 0930 Hours

It was one thing to temporarily suspend her job. She
might
have broken some rules.
Might
have been obstinate about that. But to disrupt her entire life—phone, utilities, and her credit—was going too far. Enough was enough.

Frankie stalked into her father’s house, bypassing the kitchen, den, and bedrooms, and stormed right into his office.

His graying head came up, expression startled, then he smiled. “Francesca dear!”

“Do not ‘Francesca dear’ me, Daddy.”

His smile wilted. “Excuse me?”

Being upset was one thing, but disrespect never had a place in their home. “I want my life back.” Her heart thudded with the anxiety. “Please. I get your point. You want me to leave him alone. You don’t want me digging. I get it. Okay, maybe I was even wrong to pursue it, but to get me suspended and destroy my very name with creditors and—”

“What
are
you talking about?”

Anger ratcheted through her. “Don’t do this, Daddy. Don’t play Top Secret ignorant with me. Please—just reinstate my utilities.” She leaned over the desk, lifted the phone from its cradle, and slapped it down in front of him.