Operation Zulu Redemption--Complete Season 1 (52 page)

“Fill me in. I’ve got the clearance level, Annie. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. I fought to find out, and I’m not just walking away.”

“Sam, you don’t belong here.” Something about his resolution to stay involved made her feel like a heavy blanket had been thrown over her face. Breathing grew harder.

“I belong with you.”

Annie met his gaze. Yes, she wanted that. Believed that. But with her, not with her
here
.

Sam touched her face, and she leaned into the warmth of his caress, closing her eyes. He tugged her closer, and she let her temple rest against his shoulder. “Why does it scare you that I’m here, Annie?”

Eyes closed, she thought about how to answer that. Truth was, she didn’t know. Was it as simple as not wanting him to get hurt? Yes, a big part—she’d killed twenty-two people. She didn’t want to make it twenty-three.

But Sam was a SEAL. He knew how to fight. Knew how to operate.

But if he saw
her operate
… what would he think? When he found out she’d killed children and women…? “I don’t know,” she whispered.

He held her close, his chin resting atop her head. “Take your time figuring it out. I’m not going anywhere. Weston has made that clear.”

Annie lifted her head. Met his gaze. Their noses almost touched, and she could feel his breath fanning across her cheek.

He homed in on her mouth.

Her heart hammered. But instead of kissing him, she pulled back. Then hated herself because she saw the hurt in his eyes again. “Sorry,” she whispered. Telling herself she should just kiss him now, let him know she still liked him. Still wanted to figure things out. “I—”

“Annie!”

Her breath backed into her throat. She turned just as Trace stalked past the oddly angled walls that provided a bit of privacy in the lounge. His expression went from stern to anger in a heartbeat. He and Sam shared a long, hateful look.

Annie stood, intentionally blocking their glare-off. “What’s wrong?”

“Need you and Téya out here.”

Sam had come to his feet now, standing behind her possessively. And she couldn’t deny the jealous rage that spread through Trace’s face did her wounded heart a lot of good. But she didn’t want them at odds just for her thirst for revenge against Trace. She didn’t have a thirst for vengeance, truth be told.

“I’ll let her know,” she said, then turned to Sam and slid her hand along his arm until she clasped his fingers. “We can finish this later.”

Sam nodded.

Annie toyed with giving him a quick kiss, but they hadn’t really moved to that level. Or past the obvious rift between them. She squeezed his fingers then went to the showers.

“Give her room and time to figure this out.” Trace didn’t sound confrontational with that warning to Sam, but Annie knew better. She also knew what Sam would say.

“You mean, give her room so you can step back in.”

Yeah.
About like that
… She hated the tension between them, but she lingered within earshot to hear what Trace would say.

“What Annie and I had ended five years ago.”

Trace’s words were like a hot branding iron through her heart, searing any hope she had that they’d get back together. And that was it. That was why she didn’t want Sam here. She
hadn’t
given up on Trace. Even though he’d ripped her heart out. And now…he’d done it again.

“So there was a ‘you and her’ then?”

Sam sounded furious but also enjoyed getting the dig in.

“If you know anything about her, you’d be smart to bury that and give her the room she needs. Annie can’t be forced to do anything she doesn’t want to do. And if you try, you’ll only tick her off.”

Trace

Pentagon, Arlington County, Virginia

5 June – 0910 Hours

Not only had he lost her, but he’d lost her to a squid. For two minutes on the plane, he’d imagined she might actually let him back into her life, forgive him for what he’d done. Being that close to her, smelling that lavender body wash she’d used years ago, he’d nearly given in to those desires. Nearly kissed her.

Call him crazy, but he was pretty sure she would’ve let him.

Then the SEAL came around the corner.

Trace tucked his cover in his right leg pocket and strode down the hall of the Pentagon with General Solomon to the office of the Army’s service chief, General Barry Cantor. They stepped into the office area and were met by a young lieutenant seated behind a desk. His name patch read H
OLLINGS
.

“Morning,” Solomon said. “We have an appointment with Barry.”

“Yes, sir,” Hollings responded as he stood. “He’s waiting, sirs.” He led them down a short hall and past three additional doors to one that had the black name plate with C
ANTOR
stamped in white. After two firm raps, he pushed into the room.

“General Solomon and Lieutenant Colonel Weston are here, sir.”

“Good, good.” Cantor came around his massive desk and crossed the office. “Come in, Haym.” The two greeted each other like long-lost brothers with a firm handshake that pulled into a back-slapping fest. “How’s Vivienne doing since her surgery?”

“Oh, that was six months ago. She’s fine.”

“And that beautiful daughter of yours? How’s she? Found a good Ranger or Green Beret to run off with?” Cantor’s eyes crinkled in a deep smile as he turned to Trace. “You didn’t steal her away from him, did you?”

Heat rushed up past the tan shirt collar and up his neck. “No, sir.” Francesca would rather gut him than date him. And the feeling was mutual.

Cantor slapped his shoulder. “Oh, don’t be embarrassed to admit you noticed how beautiful she is—in fact, Hollings out there has been trying to get her phone number since he met her at the Christmas gala.”

“I’m not sure Francesca would date Army,” Haym said. “Seems quite determined to do everything opposite me.”

“At least she’s in the military like her brothers, eh?” Cantor pointed them to where a black leather sofa and two chairs sat huddled in a conversation area. He offered coffee and water, and when they refused, he steered them right into the reason for the meeting. “How are those boys?”

“Grown fighters,” Haym said, his words drenched with the pride that drew up his shoulders. “However, I think you know more about Paolo than I do, I believe.”

Appreciation for the words colored Cantor’s face. “Imagine that’s right,” he said with a laugh.

Trace might not be privy to the facts of these men’s lives, but he could read between the lines as well as the best. Clearly, Haym’s eldest son had gone into an intelligence-related field that put him under the direction of Cantor. The knowledge made Trace a little more ill at ease. He had Haym on his side, but the man’s daughter enjoyed breathing fire down his neck. Would the eldest son do the same?

“So, she might not be trying to date you, but it seems our dear Francesca is trying to slice open your old wounds.”

Trace blinked, the general’s ability to switch topics so fast it left a soldier with whiplash no less sharp today as they sat here. He cleared his throat. “Apparently, sir.” A quick look to Haym told Trace there were no ill feelings.

“Well, I’ll tell you—Marlowe is out for blood.”

Trace nodded.

“Namely, yours.”

Another nod. “Yes, sir. I believe he’s been after it for the last five years.”

“What about the girls?”

Trace hesitated, wishing now he’d accepted the offer for a glass of water. He didn’t talk openly about Zulu.

“I have reports the one in the hospital isn’t doing well.”

Something about this man having such credible, up-to-date information unsettled Trace.

“And The Turk!” He guffawed. “Heavens have mercy—how on earth are you getting so tangled up in everything?”

Trace shifted on the leather chair. Wasn’t this meeting to discuss the investigation? To prep Trace for what was to come? To warn him to keep his lips tight and his information tighter?

“And what about that SEAL you had to wrangle into submission?” the general asked, snickering. “I would’ve paid money to see that go down.”

“Holding his own, sir.” Irritation clawed its way up Trace’s spine and kept him from looking the general in the eye and giving away his anger.

“And you?”

Trace snapped his gaze to the general. “Sir?”

“How are you holding up? It’s been one brutal mess.”

“It has, sir.”

“You have no family?”

“Parents in an assisted living home.” Even if he’d told them, they’d never remember if he existed outside their confusion-trapped minds. “My sister makes sure they’re taken care of. My younger brother is in the military.”

“But what about a love life? A dog? Best friend?”

Trace frowned. Looked at Solomon then back to the Army service chief. “Sir, I’m not sure that’s relevant.”

“Of course it is,” Cantor barked, his amusement and lighthearted banter gone. “You just told me you have no family connections. Psychologist will tell the counsel that means you’re disconnected and have trouble forming healthy relationships. That information will turn you into a soldier with a thirst for blood to avenge the bad upbringing you had.”

“I didn’t have a bad upbringing,” Trace snarled.

“And your inability to form bonds also affects your leadership of the ultrasecret black ops team named Zulu.”

Anger rising, Trace fought the tug of those demons. What was this? A trap?

“Tell me, Colonel Weston, when was the last time you were with a woman?”

Fury colored his world red. He punched to his feet. “That’s none of your concern.”

“Of course it is. I need to know her name so I can talk to her, determine what kind of relationship you had. Determine how it ended—assuming it did end.” His gaze lingered on Trace, then he snorted. “Good. You don’t need to be dating right now anyway.”

Heart crashing into his ribs, Trace fought to maintain his hold on the ultrathin line of control.

“Do you make it a habit to be involved with women, potentially compromising the safety of classified information you’ve been trusted with? How many women have you slept with, Colonel?”

“If it were any of your business, I’d tell you I hold marriage sacred, and when I utter those vows before God, it will be for one woman for the rest of my life.”

“God.” His hazel eyes flashed. “So, you’re a religious zealot.” Cantor hadn’t slowed down. “You do realize that the military and government classify religious zealots as domestic terrorists.”

Trace cursed.

Cantor rose and met his gaze, steel to steel, his expression fierce. “Sit down, Mister Weston.”

Trace couldn’t move. Didn’t trust himself to move.

“You need to realize, Trace, that Marlowe is going to throw everything at you that he can. He’ll play dumb, play nice, then he’ll rip your heart out.” He pointed to the chair. “Sit down. Let me tell you what you’ve already revealed to me.”

He didn’t dare ball his fists in front of the Army service chief, but every muscle in Trace trembled with rage. Slowly, gaze still on Cantor, he lowered himself to the seat again.

“You’ve just told me that you are alone. That you have nobody you go to for counsel. That your relationship with a woman ended poorly, and that your anger is easily aroused. All points the counsel will use against you in determining whether your duties and your job should be returned to you.”

Trace said nothing. Did nothing. He remained frozen, convinced one wrong breath would detonate the rage within him.

“You’re heading into a maelstrom, Trace,” Cantor said, his voice more friendly, less accusatory.

“That’s been my life the last five years.”

“No,” Cantor said. “You’ve been at the eye of this storm for the last five years. You’re about to feel the full intensity.”

“Good to know, sir.” Trace gritted his teeth, maintaining a civil tongue almost impossible.

Cantor’s left eye squinted as he looked at him. “Trace, you should know something.”

He waited.

“I’m not your enemy.”

“Forgive me, sir, but if this is friendly conversation—”

“Consider it friendly fire, iron sharpening iron.”

Trace lifted his chin. He reserved phrases like that for friends. “Why would I do that, sir?”

“Because I’m the one who tapped you to assemble Zulu.”

Nuala

Lucketts, Virginia

5 June – 1140 Hours

It hurt Nuala’s heart to see Boone in such misery. And it killed her to know that he was in such shape because the woman he loved—which wasn’t her—lay in a hospital mysteriously failing. Of course, that made her feel worse because she shouldn’t begrudge him. He had no idea how she felt. She’d never given him any indication that he held the moon and stars in her world. Even if she had, he would’ve rejected her. Nuala King wasn’t the type of girl guys fell in love with.

Now, Annie…and Téya…and Keeley…yeah. Guys tripped over themselves trying to get a date with them. But Noodle? The nickname alone told her what they thought of her.

But Boone. Like Rock of Gibraltar. Impenetrable. Solid. That he had enough muscle to make up two humans meant little to her.

Oh, who was she kidding? He was as physically attractive as he was kind. As bulked up as he was compassionate. Which is why it hurt all the more to see him in pain like this.

She poured a cup of coffee, added cream—oops. Not too much. Nuala carried it over to the workstations where Boone sat in a chair, staring at the computer. Which she knew from the blank look on his face either wasn’t on or he wasn’t paying attention. “Here,” she said softly as she set the mug before him.

Boone glanced down at it but seemed as if he didn’t see it. Then shifted. “Did I ask for that?”

Heat crept into her cheeks, but not enough—she hoped—to make the blush evident. “No, you looked like you needed it.”

Boone’s gray eyes came to hers, a shade of disbelief coloring them. “Thanks, Noodle.”

Would he call her anything else but that stupid name? Something with respect? Something with meaning? But she had no meaning to him, other than being a member of Zulu. And a top sniper.

They had that in common. And she loved to talk shop with him. Really, she’d talk about anything with him.
Am I pathetic?