Operation Zulu Redemption--Complete Season 1 (63 page)

“Trace has called an AHOD.”

Great. More bad news coming. She could feel it. Sense it in the air. Feel it digging into the pores of her flesh.

Boone

Lucketts, Virginia

10 June – 0900 Hours

The sun had fallen from the heavens. That’s how the world felt without Keeley in it. The cloudy sky seemed apropos, as if ready to birth grieving. Boone trudged into the bunker. Though he wanted to keep his head down so he didn’t have to see the glum, sympathetic looks cast his way, he walked across the open area with his head up.

Yeah, he noticed the way everything froze, as if breathing or talking might upset him. As if not acknowledging Keeley’s death would keep it from being true. He didn’t want or need sympathy. What he needed was vengeance. He wanted to be the justice-bringer to those who’d done this to them.

He met Annie’s gaze. As Zulu’s leader, it was only right he addressed her first. “The commander here?”

“No,” she said, her voice soft.

“He’s on his way,” Houston offered. “How ya doing, Big Guy?”

Right, because small talk right now would fix everything. Because how he was doing mattered.
Nothing
mattered except giving Keeley’s death meaning. Bringing honor to the woman who fought so courageously on the battlefield. And who brought even the stoutest to their knees. Even him. In a different way.

“I’ll be in the briefing room. Let me know when he’s here.”

He shut the door and dropped into a chair, his back to the team. Sat straight and tall, remembering his dad’s admonishments to never let them see your pain. He didn’t want their apologies and offer of prayers or positive energy or whatever they had to offer. He wanted a plan. One to bring down this group behind the killings.

They killed her. That was the only explanation for her sudden decline. He might not have a PhD, but Boone had seen enough to recognize poisoning. Somehow, despite their efforts, despite Rusty being on watch 24-7, they’d slipped her a lethal cocktail of some kind. He’d asked the doctors to run panels, but the results hadn’t come back yet. But Boone knew in his gut what happened. They’d won. Again.

And the brightest lights in his universe winked out. “
My shoes are sparkly
.” The last words she’d spoken to him. Over a pair of silly, clear sequined shoes. A ridiculous purchase. But that was Keeley. Bohemian in style. She’d wear cargo shorts and a no-nonsense tank top, then add a pair of pink sparkly shoes.

Or the time she put that stark white streak in her hair. It was from some kids’ cartoon she’d seen. Fierce fighter, fiercer friend. She gave everything a hundred percent then went an additional fifty. They hadn’t crossed God’s commands, but he’d come close to ignoring a few where Keeley was concerned.
“That you stopped,”
Keeley had said as they lay on the sand that night,
“makes me love you more.”

He’d realized in that hour how much he wanted to be a better man just to make her love him more. In fact, he had plans to introduce her to his parents somehow. To convince Trace to let him bring her to Lucketts. Marry her. Finish what they’d started on the beach that night.

Now she and her love were gone.

He’d never hear her laughter again. He’d never hear the lilt of her parents’ Irish brogue in her words again. Never feel those soft, full lips on his. Or her small yet strong fingers grip his. Or see her wearing ridiculous earrings.

Laughter was gone from his life.

A triple rap against the glass door dialed up his agitation. Didn’t they get that he didn’t need company or a pep talk?

“Sorry.” It was Rusty. Just maybe the man would have the decency to go away. The door clicked shut.

Boone hoped he was alone. But resisted wiping the hot tear trekking down over his stubble.

Rusty broke into view.

Curling his hand into a fist, Boone gritted his teeth.

His friend took the first chair, sitting on the edge. Cell phone in hand, he wagged it. “I just got a call.”

Boone gave him a pointed look.

“It was the hospital. Dr. Gates.”

This time, he turned his full attention to Rusty. “What poison?”

Rusty gave a snort-smile. “How do you always know…?”

“Cyanide?”

“Ricin.”

“How did they miss that?”

“He’s investigating right now, also trying to figure out who was behind it.”

“We know who it was,” Boone said.

“I think he meant how they got in, got past me.” Something blazed in Rusty’s eyes. And in that moment, Boone saw it. Saw the same thirst in his friend that pumped through his own veins.

“Wasn’t your fault.”

“I think it was,” Rusty said decisively. “At least in part. And don’t try to write this off. I had one job—to protect her.” Though younger by a half-dozen years, Rusty always had a fighter’s spirit. It’s what made it possible for the young grunt to make it into the Special Forces so fast. “I failed, Boone-Dawg.”

Boone could eat a piece of bitter root of truth. “You and me both, brother. She was my girl, and I let her die on my watch.” Hearing those words, living their truth, felt like a KA-BAR to the heart.

Rusty’s blue eyes bored into him. Conflict borne of a desire to be done with Zulu and a hunger to sate the beast that wanted revenge roiled through his posture, his gaze, his balled fists. Finally, Rusty hung his head between his shoulders. “This is why I got out. The thirst for blood, the yearning to kill something.”

“Trusty,” Boone said, using the nickname they’d given the kid when he’d first come to the team, “I think maybe your head’s getting a little twisted up. You’re a warrior. It’s what we do. God doesn’t put that drive in many men, but in the ones that He does, it comes with a thirst for justice. Sometimes we might confuse that for a thirst for blood, but if we come back to ourselves, recognize that thin line in the sand, we’ll be okay.”

“That’s just it,” Rusty said, his lip curling. “I couldn’t see the line anymore. After Misrata, I just wanted anyone and everyone in my way dead. I needed someone to take the blame for what we did.”

“It was a mistake.”

“No,” Rusty ground out, his face reddening. “Somebody set us up. Somebody set Zulu up to take that fall. It wasn’t a simple mistake.”

“You’re going to suggest that someone wanted us to kill twenty-two innocent children and women?”

“I’m saying someone wanted Zulu out of their way.” Rusty held his gaze, unwavering. “I know it sounds crazy—”

“It sounds right.”

They both turned toward the new voice and found Trace entering the briefing area. He looked more ticked than both of them.

Trace

When Boone pushed out of his seat, Trace waved him back down. He shot a cursory glance to the main area to make sure the others weren’t coming yet. “We’ve got ten minutes before the AHOD.”

“What do you know?”

“First—I’m sorry about Shay.” Trace said it with authority and strength. Not with pity but with promise. “It won’t go unanswered.”

It seemed a weight lifted from Boone’s chest. He gave Trace a nod of thanks.

“Rusty,” he said as he met the other man’s gaze. “I’m glad you’re here, though I know you’d rather be elsewhere.”

“No, sir.”

Boone stilled.

“I’m right where I want to be now.” Rusty said nothing more, and nothing else needed to be said. They were the handlers of the Zulu team, the trainers, the leaders. They had a job to do. A retaliation to put into effect.

“We have a few more puzzle pieces in place,” Trace said. “But each time we walk through a door to a question, two more open.” He jabbed his fingers across his short-cropped hair. “I’m getting fed up with the whole thing. It’s been like this for five years. Answers were merely more questions in disguise. The more they asked, the more questions bred.”

“What about Frankfurt? What was that?” Rusty asked. “And since when are we working with the Turks? Téya was missing for two hours—should we be worried?”

“No.” Trace could answer that unequivocally. And he had a theory on the missing two hours. One he didn’t really want to think about. One he
couldn’t
worry about right now. “I don’t think that’s a problem, at least—not one connected to Misrata.”

The door opened and in filed Nuala, Annie, Téya, and Houston, who had an array of technology on a cart. Trace waited for the remnant of Zulu to find a seat then noted Houston plugging in his machines and getting things working. “Okay, let’s get this going. First thing I need you all to be aware of is the Lorings have vanished from protective custody.”

Silence slapped through the room.

“How is that possible? Did they miss the part where it’s
protective
? Why would they leave it?”

Trace had been through these questions a dozen times on his way over and since Haym had called and warned him.

“Do you think they’re in danger?” Annie asked.

“No,” Trace said. “I think they willingly left.”

“But we got their information, right?” Annie leaned forward, pressing her fingertips to the table. “They gave us Ballenger, that he was the one behind moving the children there.”

“That’s not much for them to be on the run though, is it?” Rusty scratched the side of his face. “What threat are they running from if they only had information on Ballenger?”

This is why Trace had wished Rusty would’ve returned to the team weeks ago. This type of dialogue, talking out the problem, kept them safe.

“Unless Ballenger is a bigger threat than we realized,” Annie said then looked at Trace. “Is he?”

He considered the question. Ballenger. Danger. Yeah, they seemed to go hand in hand. “We won’t rule it out. Each time we’ve sought him, we’ve encountered deadly opposition—in Denver and Paris.”

“Yeah, but that could’ve just been us. Someone trying to put us off the trail,” Annie said.

“Ballenger could be doing that,” Nuala offered. “He plays the victim very well.”

“We need to move on. We’ll qualify Ballenger as a high threat.”

“With the Lorings missing, is the bunker in jeopardy?” Boone asked, arms folded over his thick chest.

“Possibly,” Trace said, unwilling to play things safe. “Need to keep our ears and eyes out at all times coming and going.” He nodded to Houston. “He’s going to catch us up on what came off the yacht computers.”

“There wasn’t much,” Houston said as he aimed a remote at a laptop. “I should say—there was a lot, but not much useful to us. There are innumerable files pertaining to what appear to be shipments. Port records. Munitions sales—”

“Batsakis is in weapons,” Annie said. “Aegean Defense Systems.”

“Yes. Right. Buuuut,” Houston said as he pulled up another file. “The pattern is fairly regular. What I looked for is irregularities.” He snickered. “Or I should say, irregular
regular
shipments.”

“Houston,” Trace bit out.

“Right.” Houston’s Jheri curl hair bobbed as he nodded. “If you look through this file, ADS has a pattern of shipments going out every few months. Same countries. To the same clients. It’s your standard fare, right?”

“Except?”

Houston grinned, a tech geek in his element as he pressed the remote and a series of neon blue panels flashed over the screen, highlighting certain entries in the shipping ladings. “Except these.”

Trace wasn’t the only one leaning forward. “They’re imports.”

“Bingo! Score one for the commander!” Houston beamed with exultation. “They’re imports.”

“Where are they coming from?”

Houston sniggered. “That’s the question, isn’t it? Because you, of course, noticed there’s no origination scan to match these records as there is for every other shipment.”

“You’re telling me that a world-renown defense contractor is buying illegal weapons, and…what?” Annie pressed. She always did. She wanted solid proof. She had to be sure the rabbit they hunted was rabid before putting it down.

“Black market,” Boone said.

“Makes sense,” Rusty put in.

“How?” Annie’s voice pitched. “They’re a billion-dollar company! Why would they need to deal in the black market?”

“Because seven years ago, they were on the verge of filing for bankruptcy. Most companies in Greece were,” Boone said. “How did a company going under suddenly recover? Not just recover, but soar into the billions with profit returns?”

“Exactly.” Trace returned to the head of the table. “Our problem is figuring out who’s selling the weapons to them.”

“And that is where I’m hitting a brick wall,” Houston said. “There is a highly encrypted file on that computer that I have not been able to break into. I believe that file will give us what we need to figure out the coded references attached to each entry.”

“That’s the jackpot,” Boone said. “That person, that company—whatever, they’re responsible for murdering three of our team. They’re the ones out there right now, trying to lob off the rest of our heads. And with Keeley being poisoned in her hospital room, it’s clear they are actively pursuing each of us, still.”

“Wait,” Nuala said, pushing up in her seat. “If they know who we are to target us, would it follow that they know our families? Is this a game changer?”

Silence fell like an anchor.

“Because while I haven’t talked to them, I still have a brother and mom out there.” She brushed her long bangs from her face. “I want to know if they’re in danger so I can warn them.”

“No, I don’t believe so,” Trace said.

“They hit my family—and David.” Arms and legs crossed, Téya held his gaze evenly. “Twice.”

“Because you were
living
with them.” Trace motioned to Nuala and Annie. “You weren’t. You were concealed within your pseudonyms.”

Téya’s eyes blazed. “So, it’s my fault.”

“Negative,” Trace said. She would not bait him into a confrontation. He had expelled too much energy already on frivolous arguments. He wouldn’t engage here on his own turf. “They went to Bleak Pond to find and neutralize you. But you were already gone, so they hit those familiar with you.”

“And then they went back, hurt him again. Snatched my grandmother. Because I got away.”

“It’s true—they were trying to draw you out.” Trace pointed around the room. “Don’t let these dogs put that guilt on your shoulders. They are the ones murdering. Not us. The others did not and do not live with family. Your true identities are not known.”