Operation Zulu Redemption--Complete Season 1 (65 page)

While Rusty and Boone finished filling the grave site, Annie and the others went in and set up a small brunch. Nobody would send flowers. Nobody would bring meals.

“He blames himself,” Nuala said softly as she set out napkins.

“They both do,” Annie agreed. “Somehow, even I feel guilty.”

“I was so stupid to think being a Special Forces soldier was a good thing. So hung up on myself, I never considered—”

“What was there to consider?” Annie asked. “It was an opportunity. We could not know then what would happen a year later. We could not know how upside down things would become.”

“So, that’s it? We just live with upside-down lives?” Téya’s eyes blazed with anger.

“No, we fight it.” She considered her friend, surprised at the outrage in her voice and body language. “Téya, what happened in Bleak Pond?”

Her friend stilled, her chest rising and falling unevenly. “Nothing.” She batted her hand. “Where’s Trace? Why wasn’t he at the funeral?”

Annie shook her head, mostly at the way her friend dismissed her, but also to shed her own surprise that Trace hadn’t come. “It’s not like him.”

“I’m sure he had a good reason.” Nuala, ever the optimist.

The vault-like door groaned open and Boone stormed in, a phone pressed to his ear. Behind him came Rusty, dusting off his hands.

Boone said nothing. Didn’t look at them. Just stalked to the briefing area and closed the door.

“Someday, they’ll actually act in accordance with their words, that we’re on equal ground.”

“We’re all soldiers,” Rusty said as he washed his hands at the sink in the little kitchen. “But Boone and the commander are our team leaders. There’s a reason the Army has a chain of command.”

“We’re not in the Army anymore,” Téya bit out.

“Actually, we are.” Rusty picked up a plate and started piling brisket on it.

“Want to explain that?” Annie folded her arms over her chest, watching him move on as though he had not a care. “We’ve lived civilian lives for the last five years.”

He pointed a fork at her. “Lived a civilian life is one thing. You lived it, but you were and still are owned by the U.S. government. Think about it: Who’re you taking orders from?”

“All right,” Boone’s voice bounced off the cement walls. “Eat up, pack up. We head out late tonight.”

“Head out for where?” Annie spun toward him, her mind whirling.

“England. We’re going to find Berg Ballenger.”

Trace

Capitol Hill, Washington, DC

11 June – 1130 Hours

Yawning into his glass of water, Trace had been ready for a lunch break for the last two hours. Honestly, since he’d arrived. Listening to a recounting of endless hours of testimony felt more like being stuck in a time warp. Or watching that movie
Groundhog Day
over and over and over. And over.

There wasn’t anything new here. Nothing new to discover. At least, not about him. He’d been there. He’d led Zulu. But this hearing had nothing on him. Nothing they could pin that would cause the devastation they wanted.

Another yawn pulled at him.

“Are we boring you, Colonel Weston?”

Straightening in his seat, Trace felt the heat of embarrassment reach the tips of his ears. He didn’t answer the question. It wasn’t meant to be answered.

“We’ll take a short recess then return with the testimony of Lieutenant Francesca Solomon.”

Trace resisted the urge to look at Haym. Why hadn’t the general told him about this? What could his bulldog daughter know about Misrata?

The chairman of the committee called a break, and a hum of conversation and movement blanketed the room. Trace leaned over to the general.

“I have no idea,” Haym said before Trace could ask his question. “She conveniently kept this from me.”

“Why would they hear her out? She wasn’t there.”

Haym nodded but didn’t reply.

“Sir?” Trace insisted on an answer. He needed reassurance something hadn’t come to light to wrongly implicate him.

“I don’t know.” He pushed up from his seat at the table. “Excuse me.”

With a hefty sigh, Trace slumped back against the chair. Rubbed his jaw then stood. Stiff in his uniform jacket, he made his way to the main hall. He used the facilities then walked to the far end of the hall and stood at a bank of windows overlooking the green. Across the grassy area, parking lots gave way to the busy streets of downtown DC. Here careers were made. Or destroyed. Pundits needed a scapegoat and nailed whomever they could get their hands on onto the cross of justice. Trace understood that sometimes happened to help people feel like tragedies weren’t being ignored. That the pain of innocents wasn’t overlooked.

He’d just never expected to find himself fighting for his career five years later. This was a nightmare that just would not end. A glance at his watch told him it was time to go back. Sit at the table like a target lined up as a sacrificial lamb.

“We’re pulling for you, sir,” a young lieutenant said as Trace pushed past. Trace gave him a nod of thanks as he broke through the crowd at the door.

Someone rammed into him.

Beautiful gold eyes met his. Widened. And that’s when the rest of her facial features registered. “Miss Solomon.”

Her cheeks pinked. “Colonel,” she said tightly.

He took a step away, told himself to leave her alone, but he couldn’t. “Just remember, your lies affect more than me.”

“I could say the same to you.”

He did ignore that and shuffled down the aisle into his seat at the front. For a closed, confidential meeting, there were a lot of people here. “Where have you been?” Haym hissed.

“Getting some air,” Trace said, frowning at the general.

“We have a problem.”

Trace’s gaze automatically bounced to Francesca Solomon, who’d taken a seat on the row behind them. Without turning her head, she slid her gaze to him. Arrogant confidence plastered her face.

“She has the identities of your team.”

“How the heck did she—”

“I don’t know.”

“We have to shut that down. She cannot go live with that information.”

“I’m working on it, but it’s not that simple.”

“It
is
that simple.” He bent forward, his nose practically in Haym’s face. “If she reveals their names, Zulu is crippled. I cannot launch them. I cannot get the answers we need. This has to be shut down—
now
, General.”

“They’ll only argue that the names are okay to be revealed because they’re dead.” Haym waved a hand. “It’s a closed hearing—they’ll say the information is safe.”

“There are fifty potential sources of compromise in this room,” Trace countered.

“You know that. I know that. But convincing them—”

“Then we need a distraction to end this now. Then you need to drag her butt under a bright light and convince her to stop.” Trace did not suggest things lightly. But when a bulldog caught the scent of a bone…

An idea began to formulate in Trace’s mind. It could put his reputation in more jeopardy, but did he have any other choice? Annie, Téya, and Nuala depended on him.

Trace maintained his peace as Chairman Moller resumed the session. He maintained his peace as a summary was presented. He maintained his peace as the chairman handed over control of the mic to Representative Glick, who then called Francesca Solomon to the table.

She moved to the seat beside her father.

“Please state who you are and why are you here, for the record,” Glick said.

“Thank you,” she said, resting her hands in her lap as she leaned forward. She had the demure thing down pat. “My name is Francesca Solomon. I’m a lieutenant in the United States Army. I work for INSCOM as an analyst. I’ve been invited here by General Marlowe to provide testimony regarding the tragic bombing in Misrata, Libya, that took the lives of twenty-two innocents.”

“Thank you, Miss Solomon,” Chairman Moller intoned, taking back control of the microphone. “Can you please explain why we are hearing from you again? The Permanent Select Committee on Intelligence heard from you more than four years ago during the first hearing and your information, I’m afraid, was scant at best.”,

“I would agree with you, Senator Moller,” she said, her tone respectful and placating.

Oh she was good. Very good. She knew this game better than most. Maybe that was it—she had an agenda to get her foot in the door and secure a place on Capitol Hill with all the other snakes and sharks.

“But the last six months have delivered not just an uptick in valuable intel but also some very disturbing and alarming information on Colonel Weston.” Francesca turned off her mic.

“I have here,” Chairman Moller said, “a police report from an accident you were involved in a few weeks ago, Miss Solomon.”

Poised and composed, she gave no indication of her emotional state. At least not from Moller’s viewpoint, but Trace could see her fingers twisting knots under the table.

“It’s come to my attention that you have harbored an intense and perhaps perverted sense of vengeance against Colonel Weston,” Moller said, removing his glasses and looking up at her. “Is that true?”

“It’s what some have claimed when they did not like my investigation efforts.”

Moller pointed his glasses to the far left of the room, near the doors. “So, you’re going to tell me that these two gentlemen—please stand—are just exaggerating?”

Trace glanced in that direction. Dressed in a pristine white uniform was Solomon’s eldest son, the one Trace had met in the office. Paul? Paolo. But the man beside him—the one that made Trace’s heart slow—“Brent,” Trace whispered. His little brother.

What? When had Brent ever met Solomon? Had she been to his family? Drilled them full of questions?

“I would say that my brother felt I was on the wrong track and wanted to embarrass me, sir.”

Moller’s face reddened. “You’re going to tell this committee that a highly decorated Navy SEAL with multiple tours has nothing better to do on this Tuesday morning than harass his
little sister
?”

Solomon lowered her gaze.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” Moller said, as he glowered at Francesca. “Now, I hope to God you have more solid information for us, that you are not wasting our time or recklessly attacking the reputation and career of another highly decorated service member.”

Francesca wet her lips, slowly bringing her gaze up. “I have credible information to present, if you would hear it.” The tension and anger in her words were palpable.

“Go ahead,” Chairman Moller said.

“Thank you,” Francesca said, adjusting in her chair and shifting papers in front of her. “As an analyst with INSCOM, I had access to information and key assets on the ground in Libya at the time of the attack. It was my responsibility—”

“Miss Solomon, we’ve already heard this,” Moller growled. “If you do not have new material—”

“I do, sir,” she said.

He huffed.

She traced a finger down the page, looking for the right place to pick up. “Roughly two months ago, two women were murdered.”

Trace clicked his mic on. Steadied the ramming of his heart against his pulse. This could end his career. This could devastate his life. This could destroy Annie, Téya, and Nuala. So, he began. “I am an American Special Forces Soldier! I will do all that my nation requires of me.”

“Colonel Weston, you do not have the microphone,” he could hear Chairman Moller saying.

But Trace continued. Never stopped. “I am a volunteer, knowing well the hazards of my profession.” Which might include getting arrested today. “I serve with the memory of those who have gone before me.” Jessie. Candice. Keeley. “I pledge to uphold the honor and integrity of their legacy in all that I am—”

“Colonel Weston,” Moller shouted, his voice mingling the noisy thrum rippling through the courtroom. “Colonel Weston, if you do not stop—”

“Just cut his mic,” General Marlowe said.

And Trace’s mic died. So Trace lifted his voice, unwilling to let Francesca Solomon in her insane quest to destroy him put the lives of Annie, Téya, and Nuala on the line, too.

“I am a warrior. I will teach and fight whenever and wherever my nation requires.” Even with civil disobedience right now. “I will strive always to excel in every art and artifice of war. I know that I will be called upon—”

“Security!”

“—to perform tasks in isolation far from familiar faces and voices.”

“Trace,” Haym said, his face strangely pale for an Italian. “What are you doing?”

“With the help and guidance of my faith, I will conquer my fears and succeed. I will keep my mind and body clean, alert, and strong. I will maintain my arms—”

Two Capitol Hill police entered the room, and before the door shut, Trace saw two more jogging down the hall.

They hauled Trace to his feet, but he never stopped reciting the Special Forces creed. And he didn’t struggle against the authorities. It’d only go worse later. Cuffs tight against his wrists, he was hauled out of the room. As he passed Francesca, Trace broke free. Shoved his face in hers. “Remember, those names—they’re lives you’re playing with. More innocent people will die because of your vendetta against me. Can you live with that, Francesca?”

Annie

En Route to Dover, England

12 June – 0100 Hours

As the cabin door shut, Annie eyed Boone. “Where’s Trace?”

“Not coming,” Boone muttered as he took the seat across the aisle next to Rusty.

Why wasn’t Trace flying out with them? It was weird, honestly, to have Rusty back in the game, though the guy had sworn he wanted nothing to do with this. Annie guessed that knowing someone had slipped poison into Keeley on Rusty’s watch had been the catalyst. But for Trace not to come when they had yet another arrow pointing toward Ballenger didn’t make sense.

Was Ballenger leading them? If so, for what reason?

The indiscriminant din of rock music, suppressed by ear buds, drew Annie’s gaze to the row behind her. Eyes closed, feet on Rusty’s seat, Téya looked like she might be asleep. She’d been distant and moody since returning from Frankfurt and even worse after visiting Bleak Pond.

Nuala had the window seat next to Annie and held an e-reader, devouring the latest novel by a James Rubarb or some other. Annie hadn’t listened very closely because, if she were going to read, she’d select something from James Rollins or Brad Thor. Or Lis Wiehl—especially Lis because her novels were relevant and often ripped straight from the headlines.