Operation Zulu Redemption--Complete Season 1 (9 page)

“Hey,” came her weary greeting.

“What e-mail? Tell me about the e-mail.” Sam slid into his black Camaro and started the engine.

“Wha—? Oh. Yeah, I tried to call you.” She hadn’t. There were no missed calls on his phone. “It was in my spam folder.”

“Read it.” Sam hated ordering his sister around, but he needed answers.

“Uh…let me get to my computer.” Rustling rattled his nerves as he made his way back to the cottage. “Okay, here: ‘Hi, Carolyn. Sorry this will be late notice, but I need some time to get away. If you need to rent out the cottage, I understand. I hope to come back someday.’ ”

“She didn’t write that.”

“Sam—”

“When was the last time Ashland e-mailed you…
ever
?”

“I… uh, well, never.”

“Exactly. Because Ashland doesn’t have a computer or e-mail. She told me months ago she didn’t trust what the government could do with them.” Sam wanted to curse, but he’d given that up right along with his career in the SEALs. He’d seen enough and heard enough to last a lifetime.

“What are you saying?”

“Ashland was taken.” And the authorities weren’t going to be any help until he made them do their jobs. “I’m going to prove it and find her, if I have to do it myself.”

“Sammy…” Her warning, whiny tone grated on his last nerve. Sam ended the call and found himself pulling into the parking lot of the Green Dot. He parked and sat staring at the wood deck where he had shared ice cream with Ashland. Many times Jeff had given Sam that “I’ll kill you if you hurt her” look, but they both knew Sam had it bad for Ash. His mind drifted to two nights ago. Had they not been shot at and had she not disappeared, he would’ve called it the best night of his life. She let him into her protected vaults. Not only had she let him kiss her, but she’d responded. He’d known in the heat of that moment that he wanted to marry her.

Not true—he’d known for months he’d marry the girl if she dropped out of her stealth mode of running past his interference attempts.

He climbed out and entered the shop.

Jeff looked up from behind the sandwich station, catching Sam’s gaze through a long line of customers. Sam dropped into a chair near a window. Though Fox News played on the monitor that hung in the upper corner, the volume couldn’t compete with the chatter and laughter in the sub shop. His gaze caught on the ticker scrolling across the bottom.

…
N
ATIONAL PARK
—R
ANGER
C
ANDICE
R
EYNA BRUTALLY MURDERED
…

Why wasn’t Ash up there?

Right. Because the cops think she just walked away from the barrage of bullets and kept going. Sam stretched his jaw and rubbed it. What was going on here?

“You Sam Caliguari?”

Sam snapped his gaze to the man in the windbreaker with a news logo emblazoned over the left breast. He gave the guy a look that in his Navy SEAL days would’ve had the guy running to change his pants. The last thing he wanted or needed was some nosy, microphone-pushing reporter—

“Can I talk to you about Ashland Palmieri?”

Sam eyeballed him. Kept his mouth shut. But the mention of Ashland’s name made the gears of his heart grind down into first.

The reporter took the silence as an invitation.

“Look,” Sam finally said. “I’m not in the mood—”

“Don’t you find it weird that suddenly nobody knows where she is?” He thumbed toward the Green Dot owner. “Mr. Conwell says she hasn’t worked in weeks.”

Sam shot a scowl at Jeff. Rose to his feet. Crossed the restaurant. He zeroed in on Jeff. “C’we talk?”

“Sorry,” Jeff said, nodding to the line. “Too busy.”

But he saw it. Saw
something
scrawled all over Jeff’s face. “What do you know about Ashland?”

Jeff stuffed a paper-wrapped sub into a bag and handed it to the customer, effectively turning his attention and his back on Sam as he completed the sale.

Sam waited, but his mind drifted again. Envisioned Ash standing there preparing his sandwich. The night she intentionally accidentally put an olive on his sandwich. Her giggles. Her smile. Her breath. Sam ground his teeth together, trying to push those potent memories aside so he could focus.

Jeff wasn’t going anywhere. Not with the answers he had. He felt the presence of someone behind him and glanced back. The reporter, who came to Sam’s shoulder, leaned in, apparently wanting to hear the conversation.

He hated reporters. They’d never gotten stories about his SEAL team right, though they were quick to splash inaccurate facts all over the six o’clock news. But the guy’s questions tugged at the gnawing in Sam that something was really…
off
.

“What’s your name again?” he asked, angling into the guy’s personal space.

“Lowen Miles.”

He clapped a hand on the reporter’s shoulder and could swear the guy about wet himself again. Maybe his SEAL skills were still intact. “Let’s talk.” He led him out of the shop and into the parking lot. “What do you know?” Hands tucked up under his arms, Sam worked to keep his frustration down.

Lowen shifted his messenger bag onto his shoulder. “Sh–shouldn’t I be asking the questions?” He nudged his wire-rim glasses and managed a shaky laugh. “I mean, I am the reporter, right?”

Sam waited. Told himself killing the guy in plain sight would get him jailed. Then he’d never find Ashland.

“Right.” Lowen’s smile faded. “Okay, it’s just…have you heard about the girl killed in Nevada?”

Sam didn’t respond.

“What about the ranger in Alaska?”

“On the news.”

Lowen nodded. “Yeah. Well, they’ve all been former military.”

Lifting a shoulder, Sam tried to let the guy know he didn’t care about other women. Had Ashland ever said she served?

“Was she former military?”

Sam crowded the guy back against an SUV. “Do not probe me for information.”

“I… I wasn’t. She was.” He blinked. “I mean, she was in the military. At least, I think so.”

“So was I. What’s your point?”

Lowen looked up at him, then his expression went blank. “Honestly, I’m not sure. I just…someone…” He shook his head. “Someone gave me this information. Suggested I look into it.”

Sam’s radar pinged off the charts now. “I think we should take this elsewhere. Give me your phone.”

Lowen handed over the device, his eyes wide.

Sam programmed his number into the phone then returned it. “You know who I am, Lowen Miles?”

The man shifted on his feet. “Y–yes.”

“You know what I did for a living?”

He swallowed.

“So just remember that if you do anything that puts Ashland in danger.”

“I don’t need to be threatened.”

Sam flared his nostrils. “Not a threat. Due diligence—to keep Ashland alive till I can find her.”

Trace

Lucketts, Virginia

3 May – 1300 Hours

Trace Weston stood in the plywood-paneled room that would someday become his office. For now, it was a box that allowed him to contain his thoughts and frustration. He held the secure phone to his ear, waiting.

“Go ahead,” said an older, more seasoned voice on the other end.

“One, Two, and Six are secure. What do you know about Six’s assailants?” Elite military experts had slipped into the mountains and retrieved the bodies, hoping to identify the shooters and finger whoever was behind this.

“Mercenaries. No information yet on who hired them.”

“Not surprised. Whoever did this wants the girls out of the way, unable to talk.”

“Agreed.” The general let out a long-suffering groan. “This is a fine bloody mess, Colonel.”

“It is, sir.”

“One that I do not need, but then again, I’m sure you don’t either. Listen, I have teams working round the clock to contain this. Keep the assets there till we get this swept under the carpet.”

“Sir, we need to find who did this.”

“Yes, we do. But not yet—we can’t. Things are too hot. Understood?”

Trace wanted to tear something limb from limb. “Yes, sir.”

The line went dead.

Trace lowered the phone. What would he do with three women whose lives had—once again—been turned inside out? Who had found them? Had it taken the person five years to hunt them down? Or was there significance to this timing?

A solid but soft—at least for the guy doing it—rap came on the closed door. Trace turned, pocketing the phone as Boone stepped in. “They’re gathered.”

What would he tell the girls? They had no answers and nowhere to go.

“Did he have anything to say?” Boone asked.

So, he’d figured out Trace had talked to the general. “No. Just to stay underground.”

“What will you tell them?” Boone asked, bobbing his head toward the partially exposed conference area where Trace saw the remnant of Zulu. Three of the six he’d recruited. Three of the best female operators he’d ever met.

“They already know it’s screwed up. Let’s just give them what we know and leave it at that,” he said as he made his way out of the plywood office.

Trace tucked aside his feelings, his anger, his frustration, and entered the conference area.

“Who came after us?” Annie asked, sitting beside Téya at the table.

He held up a hand to stay the questions. “One thing at a time. First—we do not yet know who came after you. What we do know is that they were mercenaries.” Trace pressed his fingertips against the table. “Teams are working right now to contain the situations, to limit any traces that will lead back to you or your real identities.”

“I just don’t understand how they found us,” Téya said.

“We all knew it was just a matter of time.” Annie folded her arms over her chest.

“But we did everything right,” Téya said. “New name, new identity, new location. No contact with each other or those in Command. Right?” Téya shoved her hair from her face as she looked from Annie to Trace. “How did they find us?”

“The better question,” Nuala said, “is
who
found us.”

“There are a lot of questions, but give us time. It’s only been thirty-four hours.” Trace eyed Houston as he lured Boone away from the conversation. “We still have a lot to sort through. For now, we need you to stay here, stay below. I know the bunks are a sorry excuse for beds, but I’m just grateful Boone has been working on this the last few years.”

“I don’t like this,
Colonel
,” Annie said, nodding to his rank patch in the center of his chest. “Congratulations on the promotion.”

Trace nodded. He’d been a promising captain when Zulu had assembled. Despite the disaster, he’d been promoted twice, the most recent step to LTC coming just three months ago. His silver oak leaf was something he didn’t want to lose. And if what happened with these ladies five years ago resurfaced now…

“Nobody likes this,” Trace replied. “But it’s where we are.”

Nuala sat forward, hands on the table. “So, nobody’s asked, but I will—we think this is connected to Misrata, right?”

“West,” came Boone’s terse, quick call.

“I can’t see any other explanation right now,” Trace said. “Excuse me.” He strode across the room and up onto the dais where Houston had established his place of dominance over the command bunker.

Boone pointed to a monitor. “We’ve got trouble.”

Téya

Where have you been living?”

Téya met the pale blue eyes of the girl who’d been their sniper. “Pennsylvania.”

Nuala nodded.

“What about you, Noodle?” Annie asked.

They all smiled at the old moniker. Nuala’s Irish name took a beating in a military setting, going from the correct “Noo-lah” pronunciation to “Noodle” very quickly.

“Mountains,” the girl said.

Téya chided herself. Nuala wasn’t anymore a girl than she was. Hard to believe Nuala was only two years younger when she looked like a high school sophomore, junior if they pushed it. “What about you?”

Annie fiddled with a straw wrapper. “A lake outside of Seattle. Really quiet, pretty.”

Twitches of movement in the computer area drew Téya’s attention. Something had the men worked up. The WWE could borrow Boone, his size and fight as intimidating as the best fighters. Trace with his all-business attitude scowled at Boone, as he tightened his lips, apparently replying to something the big guy said.

The tech guy hunched his shoulders and shrank away from the two men who had been the mentors and leaders of Zulu.

“They know something,” Annie muttered, joining her.

Understatement
. Téya left the confines and safety of the conference room, slinking into the open area but sticking to the walls, out of the line of sight of Boone and Trace. She eased toward them quickly, grateful for bare feet in this underground bunker. As she stepped up onto the dais, she saw a news piece on the monitor.

“She
can’t
know. It’ll only make things worse,” Trace said, his shoulder pointed in Téya’s direction but his line of sight blocked by the bigger Boone.

“I don’t agree with keeping this from her,” Boone said. “Everything’s messed up, and they need to understand how deadly it is right now.”

Peering past them, she eyed the articles on the screens. Téya’s heart tripped over the headline: A
MISH
M
AN
S
HOT
; E
LDERLY
W
OMAN
M
ISSING
.

She froze for a second, David’s kind face flashing before her mind’s eye. Surely it wasn’t him that article mentioned.
Please, God, You promised to protect him!
She moved closer. Strained to read the smaller words.

“Téya.” Trace shifted, snapping her to the fact he looked right at her.

She met his green eyes. “Tell me that’s not my grandmother.” Her heart felt like it was pumping peanut butter.

He and Boone shared a look.

It was. David had been shot and her grandmother was missing. This couldn’t be happening.
I wasn’t there to protect them
. The threat had been closer than any of them realized. “When did that happen?” she demanded.

“Day after you left,” Houston offered.

Boone and Trace glowered at the guy.

In other words, whoever shot David had been right on her heels. What if he came back? Téya spun around. Stalked to the bunk rooms.