by Ronie Kendig
“Hey, Frankie.”
Arching her eyebrow, she lifted her head at the offender who dared use that name. But when she met the brown eyes of Ian Santiago, she debated on what to do.
Eyes sparkling and flirtatious, he leaned closer, a paper in his hand. “If I gave you something you’ve really been waiting for…would it get me a date?”
She met his eyes, let him think he was winning that date, then plucked the paper from his hands.
“Hey!”
He tried to snatch it back, but her eyes were already gliding across the page. Her heart slowed. “Where…?” She snapped her gaze to him. “This is legit?”
He shot a nervous glance around then nodded. “Between you, me, and the paper.”
In other words, it could cost him his job.
“Our date?”
If this…if this was real, “Friday night,” she said.
Even without looking she could see his grin. And immediately regretted her decision. But this—
She stared at the information. LTC Trace Weston had flown to Alaska. Probably went to the same weapons testing conference her dad attended.
Then reports came in that Trace had been in the Seattle area. Shots were fired near Manson, but no fatalities. He’d also been in Las Vegas—and that chick was found dead. It made the news because of the outcry over her death by the community, who’d called the girl a saint. So, had Trace killed again? Gotten confident he’d evaded justice, and now he’d stepped up his game?
Well, so would she.
And Boone was in the Caymans at the same time a woman had been the target of men doped up on psychotropic drugs and nearly killed her. But she survived. In ICU.
This was it. Though she couldn’t figure out how or why, she was certain in the pit of her stomach that this—this—would be enough to stop Trace Weston, pin that huge, bloody badge of dishonor on him, and free her father.
She punched to her feet and grabbed her purse.
“Solomon!”
Frankie glanced back as she lifted her cover.
“Don’t stand me up.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Ian groaned. “Fine. I’ll find another date.”
Frankie laughed and headed to her car after signing out. Fighting traffic was a nightmare, but at least she wasn’t farther north up near the Beltway. A nightmare! The forty-five-minute drive to her father’s estate, inherited from his grandfather, was enough to put a few gray hairs in her jet-black hair and leave her convinced more than ever of Trace’s guilt and now possibly more guilt. He was a murderer who walked free and acted like he owned the world!
“Francesca!” Her father greeted her as she entered the den, where he had a fire roaring, though it was nearly the middle of spring. But since Misrata, Libya, he had a chill he couldn’t shake.
“Dad,” she said as she planted a kiss on his cheek then plopped down on the ottoman at the foot of the chair where he sat reading through some pages. He looked tired, worn. “How are you?”
He chuckled. “What does that mean?”
Right. Brigadier General. One-time Commander of Coalition Forces. “Nothing. Just—you seem”—if she said tired, he’d kill her—“worried.”
He waved the papers at her and tucked them inside a folder. “Work came home with me.” He sighed. “So, what brings you home so early?”
Frankie drew up the dregs of her courage. “I think I found it.”
“Found what?”
“The proof we need.”
“Proof of what? And for what?”
“That Trace Weston is responsible for what happened in Misrata.”
He cursed and came out of the chair. “No. We’re not doing this.”
“Dad, I have it—I have leads that place him in the same states where two former military women were killed.”
He barked a laugh. “You’re kidding me, right? I would’ve strung a grunt up the flagpole for bringing me half-cocked information like that!” His tone grew hard as stone and derisive. “You realize that we are in the same state where three men were murdered today—better, they were right here in this city!”
Frankie swallowed. Hard.
“Are we to be arrested, since I was in Misrata and now I’m here and three men die?”
“Dad—”
“No!” He stabbed a thick finger at her. “Do not do this again. I told you before—leave this alone.”
“Or what?” she spat back, her rebellious streak bouncing into position. “You’ll court-martial me?”
His eyes launched 40mm grenades at her. Nostrils flaring, he stood her down. “We will not speak of this again. Stay out of his life and his records. Or I will see to it your privileges are revoked!”
The ricochet of that last word hit her chest, bounced back to him, and lodged in her throat.
As his daughter and as an officer, she surrendered. But only in her posture. She would never give up this fight. She would prove what Trace had done in Misrata, murdering twenty-two innocent women and children. Then flushing the evidence right down the drain with her father’s career and dignity.
Trace Weston would meet justice. And Francesca Solomon would hand-deliver it!
Part 1: Collateral Damage
II
Nuala
Blue Ridge Mountains, North Carolina
2 May – 2200 Hours
Unforgiving branches dragged their gnarled, sharp fingers against her cheek. She winced at the slice of pain but plowed onward. Through the brush. Deeper into the darkness and shadows. Fighting branches, fallen limbs, stumps, and her rancid fear. She shoved a branch aside. A green, monochromatic hue guided her. The specter of darkness stole into the mountains, draping the thick, hilly foliage in a blanket of fog.
Three minutes. She just needed three minutes.
Nuala King plunged on, focused on one goal—getting to her spot. Ignored the shouts back at the remote lodge. Shots rang through the still, oppressive night. She refused to allow herself to think about what was happening back there. Whether Coleman Carson would survive the two men who’d shown up at the lodge, acting like hikers lost in the mountains. If the men were both butchers and rapists—would Sonja survive unscathed?
Nuala knew better. So did Coleman, which is why he’d been reaching for his gun beneath the counter as soon as the men shut the door. They’d seen enough hikers and trackers to know the difference.
And she had seen enough special ops soldiers to recognize one. Or in this case, two.
She sailed over a fallen oak. Hit the ground and kept moving liked a seasoned runner. Upward and to the east. She’d done it a million times. Could do it blindfolded, although she’d really rather not. Dark with NVGs made it tough enough.
Each step rammed her heart farther up her throat, strangling oxygen from her. She was getting closer, but if the snapping branches and shouts were any indication, so were the assassins.
Bark and leaves exploded twelve inches to her left.
Biting back an expletive, Nuala ducked and threw herself right. Didn’t slow as she zigzagged through the green-bathed terrain. A pair of eerie gold eyes popped up as an animal—Deer? Big cat?—lifted its head. Bolted in the other direction.
Breathing hard now, Nuala dove through the brush and weaved through a thick copse of pines, allowing the craggy fingers to trace her path. Pushing through the dense foliage slowed her a little but also hid the path she’d taken in the dense litter. As she ran, the slight incline of the hill weighed on her endurance. Altitude pressed on her lungs. But she kept going.
Run or die. Those were her only options.
Needling pines smacked her face, evidence of another gun blast.
Nuala cursed herself for slowing down. But her legs were aching. One thing she hadn’t counted on in her three dozen test runs was the adrenaline that sent her heart into overdrive. It sped her but also tired her.
“This way! I saw her!” came a shout way too close.
Almost there. She’d make it. Had to.
A weight rammed into her back. Sent her sprawling. Nuala landed with a thud, twigs and rocks digging into her abdomen and chest. Her head rammed down, pinned.
“Kill her and get it over with.”
Using a knifehand strike, Nuala slammed the fleshy part of her hand into the man’s side.
He grunted and his hold slackened. Not a lot. But enough. With all her strength, she threw herself to the side, flipping him. Shots exploded the leaves and dirt. Nuala landed on top of the guy, all too aware the other had given up on his comrade and probably had a bead on her.
She coldcocked the attacker. He went limp beneath her.
Nuala hopped up, bullets peppering the area around her. She tossed herself to the side—and saw the cleft. Relief surged through her but also the acute awareness that she wasn’t out of this yet. She rolled, avoiding more gunfire, and thudded against the rocky cleft. It was a small overhang at the base of a massive rock formation that dug into the mountain. Moss and leftover nests softened the ground as she crawled into the spot. Back to the chilled rock, she knelt, cocooned in the cleft. The overhang barely shielded her. Groping in the dirt, she watched the footpath. Watched for the second attacker. As she did, she spotted him crouch-running about ten yards away, zipping in and around trees.
Something to her left, farther back, drew her attention. Another man.
A third? Where had he come from? Maybe he’d been waiting outside. Why hadn’t she noticed him before?
Keep it together. You can do this.
Her fingers grazed the draw cord. Pulled it. The long rectangular object came free from the dirt and leaves. Nuala tugged open the neck and slid the Remington from the nylon sleeve. Slowing her breathing even as she took up position, she lifted the rifle to her shoulder. Cheek pressed against the stock, she peered through the sight. Zeroed it in. Waited for the man to step into the crosshairs of the reticle.
Vrrrrrooooppp!!
Nuala twitched at the sound of the trap she’d set being sprung. If one got caught up in the trap, another still lurked in these woods. Waiting to kill her. She would not deviate from this mission.
Breathe. Slow. In. Out. In. Out. Like some weird time warp in a movie, she saw the glowing green man step from behind a tree.
In. Out.
Attuned to the wind and the location of the target, she calculated the right settings. Wind right to left, six miles an hour, hold one-quarter mil left.
Nuala slid her finger into the trigger well. Eased it back.
The tiny sonic boom signaled the fire.
Glowing Green Guy stumbled backward.
She let out a long, slow breath. Closed her eyes and asked God to forgive her for taking another life. Scooting out of the hiding spot, she eyed the large capture swinging from a Mossy Oak. Weapon up, Nuala stalked toward him, swinging around, verifying they were alone, verifying someone wouldn’t put lead in the back of her head.
Nuala came around the copse of trees, the six set in a circle—the spot she’d chosen specifically for that reason—and watched as the man dangled upside down, both feet in a noose. He used a large blade to saw at the rope.
But then—she saw the swirl along his right bicep and forearm. Her throat tightened. “Boone?” she called.
He spun around, dropping back down.
She wanted to laugh, but there was nothing to laugh about tonight. “Boone?”
“Hey, Noodle.” As the swinging slowed, he eyed her. “Thought I’d take a look around.”
With a sigh, she walked over to the counterbalance and severed the cords.
“No!”
Phffvvvvvvttt!
Thud!
Groaning and arching his back, Boone lay on the ground.
Nuala stood over him, wishing she felt free enough to throw herself into his arms. Adrenaline bottomed out, and she felt her limbs trembling. “You almost broke my favorite tree.”
Boone
Reston, Virginia
3 May – 0630 Hours
Boone aimed the SUV off Fairfax County Parkway and turned onto New Dominion Parkway, easing into the turn lane that would deliver them to Reston Hospital Center.
“I’m not hurt,” Nuala said, her pale blue eyes wide and dusted with fear as she stared at the multistoried building ahead. The scratch across her cheek looked angry but not stitch worthy.
“I need a doctor more than you after you dropped me twenty feet onto the hard ground.”
“It was seven feet, and you’re a big guy.” Her gaze traced the hospital, worry evident and strong.
“Relax,” he said as he slid the vehicle into a parking spot. “Keeley’s here.”
Nuala’s pink lips parted. Then she closed her mouth, apparently not willing or ready to face the questions that were no doubt plaguing her.
“I need to check in,” Boone said. “Then I’ll take you to the safe house.”
Nuala nodded, her gaze tracking the movement of pretty much everyone in the parking lot, especially the security truck. “Should I come in?” she asked, dragging her attention back to him.
“Yeah.” He’d never thought of her as the “easily spooked” type, but the scared-rabbit look on her face made him reconsider. Besides, he wouldn’t want her sitting out here. They couldn’t trust anyone or any situation right now. Everything posed a risk. A threat.
Nuala, a petite thing at five-four, made his height and size seem monstrous as they walked. Maybe it was just that he was more aware of the difference after five years. Her round, cherubic face didn’t help things—she still looked fifteen, though her dossier read twenty-five. He’d always had this big-brother feeling toward her, wanting to keep her safe. Though his instincts said to protect her, Boone knew Noodle could take care of herself. The girl’s skills with a Remington had outshone his in no time.
They entered the CICU wing, and he strode down the hall toward the secure area. Nerves on fire after their adventure in the Blue Ridge Mountains, Boone immediately zeroed in on the lanky guy sitting in the chair outside Keeley’s room. Rusty Gray, former Army and Special Forces, came to his feet and settled his gaze on Nuala.
“You remember each other?”
They both nodded. The less said here the better. Boone moved to the door. “How’s she doing?”
“Same,” Rusty said.
“Hang tight.” Boone let himself into the room. A sort of dusky feel had fallen over the room with the subdued lights and soft beeping and hissing of machines. Sun poked defiantly past the closed shades and curtain, demanding access to the still form in the bed.
Auburn hair curled around her face, Keeley lay there the image of peace and beauty. He touched the soft strands, smiling as his gaze shifted to her face. “Hey. Time to wake up, beautiful. The team needs you.” He wanted to kiss her cheek, but they had an audience—he could feel their gazes boring into his back. “I need you,” he whispered.
He squeezed her fingers. “I’ll be back later.” Linger here too long and they’d start asking questions. Ones he didn’t want brought up. Ones he couldn’t afford to be exposed. Boone stepped back out and jutted his jaw toward Rusty. “Doctors been by?”
“Not yet,” the guy said, his brown, curly hair longer than regs. “But it’s early. Nurse was here, said she’s doing good. They might downgrade her to the ICU by the end of the week.”
With a nod, Boone felt the pressure in his chest ease a little. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Thanks for doing this.” He caught Nuala’s arm and started moving.
Back in the SUV, Boone headed north on Fairfax County Parkway and hit Route 7, instantly feeling like a trout trying to swim upstream. “Hungry?” he asked, glancing at Nuala.
She shook her head.
“We have a full kitchen at the bunker, but it’ll take us an hour to get there in this traffic.”
“I’m fine.”
This is why he’d steered clear of Nuala. She would seem fine and strong one minute, moody the next. He didn’t get it. “Well, I’m hungry after you strung me up.�
�� Besides, stress made him crave protein and a good workout. And with the attacks, the murders, and being around Trace and Zulu once more, Boone was sure his BP was up again.
Boone hooked a right onto Countryside and aimed into a drive-thru where he ordered three sides of eggs and three sides of sausage. Before getting back on Route 7, he dug out two of each of the sides and handed the bag to Nuala. “Eat.”
“I said—”
“I didn’t ask.”
Nuala huffed and took the proffered nourishment.
In the stop-and-go insanity of the drive, Nuala drifted off. She’d situated herself so it wasn’t obvious, but he could tell by the twitch in fingers that bore the grime and dirt of her incident with the killers at the lodge that she’d fallen asleep.
Boone was glad for the silence, glad she would get a bit of shut-eye before he delivered her back into the lions’ den with Trace and the others. The team was in a fight for their lives.
They all knew this day was coming.
But nobody wanted to see it.
Sam
Manson, Washington
3 May – 1030 Hours
“That’s the answer you’re giving me?”
The deputy sheriff, a beefy guy in his own right without a trace of gray in his brown hair, sighed heavily. “Sorry, sir. We have no leads, no proof—”
“I’m proof!“ Sam’s anger thumped against his pulse. “I was there. I saw it—I was shot at. What else do you need?”
“Bullet casings, witnesses, a suspect…”
“What? You want me to hand him to you?” Bring it down. Easy. Easy. He huffed then stretched his jaw. “What about Ashland? What about the spent casings in the house where he blew out the windows?”
“Miss Palmieri, you mean? And there were no casings. Our forensics teams swept the place. They didn’t find anything.”
“Bull!” Sam’s heart thundered. “I want Ashland found. I was there and she was taken. She wouldn’t have left willingly.” Not without telling me.
Who was he kidding? Ashland didn’t talk to anyone about anything. She had a better vault and internal security system than Fort Knox. “What about Ashland—what are you doing to find her?”
