Operation Zulu Redemption--Complete Season 1

by Ronie Kendig

  “They’re—”

  Trace clapped a hand over Houston’s mouth. Using the illumination of his phone, Trace mouthed, “We wait. Four hours.” He wouldn’t put it past her to be sitting on that sofa all night.

  Houston’s eyes bulged. “Four?” he mouthed back, clearly distressed at having to stand in the box of a closet for that long.

  An hour into their wait, legs aching and air stale, Trace wondered if they could push their luck and sneak out now. Right. And have her standing there with her weapon trained on him? Victory in her brown eyes? No, thanks.

  Creaking in the first apartment, 312, stiffened Trace’s spine. He held up a finger to his mouth, warning Houston they had company. Solomon must’ve gotten anxious. Glock up, he aimed it at the wall.

  Creak. Groan.

  He trailed the noise. They were right in front of the access panel in 312.

  A soft scraping barely made it to his ears. When the sound registered—the panel sliding back—Trace’s pulse jack-hammered. He tensed, holding the weapon firm. I’m not going down without a fight.

  Creak.

  Pop!

  Air flooded into the area. A face appeared.

  Adrenaline exploded through his gut. His finger curled back just as the face registered. “Boone!”

  “C’mon,” he whispered. “She’s parked out front. Has been since the others left.”

  “How’d you get in?”

  “Roof.” Boone grinned and stepped back. They gathered the computer equipment, closed the hidden room panel, bent out of the closet into a darkened 312. Boone secured the hidden panel and put the table back before they slipped out the front door. Walking right out the front door. But instead of going down, they went up and onto the roof.

  Boone scurried over to the far left and soared over a narrow alley between the two buildings onto the roof of the other. He turned and waved toward them.

  Houston shook his head. In a hoarse whisper he said, “I can’t throw this stuff.”

  Trace took it from him, shifted the contents, then turned to Boone. With as much care and deliberate direction as he could put into it, he tossed the box to his buddy. The box soared over the opening as Houston gasped. Something flung out and clattered against the tar roof, teetering on the edge. Boone caught the box, the contents jarring noisily, as he stomped a boot on what had flown out—a tablet that now dangled precariously beneath his large foot.

  With a jump, Trace threw himself over to the other building then spun and snatched the tablet.

  “Nice,” Boone whispered then nodded to Houston, who looked as if the jump spanned a dozen feet instead of a few. Finally, the geek worked up his courage and lunged over. They all hurried to the fire escape and made it down the south side of the building.

  Trace hopped to the ground. “Where’s Solomon?”

  With a nod, Boone said, “North side of the other building. We’re safe.”

  Slinking along the shadows of the dense apartment buildings, Trace followed Boone out across the parking lot.

  “Trace Weston!”

  He didn’t have to glance back to know it was Solomon. Trace shoved Houston forward. “Go!”

  Boone grabbed the equipment and broke into an effortless sprint, Houston directly behind him. Trace lagged just enough to give himself time to provide cover, should they need it, but not enough to get left behind. They sprinted down the parking lot, weaving among cars and working their way to a rear alley, abutted by more buildings. They slipped down one darkened, smelly alley.

  “Weston, stop!”

  They dove around a building.

  The black SUV roared up next to them. Boone dragged Houston into the vehicle, carrying the box as if it were a piece of paper. Trace hopped in after them, diving over bodies. They lurched into motion before the door shut. Giving him a perfect glimpse of Francesca Solomon as she broke out of the alley.

  Annie

  Lucketts, Virginia

  7 May – 0900 Hours

  Annie stuffed her plate and utensils in the dishwasher and closed it. She wiped down the long brown table that looked like something leftover from a church. But it worked for their needs. After washing her hands, she made her way to the command area. Utilizing a corner of the bunker on the raised portion plus a makeshift wall Boone had nailed together, Houston reassembled Jessie’s data wall.

  Leaning against the back of one of the computer stations, Trace folded his arms as he stared at the information.

  Annie said nothing as she stood to his left, eyeing the chaos that had some sort of logic to it. All of Jessie’s stuff did. But whether anyone else could make heads or tails out of it was another thing altogether. There were names, some with photos, others without. Images of buildings. Cars. Multipage articles.

  One picture drew Annie to the board—a woman in her midtwenties. Taped together with what looked like a more recent picture. Beneath it read: KELLIE HOLLISTER/HOME. No wonder it’d drawn her attention. Kellie Hollister was one of the founders of Hope of Mercy, which had a branch in Misrata. HOMe–Misrata had been in that warehouse. The children they were protecting were the same ones Zulu had unwittingly killed in their first and only mission.

  “What do you see?”

  Trace’s voice pulled her around, startling her. She’d forgotten he was there. Those green eyes still held strength that made her feel weak. In more ways than one.

  Annie turned back to the data wall. “Chaos,” she said. “She never gave up on finding who set us up. Unlike the rest of us.”

  “You gave up?”

  Steeling herself, Annie cast a look over her shoulder at him. “Didn’t you?”

  “Not for a second.” Resolute. Formidable. Trace Weston hadn’t changed. He flicked his gaze to the wall again. “See anything interesting? Something that stands out?”

  Annie let her gaze traipse over the accumulation of five years of Jessie’s research and analysis. Hollister. HOMe. Children. Misrata. Khalifa al-Zwawg. Ballenger. There were so many, but none of it felt unique. “Not really. I mean—she has more depth to her research than any I could’ve come up with.” Annie stuffed her hands in her back pockets and bunched her shoulders. “But what’s important. What’s not?” She shook her head then met his gaze again. “You? You said you haven’t given up for a second. Is this familiar?”

  “All too,” Trace said, pushing to his feet. He came to the wall. Pointed to a name. “Hollister fell off the map after Misrata, after CID and DIA interviewed her, she vanished. I’d like to find her, hear her story myself. Ballenger—his wife and kid were killed that night.”

  Annie frowned. “Wife? I thought only orphans were there.” She’d seen Ballenger’s name on the list and on numerous news reports, but she didn’t recall anyone being married or having a child there.

  “We need to find him. Hear his story, too. We need to find them all. Start over. Fresh eyes. Fresh ears.” Still handsome and still in charge.

  And she still hated him. Annie took a step back. Reminded herself what he’d done.

  Trace

  Eighteen children, four women. All dead at the hands of a unit he trained. A unit he led. A mission he organized. General Haym Solomon had tasked Trace with putting together the all-female special ops team. Suggested it was time to make history. Trace had nearly killed the general point-blank after the failed mission, but Solomon had too much of his own fury over Misrata to have been guilty. Someone up the chain, someone neither of them knew, had entrapped those women. Set them up to take a massive fall. Sent them to the slaughter.

  It’d been his fault—he led them into the trap. So, he led them out. Secured safe passage. Ferreted Zulu to safe ground. Got them new identities. New lives. Bought time for him to figure out the truth. He just never thought it’d take five years.

  Five years and you still don’t have the answers.

  And what he’d done to Annie… She still hadn’t forgiven him, and he’d known back then she wouldn’t. He’d accepted that. It was worth the price.


  Trace’s phone belted out a rock version of the national anthem. He answered the call. “Weston.”

  “Returning your call.”

  At the familiar voice, Trace excused himself to Annie. He strode to the briefing room. “Yes, sir,” he said as he sealed himself in the soundproof room. “Sir, we were in Las Vegas. Searching the apartment of Jessica Herring.”

  “Did you find anything?”

  “Yes—some systems…and your daughter.”

  General Haym Solomon muttered something under his breath.

  “Sir?”

  “What does she know?”

  “That I was there.”

  “She identified you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The general sighed. “I’ll handle it.”

  “I’d appreciate it, sir. She’s in a position to create a lot of trouble for me and mine.”

  “I said I’ll handle it. Now—what’d you get?”

  Trace looked back to the data wall and struck gazes with Annie. Something inside him cinched. He shoved his gaze to the ground. “A puzzle, sir. It’s going to take time to decipher.”

  “Do you think Kingston figured out anything?”

  Trace scratched the side of his face, thinking about the yarn, the markers, the plethora of information. “No telling. She had a…unique mind.”

  “Keep me posted.”

  When the line went dead, Trace stared at the phone, the searing memory of his failure that night burning hot and cruel in his mind. He’d failed them. All of them—the team, Boone and Rusty, who’d helped train Zulu. And even Solomon.

  Should’ve seen that trap coming. Should’ve given them thermals to verify the building was empty.

  It should have been empty. They’d been there that morning. Saw nothing and no one.

  And Zulu showed up that night to wipe out an illegal weapons cache that had been harvested from military “excess.” The weapons should’ve been destroyed. Instead, they found their way into a warehouse in Misrata, Libya.

  Now…now Zulu was depending on him again. This time to stop whoever was trying to kill them. In order to figure that out, he had to find the answers to a puzzle he hadn’t been able to solve in five years.

  Lieutenant Colonel, five years, and still no closer.

  Might as well eat a bullet.

  Francesca

  Alexandria, Virginia

  8 May – 1800 Hours

  Wisdom and prosperity were supposed to go hand in hand with the Solomon name. So why was she struggling with both? Prosperity she’d readily trade for success in actually catching—securing Trace Weston. But wisdom would go a long way in taking him down.

  Frankie sat in her crossover, thinking. Regretting that she’d failed yesterday. He’d been right there. Slipping through her fingers like water.

  Movement at the front door of her father’s home drew her attention. Frankie’s heart jolted at the sight of her brother. She lunged out of the car and darted to the porch. Launched herself at Paolo with a laugh.

  He caught her, crushing her to himself with those thick arms.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked when he set her down.

  “Had some meetings, had to liaise with the Brass.”

  Frankie held his shoulders, assessing. She saw something in his brown eyes that worried her. A heaviness. “You okay?”

  He guided her into the house with a nod. “Fine.”

  She glanced over her shoulder. “Liar.”

  He grinned. “Okay. You tell me yours, I’ll tell you mine.”

  Touché. They both knew they could not divulge information on missions or intelligence they were working on. “You always knew how to shut me up.”

  Chuckling, Paolo weaved his way through the ranch-style house to the back. “They’re on the patio. Dad’s grilling.”

  “When is he not?” Frankie glanced through the French doors and spotted her dad talking with—“Who’s he with?”

  The guy had a high and tight, broad chest, and deep tan. His left arm was cradled in a sling. He seemed to have an easy laugh and the rapt attention of her father.

  Paolo leaned his shoulder against the door as he faced Frankie. “Buddy of mine. Go easy on him.”

  “Easy?” Frankie frowned, noticing her brother’s friend was pretty easy on the eyes. “I don’t even know him.”

  Arching an eyebrow, Paolo opened the door. “Just remember what I said.”

  Curiosity tugged at her as they stepped into the cool evening, the thick smoke of the grill seeping out. Paolo’s friend stood with a bottled water in one hand, his other hand stuffed in his jeans’ pocket. His gray shirt accented his blue eyes and tanned complexion. Casual yet confident, he talked with her father, but his gaze strayed to Frankie. Took her in.

  He met her gaze once more before he nodded, apparently in response to something her father said. “That’s what I told the commander.”

  “Imagine that didn’t go over too well.” Her dad chuckled as he lifted the lid of the grill.

  Smoke plumed out, chasing the oxygen up over the roof.

  “No, sir.” He smiled, and again he looked at Frankie.

  Her stomach squirmed. She was used to attention. She got a lot of it, even in uniform. But it felt weird to get this in front of her brother and father.

  Paolo punched his shoulder. “Brent.” He leaned in and whispered something to his friend that made the guy pull up. Something, Frankie was sure, that had to do with killing off guys who stared at his little sister.

  “Ah, Francesca,” Daddy said as he turned and held out his arm to her. He never failed to put differences behind them. To show his unconditional love, even after they came close to ripping off each other’s heads. She wished she could do that, but she had too much of her grandmother’s fiery Italian temperament.

  Frankie slipped in and hugged her dad. “What masterpiece are we having this time?”

  “Steaks and shrimp.” He planted a kiss on her temple. “You’ve met Paolo’s buddy?”

  She faced the man, feeling a bit of warmth as she met his blue eyes. “No,” she said as he extended her hand. “I’m Frankie.”

  “Brent W—”

  “Hey, heard you were in Vegas,” Paolo said, shouldering into the greeting. “D’you win the jackpot?”

  “Ha. Right. Like I had time to hit the casinos, or would want to.” Frankie tucked some hair behind her ear.

  “Work?” Daddy asked as he sipped a glass of sweet tea.

  Frankie skirted a gaze around the three men, sensing a wave of tension lurking just beneath the surface. She wanted to share with them what happened. Nearly catching Trace. But she knew better. “Yeah.” Instead, she shifted around, tucked a leg behind her, and eased into the oversized patio chair. “Where’s Mom?”

  “Resting,” Daddy said as he started for the house. “I’m going to grab a few things.”

  Leaving her alone with Paolo and Brent. She squinted against the remains of the sun settling over the fence behind Paolo and Brent, who’d already fallen into a conversation. Great. Home with four people and yet…alone.

  Frankie pushed out of the seat and went into the house. She squeezed between her dad and the cabinets to get a glass of ice water.

  “Was Vegas about Weston?” Daddy asked, not looking at her, but working on assembling the shrimp onto skewers.

  Glass almost at her lips, she hesitated. “Yeah.”

  “I take it you didn’t get what you were after.”

  Frankie took a sip then rested her hip against the granite countertop, watching as his nimble fingers worked the food and veggies. “He was there, but I wasn’t fast enough.”

  He shook his head, gave a soft snort, then lifted the tray of shrimp kebabs and started for the backyard without another word. Again, leaving her alone. She slumped back and thumped her heel against the cabinet. Why did he not care?

  “Hey.” Paolo entered, his dark hair shorn and his beard trimmed, but the intensity he’d always had remained in plac
e. Especially right now. “What’d you do?”

  Frankie rolled her eyes. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “He’s mad.”

  “Then he shouldn’t have asked.”

  Wariness crept into her brother’s eyes. “Asked what?”

  “Why I was in Vegas.”

  Behind her, she heard the door but didn’t dare look. Didn’t want to face her dad’s disapproval again.

  “And why were you there?” He had that tone, the one he’d taken as oldest kid. Folding his arms, he leaned in.

  “He was there. Trace. I went to catch him. A girl was murdered—”

  “Frankie.”

  “Don’t do that to me, Paolo. I did my job, and that includes Trace—”

  “Frankie.”

  “No,” she snapped, pulling straight. “I’m tired of you and Dad climbing down my throat. Trace Weston needs to be brought to justice, and I’m going to see that it happens.”

  “What if he’s innocent?”

  The unfamiliar voice pulled her around. She looked over her shoulder at Brent. He was handsome but didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. “Oh, he’s guilty. We have twenty-two bodies to prove that.”

  “Francesca!“ Her brother’s voice boomed at the same time Brent said something and stalked toward the front door.

  It wasn’t her brother’s remonstration that shocked her. The three words that she heard—thought she heard from Brent—had stunned her. A door thudded, and Frankie felt bad for upsetting Paolo’s friend. Though she wasn’t sure how or why. What did he care?

  Paolo stalked around the corner and scowled at her. She’d sworn as a ten-year-old that he killed her kitten with that look. Daddy said Duke had some disease, but she never believed him. “You’re unbelievable.”

  “Did he just call me a coldhearted b—”

  “You should be grateful that’s all he did.” Paolo ran a hand down the back of his neck.

  “Why? What does he care about my case? He got all worked up—”

  “He’s Trace Weston’s brother.”

  Boone

  Reston, Virginia

  9 May – 1100 Hours

  The soft beeping and hissing of machines greeted Boone as he stepped into Keeley’s room. She lay there, unchanged—well, maybe a little more wan than last time he was here, but nothing could make her look bad.