by Ronie Kendig
Trace
The guy even smelled like a squid.
Trace balled his fist as Boone escorted Caliguari to the vehicle and set him directly behind the driver’s seat. Once they were under way, Trace knew he had to chill out enough to deal with this guy. Hands trembling from the rush of adrenaline, he worked to calm himself. It’d felt good—too good—to beat the daylights out of Caliguari. But he wasn’t proud of losing control. When’s the last time that happened?
“Ashland’s in danger?” Caliguari sounded more penitent now, contrite almost. But Trace knew better than to answer that question as they pulled onto the highway.
Bringing the SEAL here had been more to tie his hands, but there was a fraction of hope that he could help. Yet Trace couldn’t bring himself to talk to the guy. Knew Caliguari had baited him. And Trace bit—right into the guy’s face. Annie would have a field day with that.
“Look, you brought me here.”
Trace’s secure sat phone rang and he grabbed it, identified the caller, and answered, relieved to avoid the SEAL in the backseat. “Go ahead.”
“Hey, Houston here.”
Trace waited.
A nervous chuckle carried through the line. “I forget you know that already. You know everything, probably before I think it. I mean, not that you have psychic powers—”
“Houston,” Trace snapped, betraying how little patience he had left.
“Sorry.” Houston cleared his throat. “Right. Anyway. Uh, where was—oh yes. Their security radios are dead silent.”
Trace frowned. “That’s unusual.” Chatter had been hot and heavy while they were in there.
“Very. So I’ve been hunting around and I’ve found some phone chatter. Not registered to anyone we know but a truckload of what are probably throwaways. Mostly texts. They aren’t traceable to names, but the locations are pinging right off the Stoffel estate. They’re using coded phrases, but I’m pretty sure—I mean, it’s my guess…a pretty educated one, if I must say so—”
“Houston,” Trace warned.
“I’d bet my pay they still have her there at the estate, but I think they’re planning to move her.”
“Can’t let that happen. We’ll be back in ten.” Trace ended the call and felt Boone’s gaze on him. “They’ve gone radio silent. But he thinks she’s still there.”
“Wait,” Sam said, pulling himself forward. “You talking about Ashland?”
“No.” Trace hated the guy. Hated his guts. Besides—her name was Annie.
“Look, you dragged me halfway across the world,” Caliguari said with a growl. “Why else would you do that and then cut me out now?”
“To get your hands out of the boiling water you stirred around her life.” Trace glared at the guy, the late hour preventing him from getting a clear picture of his face, but Trace didn’t need light to feel the anger and hatred.
The feeling was mutual. Trace could kill the guy. Right now. And never regret it. “Did you seriously think plastering her face all over the Internet would help her?”
“It got your attention.” Caliguari wasn’t repentant.
“And it also caught the attention of individuals trying to kill her and others under my protection.”
“Zulu.”
Trace’s pulse skipped a beat. Angered him. He couldn’t really be that stupid, to keep throwing stuff in Trace’s face and expect to live to see the morning, could he?
“Let me fill you in on something, Squid,” Boone said as they exited the vehicle and made their way into the hotel. “You don’t know this man the way I do, and right now, if he decided to do what’s going through his mind, your body won’t be found.”
“So, it’s a good thing I’m fighting for Ashland, since he’s so dangerous.”
Trace jerked back to the front. Balled his fist.
“You are one stupid man,” Boone said.
“In the last six years,” Trace growled, “I have protected her from more than a punk SEAL too high on his own juice.” Trace pulled in a hard breath, forcing himself to cool off. “If you ever expect to see her again, you’re going to climb off that high horse and get square with some facts.”
Caliguari gave a slow nod, his chest dragging in what looked to be a heavy breath as he shook his head and smiled. Finally, he glanced at Trace as Boone guided him into the elevator. “So she is safe.” He splayed his hand and pointed down. “Here. She’s here. That’s all I wanted to know.”
“This isn’t about you!”
“I just needed to know she was okay.”
“You played Russian roulette with her life!”
Caliguari shifted a foot closer. “Ashland vanished on a night when a sniper took shots at us.” The guy was quick with the smirks. “But then, you know that, don’t you?”
Trace didn’t owe the Squid anything.
“I knew Ashland wouldn’t just up and vanish. Not after what we shared. She wouldn’t do that to me. She was too nice and too considerate.”
Boone laughed.
And made Trace smile. The guy had a very romanticized notion of Annie. “What she is, is a highly trained and skilled operator, chosen by top Brass for black ops missions.”
The man considered them, his expression priceless. Uncertainty warred with disbelief. “How…?”
“It doesn’t matter how. You just need to understand what she is and what you screwed up with your little love campaign.” Mentally, Trace chided himself for letting his disgust seep into the conversation. “In fact, your social media stunt is the reason she’s missing right now.” It wasn’t true, but it felt good to throw the dagger into the guy’s heart—if he had one.
“Wait.” Sam came to his feet. “What? She’s missing?”
“We need you to leave it alone, stop stirring the waters.”
Caliguari hesitated. Seemed to think over the demand. “Tell me why—what’s this all about?”
Trace studied the carpet that rushed down the hall toward their suite. Chewed the agitation of opening this conversation. He cast Boone a questioning glance and found his buddy just as uncertain about moving forward.
“What you need to know,” Boone said as they entered the suite, “is that for reasons that cannot be revealed at this time, she went into hiding. For her own safety.”
Caliguari nodded. “That’s why she came to Manson.”
Trace nodded. “It’s time for you to stop making trouble. You really want to help her by doing that?”
“If it means protecting—”
“That’s not your job,” Trace bit out as he stalked toward Houston and thrust his jaw toward the monitors as if to ask if the guy had anything new.
Wide-eyed, Houston nodded as he stared at Caliguari.
“You said she’s missing, but you know where she might be.” Sam’s gaze never left Trace. “Let me help.”
Grinding his teeth made his jaw hurt, but it was nothing compared to what was happening in his chest. Trace stalked the hotel room, his mind a mangled mess of rage and panic. It’d been hours since Annie was taken, and now he had to deal with the SEAL, with letting the guy help them locate Annie. He knew it was an obvious solution. But he’d do anything to stop the inevitable, stop them from being reunited.
“On the couch,” Trace barked at the Squid. He glanced at Houston. “Nothing?”
“Not yet,” he said, glancing again at Caliguari.
“Boone, check it out.” His head hurt from the exertion of keeping his rage below the surface. Trace stormed into the bathroom and washed the blood from his knuckles. He scrubbed and felt a pressure building in his chest. He gripped the sides of the sink and stared down at the red-tinged water swirling down the drain.
That man represented an end to everything Trace had worked to build and protect. He was the epic sign of his failure. Annie wasn’t here. That jerk was. The one who didn’t deserve her. Who risked her life for his own pleasure.
“You okay?”
Trace’s gaze rose to the mirror, where he spotted
Boone hanging back in the doorway, arms folded over his chest. “I want to kill him.”
“You almost did.”
“He doesn’t deserve her.”
Boone’s eyebrow winged up, and only then did Trace realize what he’d said. What he’d allowed to slip out. Though he knew it wasn’t a secret to Boone what happened before Misrata between him and Annie, the truth had never been vocalized.
“He put her life in danger. Exposed her to the very people trying to find her.” He straightened and dried his hands on the towel. “A man who can’t see past his own need for selfish desires doesn’t deserve the woman he endangers. Bringing him here—”
“Why did you?”
Trace threw the towel against the sink. “I don’t trust anyone else to keep his hands out of the fire.”
“But bringing him here…” Boone scratched his jaw. “Trace, if you didn’t want them together, why bring him to Annie? Is this…?” He stepped in closer. “This is about what I said—about having him on our side.”
Trace didn’t want to own up to it. Didn’t want to voice his intentions.
“I thought you hated the idea.”
“I do,” Trace breathed with a hiss. “But it’s better than having him gunning for us and exposing our locations and identities.”
“Is it?”
Trace leaned back against the sink, hands braced on either side. Quiet gave him room with his thoughts—too much room. There had been so many things happening, so many things going wrong, that Trace made a split-second decision to corral the SEAL and tape his mouth shut. Now, once they recovered Annie, the two would be together. And it’d gut Trace.
“Why’d you let her go?” Boone’s question was quiet, respectful.
Surprise jerked Trace up. How had Boone known?
With a slow nod, Boone sighed. “Thought so.”
Shame hung Trace’s head. The ache was fierce. And raw. And still bleeding. One drowning him in a sea of regret. He pushed to the surface, away from the truth, and came to his feet. “We’ve got work to do.” He left the bathroom and strode into the living room.
Caliguari sat on the sofa with a bag of ice pressed to his cheek. He wasn’t watching Houston, because the monitors were blocked from view. “You won’t get the answers you want,” Trace said.
Carve a hole in his heart, because he could not—would not ask the SEAL for help. Hands fisted, Trace met Boone’s gaze then pulled out of that silent dialogue before it could get started.
“Great balls of fire,” Houston exclaimed, drawing Trace’s attention.
“What?”
“No, literally—a great ball of fire.” He lifted a remote and turned on the TV. “Look. News—massive explosion in Salamina.”
Trace checked out the footage and immediately recognized the three-story seaside estate.
Houston grinned and pointed to one of his stations. “It’s the Stoffel estate.”
What did it mean that there was a fire? The footage wasn’t from a news crew, but witnesses on scene, judging by the shaky, bad quality of the video.
“We need to get out there,” Boone said.
“Is that where you think Ashland is?” Caliguari asked.
“You mean Annie,” Houston said, then his jaw went slack. “Oops. I did not just do that.”
“Annie,” Sam repeated. Then huffed and shook his head.
Yeah, good dose of reality for the SEAL who thought he knew the woman he loved.
“Solomon thought that might be her name.”
Trace glared at the SEAL. “Solomon?” General Solomon wouldn’t give this guy the time of day. But the other one, the serious pain in his prickly backside…
“Francesca Solomon showed up right before your goons snatched me.”
“Son of a—” Trace bit off the curse and met Boone’s gaze. “I’m going to have her muzzled.”
“She’s dangerous,” Caliguari said.
Surprise stilled Trace.
“She knows a lot and isn’t careful with that information.”
“Oh, you mean like you and your social media campaign.”
“The information I promoted was already out there. I just amplified it.”
“That’s true,” Houston piped up, nodding.
Trace snapped a seething look at the wiry-haired geek, who ducked.
“She has classified information she’s spouting off. At least, now I know it’s classified. But let’s get on task here.” Caliguari moved to the computers where Houston worked. “Why are you interested in this estate? Was she there?”
“Three hours ago, she and I were on a mission there,” Trace said, giving only information that was necessary. “After what we believe was a diversion they used to separate us, she vanished.”
Something sparked through the guy’s brows, but he quickly diverted his attention. “If this estate is where Ash—Annie was, then she’s in trouble with that fire.”
“Negative,” Trace said, resenting the way the guy tried to step in and take charge. “If she’s there, that fire doesn’t mean she’s in trouble. It means she set it.”
Boone planted his hands on his belt like a proud uncle. “Just like we trained her.”
Caliguari double-checked the footage playing on the TV then slowly nodded. “A diversion?”
“Or a signal,” Boone said.
“What’s around the estate?” Caliguari asked Houston.
“Houston,” Trace said, warning the geek not to give the guy any information. “There are forests to the west and the sea to the east.”
“Not the sea,” Caliguari said. “The forest—she went to the trees.”
“She’s an excellent swimmer,” Trace countered.
“Maybe you forgot,” the SEAL said, “that she and I lived on a lake. Ashland loved to take a swim, but she often found the water too chilly. She preferred to sit on the deck with me and watch the sun go down.”
Trace held the man’s gaze—a power struggle. Most of what he said wasn’t necessary information. This was territorial dialogue. Caliguari reminding Trace he’d spent the last few years with her. That he knew her. Knew how to anticipate her.
But he didn’t. Caliguari knew Ashland Palmieri. Not Annie Palermo.
Caliguari smirked. “Besides, there’s nowhere to hide on the open sea, and the longer she’s out, the more tired she’d become. Either way, we need to get there.”
“We?” Trace echoed.
Assured and unrelenting, Caliguari glanced around the room. “You seem a little shorthanded for a rescue op.”
Boone cleared his throat and waited for Trace to look at him. “Two and Six aren’t back, and I haven’t heard from them.”
Trace hesitated. “Houston, anything on the scanners about them?”
“Negatory.”
Two and Six were behind schedule but not in apparent danger. Sometimes an op ran long. But Trace felt the tremor in the waters they’d stirred. Could something go right for once? “We don’t have time to worry about them right now,” he said. “We have to get up there and secure One.”
“We’ll need a chopper and thermals.”
“On it,” Trace said.
“Let me help.” The Squid looked entirely too hopeful.
“Not on your life,” Trace growled. “You’ll stay here—”
“Don’t be stupid. I’m trained and I have the same objective—”
“No.” Trace felt like an oil tanker parked on his chest. “No, you don’t.”
“You want Ash—Annie back safely. Right? I’m not the enemy here, Weston.” Caliguari held out his hands in a placating manner. “I swear—I’ll play by the rules. I’ll do whatever you ask if it means I see her again and know she’s safe.”
I should just kill him and get it over with. It’ll be less painful.
Francesca
Alexandria, Virginia
1 June – 0915 Hours EST
Sitting in her small corner at Starbucks, Frankie clung to the delusion that she could hide from whatever
and whoever had so brutally taken Samuel Caliguari. Even now, the memory forced her to gulp back the adrenaline. She’d never seen anything like that. Hiding in the open garage of one of his neighbors, she’d watched the scene unfold.
Watched Sam rip his Charger onto a side road.
Watched the first of the Suburbans broadside him in the turn. It’d looked like a freight train ramming a sedan. It slammed his car into a ditch, the Charger sitting at a steep angle. By the time the dust and smoke cleared, three more vehicles surrounded him. Men in head-to-toe tactical gear swarmed into position, their weapons trained on Sam.
Through the cracked rear windshield she could see Sam moving slowly.
Two of the tactical team pried open the driver’s door, almost having to lift it straight up because of the steep ditch. Sam climbed out and was immediately set upon. They shoved him face-first into the dirt. Hooded and cuffed him then dragged him to one of the SUVs.
Who were they?
She tried Sam’s cell number again, though she wasn’t sure why. He hadn’t answered any of the previous fifteen times she’d attempted it. Frankie stared at her computer and phone. Varden had sent her to Caliguari, then the handsome SEAL ended up getting arrested.
No, not arrested. She’d searched local authorities to find him and nobody had even heard of him, and the sheriff there in Manson said no raid had been conducted.
So, what is going on?
Was it Trace?
Seriously, how much power could one man have? Who was the force behind Weston? She’d toyed with calling her father, but after Varden’s comments about him, she’d been left with more doubts than a loving daughter should have.
Dad always put the military first. She hadn’t just known that, she’d lived that from childhood. It was no surprise then that his three sons would take a similar path. She had gone into the Air Force, not because she wanted to be like her father, but because he’d never liked that military branch and derided it much the way colleges did their fiercest rival. But taking the intelligence route—she’d done that because he’d been combat. And she wanted to show him she could make her own way in the military without Daddy’s golden glove greasing up the flagpoles the way he had for her brothers.
