Delta: Retribution (14 page)

“Now, I go find the weapon you built.” A grimace flashed across his face.

“Why do you look sick?”

“Not sick—” His phone rang. After answering it, he turned away and listened. “Hooyah.”

Trace pocketed his phone with a blank stare.

“What was that all about?”

A smile fought through the grim edges hanging on his face. “Project Cinderella.”

“Excuse me?”

He laughed, but his heart didn’t sound into it. “I volunteered a name for the job.”

“My biological weapon? That Romatar’s going to sell?”

“Ten-four, pretty girl.”

“Don’t sweet-talk me when I think you’re holding back.”

A half grin hitched on his face. “I’ll be gone a few days.”

“Gone where?”

Trace sighed. “Back to hell. Where Michael was killed.”

Wow, that weapon had traveled the globe. South America, the United States, the Middle East? Her stomach dropped at the thought of Trace leaving soon but… he wanted to go. “I thought you wanted back over there.”

“I did. But not necessarily in this way.”

“What way is that?” she asked.

He hooked an arm around her, and they made their way toward the front door. “The only way to go through this particular gate of hell—with my SEAL team and the CO who wants me in the brig.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Insurgent attacks were a given at that particular corner of the Khyber Pass. It was one of the oldest routes in history, with stories of bloodshed over centuries to prove it. Michael had died, along with others on his SEAL team, while on a transport job. They hadn’t been on an operation. They hadn’t been targeting a cell. At least, not at that moment. They were doing the most basic of good things for nomadic tribes in the area: helping NATO forces disperse food.

Just thinking about it made anger blossom in Trace’s chest. He knew the land, knew the exact spot where Michael’s armored vehicle had been blown sky-high. The most upsetting part was that, at that moment, he’d been there making a gesture of goodwill.

Trace could barely swallow as they approached the unmarked spot. Nomads had torn the vehicle apart, and he still hadn’t gotten over it. Why they had to scavenge and take the dog tags from the bodies, Trace would never understand.

But on that route, that day, there was no gesture of goodwill planned—nothing that said, “Here’s an olive branch.” No, today, they had tracked down the weapon Romatar had sold to a Pakistani militant who was moving into Afghanistan. Today was the day that they would take home the weapon that Marlena had designed, and none of their forces would be harmed. So help him God, no one else he knew would die at that spot.

“Reeves,” his CO growled in his earpiece. “No
I
in team, asshole. You follow the job; you do as you’re told. Do you read me, soldier?”

He took in the familiar faces of the men who thought he’d abandoned them. “Ten-four.”

No one had said anything when he was helicoptered in. Not a “Hey, hello, where the fuck have you been?” Nothing—and that hurt. But fuck it; he deserved to have the team give him the middle finger as a
screw-you, welcome-home
gesture.

In his earpiece, he heard the strike go into action. “Scout, we have a confirmation?”

“That’s affirmative.”

They’d been scattered and hidden in the rocky cliffs on both sides of the road. When the Pakistani vehicle passed, they’d intercept it. First stopping the vehicle by sniper fire then swarming from all sides. There was no telling how fragile the weapon was, and everyone was uneasy.

“Half a click. Two vehicles. Four tangoes, armed in the lead pickup. The second vehicle is a covered truck. No man count.”

Time ticked by. The harsh sun had melted behind the cliffs, exposing the men to biting cold winds.

“Fifty yards.”

Trace could hear the trucks. The sounds of engines roaming down the road in the dark night echoed in his ears.

“Three, two, one.”

Two snipers blew out the vehicle tires. The team on foot went into action. They hit the targets, subdued the drivers, disarmed the terrorists, and disposed of the threats. Trace growled through the action, fighting his way to search for the weapon. Praying they had it—

A hand snagged his barely healed shoulder, and white pain shot through his arm, spinning him. Hand-to-hand fighting wasn’t what he expected, but that was fine. Blow for blow, Trace battled, needing to reach for his sidearm and end it. They tumbled over a rocky edge. His attacker held tight, and they rolled down the black abyss and landed on jagged rocks, dirt crunching around them. He took a breath and focused on his attacker. A knife glinted off the moonlight as the man dove for Trace’s chest.

“Not today, fucker.” With a quick catch of his arm, the knife clattered to the ground, and Trace wrapped his arm around the man’s neck, twisting and dropping the body. “Thanks for playing.”

Bent over, he breathed hard, swallowing away the dirt and blood in his mouth and wondering how far down he’d fallen. Operation Cinderella played out in his earpiece.

And then he noticed a tiny hut a dozen yards down. The slightest bit of candlelight lit the inside of the shabby building, and quiet taps and clinks sounded in the wind. His eyes squinted. Moonlight and stars caught on something swaying in the wind. Trace was drawn to it, slipping farther away as the SEAL team he’d abandoned ended the fight above.

“Reeves, report.”

He edged closer to the hut, not mumbling a damn word.

“Goddamn it, Reeves. You better be dead,” his CO shouted into his earpiece.

Ignoring the guy wasn’t the right move. Former teammates checked in and recounted what they thought had happened. “He went over the edge.”

“Reeves went hand to hand.”

“Where the hell is Reeves?”

Calls for him to check in were ignored.
Damn it to hell
. He was doing wrong by them again, but there was something to that shack.

He took a breath. “Reeves here. Alive.” Not that they cared, he was sure. “Coming up in two.”

But he kept going down. On the front of the hut, cola cans and pieces of armored vehicles were strung up like dream catchers on tinsel wire. Finally at the front of the hut, Trace kept one hand on his sidearm and knocked with the other, unable to stop himself. Two boys—young teenagers, most likely, but so malnourished he couldn’t tell—opened the door, with their own rusted weapons pointed at him.

Working in that part of the country with his SEAL team, he’d learned more than enough of the local tribal languages to get by. In broken phrases, he offered that he meant no harm, that he was US Special Forces, and could he look at their decorations?

The kids didn’t lower their weapons but did shed more candlelight on the dream catchers that hung at the door and windows. Dog tags dangled beside broken headlight glass and shards of metal. Trace couldn’t stop himself. He took out his flashlight and ran his fingers over them. United States military identification and tags from other countries too. His fingers touched them, and he turned to the boys, pointing to the tags hanging around the hut. “I need these.”

Without waiting for an answer, with his flashlight in his mouth, he started to take apart the elaborate designs, reading them as he put them in a bag.

Reeves, Michael A.

His heart stopped, and he could read no more. He didn’t need to see the rest of the identifying details to know. Shivers ran down his back, and tears welled in his eyes.

As though the boys in the hut knew, still brandishing their weapons, they nodded and stepped back inside when he clutched the metal to his chest. With a deep breath, he wrapped it around his fist, turned out the mag light, and slipped his night-vision goggles back on. He climbed the rocks and edges until he found the team waiting for him.

They must’ve heard him speaking to the boys in their earpieces, and they all stood watching him. No one made a noise. No one stepped forward because they probably didn’t trust his ass. But he lifted his fist, Michael’s tag barely visible in hand, and one by one, a “Hooyah” went up, and the men gave him pats on the back. A quick word from their CO, and they moved as a unit to the rendezvous location for a helo pickup.

“Reeves,” his CO barked.

No telling what the guy would say. He deserved the worst of it, no doubt. “Sir.”

There was a long silence, and then his CO nodded his head. “Job well done, son.”

Everything surrounding Operation Cinderella was then complete.

EPILOGUE

Three semesters later…

Trace stood and stared. It’d been hours since Delta had landed back on US soil. He had places to go, things to do—
major
things to do—today. But he couldn’t. Not until he drove over to Arlington and stood amongst the sea of white tombstones.

His throat was tight, his eyes blurry. God, he hadn’t been back here in… well, it’d been too long. The cemetery wasn’t where he’d felt his brother, and until today, he hadn’t needed to be there.

“I think you would’ve liked her, bro.” He narrowed his eyes at Michael’s grave. “Cool chick and all, but she’s a good one.”

The whisper of a breeze teased over his skin. He was a solid hour’s drive away from Marlena’s campus, and he should’ve left already, but it just wasn’t happening. Instead, he sat on the grass and cracked open a beer.

“Thing about her… I just need her. She makes it better. Makes you better. And, since you’ve been gone—”
Fuck, blurry eyes and all
. “Time passes slower without you, except when she’s there. And when she is, I can breathe.”

After a few slow swigs of beer, he gazed into the sky. “She’s my family, the only one I’ve got. Funny, I’m hers too. And she wouldn’t think I’m crazy for talking to a headstone.”

Trace stood up. “So, I guess since you’re up there and all, you might know my next move. But I just needed to run things by you. I love you, man.” He looked at his watch. “About that time. Well, past that time. I guess I’m late.” He tucked the remaining cans from the six-pack next to a tiny American flag and patted the white stone twice. “Wish me luck.”

***

“Marlena McCloud.” The announcer’s voice echoed over the PA system as she stepped forward. “Graduating with honors with a joint bachelor’s and master’s degree in biological engineering.”

She walked across the stage, took her diploma, and shook the hand of the dean of the engineering school. “Congratulations.”

As she stepped offstage, she scanned the crowd… Trace! He’d sworn he’d be back before she graduated. She had no idea where he’d been, but he’d made a promise and kept it. Even if he
was
standing in the aisle, wearing tactical pants and a dark T-shirt, he was there. With her mother looking down—proudly, Marlena was sure—from heaven, and her father definitely grumbling her successes from a jail cell, Trace was the only person who’d be there to cheer on her graduation. The guy never let her down.

Instead of following the classmate in front of her, she skipped out of line and beelined it for Trace. “Hi, baby.”

“Hey.”

She had his brother’s dog tags in her pocket. Trace had sworn that it was his most prized possession and that she should keep them with her for good luck on her big day.

Filled with confidence and holding her diploma up, she said, “Proves I’m a smarty-pants.”

“Already knew that.” He kissed her lips, making her stomach flip as it always did when he held her close. “But if you were looking for proof, I’d say that gig contracting for the military screams ‘beauty and brains.’”

“Nothing about that job says ‘beauty.’”

He laughed against her lips. “Good thing you have me to remind you.”

She kissed him again. “How was work? When’d you get back? Exciting stuff?”

“Got back a little bit ago. Had to talk to someone.” He shrugged, tucking her against his side. “The job was more exciting than this graduation ceremony. Let’s go somewhere.”

“Where are we headed?” They filed out, and she unzipped the black gown and hat, dumping them in the rental-return box as they passed the doors.

“Doesn’t matter.”

The sun beamed overhead. Parents and guests milled around the school grounds. She and Trace walked across the grassy field where Screen on the Green had been more than a year ago.

“Don’t forget this.” She took Michael’s dog tags and pressed them into his hand. “I’d die if I misplaced them.”

He clasped her hand in his, locking the tags in their grip. “Nah, you wouldn’t lose them.”

“I know, but still.”

“But still, my ass.” Swinging her around in front of him, he smiled more than normal. “Trade you for them.”

“Ha. Like there’s anything on earth more important than those tags.”

“How about…” He pulled a black box out of his pocket. “You try again, Cinderella.”

Holy moly. That was a ring box. “Are you kidding me?”

Trace shook his head. “What do you think?”

“What do I think? I think you’re crazy.”