Operation Zulu Redemption: Out of Nowhere - Part 2 (4 page)

Ridiculous. Trace sat back in the chair at the briefing table and tossed down his pen. Despite the litter of papers strewn across the brown surface and the years of work he’d put into discovering who had been behind Misrata and who was still targeting Zulu, he had nothing.

Either he was entirely incompetent or. . .

They’re just better than I am.

And Sam Caliguari. Like a cancerous tumor on Trace’s back, the guy just wouldn’t go away. He’d sent a message that read normally, but something nagged at the back of Trace’s mind. Warned him Caliguari was testing the response. Trying to verify Annie had sent the e-mail, no doubt. He lifted the printout of the e-mail and read it again.

My only concern is for your safety and well-being. One word will reassure me and I will step off. Answer this—olives: yes or no?

They hadn’t answered. They couldn’t ask Annie what it meant because she didn’t know they were warning the SEAL away. And she’d be ticked off with Trace if she found out. Considering how things were going, that was the last thing they needed.

Back to the mission. To the task at hand. His radar was homing on Berg Ballenger after the attack on Téya that left her with a broken nose and black eyes. Hollister sent them to an address she’d never visited. At least, that’s what she said. Trace had Houston monitoring every bit of data and all calls in/out of that organization. He’d even had the tech geek dig through old records. Nothing smelled rotten.

Except Berg Ballenger. Where was he? Why had he dropped off the grid?
That
smelled fishy.

Trace pushed away from the endless pile of nothingness and stalked out into the command center, straight to Houston. “What’d you find on Ballenger?”

Boone looked up from a nearby system and adjusted his ball cap. “You look ticked.”

“Sick of not having answers,” Trace admitted. He jutted his jaw toward Houston. “Well?”

“Uhh,” Houston said as he pulled up files and splashed them over the wall screen. “Not much. One passport photo—the one you gave me is the only one.”

“No renewal?”

Houston shrugged. “Not that I can find.”

“What did you find then?”

“I found out that his parents were Robert and Penny Ballenger. His mom’s maiden name was Eddington. She has a brother named Bertrand.” Houston looked up at Trace through his eyebrows. “That is an interesting man. A businessman with a lucrative stock portfolio. World traveler.”

“How does that help us?” Boone asked.

“Guess it doesn’t, but Eddington’s passport has some interesting stamps.”

“Yeah?”

“Morocco, Greece, Paris, Palestine”—his gaze locked with Trace’s—“Libya.”

Though his heart kicked, Trace wouldn’t read into that. “Lot of businessmen travel there. What else?”

“Nothing,” Houston said. “The trail dies after the last U.S. stamp.”

“Point of entry?”

Houston pulled up the image of the passport stamp.

“Denver,” Trace muttered.

Boone pushed back, his boots tipped on the toes as he held his hands behind his head.

“Nothing after that. We’ve known that for years, right?”

“Why would he vanish?” Houston asked. “It’s not like someone was deliberately trying to kill anyone. What happened in Misrata was an accident. No need to run, hide, or conceal your identity.” Houston leaned back in the chair, causing it to squeak.

“Unless you had something to do with it.”

Houston shot him a look. “Dude, seriously? Berg Ballenger?” He pointed to the screen. “The guy was what? Twenty-four when Misrata happened?”

“An accountant fresh out of college,” Boone said, repeating the information they’d hammered into their brains over the last five years, no doubt.

“He married a Libyan orphan who’d aged out, according to Kellie Hollister.” Houston shook his head.

Annoyance chugged through Trace. He knew every option to what happened in Misrata. And he knew every counter-option, every reason why the option couldn’t be right.

He rubbed his eyes. Needed a shift in focus or some miraculous breakthrough. “What about Pennsylvania?”

Houston gave him a quizzical look.

“Erasing Téya’s digital footprint. . .”

“Oh. Oh, right. Yeah, I did that, but. . .”

“But what?”

“Well, there was this”—Houston wagged a finger at each of the three monitors on his left—“image at the hospital in Pennsylvania. It’s been bugging me.”

A grainy picture of a man in a baseball cap talking to a doctor appeared on the screen.

“Why would that bother you?” Tech geeks were good, but sometimes they were anal. And wrong. “Don’t waste your time—”

“I. . . It just seems. . .familiar.”

“What? The hospital, the doctor, or the guy?”

“Yes.” Houston came up a little straighter in his chair, his head angled to the side. “Yes,” he said more firmly. “That’s it!”

A frustrated groan begged Trace to give it release. Instead, he waited. Guys like Houston—their brains worked in ways he couldn’t fathom. Didn’t want to fathom, but he was grateful for them because they made connections that were otherwise missed.

“Keeley.”

Warm anger splashed through Trace’s gut, making him wary. “What about Shay?”

Houston’s fingers flew so rapidly it sounded as if several people were typing at once. “Look look look,” he said, glancing from one monitor to another. “Yes! I was right.”

Trace saw the security footage of the hospital where Shay was recuperating. A half-dozen people sat in a waiting area. “What? What am—” And he saw it. Saw the same guy. Same clothes.

“I review the footage every night, just to review who’s been in and out of Keeley’s room and the ICU ward.” Houston tapped on the shape of the guy. “He’s there, too. Tell me that’s not creepy. What’s he doing there?”

“Can you zoom in?” A buzzing began at the back of Trace’s brain and washed down his neck.

“Even better. Here you go.” Houston ran a program over the face. “Connecting it to facial recognition right—”

“No need,” Boone said.

Anger sparked through Trace. “Sam Caliguari.”

“He’s close, West.” For Boone’s face to telegraph the concern Trace felt was not a good sign. Things had progressed beyond a salvageable situation. “What do you want to do?”

“He has to be dealt with.”

“Arrest? Persuasive negotiation?”

“Whatever it takes.”

“Hey!” Excitement snapped through Houston’s voice. “Look! Ballenger. . .” His eyes were wide as he stared at the monitor.

Trace moved toward him. “What?”

“Ballenger left a message. I have that voice-to-text on that number Annie and Téya left with Hollister. Ballenger just left a message on it.”

“What’s it say?” Boone asked.

“He says he’ll meet them—but in. . .75004 Place. . .” Houston’s voice trailed off as his fingers took over. “It’s a hotel. Hôtel-de-Ville, Paris.”

“Paris?”

Trace and Boone looked toward the lounge area where Téya stood, watching them. How long had she been there? “Ballenger left a message agreeing to meet—but in Paris.”

Téya crossed her arms as she drew closer. “That’s intriguing. Kellie Hollister had an invitation on her desk for a benefit gala—for HOMe. In Paris.”

“When?” Traced asked.

“The twenty-fourth.”

“Friday,” Boone said, meeting Trace’s gaze. “Think we have time?”

“Seriously?” Téya said with a cheeky grin. “I’m going to Paris, right?”

Nuala and Annie emerged from the bunk rooms. “Who’s going to Paris?”

The town had its charm, its history, and its more than fair share of historic homes. And narrow streets. But that’s about all Frankie would give it. Though it wasn’t her speed—
especially
with the 25 mph
speed limit through the blink-and-you-miss-it-downtown—Leesburg held one benefit: it wasn’t a big city, so finding Trace Weston should be easier than trying to track him down in a place like DC or New York.

After making a couple of rounds through the congested downtown, she headed north on King Street and back onto the country roads she’d given chase to the always-scowling Weston. The man even looked mean with that knot line between his intense greenish eyes. Thin lips always in a flat line didn’t help.

What would he look like if he smiled?

“Probably scare off any nearby children,” she muttered as she kept a slow, normal pace through the countryside, her gaze constantly to the side. Silently, she begged the deer to stay off the roads so she could stay
on
the road.

Frankie explored a few side roads that she hoped would lead her to some hidden, secret facility. His hideout. Brushing her black hair from her face, she groaned. “Where are you hiding, Trace Weston? It’s not like you’re Batman and have a bat cave.”

Or did he? Well, not a
cave with bats
.
But some underground place.

She sure hoped not. If he was underground, she’d never find him. Not without access to some serious satellites and technology. Neither of which she had access to since she still didn’t have a job.

“ ‘Extended leave of absence,’ ” she mimicked what her boss told her over the phone. “ ‘Take time. Rest. Recover. Get a clear mind.’ ” Frankie rolled her eyes as she guided her Toyota Camry rental off the dirt road. Her tires caught purchase on the cement and pulled her onward. She made her way to the Village of Lucketts and turned right onto Old Lucketts Road past the antique shop. She eased her car around the slight bend and pulled into the volunteer fire station.

She parked out of the way and headed inside.

“Can I help you?” a voice called from the side of the building.

Frankie turned, her long black hair whipping into her face as she spotted a man wiping his greasy hands on a rag, the hood of a car engine up behind him. “Yeah, I’m looking for—”

“Prius.”

Confused, then stunned as well as markedly embarrassed, Frankie stood mute.

He grinned, tucking the grease rag in his back pocket. “I’m Landon R—”

Air brakes hissed on the road, a large delivery truck breaking for the sharp curve before the stoplight, startling Frankie and momentarily drawing her attention from the man. When she glanced back, he was holding out his clean hand. “I was the EMT on duty that day.”

Color heated her cheeks. “Not my most shining moment.”

He grinned, his blue-green eyes sparkling in the morning sun. “Just glad to see you up walking around after an accident like that.”

“You and me both.” She tucked her hair behind her ear. “Hey, I was wondering. . .did you ever find out who called in my accident?”

He shrugged, pursing his lips. “I never went looking.” Landon studied her for a few seconds, then thumbed toward the building. “There a reason you’re asking?”

Think fast, Frankie.
“Well. . .”
A little faster.
“Remember you’d mentioned I pulled myself clear of the fire?”

He gave a slow nod.

“I didn’t—in fact, I think someone pulled me out.”

Landon gave a low whistle. “Ah, I see—and you want to thank this hero for coming to your rescue.”

Relief flooded Frankie that she didn’t have to add any lies to this dialogue. “You understand.”

“Well, the police report would log whoever was on scene.”

“Yeah, it didn’t list anyone, but I wondered. . .would the 911 record list who called in the accident?”

“Well, it’d give the number if it was open, but it’s not uncommon for a number to be blocked. That would’ve shown up on the report, too.” He thumbed toward the building. “But we can ask Irene.”

Hope lit through her. She had to play dumb about Trace’s name for now. Landon led her inside and found the dispatcher, Irene. The woman had very short hair, cut stylishly. But her stocky build and fierce disposition made Frankie’s insides churn.

“Hey, Irene. This is the lady whose car flipped and caught fire last week. Is there a record of who called it in? She wants to thank them. Can you check to see who called in the accident?”

“Now, Landon, you know full well that would’ve shown up on the report.”

“But what if it didn’t?” Frankie asked, trying to insert herself and stop Landon from getting in any trouble or perpetuating lies.

A skeptical look flitted through Irene’s tough expression. “If a call was made, it’d be logged, whether from an identified, listed number, or a blocked number.”

“Blocked?” Frankie repeated.

“Yeah, some people have to block their numbers for security reasons.”

“The report didn’t mention a call at all.”

Irene frowned. “That’s unusual. Let me see. . .” She turned to her computer and started typing. “What date?”

“Eleven May,” Frankie said.

A few more keystrokes and Irene’s gaze darted over the monitor. “Okay, yep—here it is. A 911 call came in at 2:08 pm from. . .” She sat back and smiled at them. “A blocked number.”

“And there’s no way to find out who it belonged to?”

“Oh, there’s a way,” Irene said, “but you’d need a compelling reason to go digging through the phone records. And that’s not something I can do here.”

Disappointment slowed Frankie’s pulse and pushed her shoulders down. “Oh. Right.” She managed a fake smile. “Of course. Thank you for looking.”

“Sure, no—”

A voice squawked through the radio and Irene turned abruptly away from them.

Landon leaned in, and Frankie knew this was her time to exit.

“Well, thank you both.”

Back in her car, she sat there staring at the dash. She did
not
crawl out of that car on her own. She was certain of that. She’d checked the bottom of her shoes and saw the scuff marks that would only come from being dragged across pavement.

Did Trace pull me out?

“Ha,” she said with no small amount of sarcasm. “He’d throw me
in,
not pull me out!”