Free Operation Zulu Redemption: Collateral Damage - Part 1 by Ronie Kendig Page A

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 cold-hearted 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.
    Rustling fabric drew him around. He stuffed out a hand to Rusty and gave a nod. “How you holding up?”
    “Good,” Rusty said, his voice low but not a whisper. He held up a book. “Keeping the brain busy.” He raised his eyebrows toward the TV hanging in the opposite corner. “News, History Channel, and Military Channel fill in the gaps when things get too quiet.”
    “They have that up here?”
    Rusty smirked. “Not hardly. I rig up my iPad to the TV and stream via my Wi-Fi.” He lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “INSCOM’s footing the bill since I’m tasked on guard.”
    “Smart man.” Boone hauled in a deep breath and shifted his gaze to the woman who’d stolen his heart years ago. “When you come back to the bunker, you’ll have to show us how to do that. All we get is soaps and the public access channel.”
    Rusty’s expression faltered.
    Boone tilted his head. “What?”
    Rusty glanced down at the book. “I’m. . .” He squared his shoulders. “I’m not coming back.” Bending the edges of the book together, he seemed sheepish. A description Boone never would have connected to Rusty. “I told Trace I can’t do this. Not again.”
    “But the girls—the team. We need you.” Boone surveilled the hall beyond the windows as he talked. “They’re in real danger. Someone’s hunting them. We need your help—”
    “No.” Rusty lowered his head. “I did it once, Boone. But after what happened, after those children. . .” He gave two long swags of his head. “I just can’t go there again.”
    Boone wanted to wrap his fingers around the guy’s neck and squeeze till he saw straight. Saw right. “You’re bailing on them.”
    Rusty met his gaze evenly. “I gave my notice. You don’t have to worry—I’m here. I’ll watch over Keeley. But after she’s gone”—when Boone reacted, Rusty held up a hand—“
discharged,
I meant. When she’s discharged, I’m out.”
    “Never saw you for chicken.” Boone couldn’t keep the snarl or the anger from his voice.
    “Honestly,” Rusty said, his blue eyes sparked with determination, “me either. Misrata changed things. . .changed me. Decision’s been made.”
    Did he need to remind the guy he’d signed