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

from Annie, more than ready to end that conversation. “Weston.”
    “Colonel, it’s Baker. You’ve got trouble headed your way.”
    Trace pivoted toward the hidden room. “What’ve you got?”
    “You have military intelligence heading your way, Colonel. Might want to vacate. They just left here.”
    “How long?” Standing in front of the window, Trace eyed the street.
    “Ten mikes,” Baker said even as three black vehicles slid around the corner.
    Trace hung up. “Boone!”
    “Yeah?” he called from inside, but the sound of crunching told him Boone was moving.
    “Company!”
    “What about all this. . .stuff?”
    “Tear it down,” Trace said, remembering the Styrofoam boards Jessie had mounted all her research to. “Take it with us.”
    “Uh,” Houston whined. “I need at least fifteen minutes to get the systems packed and—”“You have two,” Trace warned, watching as the task force assembled by the vehicles. He turned to Annie and Téya. “You’re smaller. Get in there and pull that stuff down.” He unholstered his weapon and moved to the window.
    Boone stalked across the apartment to the kitchenette. There, he dumped the trash on the floor and stalked back to the room with the can. He packed it with items from the space. “Move, move, move,” Boone said. “We’re eating time, people.”
    In the walls, Trace heard the grunts and clenched his teeth as the task force streamed up the sidewalk and into the building.
    “They’re inside,” Trace called. “Out, now!”
    Téya appeared with three boards stacked. Annie crawled out, dragging a stack of boards that Nuala slid toward her.
    “Window,” Trace whispered, pointing to the window that looked out on the fire escape.
    Nuala emerged with a stack of papers in her hands, and Boone all but pushed her out.
    “Quiet, quiet,” Trace hissed.
    Even with the relative silence they operated under, they might as well have had a bullhorn. As Annie and Téya slipped out the window, Trace heard movement in the stairwell. He hurried to the door and peered through the peephole.
    A tactical team swarmed up the stairs like a disturbed anthill. He bit back a curse.
    He glanced over his shoulder and waved Nuala toward the window. Three down. Now Boone bent to pick up the bin—and Trace saw into 312. “Close the panel!” he hissed.
    Hands full, Boone hesitated.
    Trace threw himself around the big guy and eased the panel back into place. Even as the soft snap of the plywood resetting, he heard feet moving on the other side.
    Boone muttered an oath.
    Trace held out a hand, silencing him. Then gave him a questioning look.
    “Bible,”
Boone mouthed.
    Trace closed his eyes. The Bible had Boone’s name in it. A clear connection to them. Trace waved him out, toward the window, giving him a signal not to worry about it.
    “That’s so strange,” a woman’s voice—the landlady!—filtered through the wall. “I never saw them leave. Oh, wait. Maybe you should check 313. They asked about her, and while I haven’t seen Miss Heller in weeks, maybe she was there. They might be chatting.”
    This time the curse slipped free.
    Boone gave him a wide-eyed look.
    Trace waved him out. Backed up two steps. Gently pulled the closet door closed. Tugged the clothes back into place.
    Houston was half out, dragging a box of computer stuff.
    “Back,” Trace gave a stiff whisper.
    Confused and sweating, Houston frowned. “But—”
    “
Back!
”
Trace forced him back by pushing in after him, dragging a shoe box up to the corner with him as he did.
    Behind him, Houston dropped something.
    “
Quiet!
” For a second, Trace thought of killing the guy. He had a better chance of surviving without a green grunt like the geek. But that wasn’t an option.
    Several thuds against the door stiffened Trace’s spine as he worked to tug the panel back into place. Only it wouldn’t budge.
    “How strange. Would you like to see inside? I’m really—this just doesn’t make