Operation Zulu Redemption: Hazardous Duty - Part 3 by Ronie Kendig Page A

his throat. “Apparently, sir.” A quick look to Haym told Trace there were no ill feelings.
    “Well, I’ll tell you—Marlowe is out for blood.”
    Trace nodded.
    “Namely, yours.”
    Another nod. “Yes, sir. I believe he’s been after it for the last five years.”
    “What about the girls?”
    Trace hesitated, wishing now he’d accepted the offer for a glass of water. He didn’t talk openly about Zulu.
    “I have reports the one in the hospital isn’t doing well.”
    Something about this man having such credible, up-to-date information unsettled Trace.
    “And The Turk!” He guffawed. “Heavens have mercy—how on earth are you getting so tangled up in everything?”
    Trace shifted on the leather chair. Wasn’t this meeting to discuss the investigation? To prep Trace for what was to come? To warn him to keep his lips tight and his information tighter?
    “And what about that SEAL you had to wrangle into submission?” the general asked, snickering. “I would’ve paid money to see that go down.”
    “Holding his own, sir.” Irritation clawed its way up Trace’s spine and kept him from looking the general in the eye and giving away his anger.
    “And you?”
    Trace snapped his gaze to the general. “Sir?”
    “How are you holding up? It’s been one brutal mess.”
    “It has, sir.”
    “You have no family?”
    “Parents in an assisted living home.” Even if he’d told them, they’d never remember if he existed outside their confusion-trapped minds. “My sister makes sure they’re taken care of. My younger brother is in the military.”
    “But what about a love life? A dog? Best friend?”
    Trace frowned. Looked at Solomon, then back to the Army service chief. “Sir, I’m not sure that’s relevant.”
    “Of course it is,” Cantor barked, his amusement and lighthearted banter gone. “You just told me you have no family connections. Psychologist will tell the counsel that means you’re disconnected and have trouble forming healthy relationships. That information will turn you into a soldier with a thirst for blood to avenge the bad upbringing you had.”
    “I didn’t have a bad upbringing,” Trace snarled.
    “And your inability to form bonds also affects your leadership of the ultrasecret black ops team named Zulu.”
    Anger rising, Trace fought the tug of those demons. What was this? A trap?
    “Tell me, Colonel Weston, when was the last time you were with a woman?”
    Fury colored his world red. He punched to his feet. “That’s none of your concern.”
    “Of course it is. I need to know her name so I can talk to her, determine what kind of relationship you had. Determine how it ended—assuming it did end.” His gaze lingered on Trace, then he snorted. “Good. You don’t need to be dating right now anyway.”
    Heart crashing into his ribs, Trace fought to maintain his hold on the ultrathin line of control.
    “Do you make it a habit to be involved with women, potentially compromising the safety of classified information you’ve been trusted with? How many women have you slept with, Colonel?”
    “If it were any of your business, I’d tell you I hold marriage sacred, and when I utter those vows before God, it will be for one woman for the rest of my life.”
    “God.” His hazel eyes flashed. “So, you’re a religious zealot.” Cantor hadn’t slowed down. “You do realize that the military and government classify religious zealots as domestic terrorists.”
    Trace cursed.
    Cantor rose and met his gaze, steel to steel, his expression fierce. “Sit down, Mister Weston.”
    Trace couldn’t move. Didn’t trust himself to move.
    “You need to realize, Trace, that Marlowe is going to throw everything at you that he can. He’ll play dumb, play nice, then he’ll rip your heart out.” He pointed to the chair. “Sit down. Let me tell you what you’ve already revealed to me.”
    He didn’t dare ball his fists in front of the Army service chief, but every muscle in Trace