Alpha Bravo Seal

She crooked her finger. “Follow me, but no more stalling.”

Was that what he was doing? He had to admit, he didn’t want to be the bearer of bad news—and he had bad news for Nicole Hastings.

The little dog jumped into the chair he was eyeing, so he followed Nicole’s swaying hips, the Lycra of her leggings hugging every gentle line of her body. She was thin, but curved in and out in all the right places.

As she passed a granite island in the center of the kitchen, she kicked the leg of a stool tucked beneath the counter. “Have a seat.”

She yanked open the door of the fridge. “I have water, sparkling water, iced tea, juice, soda, beer and a 2008 Didier Dagueneau sauvignon blanc—a very good year.”

Was she trying to show off, or did that stuff just roll from her lips naturally? “Sparkling water, please.”

She filled two glasses with ice and then set them down in the middle of the island. The bottle with a green and yellow label hissed as she twisted off its lid, and the liquid fizzed and bubbled when it hit the ice.

She shoved a glass toward him. “Now that the formalities are over, let’s get to the main event.”

“You don’t mess around, do you?”

“I didn’t think you’d be one to mess around, either, the way you dropped that pirate who had me at gunpoint.”

“This is different.” He took a sip of the water, the bubbles tickling his nose. “You know that Giles Wentworth died in a car accident last February?”

“Went off the road in Scotland.”

“A few weeks ago, Lars Rasmussen committed suicide—took an overdose of pills.”

“I know that.” She hunched over the counter, drilling him with her green eyes. “What I want to know is the location and general health of Dahir Musse.”

He took a bigger gulp of his drink than he’d intended, and it fizzed in his nose. He wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand. “You’ve already connected the dots.”

“I don’t know if I’ve connected any dots, but Giles has driven on some incredibly dangerous roads without getting one scratch on the car, and Lars was about the least depressed person I know. Girl trouble?” She snorted, her delicate nostrils flaring. “He had a woman in every port, literally.”

Had she been one of those women?

The thought had come out of left field, and Slade took a careful sip of his water. “So, you already have a suspicion the deaths of your friends weren’t coincidental.”

“It’s not just that.” She caught a drip of condensation on the outside of her glass with the tip of her finger and dragged it back to the rim. “You said you’ve been here in New York just a few days?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve had a feeling of being watched and followed for about two weeks now, ever since I heard rumors about Lars.”

“Anything concrete?”

“Until I caught you going through my mailbox? No.”

Heat crawled up his face to the roots of his hair. He’d tried to tell the brass he’d be no good at spying.

“You still haven’t told me what you’re doing here and why you were going through my mail.”

“Someone who monitors these things—our rescues, I mean—noticed the deaths. This guy raised a red flag because there was a hit stateside on another person our team had rescued—a doctor who’d helped us out in Pakistan. That proved to be related to terrorist activity in the region.”

She’d folded her hands around the glass, her white knuckles the only sign of tension. “You’re telling me that someone is after the four of us? Do you know where Dahir Musse is?”

“We don’t know where he is, and I can’t tell you for sure that someone is out to get your film crew, but I’m here to find out.”

“A Navy SEAL operating in the US? Isn’t that illegal or something?”

“Not exactly, but it is top secret. I’m not really here.” He pressed a finger to his lips. “I am sorry about the loss of your friends.”

“Thanks.” Her chest rose and fell as the corner of her mouth twitched. “Giles’s mother called to tell me about the accident. At the time, I figured it was just that—an accident. Then a few weeks ago, I started hearing rumors that Lars had killed himself. That’s about the time I started feeling watched. I put it down to paranoia at first, but the feelings got stronger. Then I verified Lars’s death last night with his brother and seriously freaked out, especially since I saw you lurking across the street at two in the morning.”

“Sorry about that. What were you doing up at two o’clock?”

“Working.”

“Did you ever release that documentary? I looked for it but never saw anything about the movie.”

Her eyes widened. “We never finished the film. We were all shaken up after the kidnapping and moved on to other projects—with other people.”

“The film was about Somali women, right?”

“About Somali women and the underground feminist movement there—dangerous stuff.”

He scratched the stubble on his chin. “That might be enough to get you killed.”

“Maybe, but why now? We never finished the film, never discussed finishing it. I never even got my hands on the footage.” She swirled her glass, and the ice tinkled against the side. “Are you here to figure out what’s going on?”

“I’m here to...make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

“To me.”

“To you.”

“I have no idea why someone would be after us now. Why weren’t we killed in Somalia if someone wanted to stop the film?”

“Our team of snipers stopped that from happening.”

“Do you think that’s why the pirates kidnapped us? I thought they were going for ransom. That’s what they told us, anyway.”

“The pirates patrolling those waters are usually working for someone else. They could’ve been hired to stop you and then once they were successful decided to go rogue and trade you for ransom money instead.”

She waved her arms out to her sides. “We’re in the middle of New York City. Do you know how crazy that sounds?”

“As crazy as it sounds in the middle of some Scottish highland road or in some posh district of Copenhagen.”

“Do you have people looking for Dahir?”

“We do, but there’s also the possibility that Dahir is working with the other side.”

She landed a fist on the granite. “Never. I tried to get him and his family out of Somalia. His life wasn’t going to be worth much there after that rescue on the high seas. He’d become a target in Mogadishu even before Giles and Lars died.”

“Tell me more about your feelings of being followed. Do you have any proof? Any evidence?” He watched her over the edge of his glass as he drained it.

Her instincts had been right about him following her, so she could be onto something. She might be a pampered rich girl, but she’d spent time in some of the most dangerous places in the world—and had survived.

“No hard evidence—a man on the subway who seemed to be following me, a persistent guy at a club one night, a jogger who kept turning up on the same trails in the park.”

He studied her face with its high cheekbones, patrician nose and full lips and found it hard to believe she hadn’t experienced persistent guys in clubs before. “These were all different men?”

“All different. I can’t explain it. It’s a general creep factor. I know you think because I come from a privileged background I don’t have any street smarts, but I’ve been in some rough areas around the world. We do have to keep our wits about us or wind up in hot water.”

“I believe you. I looked you up online.” He wouldn’t tell her that he’d researched Nicole Hastings long before he’d gotten this unusual assignment. She might start feeling a general creep factor about him.

“Who sent you here? The Navy?”

“I’m reporting directly to my superior officer in the Navy, but it goes beyond that. I’m also reporting to someone from the intelligence community—someone named Ariel.”

“Why would the intelligence community be interested in a couple of documentary filmmakers getting into trouble with some Somali pirates?”

“I doubt a bunch of ragtag pirates have the reach and connections to commit two murders in Europe and make them look like accidents.”

“So, the CIA or the FBI or whoever thinks our situation is linked to something or someone else?”

“Could be.”

She tapped a manicured fingernail on his glass. “Do you want more water?”

“No, thanks.”

As she tipped a bit more in her own glass, she said, “What did you hope to find in my mail, anyway?”

“I’m not sure. I’m a sniper, not a spook. I was just checking out what I could.”

“And what did you discover other than a request from Harvard?” She moved out of the kitchen with the grace of a gazelle and swept the mail from a table where she’d dropped it.

Hunching forward on his stool, he said, “Nothing. I wasn’t lying when I told you I didn’t have a chance to look through it all.”

She returned, shuffling through the large stack of envelopes and mailers. “Bills, junk, junk, bills, postcard from my mom, who’s the only one I know who still sends them instead of texting pictures. More bills...”

Her face paled as she plucked an envelope from the fanned-out pieces of mail.

“What is it?”

“It’s a letter from Lars—from beyond the grave.”

Chapter Three

Nicole held the thin envelope between two fingers, fear pulsing through every fiber of her being, her mouth suddenly dry.

Slade launched from his stool and hovered over her shoulder. “How do you know it’s from Lars? There’s no return address, and it definitely wasn’t sent from Denmark.”

“I’d recognize his chicken scratch anywhere.” She flicked the postmark with her fingernail. “New York, not Denmark.”

“Was he in the city?”

“Not that I know of, but then, I haven’t even been here a month.”

“Are you going to open it or stare at it for a while?”

He was practically breathing down her neck, so she took a few steps to her left. She ripped into the envelope, and a single sheet of white paper fluttered to the counter.

As Slade reached for it, she snatched it up and squinted at it. “His handwriting always was atrocious.”

“Do you want me to try?”

“It says—” she plastered the note against the granite and ran her finger beneath the squiggle of words “—‘I instructed my friend to mail this letter to you if anything happens to me.’”

She gasped and covered her mouth. “He knew.”

“Go on.” Slade rapped his knuckle on the counter next to the paper, clearly impatient for her to continue.

She wanted to read this in private, shed tears in her own way. But Slade was here to help. He’d saved her once, from a ramshackle boat in the Gulf of Aden, and she’d trust him in a heartbeat to do it again.

She took a deep breath and started reading. “‘It’s the film, Nic. Somebody wants that film we shot in Somalia. I gave it to my friend in New York and told him where to hide it, and I’m putting out the word that the footage was damaged during the hijacking of our boat. Maybe they’ll leave me alone. Maybe they’ll leave us alone. If nothing happens and you never get this note, I’ll put it down to paranoia and we’ll retrieve that footage and make a hell of a documentary. If I die, don’t look for it, and watch your back. Whatever happens, it was great working with you, Nic.’”

A spasm of pain crumpled her face, and one hot tear dripped from her eye, hitting the back of her hand and rolling off to create a splotch on the paper. “Oh, my God. He must’ve known someone was after him, too.”

“Who’s this friend?” With his middle finger, Slade slid Lars’s note toward his side of the counter. He studied the words on the page as if they could tell him more than what she’d just read.

“He didn’t mention the friend’s name.” She flipped the envelope back over and ran her thumb across the postmark again. “It was mailed two days ago, so his friend must’ve waited to send it, unless he just learned of Lars’s death.”

“Do you know Lars’s friends in New York?”

“I met a few of them, but just casually at a dinner once and then at a party in SoHo.”

“Was the party given by one of his friends?”

“I think it was, but this was a few years ago. These were people I didn’t know, so they must’ve been his friends.”

“We need to find this guy.” He smacked the note on the counter and drilled his knuckle into the middle of it.

“Maybe we shouldn’t.” She threaded her fingers in front of her and then couldn’t stop twisting them. “Maybe I should keep spreading the story that the footage was damaged and unusable.”

“Because that story worked so well for Lars?”

“If they hear it from both me and Lars and they didn’t find the film when they...killed Lars or Giles, maybe they’ll believe it this time.”

“If someone is looking for that footage, it must be important.”

“Important?” She pressed the sweating glass against her cheek, hoping the cold moisture would bring her out of this nightmare. “It was footage of interviews with Somali women discussing education and property rights. I understand how that might mean something to the men in Mogadishu and the towns and villages where these women live, but I can’t see those men traveling to Denmark or Scotland to carry out a hit to retrieve the footage.”

“It must be something else, something one of the women said. Lars and Giles were murdered for a specific reason, not just because a few men were upset about the women’s rights movement in Somalia.”

She turned her back on Lars’s note and put the bottled water back in the fridge. “I can’t imagine what our interview subjects could’ve said that would get us in trouble—or how anyone would even know what they said.”

“You conducted the interviews in private?”

“Of course we did. Those women were risking their lives talking to us.”

“Who arranged the meetings?”

“Dahir. He was our translator as well as our facilitator. I tried to get him out.” She rubbed the back of her hand across her tingling nose. “But the US government was uncooperative.”

“The Navy has a hard time resettling people who help us out. I’m sure it’s even more difficult for journalists to get their people out.” He picked up the note and waved it at her. “We need to find out who sent this note for Lars and get him to turn over the film.”

“I don’t have any contact info for his friends here.”

“What about that party? Do you remember where it was? Do you have any pictures? C’mon, people take pictures of their food. There must be something online. Social media sites?”

She snapped her fingers. “Lars was always filming at parties. It got pretty annoying, actually. He might’ve shared some video with me.”

“That’s a start.”

“Follow me.” She scooted past him out of the kitchen and crossed the living room to the small office she used when staying with Mom. Chanel woke up and trotted after them.

Leaning over the desk, Nicole shifted her mouse to wake up her computer and launched a social media site.

“How long ago was this party?” Slade crouched in front of the desk so the monitor was at his eye level.

“About two years ago, six months before we left for Somalia.” She scrolled through the pictures on the left-hand side of her page, hoping Slade wasn’t paying attention to all the pics of her and her exes—and she had a bunch. “Video, video.”

“Wow, someone could follow your whole life on here. You should be careful.”

The hair on the back of her neck quivered. Anyone would know she ran in Central Park, hung out with two of her best friends in Chelsea, visited a former professor at NYU. She’d opened up her life for any stranger to track her. It hadn’t seemed to matter...before.

Her heart skipped a beat. “Here! This is it.”

As Slade scooted in closer to the monitor, Nicole clicked on the video Lars had sent her of the party. She turned up the volume on her computer, and party sounds filtered from the speakers—voices, laughter, music, clinking glasses.

Slade poked at the screen. “That’s you. Giles is behind you, right?”

She nodded and sniffled when she saw Giles’s wife wrap her arms around him from behind. “That’s his wife, Mila.”

The camera shifted to three people crowded together on a love seat. “Do you know them? The man? Lars referred to his friend with a masculine pronoun, so we know it’s a guy.”

“He and the two women are Lars’s friends. He’s not the owner of the loft, though. That would be...” The camera swung wide, taking in two women and a man dancing and giggling with drinks in their hands. “This guy. Paul something. He’s Danish, also.”

“Paul something, Danish guy who lives in a loft in SoHo. We can start there.”

She ripped a piece of paper from a pad and grabbed a pen. “Paul, Dane, SoHo.”

“Shh.” He covered her writing hand with his. “Can you go back? Someone’s shouting out names.”

She clicked and dragged back the status bar on the video and released. In a singsong voice with slightly accented English, a man called out. “Go, Trudy, go, Teresa, go, Lundy.”

Closing her eyes, Nicole said, “That’s Lars.”

“I’m assuming those are the dancers. Is his name Paul or Lundy? Or is Lundy his last name?”

Her lids flew open. “It’s Lund. It’s Paul Lund. I remember now. He’s an artist, a photographer.”

Slade aimed the pen at her. “Write that down. What about the other guys? The guy on the sofa with the two women? The guy behind the bar?”

“I don’t remember, but if we listen to the sound we might be able to pick up more names.”

They kept so quiet, Nicole could hear Slade breathing beside her. She tilted her head to concentrate on the individual voices amid the chatter. She heard her own name several times, but that was natural.

Slade grabbed her wrist. “Davey. Did you hear that?”

She replayed the previous several seconds of the video and heard Lars’s voice. “Davey, Davey, make it strong.”

“You’re right. That could be Dave or David. Lars always had a nickname for everyone, and I think he’s talking to the guy pouring drinks.”

“Okay, so we have Lars, Giles, Paul Lund and Davey.” He took up the pen and scribbled the new name on the piece of paper. “There are two more men at the party—the black guy and the short one with the long hair. Do you remember them?”

“I don’t remember their names. The white guy has an English accent. Can you hear him? That’s not Giles.” She played more of the video for him.

“Guy with English accent.” Slade wrote it down. “And the other man?”

“The African-American could be an artist—sculptor, maybe. It was a very artsy bunch.” She made a noise in the back of her throat when the video ended. “That’s it.”

“I think we went from nothing to something pretty fast, and it should be easy to locate Paul Lund.”

“Then what?” She slumped in the chair and massaged the back of her neck.

“We’ll find out what Lars did with that film. You know—” he’d been crouching beside her all this time and now he stood up, rolling his broad shoulders forward and back “—we keep calling this film or footage, but what physical form does it take?”

“I’m not sure. Lars used a digital camera, so he could’ve copied it to any storage device. It’s not online, though, or he would’ve mentioned that.”

“Then it’s small enough to be hidden anywhere.” He gestured to the computer. “Can you find Paul Lund now?”

She scooched to the edge of her chair and flexed her fingers. A few keystrokes later, Paul Lund’s website filled the screen, displaying photos of nude people—in groups.

Slade whistled. “Interesting. That’s not what you all did at the party, is it?”

She rolled her eyes at him. “How could I forget he took pictures of naked people? Maybe he was doing something different two years ago.”

“Yeah, these are—unforgettable. Is there an address for a gallery or contact information?”

“It doesn’t look like he’s big enough for a whole gallery, but there’s an email address and telephone number at the bottom of the page.”

“Call him.”

“Me? What should I say? I haven’t seen him in two years.”

“Start with the truth. Ask him if he heard about Lars and see if he’ll talk to you.”

As she reached for the cell phone she’d brought with her into the office, Slade tapped her forearm. “Put it on speaker so I can hear, too.”

She entered the number in her phone and listened to it ring. She shrugged at Slade when Lund’s voice mail picked up.

“You’ve reached Paul Lund. Please leave a message with your name, number and photograph number that interests you.”

“Paul, this is Nicole Hastings. I’m a friend of Lars Rasmussen, and I wanted to talk to you about him. Please call me back as soon as possible.”

She left her number and ended the call. “I hope he’s in town.”

Slade jerked a thumb at a picture of several people holding hands in a circle—sans clothing. “I don’t think he needs to leave the city to find people willing to take their clothes off for art.”

“I suppose not.” She wrinkled her nose at the photo. “Should I contact you when he calls me back?”

“I’ll wait.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Here?”

“I’m staying at a hotel in Times Square. I’m not going all the way back there.”

“Should we—I mean, do you want something to eat? It’s after noon.”

“I can just run out and get something.”

Suddenly the thought of Slade Gallagher walking out that door and leaving her alone in this apartment gave her a jolt of terror. Someone had killed Giles, Lars and possibly Dahir. Was she next? Finding Lars’s footage and turning it over to this Navy SEAL might be the only thing to save her life.

Unless...the guys who killed her friends found the film first. Would they leave her alone then? What about the women she’d interviewed? If the film got into the wrong hands, those women could be murdered—or worse. Whether or not the people after that footage wanted it to ID the women or not, their exposure would just be an added benefit. She owed it to the women who’d trusted her with their stories to retrieve Lars’s film.

“How about it? Do you want me to get something for you, too?”

She glanced up at Slade, framed by the office door, Chanel wriggling in his arms. “We can eat here. My mom’s housekeeper, Jenny, thinks it’s her duty to keep the fridge stocked.”

“You sure?” He rubbed Chanel behind the ear. The dog immediately stopped squirming and got the most blissful look on her face. Slade must have some magic hands.

Nicole blinked. “Of course, but I don’t think Chanel’s going to ever leave you alone.”

“Not generally a little dog fan, but she’s won me over.”

“Looks like the feeling is mutual.” Nicole took a step toward the door, but her phone stopped her. She looked at the display. “It’s Paul.”

She tapped the phone to put it on speaker and answered. “Hello?”

“Is this Nicole Hastings?” He had a more pronounced accent than Lars’s, but not by much.

“Yes, Paul?”

“I got your message, and of course I’d heard about Lars. Damnedest thing. I had no idea he was suicidal. Did you? It wasn’t that whole pirate thing you went through, was it?”

She raised one eyebrow at Slade. “Absolutely not. I’m finding his suicide hard to believe. Had you talked to him recently?”

“No, but I do have something for you.”

“You do?” She placed a steadying hand over her heart. “What is it?”

“I’d rather show you. You’re in the city?”

“Yes.”

“Can you come by my studio this afternoon? It’s at my loft, where I had the party. Do you remember it?”

“I do, but not the address.”

Paul gave her the address of his loft studio, and they agreed to meet there in an hour.

When she ended the call, she cupped the phone in her hands. “That was easy. He’s just going to turn it over to me.”

“Let’s hope so, and then we have to figure out why it warranted the deaths of two, possibly three, people.” He set Chanel on the floor, and she promptly flopped over on her side.