Alpha Bravo Seal. Carol Ericson
for this assignment had made clear that this rescue didn’t involve a cargo ship. This time the Somali pirates had captured a documentary film crew. Idiots.
Not that Slade couldn’t understand the thrill of risk taking, but he preferred risks that pitted him against a big wave or a cave on the ocean floor, not desperate men in desperate situations.
The negotiator waved his arm once and shifted his body to the right, giving the SEAL snipers their first signal and a clear view of all four pirates. Slade licked the salt from his lips and coiled his muscles. He adjusted the aim on his M107.
The snipers had to drop their targets at the same time—or risk the lives of the hostages. He tracked back to the pretty brunette, now scooping her hair into a ponytail with one hand and tilting her head away from her captor. Good girl.
Had the negotiators been able to hint to the hostages that a team of Navy SEAL snipers was on the boat drifting off their starboard and watching their every move? It didn’t matter. The men on deck would make their best assessment and the snipers would take action.
It wouldn’t be pretty. That tall drink of water would suffer some blood spatter—but at least it wouldn’t be her own. He’d make sure of that.
The other negotiator held both hands out in supplication, the final signal, and Slade set his timer to five seconds. He murmured along for the count. “Five, four, three, two...”
He took the shot. All four pirates jerked at once in a macabre dance and fell to the deck.
Slade inched his scope to the woman he’d just saved. She hadn’t fainted dead away, screamed or jumped up and down. She formed an X over her chest with her blood-spattered arms, looked down at the dead pirate and spit on his body.
Hauling back his sniper rifle, Slade shook his head.
That was one crazy chick—just his type.
Eighteen months later
A sick feeling rose in Nicole’s gut as she skimmed the online article. The rumor was true. She hunched forward, reading aloud. “‘Freelance cameraman Lars Rasmussen was found dead of an apparent suicide in his parents’ home in the Hellerup district of Copenhagen.’”
She stopped reading and slumped in her chair. “No way.”
Lars, with his sunny smile and scruffy goatee, wasn’t even acquainted with the word depression.
Nicole grabbed her cell phone and scrolled through her contacts. Lars had picked his brother, Ove, as his emergency contact, and she’d kept all of those numbers. Maybe she’d had a premonition.
She squinted at the time on her computer screen, hoping Ove was an early riser. She tapped his number, which already contained the international calling code for Denmark, and placed the call.
He picked up after two rings. “Hej.”
“Hello. Is this Ove Rasmussen?”
“Yes. Who’s this, please?” He’d switched to English seamlessly.
“This is Nicole Hastings. I worked with your brother, Lars, on a couple of projects.”
“Of course, Nicole. My brother mentioned you often.”
“I heard the news about his death, and I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am.” And to give you the third degree.
“Yes, yes. Thank you. It was a shock.”
“Was he? I mean, what...?” She closed her eyes and shoved a hand through her tangled hair. “What I mean to say is, I can’t believe Lars would take his own life.”
Ove drew in a sharp breath. “Yes, well, some girl trouble, a failed project.”
Ove didn’t know his brother very well if he thought a woman could send Lars over the edge, but she couldn’t argue with a bereaved family member.
She loosened her death grip on the phone. “I’m so sorry. He was a good guy and a helluva cameraman.”
“That’s how I know he must’ve been depressed.”
“How?” Her pulse ticked up a notch.
“When we...discovered his body, we couldn’t find any of his cameras in the house. He’d been staying with our parents after his last project, the one after the debacle in Somalia. He had been working on a local story about the Syrian refugees in Denmark.”
“His cameras? Why would he get rid of his cameras?”
Ove sighed across the miles. “I don’t know, Nicole. He mentioned you, though, a few weeks before he died. You were with him when you all got kidnapped in Somalia, right?”
“Yes.” Her pounding heart rattled her rib cage. “What did he say?”
“Just that he was sorry the film never got released, because he’d captured some amazing footage. He was thinking about contacting you about the project, reviving it, turning the film over to you.”
“He never did.” She tapped one fingernail on the edge of her laptop. “Did he happen to mention Giles Wentworth, too? He was another member of our film crew.”
“Giles. English guy, right?”
“That’s right.” Nicole held her breath.
“Not lately. I don’t think so. I don’t remember.”
“I was just wondering because... Giles passed away a few months ago.”
Ove spewed out a Danish word that sounded like an expletive. “Not suicide?”
“A car accident in Scotland.”
“That’s a shame. It would seem that story you were trying to capture in Somalia was bad luck.”
“It would seem so.” She bit her lip, toying with the phrasing of her next question. “D-did Lars—was he worried about anything before his death?”
“Just that woman.” He released a noisy breath. “I have to go to work now, Nicole. Thank you for calling.”
“Of course. My condolences again on your loss.”
“And, Nicole?”
“Yes?”
“It sounds like you need to be careful.”
When she ended the call, she folded her arms over her stomach, gripping her elbows. Ove had been referring to the coincidence of two of the film crew dying within months of each other, but Nicole wasn’t so sure it was a coincidence.
She pushed back from the desk and sauntered to the window overlooking the street below. Even at 2:00 a.m., taxis zipped to and fro, and the occasional pedestrian ambled along the sidewalk, two blocks up from Central Park.
Nicole caught her breath when she spied a figure under the green awning of the brownstone across the street, his pale face tilted toward her window. Twitching the drape, she stepped back and peered from the edge of its heavy folds.
She’d dimmed the lights in the apartment earlier, only the glow of her computer screen illuminating her workspace. Someone ten floors down wouldn’t be able to see her at the window.
Then why was her heart racing and her palms sweating? This was the first time she’d noticed a suspicious person outside her building, but not the first time in the past few months she’d felt watched, followed, spied upon.
Her fear had started, not just with news of Giles’s accident, but with his death along with her inability to reach Dahir, the Somali translator who’d been a part of their film crew. She still hadn’t located Dahir, and rumors swirling around Lars had sent her into a panic. Now that she’d confirmed Lars’s passing, a strange calm had settled about her shoulders like