Carol Ericson - Alpha Bravo Seal

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 a heavy cape.

Four people on that film crew, four people held hostage by Somali pirates, four people rescued by the Navy SEALs, two of those people dead eighteen months later, one missing and...her. Was this just some bizarre twist of fate, claiming the lives of people who should’ve died a year and a half ago? That sort of stuff only happened in horror movies.

The man across the street made a move, and she peered into the darkness as he emerged from beneath the awning and loped down the sidewalk. Her eyes followed him until the night swallowed him whole at the end of the block.

She huffed out a breath and drew the drapes. She’d planned an extended stay in New York while her mother hit Europe for the fashion shows—starting with Paris in March and winding up with Rome in July. Maybe she should get a bodyguard.

Nicole turned and surveyed the office of the lavishly furnished Upper East Side apartment where her mother had lived for years. It wasn’t like she couldn’t afford a 24/7 bodyguard.

A bodyguard for what? Who could possibly have it in for a documentary film crew that hadn’t even managed to release the movie about the underground feminist movement in Somalia? The women they’d met had reason to fear for their lives, but after the kidnapping their translator had gone into hiding and the rest of them had scattered, abandoning the project.

Nicole hadn’t even seen the footage Lars had shot—and it must’ve been good if he’d mentioned it to his brother. As talented as he was, Lars wasn’t one to puff out his chest.

She planted herself in front of her computer again, and her fingers flew across the keyboard in a desperate search for Dahir Musse. She’d lobbied to get Dahir out of Somalia after the kidnapping incident, but even her mother’s political connections hadn’t been able to get the job done.

If they had, would Dahir be alive today instead of missing in action? Or would he be just as dead as Giles and Lars? Just as dead as she might be?

* * *

THE NEXT MORNING, heavy eyed and yawning, Nicole sucked down the rest of her smoothie and tossed the cup in the trash can on her way back to the counter.

Skye raised her eyebrows. “Ready for another?”

“Just a shot of wheatgrass. If I hope to get in even two miles today, I need a little energy.”

“You look tired. Late night at the clubs?”

“I wish.” She swept up the little paper cup Skye had placed before her and downed the foul-tasting liquid in one gulp. Then she crushed the cup in her hand. “See ya.”

Skye waved as Nicole pushed out the door of the shop. Leaning forward, she braced her foot on the side of the building to tie the loose laces of her running shoe. She caught a movement out of the corner of her eye—a man walking on the sidewalk across the street.

She bent over farther but slid her gaze sideways to watch the tall, lean guy lope down the block—lope. He had a distinctive rangy, loose-limbed gait, one she’d seen in the wee hours of the morning across the street from her building.

Narrowing her eyes, she watched his back, the sun gleaming off his blond hair. Now that she’d confirmed Lars’s death, her paranoia was going into overdrive. The man hadn’t looked at her once, and he certainly wasn’t following her.