Читать книгу: «Get Lucky»

SUZANNE BROCKMANN lives just west of Boston in a house always filled with her friends—actors and musicians and storytellers and artists and teachers. When not writing award-winning romances about U.S. Navy SEALs, among others, she sings in an a cappella group called SERIOUS FUN, manages the professional acting careers of her two children, volunteers at the Appalachian Benefit Coffeehouse and always answers letters from readers. Send her an SASE along with your letter to P.O. Box 5092, Wayland, MA 01778.

CONTENTS

Cover

Back Cover Text

Dear Reader

Title Page

Dedication

Acknowledgements

About the Author

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

PROLOGUE

It was like being hit by a professional linebacker.

The man barreled down the stairs and bulldozed right into Sydney, nearly knocking her onto her rear end.

To add insult to injury, he mistook her for a man.

“Sorry, bud,” he tossed back over his shoulder as he kept going down the stairs.

She heard the front door of the apartment building open and then slam shut.

It was the perfect end to the evening. Girls’ night out—plural—had turned into girl’s night out—singular. Bette had left a message on Syd’s answering machine announcing that she couldn’t make it to the movies tonight. Something had come up. Something that was no doubt, six-foot-three, broad-shouldered, wearing a cowboy hat and named Scott or Brad or Wayne.

And Syd had received a call from Hilary on her cell phone as she was pulling into the multiplex parking lot. Her excuse for cancelling was a kid with a fever of one hundred and two.

Turning around and going home would have been too depressing. So Syd had gone to the movie alone. And ended up even more depressed.

The show had been interminably long and pointless, with buff young actors flexing their way across the screen. She’d alternately been bored by the story and embarrassed, both for the actors and for herself, for being fascinated by the sheer breathtaking perfection of their bodies.

Men like that—or like the football player who’d nearly knocked her over—didn’t date women like Sydney Jameson.

It wasn’t that she wasn’t physically attractive, because she was. Or at least she could be when she bothered to do more than run a quick comb through her hair. Or when she bothered to dress in something other than the baggy shirts and loose-fitting, comfortable jeans that were her standard apparel—and that allowed the average Neanderthal rushing past her down the stairs to mistake her for a man. Of course, she comforted herself, the dimness of the 25-watt bulbs that the landlord, Mr. El Cheap-o Thompkins, had installed in the hallway light fixtures hadn’t helped.

Syd trudged up the stairs to the third floor. This old house had been converted to apartments in the late 1950s. The top floor—formerly the attic—had been made into two units, both of which were far more spacious than anyone would have thought from looking at the outside of the building.

She stopped on the landing.

The door to her neighbor’s apartment was ajar.

Gina Sokoloski. Syd didn’t know her next-door neighbor that well. They’d passed on the stairs now and then, signed for packages when the other wasn’t home, had brief conversations about such thrilling topics as the best time of year for cantaloupe.

Gina was young and shy—not yet twenty years old—and a student at the junior college. She was plain and quiet and rarely had visitors, which suited Syd just fine after living for eight months next door to the frat boys from hell.

Gina’s mother had come by once or twice—one of those tidy, quietly rich women who wore a giant diamond ring and drove a car that cost more than Syd could make in three very good years as a freelance journalist.

The he-man who’d barrelled down the stairs wasn’t what Syd would have expected a boyfriend of Gina’s to look like. He was older than Gina by about ten years, too, but this could well be more proof that opposites did, indeed, attract.

This old building made so many weird noises during the night. Still, she could’ve sworn she’d heard a distinctly human sound coming from Gina’s apartment. Syd stepped closer to the open door and peeked in, but the apartment was completely dark. “Gina?”

She listened harder. There it was again. A definite sob. No doubt the son of a bitch who’d nearly knocked her over had just broken up with Gina. Leave it to a man to be in such a hurry to be gone that he’d leave the door wide open.

“Gina, your door’s unlatched. Is everything okay in here?” Syd knocked more loudly as she pushed the door open even farther.

The dim light from the hallway shone into the living room and…

The place was trashed. Furniture knocked over, lamps broken, a bookshelf overturned. Dear God, the man hurrying down the stairs hadn’t been Gina’s boyfriend. He’d been a burglar.

Or worse…

Hair rising on the back of her neck, Syd dug through her purse for her cell phone. Please God, don’t let Gina have been home. Please God, let that funny little sound be the ancient swamp cooler or the pipes or the wind wheezing through the vent in the crawl space between the ceiling and the eaves….

But then she heard it again. It was definitely a muffled whimper.

Syd’s fingers closed around her phone as she reached with her other hand for the light switch on the wall by the door. She flipped it on.

And there, huddled in the corner of her living room, her face bruised and bleeding, her clothing torn and bloody, was Gina.

Syd locked the door behind her and dialed 911.

CHAPTER 1

All early-morning conversation in Captain Joe Catalanotto’s outer office stopped dead as everyone turned to look at Lucky.

It was a festival of raised eyebrows and opened mouths. The astonishment level wouldn’t have been any higher if Lieutenant Luke “Lucky” O’Donlon of SEAL Team Ten’s Alpha Squad had announced he was quitting the units to become a monk.

All the guys were staring at him—Jones and Blue and Skelly. A flash of surprise had even crossed Crash Hawken’s imperturbable face. Frisco was there, too, having come out of a meeting with Joe and Harvard, the team’s senior chief. Lucky had caught them all off guard. It would’ve been funny—except he wasn’t feeling much like laughing.

“Look, it’s no big deal,” Lucky said with a shrug, wishing that simply saying the words would make it so, wishing he could feel as nonchalant as he sounded.

No one said a word. Even recently promoted Chief Wes Skelly was uncharacteristically silent. But Lucky didn’t need to be telepathic to know what his teammates were thinking.

He’d lobbied loud and long for a chance to be included in Alpha Squad’s current mission—a covert assignment for which Joe Cat himself didn’t even know the details. He’d only been told to ready a five-man team to insert somewhere in Eastern Europe; to prepare to depart at a moment’s notice, prepare to be gone for an undetermined amount of time.

It was the kind of assignment guaranteed to get the heart pumping and adrenaline running, the kind of assignment Lucky lived for.

And Lucky had been one of the chosen few. Just yesterday morning he’d done a victory dance when Joe Cat had told him to get his gear ready to go. Yet here he was, barely twenty-four hours later, requesting reassignment, asking the captain to count him out—and to call in some old favors to get him temporarily assigned to a not-so-spine-tingling post at the SEAL training base here in Coronado, effective ASAP.

Lucky forced a smile. “It’s not like you’ll have trouble replacing me, Captain.” He glanced at Jones and Skelly who were both practically salivating at the thought of doing just that.

The captain gestured with his head toward his office, completely unfooled by Lucky’s pretense at indifference. “You want to step inside and tell me what this is all about?”

Lucky didn’t need the privacy. “It’s no big secret, Cat. My sister’s getting married in a few weeks. If I leave on this assignment, there’s a solid chance I won’t be back in time.”

Wes Skelly couldn’t keep his mouth shut a second longer. “I thought you were heading down to San Diego last night to read her the riot act.”

Lucky had intended to. He’d gone to visit Ellen and her alleged fiancé, one geeky college professor by the name of Gregory Price, intending to lay down the law; intending to demand that his twenty-two-year-old baby sister wait at least another year before she take such a major step as marriage. He’d gone fully intending to be persuasive. She was impossibly young. How could she be ready to commit to one man—one who wore sweaters to work, at that—when she hadn’t had a chance yet to truly live?

But Ellen was Ellen, and Ellen had made up her mind. She was so certain, so unafraid. And as Lucky had watched her smile at the man she was determined to spend the rest of her life with, he’d marveled at the fact that they’d had the same mother. Of course, maybe it was the fact they had different fathers that made them such opposites when it came to commitment. Because, although Ellen was ready to get married at twenty-two, Lucky could imagine feeling too young to be tied down at age eighty-two.

Still, he’d been the one to give in.

It was Greg who had convinced him. It was the way he looked at Ellen, the way the man’s love for Lucky’s little sister shone in his eyes that had the SEAL giving them both his blessing—and his promise that he’d be at the wedding to give the bride away.

Never mind the fact that he’d have to turn down what was shaping up to be the most exciting assignment of the year.

“I’m the only family she’s got,” Lucky said quietly. “I’ve got to be there for her wedding, if I can. At least I’ve got to try.”

The Captain nodded. “Okay,” he said. That was explanation enough for him. “Jones, ready your gear.”

Wes Skelly made a squawk of disappointment that was cut off by one sharp look from the senior chief. He turned away abruptly.

Captain Catalanotto glanced at Frisco, who worked as a classroom instructor when he wasn’t busy helping run the SEAL BUD/S training facility. “What do you think about using O’Donlon for your little project?”

Alan “Frisco” Francisco had been Lucky’s swim buddy. Years ago, they’d made it through BUD/S training together and had worked side by side on countless assignments—until Desert Storm. Lucky had been ready to ship out to the Middle East with the rest of Alpha Squad when he’d received word that his mother had died. He’d stayed behind and Frisco had gone—and gotten his leg nearly blown off during a rescue mission. Even though Frisco no longer came out into the field, the two men had stayed tight.

In fact, Lucky was going to be the godfather later this year when Frisco and his wife Mia had their first baby.

Frisco now nodded at the Captain. “Yeah,” he said. “Definitely. O’Donlon’s perfect for the assignment.”

“What assignment?” Lucky asked. “If it’s training an all-woman SEAL team, then, yes, thank you very much, I’m your man.”

There, see? He’d managed to make a joke. He was already starting to feel better. Maybe he wasn’t going out into the real world with Alpha Squad, but he was going to get a chance to work with his best friend again. And—his natural optimism returning—he just knew there was a Victoria’s Secret model in his immediate future. This was California, after all. And he wasn’t nicknamed Lucky for nothing.

But Frisco didn’t laugh. In fact, he looked seriously grim as he tucked a copy of the morning paper beneath his arm. “Not even close. You’re going to hate this.”

Lucky looked into the eyes of the man he knew better than a brother. And he didn’t have to say a word. Frisco knew it didn’t really matter what his buddy did over the next few weeks. Everything would pale beside the lost opportunity of the assignment he’d passed up.

Frisco gestured for him to come outside.

Lucky took one last look around Alpha Squad’s office. Harvard was already handling the paperwork that would put him temporarily under Frisco’s command. Joe Cat was deep in discussion with Wes Skelly, who still looked unhappy that he’d been passed over yet again. Blue McCoy, Alpha Squad’s executive officer, was on the phone, his voice lowered—probably talking to Lucy. He had on that telltale frown of concern he wore so often these days when he spoke to his wife. She was a San Felipe police detective, involved with some big secret case that had the usually unflappable Blue on edge.

Crash sat communing with his computer. Jones had left in a rush, but now he returned, his gear already organized. No doubt the dweeb had already packed last night, just in case, like a good little Boy Scout. Ever since the man had gotten married, he hurried home whenever he had the chance, instead of partying hard with Lucky and Bob and Wes. Jones’s nickname was Cowboy, but his wild and woolly days of drinking and chasing women were long gone. Lucky had always considered the smooth-talking, good-looking Jones to be something of a rival both in love and war, but he was completely agreeable these days, walking around with a permanent smile on his face, as if he knew something Lucky didn’t.

Even when Lucky had won the spot on the current team—the spot he’d just given up—Jones had smiled and shaken his hand.

The truth was, Lucky resented Cowboy Jones. By all rights, he should be miserable—a man like that—roped into marriage, tied down with a drooling kid in diapers.

Yeah, he resented Cowboy, no doubt about it.

Resented, and envied him his complete happiness.

Frisco was waiting impatiently by the door, but Lucky took his time. “Stay cool, guys.”

He knew when Joe Cat got the order to go, the team would simply vanish. There would be no time spent on farewells.

“God, I hate it when they leave without me,” he said to Frisco as he followed his friend into the bright sunshine. “So, what’s this about?”

“You haven’t seen today’s paper, have you?” Frisco asked.

Lucky shook his head. “No, why?”

Frisco silently handed him the newspaper he’d been holding.

The headline said it all—Serial Rapist Linked to Coronado SEALs?

Lucky swore pungently. “Serial rapist? This is the first I’ve heard of this.”

“It’s the first any of us have heard of this,” Frisco said grimly. “But apparently there’s been a series of rapes in Coronado and San Felipe over the past few weeks. And with the latest—it happened two nights ago—the police now believe there’s some kind of connection linking the attacks. Or so they say.”

Lucky quickly skimmed the article. There were very few facts about the attacks—seven—or about the victims. The only mention of the women who’d been attacked was of the latest—an unnamed 19-year-old college student. In all cases, the rapist wore a feature-distorting pair of panty hose on his head, but he was described as a Caucasian man with a crew cut, with either brown or dark blond hair, approximately six feet tall, muscularly built and about thirty years of age.

The article focused on ways in which women in both towns could ensure their safety. One of the tips recommended was to stay away—far away—from the U.S. Navy base.

The article ended with the nebulous statement, “When asked about the rumored connection of the serial rapist to the Coronado naval base, and in particular to the teams of SEALs stationed there, the police spokesman replied, ‘Our investigation will be thorough, and the military base is a good place to start.’

“Known for their unconventional fighting techniques as well as their lack of discipline, the SEALs have had their presence felt in the towns of Coronado and San Felipe many times in the past, with late-night and early-morning explosions often startling the guests at the famed Hotel del Coronado. Lieutenant Commander Alan Francisco of the SEALs could not be reached for comment.”

Lucky swore again. “Way to make us look like the spawn of Satan. And let me guess just how hard—” he looked at the top of the article for the reporter’s name “—this S. Jameson guy tried to reach you for comment.”

“Oh, the reporter tried,” Frisco countered as he began moving toward the jeep that would take him across the base to his office. Lucky could tell from the way he leaned on his cane that his knee was hurting today. “But I stayed hidden. I didn’t want to say anything to alienate the police until I had the chance to talk to Admiral Forrest. And he agreed with my plan.”

“Which is…?”

“There’s a task force being formed to catch this son of a bitch,” Frisco told him. “Both the Coronado and San Felipe police are part of it—as well as the state police, and a special unit from FInCOM. The admiral pulled some strings, and got us included. That’s why I went to see Cat and Harvard. I need an officer I can count on to be part of this task force. Someone I can trust.”

Someone exactly like Lucky. He nodded. “When do I start?”

“There’s a meeting in the San Felipe police station at 0900 hours. Meet me in my office—we’ll go down there together. Wear your whites and every ribbon you’ve got.” Frisco climbed behind the wheel of the jeep, tossing his cane into the back. “There’s more, too. I want you to hand-pick a team, and I want you to catch this bastard. As quickly as possible. If the perp is a spec-warrior, we’re going to need more than a task force to nail him.”

Lucky held on to the side of the jeep. “Do you really think this guy could be one of us?”

Frisco shook his head. “I don’t know. I hope to hell he’s not.”

The rapist had attacked seven women—one of them a girl just a little bit younger than his sister. And Lucky knew that it didn’t matter who this bastard was. It only mattered that they stop him before he struck again.

“Whoever he is,” he promised his best friend and commanding officer, “I’ll find him. And after I do, he’s going to be sorry he was born.”

* * *

Sydney was relieved to find she wasn’t the only woman in the room. She was glad to see that Police Detective Lucy McCoy was part of the task force being set up this morning, its single goal: to catch the San Felipe Rapist.

Out of the seven attacks, five had taken place in the lower-rent town of San Felipe. And although the two towns were high-school sports-team rivals, this was one case in which Coronado was more than happy to let San Felipe take the title.

They’d gathered here at the San Felipe police station ready to work together to apprehend the rapist.

Syd had first met Detective Lucy McCoy last Saturday night. The detective had arrived on the scene at Gina Sokoloski’s apartment clearly pulled out of bed, her face clean of makeup, her shirt buttoned wrong—and spitting mad that she hadn’t been called sooner.

Syd had been fiercely guarding Gina, who was frighteningly glassy-eyed and silent after the trauma of her attack.

The male detectives had tried to be gentle, but even gentle couldn’t cut it at a time like this. Can you tell us what happened, miss?

Sheesh. As if Gina would be able to look up at these men and tell them how she’d turned to find a man in her living room, how he’d grabbed her before she could run, slapped his hand across her mouth before she could scream, and then…

And then that Neanderthal who had nearly run Syd down on the stairs had raped this girl. Brutally. Violently. Syd would’ve bet good money that she had been a virgin, poor shy little thing. What an awful way to be introduced to sex.

Syd had wrapped her arms tightly around the girl, and told the detectives in no uncertain terms that they had better get a woman down here, pronto. After what Gina had been through, she didn’t need to suffer the embarrassment of having to talk about it with a man.

But Gina had told Detective Lucy McCoy all of it, in a voice that was completely devoid of emotion—as if she were reporting facts that had happened to someone else, not herself.

She’d tried to hide. She’d cowered in the corner, and he hit her. And hit her. And then he was on top of her, tearing her clothing and forcing himself between her legs. With his hands around her throat, she’d struggled even just to breathe, and he’d…

Lucy had quietly explained about the rape kit, explained about the doctor’s examination that Gina still had to endure, explained that as much as Gina wanted to, she couldn’t take a shower. Not yet.

Lucy had explained that the more Gina could tell her about the man who’d attacked her, the better their chances were of catching him. If there was anything more she could report about the words he’d spoken, any little detail she may have left out….

Syd had described the man who nearly knocked her over on the stairs. The lighting was bad. She hadn’t gotten a good look at him. In fact, she couldn’t even be sure that he wasn’t still wearing the nylon stocking over his face that Gina had described. But she could guess at his height—taller than she was, and his build—powerful—and she could say for a fact that he was a white male, somewhere between twenty-five and thirty-five years of age, with very short, crew-cut hair.

And he spoke in a low-pitched, accentless voice. Sorry, bud.

It was weird and creepy to think that a man who’d brutalized Gina would have taken the time to apologize for bumping into Syd. It was also weird and creepy to think that if Syd had been home, she might have heard the noise of the struggle, heard Gina’s muffled cries and might’ve been able to help.

Or, perhaps Syd might’ve been the victim herself.

Before they’d headed over to the hospital, Gina had loosened her grip on the torn front of her shirt and showed Lucy and Syd a burn. The son of a bitch had branded the girl on her breast, in what looked like the shape of a bird.

Lucy had stiffened, clearly recognizing the marking. She’d excused herself, and found the other detectives. And although she’d spoken in a lowered voice, Syd had moved to the door so she could hear.

“It’s our guy again,” Lucy McCoy had grimly told the other detectives. “Gina’s been burned with a Budweiser, too.”

Our guy again. When Syd asked if there had been other similar attacks, Lucy had bluntly told her that she wasn’t at liberty to discuss that.

Syd had gone to the hospital with the girl, staying with her until her mother arrived.

But then, despite the fact that it was three o’clock in the morning, there were too many unanswered questions for Syd to go home and go to sleep. As a former investigative reporter, she knew a thing or two about finding answers to unanswered questions. A few well-placed phone calls connected her to Silva Fontaine, a woman on the late-night shift at the hospital’s Rape Counseling Center. Silva had informed Syd that six women had come in in half as many weeks. Six women who hadn’t been attacked by husbands or boyfriends or relatives or co-workers. Six women who had been attacked in their own homes by an unknown assailant. Same as Gina.

A little research on the Internet had turned up the fact that a budweiser wasn’t just a bottle of beer. U.S. Navy personnel who went through the rigorous Basic Underwater Demolition Training over at the SEAL facility in nearby Coronado were given a pin in the shape of a flying eagle carrying a trident and a stylized gun, upon their entrance into the SEAL units.

This pin was nicknamed a budweiser.

Every U.S. Navy SEAL had one. It represented the SEAL acronym of sea, air and land, the three environments in which the commando-like men expertly operated. In other words, they jumped out of planes, soaring through the air with specially designed parachutes as easily as they crawled through jungle, desert or city, as easily as they swam through the deep waters of the sea.

They had a near-endless list of warrior qualifications—everything from hand-to-hand combat to high-tech computer warfare, underwater demolition to sniper-quality marksmanship. They could pilot planes or boats, operate tanks and land vehicles.

Although it wasn’t listed, they could also, no doubt, leap tall buildings with a single bound.

Yeah, the list was impressive. It was kind of like looking at Superman’s resume.

But it was also alarming.

Because this superhero had turned bad. For weeks, some psycho Navy SEAL had been stalking the women of San Felipe. Seven women had been brutally attacked, yet there had been no warnings issued, no news reports telling women to take caution.

Syd had been furious.

She’d spent the rest of the night writing.

And in the morning, she’d gone to the police station, the freelance article she’d written for the San Felipe Journal in hand.

She’d been shown into Chief Zale’s office and negotiations had started. The San Felipe police didn’t want any information about the attacks to be publicized. When Zale found out Syd was a freelance reporter, and that she’d been there at the crime scene for hours last night, he’d nearly had an aneurism. He was convinced that if this story broke, the rapist would go into deep hiding and they’d never apprehend him. The chief told Syd flatly that the police didn’t know for certain if all seven of the attacks had been made by the same man—the branding of the victim with the budweiser pin had only been done to Gina and one other woman.

Zale had demanded Syd hold all the detailed information about the recent attacks. Syd had countered with a request to write the exclusive story after the rapist was caught, to sit in with the task force being formed to apprehend the rapist—provided she could write a series of police-approved articles for the local papers, now warning women of the threat.

Zale had had a cow.

Syd had stood firm despite being blustered at for several hours, and eventually Zale had conceded. But, wow, had he been ticked off.

Still, here she was. Sitting in with the task force.

She recognized the police chief and several detectives from Coronado, as well as several representatives from the California State Police. And although no one introduced her, she caught the names of a trio of FInCOM Agents, as well. Huang, Sudenberg and Novak—she jotted their names in her notebook.