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