Seal Team Ten

by Brockmann, Suzanne

  "What?" Rio hooted. "I thought you wanted to know about being a SEAL?"

  "This is related to this assignment," she explained. "Just hear me out. You're a woman, and you turn around to find a man wearing panty hose on his head in your apart­ment in the middle of the night."

  "You tell him, 'no darling, that shade of taupe simply doesn't work with your clothing.'" Rio laughed at his joke.

  "You want me to kill him or muzzle him?" Thomas King asked.

  "Rosetti, I'm serious here," Syd said. "This has hap­pened to eleven women. There's nothing funny about it. Maybe you don't understand because you're not a woman, but personally I find the thought terrifying. I saw this guy. He was big—about Thomas's size."

  "Flee," Mike Lee said.

  "But what if you can't?" Syd asked. "What if there's no place to run? If you're trapped in your own apartment by a known rapist? Do you fight? Or do you submit?"

  Silence.

  Submit. The word made Lucky squirm. He stepped into the room. "Fight," he said. "How could you do anything but fight?"

  The three other men agreed, Rio pulling his boots down off the table and sitting up a little straighter.

  Syd glanced up at him, her brown eyes subdued.

  "But we're not women," Rio said with a burst of wis­dom and insight. "We're not even men anymore."

  "Hey, speak for yourself," Thomas said.

  "I mean, we're more than men," Rio countered. "We're SEALs. Well, almost SEALs. And with the training I've had, I'm not really afraid of anyone—and I'm not exactly the biggest guy in the world. Most women haven't got ei­ther the training or the strength to kick ass in a fight with a guy who outweighs 'em by seventy pounds."

  Lucky looked at Syd. She was wearing a plain T-shirt with her trademark baggy pants, sandals on her feet instead of her boots. Sometime between last night and this morn­ing, she'd put red polish on her toenails.

  "What would you do?" he asked her, taking a doughnut from the box that was open on the table. "Fight or..." He couldn't even say it.

  She met his gaze steadily. "I've been going through the interviews with the victims, looking for a pattern of vio­lence that correlates to their responses to his attack. A ma­jority of the women fought back, but some of them didn't. One of them pretended to faint—went limp. Several others say they froze—they were so frightened they couldn't move. A few others, like Gina, just cowered."

  "And?" Lucky said, dragging a chair up to the table.

  "And I wish I could say that there's a direct relationship between the amount of violence the rapist inflicted on the victim and the amount that she fought back. In the first half-dozen or so attacks, it seemed as if the more the woman fought, the more viciously he beat her. And there were actually two cases where our perp walked away from women who didn't fight back. As if he didn't want to waste his time."

  "So then it makes sense to advise women to submit,” Lucky figured.

  "Maybe at first, but I'm not so sure about that anymore, His pattern's changed over the past few weeks." Syd scowled down at the papers in front of her. "We have eleven victims, spanning a seven-week period. During those seven weeks, the level of violence our guy is using to dom­inate his victims has begun to intensify."

  Lucky nodded. He'd overheard Syd and Lucy discussing this several nights ago.

  "Out of the six most recent victims, we've had four who fought back right from the start, one who pretended to faint, and Gina, the most recent, who cowered and didn't resist. Out of those six, Gina got the worst beating. Yet—go figure—the other woman who didn't resist was barely touched."

  "So if you fight this guy, you can guarantee you'll be hurt," Lucky concluded. "But if you submit, you've got a fifty-fifty chance of his walking away from you."

  "And a chance of being beaten within an inch of your life," Syd said grimly. "Keep in mind, too, that we're mak­ing projections and assumptions based on six instances. We'd really need a much higher number of cases to develop any kind of an accurate pattern."

  "Let's hope we don't get that opportunity," Mike Lee said quietly.

  "Amen to that," Thomas King seconded.

  "I still think, knowing that, I would recommend zero resistance," Lucky said. "I mean, if you had a shot at this guy just walking away..."

  "That's true." Syd chewed on her lower lip. "But ac­tually, there's more to this—something that puts a weird spin on the situation. It has to do with, um..." She glanced almost apologetically at the other men. "Ejaculation."

  Rio stood up. "Whoops, look at the time. Gotta go."

  Syd made a face. "I know this is kind of creepy," she said, "but I think it's important you guys know all the details."

  "Sit," Lucky ordered.

  Rio sat, but only on the edge of his seat.

  "Actually, Lieutenant," Mike said evenly, "we've got a required class in five minutes. If we leave now, we'll be on time." He looked at Syd. "I assume you'll be writing a memo about...this for the other members of the task force...?"

  Syd nodded.

  "There you go," Rio said with relief. "We'll read all about it in your memo."

  All three men stood up, and Lucky felt a surge of panic, They were going to go, leaving him alone with Syd, who wanted to discuss... Yikes. Still, what was he supposed to say, "no, you can't go to class?"

  "Go," he said, and they all nearly ran out the door.

  Syd laughed. "Well," she said, "I sure know how to clear a room, don't I?" She raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure you don't want to follow them, Lieutenant? Read about this in my memo instead?"

  Lucky stood up to pour himself a cup of coffee from the setup by the door. He had to search for a mug that was clean, and he was glad for the excuse to keep his back to her. "Nothing about this assignment has been pleasant. So if you think this is something I need to hear..."

  "I do."

  Lucky poured himself a cup of coffee, then, taking a deep breath, he turned to face her. He carried it back to the table and sat down across from her. "Okay," he said, "Shoot."

  "According to the medical reports, our man didn't.., shall we say, achieve sexual completion, unless the woman fought back," Syd told him.

  Oh, God.

  "We need to keep in mind," she continued, "the fact that rape isn't about sex. It's about violence and power, Domination. Truth is, many serial rapists never ejaculate at all. And in fact, out of these eleven cases of rape, we've got only four instances of sexual, um, completion. Like I said, all of them occurred when the victim fought back, or—and this is important—when the victim was forced to fight back."

  "But wait. You said a majority of the victims fought back." Lucky leaned forward. "Couldn't he have been wearing a condom the other times?"

  "Not according to the victims' statements." Syd stood up and started to pace. "There's more, Luke, listen to this. Gina said in her interview that she didn't resist. She cow­ered, and he hit her, and she cowered some more. And then, she says he spent about ten minutes trashing her apartment. I went in there. The place looked like there'd been one hell of a fight. But she didn't fight back.

  "I'm wondering if this guy was trying to simulate the kind of environment in which the victim has fought back, in an attempt to achieve some kind of sexual release. When he went back to Gina after he tore the place up, he kicked the hell out of her, but she still didn't do more than curl into a ball—and, if my theory's right, she therefore didn't give him what he wanted. So what does he do? He's angry as hell and he tears at her clothes, but she still doesn't resist. So he grabs her by the throat and starts squeezing. Bingo. Instant response. She can't breathe—she starts struggling for air. She starts fighting. And that does the trick for him, maybe that plus the sheer terror he can see in her eyes, because now, you know, she thinks he's going to kill her. He achieves sexual completion, inflicts his final moment of pain upon her by burning her, then leaves. The victim's still alive—this time."

  Oh, God.

  "It's really just a matter of time before he s
queezes someone's throat too hard, or for too long, and she dies," Syd continued grimly. "And if taking a life gives him the right kind of rush—and it's hard to believe that it won't— he'll have transitioned. Serial rapist to serial killer. We al­ready know he's into fear. He likes terrorizing his victims. He likes the power that gives him. And letting someone know she's going to die can generate an awful lot of terror for her and pleasure for him."

  Syd carried her half-empty mug to the sink and tossed the remnants of her coffee down the drain. "Fight or sub­mit," she said. "Fighting gives him what he wants, but gets you a severe beating. Still, submitting pisses him off. And it could enrage him enough to kill."

  Lucky threw his half-eaten doughnut into the trash can, feeling completely sick. "We've got to catch this guy."

  "That," Syd agreed, "would be nice."

  Chapter 7

  Luke O'Donlon was waiting when Syd pulled up.

  "Is she alive?" she asked as she got out of her car.

  The quiet residential area was lit up, the street filled with police cars and ambulances, even a fire truck. Every light was blazing in the upscale house.

  Luke nodded. "Yes."

  "Thank God. Have you been inside?"

  He shook his head. "Not yet. I took a...walk around the neighborhood. If he's still here, he's well hidden. I've got the rest of the team going over the area more carefully."

  It was remarkable, really. When Syd had received Luke's phone call telling her Lucy had just called, that there'd been another attack, she'd been fast asleep. She'd quickly pulled on clothes, splashed water on her face and hurried out to her car. She felt rumpled and mismatched, slightly off-balance and sick to her stomach from exhaustion and fear that this time the attacker had gone too far.

  Luke, on the other hand, looked as if he'd been grimly alert for hours. He was wearing what he'd referred to before as his summer uniform—short-sleeved, light fabric—defi­nitely part of the Navy Ken clothing action pack. His shoes were polished and his hair was neatly combed. He'd even managed to shave, probably while he was driving over. Or maybe he shaved every night before he went to bed on the off chance he'd need to show up somewhere and be pre­sentable at a moment's notice.

  "Is the victim...?"

  "Badly beaten," he said tersely.

  As if on cue, a team of paramedics carried a stretcher from the house, one of them holding an IV bag high. The victim was strapped down, her neck in a brace. She was carried right past them—the poor woman looked as if she'd been hit by a truck, both eyes swollen shut, her face sav­aged with bruises and cuts.

  "God," Luke breathed.

  It was one thing to read about the victims. Even the horror of photographs was one step removed from the vi­olence. But seeing this poor woman, a mere hour after the attack...

  Syd knew the sight of that battered face had brought the reality of this situation home to the SEAL in a way nothing else could have.

  "Let's go inside," she said.

  Luke was still watching the victim as she was gently loaded into the ambulance. He turned his head toward Syd almost jerkily.

  Uh-oh. "You okay?" she asked quietly.

  "God," he said again.

  "It's awful, isn't it? That's pretty much what Gina looked like," she told him. "Like she'd gone ten rounds with a heavyweight champ on speed. And what he did to her face is the least of it."

  He shook his head. "You know, I've seen guys who were injured. I've helped patch up guys who've been in combat. I'm not squeamish, really, but knowing that some one did that to her and got pleasure from it..." He took a deep breath and blew it out hard. "I'm feeling a lit­tle...sick."

  He'd gone completely pale beneath his tan. Oh, boy, un­less she did something fast, the big tough warrior was going to keel over in a dead faint.

  "I am, too," Syd said. "Mind if we take a minute and sit down?" She took his arm and gently pulled him down next to her on the stairs that led to the front door, all but pushing his head down between his knees.

  They sat there in silence for many long minutes after the ambulance pulled away. Syd carefully kept her eyes on the activity in the street—the neighbors who'd come out in their yards, the policemen keeping the more curious at a safe distance—looking anywhere but at Luke. She was aware of his breathing, aware that he'd dropped his head slightly in an attempt to fight his dizziness. She took many steadying breaths herself—but her own dizziness was more from her amazement that he could be affected this com­pletely, this powerfully.

  After what seemed like forever, she sensed more than saw Luke straighten up, heard him draw in one last deep breath and blow it out in a burst.

  "Thanks," he said.

  Syd finally risked a glance at him. Most of the color had returned to his face. He reached for her hand, loosely lacing her fingers with his as he gave her a rueful smile. "That would've been really embarrassing if I'd fainted."

  "Oh," she said innocently, "were you feeling faint, too? I know I'm not taking enough time to eat right these days, and that plus the lack of sleep...."

  He gently squeezed her hand. “And thanks, also, for not rubbing in the fact that right now I'm the one slowing you down."

  "Well, now that you mention it...."

  Luke laughed. God, he was good-looking when he laughed. Syd felt her hands start to sweat. If she hadn't been light-headed before, she sure as hell was now.

  "Let's go inside," Luke said. "Find out if this guy left a calling card this time."

  Syd gently pulled her hand free as she stood up. "Wouldn't that be nice?"

  "Mary Beth Hollis..." Detective Lucy McCoy told Syd over the phone "...is twenty-nine years old. She works in San Diego as an administrative assistant to a bank presi­dent."

  Syd was sitting in the airless office at the naval base, entering the information about the latest victim into the computer. "Single?" she asked.

  "Recently married."

  Syd crossed her fingers. "Please tell me her husband works here at the base..." She had a theory about the vic­tims, and she was hoping she was right.

  But Lucy made the sound of the loser button. "Sorry," she said. "He works in legal services at the same bank."

  "Her father?"

  "Deceased. Her mother owns her own flower shop in Coronado."

  Syd didn't give up. "Brothers?"

  "She's an only child."

  "How about her husband. Did he have any brothers or sisters in the Navy?"

  Lucy knew where she was going. "I'm sorry, Syd, Mary Beth has no family ties to the base."

  Syd swore. That made her theory a lot less viable.

  "But..." Lucy said.

  Syd sat up. "What? You've got something?"

  "Don't get too excited. You know the official police and FInCOM position—"

  "That the fact that eight out of twelve victims are con­nected to the base is mere coincidence?" Syd said a most indelicate word. "Where's the connection with Mary Beth?"

  "It's a stretch," Lucy admitted.

  "Tell me."

  "Former boyfriend. And I mean former. As in nearly ancient history. Although Mary Beth just got married, she's been living with her lawyer for close to four years. Way before that, she was hot and heavy with a captain who still works as a doctor at the military hospital. Captain Steven Horowitz."

  Syd sighed. Four years ago. That was a stretch.

  "Still think there's a connection?" Lucy asked.

  "Yes."

  Lucky poked his head in the door. “Ready to go?''

  Like Syd, he'd been working nonstop since last night's late-night phone call about the most recent attack. But un­like Syd, he still looked crisp and fresh, as if he'd spent the afternoon napping rather than sifting through the re­maining personal files of the men on the naval base.

  "I gotta run," Syd told Lucy. "I'm going back to the hypnotist, see if I noticed any strange cars parked in front of my house on the night Gina was attacked. Wish me luck."

  "Good luck," Lucy said. "If you co
uld remember the license-plate number, I'd be most appreciative."

  "Yeah, what are the odds of that? I don't even know my own plate number. Later, Lucy." Syd hung up the phone, saved her computer file and stood, trying to stretch the kinks out of her back.

  "Anything new turn up?" Lucky asked as they started down the hall.

  "Four years ago, Mary Beth Hollis—victim twelve— used to date a Captain Horowitz."

  "Used to date," he repeated. He gave her a sidelong glance. "You're working hard to keep your theory alive, eh?"

  "Don't even think of teasing me about this," Syd coun­tered. "Considering all the women who lived in San Felipe and Coronado, it couldn't be coincidence that nine out of twelve victims were related to someone who worked at the base. There's a connection between these women and the base, I'm sure of it. However, what that connection is..." She shook her head in frustration. "It's there—I just can't see it. Yet," she added. "I know I'm close. I have this feeling in my..." She broke off, realizing how ridiculous she sounded. She had a feeling....

  “In your gut?'' he finished for her.

  "Okay." She was resigned. "Go ahead. Laugh at me. I know. It's just a crazy hunch."

  "Why should I laugh at you," Luke said, "when I be­lieve that you're probably on to something?" He snorted. "Hell, I'd trust your hunches over FInCOM's any day."

  He wasn't laughing. He actually believed her.

  As Syd followed Lieutenant Lucky O'Donlon out into the brilliant afternoon, she realized that over the past few days, something most unlikely had occurred.

  She and Navy Ken had actually started to become friends.

  Syd opened her eyes and found herself gazing up at an unfamiliar ceiling in a darkened room. She was lying on her back on a couch and...

  She turned her head and saw Dr. Lana Quinn's gentle smile.

  "How'd l do?" she asked.

  Lana made a slight face and shook her head. "A 'dark, old-model sedan' was the best you could come up with. When I asked you what make or model, you said ugly. You didn't see the plates—not that anyone expected you to— but I have to confess I'd hoped."

  "Yeah, me, too." Syd tiredly pulled herself up into a sitting position. "I'm not a car person. I'm sorry—" She looked around. “Where's Luke?''