Bachelor SEAL (Sleeper SEALs Book 5)

by Sharon Hamilton

  “I think what you’re saying, Gibril, is that you think someday I’ll settle down and then want a family, correct?”

  “Yes. Perhaps my words were unfortunate choices.” He also sat up. She could see he was becoming edgy. “You are so different from all the women I’ve known and grown up with, Halley.”

  “In what way?” She still wasn’t looking at his face.

  “Well, in my culture—and I admit, parts of it are a throwback to some ancient times with archaic customs and beliefs—I was raised that when a woman shows you her body, she is telling you she is willing to bear you a child. Now, I don’t want that to sound—”

  “That sounds horrible. You don’t own me just because we’ve slept together. You mean to say that you expect now that I’ll want to have your children?”

  “No. I was just asking, Halley. Musing is all.” He touched her arm with his slender fingers, slid them down to her wrist, then pulled her hand toward his mouth, and gave her a tender kiss on the inside of her palm. “It is the highest form of compliment, sweet Halley. I mean this only out of the highest respect for you as a woman. Don’t let your Western values cloud what could be a beautiful experience.”

  Halley pulled her hand away and gulped in air, trying to calm her nerves. She was nearing a flashpoint. The other thing she didn’t like was that he was trying to convince her, seduce her to doing something she clearly wasn’t ready for. He was very good. Very subtle. But the underlying desire in his tone of voice was unmistakable. She decided to give him a little chance to clarify, just in case she’d gotten it wrong.

  “It’s true, Gibril. I am a Western woman, raised in a different culture, but I think we share the same values of hard work, honesty, giving our most to our fellow man. You help start-up business have a future by bringing capital and opportunity they wouldn’t have any other way. I bring ideas and a different way of thinking to women so they could perhaps enhance their own lives with those views. They do the work, but I give them the emotional capital. Don’t you see that? We both make the world a better place, a place of opportunity and success. A bright future.”

  “I see that. Sure. Point well-taken. But don’t you see bringing children into this world also as an opportunity?”

  “You mean take them on the road during my speaking engagements or letting someone else raise them?”

  “No, making a different choice for your future. A future as a mother and partner.”

  “And give up my business?”

  “When you are ready.”

  Halley adjusted her legs so they pulled around her, and she looked back at Gibril, who was sitting cross-legged with his hands folded in his lap, facing her. “And would you give up your business to raise a family? Do you think that someday you’d give it all up to become a father for your children?”

  Gibril smiled and examined his hands. Softly, he responded, “You’ve got me there, Halley. I do not think that way, at least not now.”

  “And that’s the same as me.” She could see he was struggling with her answers and the pointed question he couldn’t find the proper words for. She wondered how he could not know this about her. But the truth was painfully obvious. If there was to be a future between them, Gibril would require that she change.

  That just wasn’t going to happen.

  Chapter 7

  Morgan surveyed the empty plates—all twelve of them. They’d ordered extra servings of sausage and eggs, along with banana, chocolate chip, raspberry, and old fashioned buttermilk pancakes when Lambert told him he was on the team—on a restricted basis.

  The Commander looked green when he finally got up, grunted, made a run for the bathroom, and then returned, his color only slightly improved.

  “I can’t believe I did that. Damn, you frogs. I should have never accepted your invitation.”

  J.J. grinned, chewing on a toothpick. “You get all caught up in it, like three guys in a pissing contest. I think you won there, Commander.”

  “Feeding frenzy. Like on those zombie movies,” added Morgan.

  Lambert nearly headed for the bathroom again, but recovered enough to adjust his belt and give out a good belch. “Since I’m going to be absolutely miserable riding that transport back to Norfolk, along with God knows what kind of equipment smelling of gasoline, you two can split the tab. I’ll catch you for a dinner when this thing is all done.”

  “Thought your office was in D.C.,” Morgan asked.

  “I’m stopping in Norfolk on some Navy business. I’ll drive up later in the week.” He presented the bill to J.J. “All yours.”

  Lambert picked up his bag and briefcase.

  “I have some things I need to leave with you.” He leaned forward, craning his neck to peer down the hallway. “They still have that old phone room in the back?”

  “They sure do,” said J.J.

  “I’ll lead the way.” Morgan waved at a couple former Team guys from his group as they filed into the storage room. Off to the side was the padded phone room of WWII vintage that used to house four payphones. Numbers written on the wall were still four figure ones preceded by a name of a street or monument. The devices were long gone, but the door was still intact, so Lambert motioned for them to get inside, and he shut the collapsing plexiglass frame behind them.

  He pulled a large manila envelope out from his briefcase, placing it on the scratched metal shelf of the old booth. “This is the rest of the information on the mission. You look it over. If you have any questions, don’t call me on your personal phones. We use this.” He handed J.J. a box containing a brand new cell phone kit. “It’s a burner. I suggest you guys get another one for you to use, Hansen. You can program this one to use up to ten phone lines at once, which you can delete at any time and keep reusing. Use the blocking feature for calling anyone but my office, understood?”

  Both Morgan and J.J. agreed.

  “And you call this number to report. Don’t put it into auto-dial, and don’t carry this card. You memorize it.” He handed the two of them each his Department of the Navy card, showing his retired designation. “On the back, I’ve written my personal cell. Only in an emergency. We do all our talking on your burner, and we need an update as often as is necessary. You want more assets, someone who’s a specialist, you let me know.”

  “How will you contact us?” J.J. asked.

  “You check in with me. That’s how it works. I’m not supposed to be running this show, you are. I’m not supposed to even know anything about it. But I want your information regular, just like diarrhea. The more information the better. You got anything I need to run down, let me know.”

  Morgan flipped open the envelope and noticed it was stuffed with papers, clippings, and photographs.

  “Don’t go looking at that anywhere but in private. You lock it up with your long guns in your safe stash. I assume you both still have one?”

  It was a dumb question.

  “My personal opinion is that they’re planning this thing carefully, and unlike some of my co-workers, I think they’ll wait for the big event to pull this off. Something showy. Your gal there, Hansen, has a huge program scheduled for about three weeks’ time, and all the information is in it, including a couple of tickets to the event. Our team thinks that’s what they’ll do. So you have to get your ducks in order, and you don’t have a lot of time.”

  Next, he handed J.J. a credit card, pulled from inside the wallet in his breast pocket. “I’ll fill this up when necessary. I don’t want you using anything of your own, unless it’s something you’d do on the outside. Everything has to be done on this card. The Pin on the card for cash withdrawals is set to the last four of your social, Johnson”

  “Thanks.” J.J. slipped the card into his wallet.

  “I’ve got five thousand in cash in an envelope in here, so don’t lose it. Hansen, you run everything expense-wise through Johnson”

  “Will do.”

  Next, he handed J.J. a new California driver’s license. “From now on, you’
ll be Hank Forsburg. That’s the address we’ll send things to you, an opened mailbox downtown, one of the CIA assets. It can also be used as a place to drop off messages and things we need you to get to us right away. And it’s secure.” He turned to address Morgan. “You, my friend, are going to remain Morgan Hansen for now. Nothing changes for you. Johnson will be assigned an apartment we’ve cleared for him, but he should stay with you for starters. That’s all being arranged as we speak. I’ll get you a key to that apartment later on.”

  “Wait a minute, Commander. I’ve got a wife and kids,” J.J. moaned. “I can’t leave them alone. I can take a leave at the school, no problem there, but my family needs me.”

  “You have to consider this a deployment. You’re going undercover. You’ll grow out your hair, a beard, too. Same for you, Hansen.”

  J.J. was still shaking his head.

  “Look, chances are this mission won’t last more than a few weeks, but we don’t know for sure. Consider yourself deployed, just in your own country this time. It has to be done that way, for your family’s protection. We don’t want any of your old buddies or friends or family to recognize you on the street or hang around to become persons they can follow to get to you guys, understood?”

  The stuffy room enhanced the spirit of danger that lingered after Lambert finished talking. The Commander opened the accordion door, and a burst of fresh air greeted them. J.J. and Morgan said their good-byes. Lambert wished them well.

  As they watched the patriot wind his way through the Scupper and outside to the street, Morgan knew the man was wondering if he’d made the biggest mistake of his life. He’d work hard to prove Lambert’s trust was well-placed.

  He was back on a team! Suddenly, everything around him brightened.

  The two former SEALs returned to Morgan’s house to go over the envelope of material Lambert had given them. Inside, they found glossy photographs of Halley as a model and photos of her sitting beside Morgan in his dress whites at a SEAL Foundation function. Her radiant complexion and award-winning smile stunned everyone around her in the receiving line. Morgan remembered that night, when all was well with them. Just a few storm clouds on the horizon in those days.

  Whoever had gathered these pictures had better be from the government side of the ledger, he thought. Otherwise, there was a traitor in the Brotherhood, and that wasn’t very likely. But he had seen pictures like these posted on walls in the Team 3 building and suspected there had been no foul play.

  But when he turned one over, he saw the unmistakable Arabic writing, and his blood turned to ice.

  “Damn!” J.J. whispered. “How the hell did they get these?”

  “Could have been someone who tossed them out during a relocation or a divorce. You know how it goes. They could have picked it up in the trash.”

  “Do you think they’ve been collecting these all this time? These are over ten years old.”

  “That’s a fact.”

  Morgan read several dossiers on key members of an Al-Qaeda cell and training camp operating out of a radical mosque in Stockton, California. The report indicated that several clerics in a row there had been deported for irregularities with their tax returns. The current Imam, Mohammad Al-Moustafa, was able to successfully negotiate the learning curve and had kept his record clean. But he’d been known to preach certain extremist ideologies, the report said.

  Morgan looked at the photograph of the handsome Imam. His beard was well-trimmed and his eyebrows plucked and professionally shaped. A newspaper clipping quoted him as stating he was a reformist who believed in women’s rights.

  I believe there should be bridges between our diverse communities and gender equality for all. We should seek to enhance our education by teaching tolerance, peace, and love for all mankind. I condemn terrorism, the pamphlet said.

  The dossier stated they did not know his real country of origin, only that he had spent his early years in the Middle East somewhere, and had never traveled abroad before settling in central California. He was a very active blogger and savvy with social media.

  Other members of the cleric’s mosque were researched, some with or without photographs. The mosque and the Imam’s private quarters were requested to be wiretapped, but the case was denied by a San Francisco judge.

  When he came upon the picture of Halley holding hands with a slender Middle Eastern-looking man, Morgan’s blood pressure exploded. He turned over the photograph, and it had been date stamped from a month ago, taken in Palo Alto. Beneath the date was written Gibril Messi, boyfriend, age 36.

  Morgan frantically searched through the reports, looking for a write-up on Messi.

  “Here you go,” announced J.J., who handed him a single-page biography on the man, with several newspaper clippings attached.

  Gibril Messi of Saratoga, California.

  Family of Origin: Stated on H1B Visa form as Sudan, but application for citizenship states United Arab Emirates as family’s home address. Sponsored by Focus Forum, a venture capitalist firm located in San Jose. He has one year remaining on the visa, pending his citizenship application. He is eligible for another three-year extension.

  Messi has two sisters also living in Silicon Valley, who are married with children who are U.S. citizens. Several uncles and cousins reside in Modesto, California and maintain a large family farm, with another family branch in farming in Loomis, California.

  Morgan knotted his eyebrows. “Where the hell is Loomis?”

  “Sacramento. North and east of Sacramento.”

  “And Modesto is the central valley.”

  J.J. scratched his head. “More north, but it’s beyond the East Bay. Big farming community, like Loomis.”

  “Thanks, man.” Morgan continued reading.

  Attempts to interview neighbors or sponsoring company, given the time constraints, were not possible.

  The attached cutouts from the Palo Alto Times showed Messi and some of the other junior partners at Focus Forum announcing their successful investment in the startup firm, Cardiowise. The article went on to report the firm had developed a new form of heart monitoring, spearheaded by two physicians from Stanford.

  Also attached were newspaper clippings from society functions, Messi standing in a group with various other Silicon Valley icons, occasionally with women at his side.

  “Anything of interest?” J.J. was still searching for more on Messi.

  “Just background. They don’t have the family on a watch list or flagged, so it all looks pretty legit. I think Halley would be a fairly good judge of character, but then she picked me, didn’t she?” Morgan dropped the page and began searching through other files.

  “Which shows she is a very good judge of character, I’d say,” J.J. responded.

  There were translations from Arabic of phone conversations which specifically mentioned Halley Hansen and her Success Summit organization. Links to videos on YouTube featuring Halley’s gatherings were referenced. Photos of the large crowd of mostly women in the audience were frequent. Several articles touted her seminars as the “largest gathering of women in the United States.”

  Morgan began to get increasingly agitated, reading over the material and learning about this group, which didn’t appear to have anything to do with the boyfriend or his family. He was sure the intel was completely accurate.

  “J.J., first thing we do is find out who is running her security. I want to know how much experience they’ve had, how they handle the crowds, and whether or not the venues are properly swept, vetted, and secured.”

  “No kidding. I’m willing to bet she has no idea all this focus is on her.”

  Morgan agreed. “Just not sure what approach to take. With Halley, you don’t bullshit your way in. She has to be told the truth. And then she might reject it. That’s going to be the hardest part.”

  “So a visit is in order. You want me to do it first, alone? I mean, would she distrust the information if she knew it was partially coming from you?”

  “S
he might. Lambert didn’t say she was to be left in the dark, did he?”

  “Oh God, no. The opposite. She has to be told, and she has to cooperate with us. And if it’s too risky, just my opinion here, her big event should be cancelled.” J.J.’s pained look told Morgan he didn’t want to have that conversation with the unflappable Halley Hansen.

  “And if we interview her security team, we need not to tip them off we’re looking for cell sympathizers or outright members. But I’m betting someone close to her is somehow connected to this Imam.”

  J.J. read out loud a note stating he was authorized to use lethal force if he was forced to, either in defense of himself, other members of their team, the subject, or the innocents around her. “They’re asking for a laundry list of what firepower we prefer, too, Hansen.”

  “Like Christmas, isn’t it, J.J.?”

  “Hell yeah. I’m going to have to do some practicing on the range. Been about three years since I held a handgun.”

  Morgan had never let a month go by without sharpening his training. He’d qualified Expert and didn’t ever intend on losing that skill level.

  They reviewed the remainder of reports and clippings, studying diagrams and photographs. Morgan handed J.J. the cash. Everything was spread out over Morgan’s kitchen table as he scanned the large trove of material. The nerds had done a good job. They had lots of trails of evidence to follow-up.

  Just like they’d done on the Teams, the two of them began to build a strategy and discover the holes so they could plug them.

  “We need an interpreter and someone we trust to go inside the Mosque,” said J.J.

  “Jackie Daniels still around San Diego? You think he could do it?”

  The Iraqi interpreter had worked with SEAL Team 3 for several years before he and his family were allowed to immigrate to the San Diego area. The man was responsible for saving hundreds of American troops lives over his years of service.

  “Or he knows someone else we can trust,” answered J.J.

  “I’m gonna give Kyle Lansdowne a call. He’d know. Hopefully, no one will recognize him in Stockton.”