Hot Pursuit Read Free Page A

in good hands.”
    “That’s good to know,” Jenn said, looking to Maria again for more information.
    “Meg is the wife of one of the officers in Ken’s SEAL team,” Maria explained, driving as she always did—like a NASCAR champion.
    “Is she the FBI agent?” Jenn asked, sitting back so she could fasten her seat belt. There was something hard back there, and she reached beneath her to pull free an old sock, its toe filled with God knows what—coins or marbles or maybe even gravel.
    Ew. It obviously belonged to the homeless man, and she didn’t want to look inside. She didn’t want to touch the thing more than she had to. She dropped it on the floor, on the other side of the center bump.
    “No, that’s Alyssa,” Maria was saying. “She’s former FBI. She works for Troubleshooters now.”
    “She wasn’t hurt, too, was she?” Jenn asked, as she saw that the sock wasn’t the only thing the homeless man had left in the car. He’d stuck a ragged photograph of a dark-haired woman into the pocket in the back of the driver’s seat. It must’ve slipped down during the drive, because only the woman’s eyes and the top of her head protruded, as if she were peeking out at Jenn.
    Van shook her head as Jenn pulled the photo free. “I don’t think she was there.”
    The woman in the picture was African American, with short hair that framed her exceptionally beautiful face. It was hard to see in the dim light, but her eyes looked to be light-colored, and they seemed to sparkle as she looked into the camera’s lens—her smile warm for the photographer.
    She was young enough to be Aroma Man’s granddaughter. Jenn flipped the photo over, but there was nothing written on the back-no date, no
Happy Birthday, Grandpa
. She reached over and tucked it into the top of the sock—then checked the pocket to see if he’d left anything else there when he’d moved in. But it was empty.
    “Meg’s married to John Nilsson,” Maria explained as they sped south on the island, green traffic lights stretching out in front ofthem on the nearly deserted avenue, “who just got promoted. He’s the new executive officer of Team …” She looked at Savannah. “Ten?”
    “Twelve,” she corrected.
    “But Ken’s still with Team Sixteen?” Jenn asked, and Savannah nodded.
    Just last week, Van had showed her what looked like a class picture of the men in SEAL Team Sixteen—although it was unlike any class picture Jenn had ever seen before. In it the group of men were wearing swim trunks that looked as if they’d last had a design update back in 1943. Which was a good thing. The trunks—small by today’s baggy standards—fit snugly and highlighted the men’s amazingly sculpted bodies. Van had gone through the rows of men, name by name, teasingly picking out her choice for a potential hookup for Jenn—some junior grade lieutenant who bore the nickname Grunge.
    Yes, Grunge. Thanks a million, Van.
    Many of them—particularly the youngest, fresh from SEAL school, which Van had said was called BUD/S training, which stood for Basic Underwater Demolition slash SEAL—had ridiculous nicknames that made poor pathetic Scooter’s self-proclaimed handle seem ordinary and lame.
    Cosmo, Jazz, Gilligan, the Duke, Chickie, Hobomofo—who had a one syllable sub-nickname, Fo, for his nickname, and yes, there was no doubt a good story behind all four syllables of
that
one—Wiley, WetDream, and, of course, the esteemed Grunge. Ken’s nickname was WildCard, which, okay, was kind of cool, but Jenn had never, ever heard Van call him that.
    “Ken’s going to be really angry,” Van said now from the front seat, the streetlights that flashed across her face illuminating her anxiety. “Meg told me that the man he was guarding got taken. I want to be there before they tell him, because he’s going to try to climb out of his hospital bed to be part of the team that goes andgets him back.” She laughed, but her eyes filled with tears. “He’s