The SEAL's Special Mission

by Rogenna Brewer

  Eisenhower was the last president under whom a military execution had been upheld. In fifty years, only George W. Bush had signed a single death writ, and that order was still under appeal.

  Nash had plenty of time to plead his case.

  The man she’d known wouldn’t have gone down without throwing at least one punch. If he was innocent, he would have—should have—fought harder to prove it.

  He wouldn’t do the unthinkable.

  Mallory took an involuntary step backward and plopped into her chair as Nash moved to sit across the table from her. Galena set some papers in front of him and then handed him a pen. His hand shook as he signed at the flagged lines without reading. When he finished, he set the pen aside and pushed the papers across the table toward Mallory.

  Her lower lip threatened to tremble. The man didn’t deserve her pity. Strengthening her resolve, she raised her chin to look into Nash’s eyes.

  “You just sold your son for your freedom.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Midtown Precinct, Manhattan

  New York City, New York

  Seven years later

  “COFFEE?” A PAPER cup appeared within easy reach of his cuffed wrists, chained to the table. Nash ignored the cup while the man who’d offered it scooted around the table to sit across from him. It was Good Cop’s turn to have a crack at him while Bad Cop scowled from the corner. Actually they were both Feds. But he wouldn’t hold that against them. “Sayyid,” Good Cop said as if confiding in his new best friend. “We know you’re his number-two....”

  They didn’t know shit about him, but he wouldn’t hold that against them, either.

  The man flipped through a file full of misleading information. Sayyid Naveed, born in Syria, educated in the U.S. as a devout Muslim. Detained at Gitmo for suspected ties to terrorism. Escaped from Gitmo—which was true. Though the actual account was classified and well above this guy’s pay grade, he probably had some version of that truth in front of him. As well as Nash’s mug shot on an FBIs Most Wanted bulletin. He was somewhere in the top one hundred, not high enough to attract any real attention, but high enough that anyone coming into contact with him would know they had someone important on their hands.

  His file also read that he’d spent six years working his way up to a position of trust within the al-Ayman terrorist network—that was true, too. Helping Bari Kahn, the youngest son of Mullah Kahn, escape from Gitmo had all been part of his plan—the part he hadn’t disclosed to the authorities that had sanctioned his assignment. Nash had known going in that if he got the chance to escape—with or without Kahn’s son—he was going to take it.

  He’d left it to Mac to smooth things over with the top brass.

  The years of intel Nash had been feeding U.S. intelligence agencies since hadn’t hurt his case, either, but he’d always known he was in this alone. Which was why he’d hedged his bets with the Israelis. He might be working more than one angle, but he wasn’t a traitor to his country or his beliefs. The Allies wanted to put an end to the al-Ayman faction of a global terrorist network, and so did he.

  Only his reasons were more personal.

  “Just tell us what we need to know and we’ll go easy on you.”

  His new BFF had made all sorts of promises over the past eight hours.

  Nash stared past the man’s shoulder to his own reflection in the two-way mirror and remained silent. Most days even he didn’t recognize the man he’d become. His shoulder-length hair was long enough now that the natural curl had taken over and the scruff on his face was more beard than not.

  He hadn’t asked for a phone call. A drink of water. Or to use the bathroom.

  All of which were within his legal rights.

  “Well, why don’t I tell you what we know?” Good Cop said. “We’ve shut down the entire al-Ayman operation today.”

  Big Dog was barking up the wrong tree. Nash had supplied intel for the fifty-city sweep across the Americas and Europe from the inside.

  Hitting al-Ayman hard at the sex trafficking level was one way to mess with their cash flow. Unfortunately they had other means.

  Drugs. Prostitution. Money laundering.

  You name it. If it was illegal, al-Ayman was into it.

  It would take years for Nash to wash away the stench of his own participation in such activities.

  No, today was about one thing—catching the man at the top in the wrong place at the right time. Seven long years he’d waited for justice, and now he was going to get it through the federal court system in the state of New York.

  In the good old U.S. of A.

  Kahn wasn’t the kind of terrorist that could be taken out with a drone.

  He was a well-connected international businessman. With enough money and clout to make certain countries look the other way.

  He’d have to be taken down by the legal system on a bigger, more public stage.

  “Guys like you don’t last long in prison. Tough on the outside. All jelly doughnut on the inside.” Good Cop took a big bite out of a jelly doughnut for emphasis. Goop oozed from between his thick, smacking lips and a glob landed on his tie. He picked up a napkin and made an even bigger mess.

  Hunger gnawed at Nash’s insides, a hunger for justice. Besides the scene in front of him was enough to curb his appetite for food. The box of doughnuts had been sitting there all day— They were probably stale by now anyway.

  “A pretty boy like you—” Bad Cop shrugged from the corner “—you’ll be someone’s bitch inside a week.”

  “How long do you think before one of your cohorts rolls over on you, Sayyid?” Good Cop asked. “We’re questioning them right now. Why not do yourself a favor? I can get you a nice cozy cell in isolation, away from the general population.”

  The man pushed a pen and pad of paper toward Nash for his confession.

  Seriously? The pen was a mistake. He could kill both of the agents and be free of his handcuffs before whoever was watching the box could enter the room.

  Not that Nash would.

  He’d done enough bad shit in the past seven years.

  Honed his skills. Acquired new ones.

  But it was all sanctioned shit.

  Killing a Fed for no justifiable reason? Well, even Mac wouldn’t be able to get him out of that one.

  Nash wished his ride would hurry up and get here.

  As amusing as these guys were, he was getting kind of bored hearing the same fairy tale over and over again. Just to prove wishes really do come true, the door opened. Nash caught a glimpse of Mac and two U.S. Marshals reflected in the mirror. Another man, important and harried looking, wearing dress pants and a white dress shirt with rolled-up sleeves, entered the room behind them. “This one belongs to the Marshal Service now.”

  The captain, or whoever he was—whatever police precinct had assisted the FBI with the raid—walked over and unlocked the chains that tethered Nash to the table. The look on the faces of Good cop/Bad Cop was worth the wait.

  Without a word, Nash stood and followed the lead U.S. Marshal out the door while the other marshal and Mac walked behind. He was still shackled and for good reason—his very life depended on him never blowing his cover.

  As they exited the room, Mullah Kahn was being hauled out of another room in shackles. Flanked by two federal agents and trailed by a couple of designer suits with leather briefcases, Kahn was on his way to Booking. The al-Ayman leader might have a couple of high-priced attorneys on the payroll, but he wasn’t making bail this time.

  The snake turned to stare at Nash in passing. Saw Mac’s uniform and the Windbreakers identifying the marshals. “Where are they taking you?” the al-Ayman leader demanded.

  “Gitmo,” Nash said with the expected contrition of an underling.

  “Shut up and keep moving.” McCaffr
ey shoved him from behind.

  Kahn shouted in Arabic as the FBI led him away.

  “What the hell was all that about?” Mac asked once they were outside and beyond earshot of anyone else that might be listening.

  “He still thinks he’s in charge.” Kahn had called him son and promised to keep him out of prison. “Nice touch with the shove, by the way.”

  “Just doing my part. How are you holding up?”

  “About as good as I look.”

  “Well, you look like crap,” McCaffrey said. “So I guess that answers my question.”

  “What’s the word on Bari?” Bari Kahn, the little weasel, had slipped out before the raid on the warehouse down by the docks.

  Mac shook his head.

  “Lieutenant Commander Nash.” The redheaded marshal opened the back of an unmarked white van used for prisoner transport. “Sorry, sir. Protocol. I’ve been instructed to leave the cuffs on. You’ll be riding in back.”

  Nash had been through this once or twice before. He’d be taken to a secure location for debriefing before they’d let him out of his cuffs. Only this time he wouldn’t be given a new assignment.

  Federal prosecutors would be present to take his statement and then he’d be moved to a safe house. Because this time he was testifying.

  * * *

  Safe house somewhere in the Catskill Mountains

  “NASH, YOU IN OR OUT?” Irish tipped the kitchen chair back on two legs to poke his head around the corner.

  “Go ahead and deal me in.” It’s not as if he had other plans. They’d been cooped up in this house close to fourteen weeks now. Only two more weeks to go until the trial. Nash eased the ache in his neck and then flipped from the Weather Channel to Thursday Night Football before setting the remote aside.

  He’d been daydreaming through the forecast for the Western states again.

  The snowstorm closing in on the Rockies in time for Halloween had him thinking of things other than the extended forecast. Things he shouldn’t be thinking about.

  He hadn’t been this close to—or felt this far from—home in years.

  He was born within a hundred-mile radius of where he stood right now and had spent several summers as a boy in the Hudson River Valley.

  If he wasn’t for all intents and purposes a ghost, he could call on his mother for a visit.

  As for Colorado...well, that was some sixteen hundred miles away and another lifetime ago. Yet he felt the pull. But this caretaker’s cabin in the Catskills was as much a prison as Leavenworth or Gitmo. And he wasn’t free to move about.

  U.S. Marshal Reid “Irish” Thompson finished dealing as Nash and U.S. Marshal Salvatore Torri joined the freckle faced kid for a little three-handed Texas Hold’em. Thompson claimed marshals invented the game out of sheer boredom, though little was known of the actual origins of Hold’em poker, except that it first appeared in the early 1900s. The Texas Legislature laid claim before the game migrated to Las Vegas, Nevada, in the 1960s and became synonymous with the word poker.

  All Nash knew was they’d played a lot of poker these past four months.

  And he’d bet those marshals of old didn’t sit around playing cards in their body armor. Long johns, maybe. But not Kevlar.

  His guards were cautious and he appreciated it.

  “You’re not still thinking about what the federal prosecutor said this afternoon?” Irish asked once he finished passing out the chips.

  Nash picked up his stack of red chips and let them fall through his fingers in a rhythmic motion. After this was all over and he’d given his testimony, he intended to let his chips fall where they may so to speak. Checking his hand against the flop, he plunked two chips off the top and then tossed them into the pot. “There’s no reason for Sari to testify.”

  Sal raised his bet. “Can’t blame her for wanting to.”

  Needing to was what Nash was afraid of.

  Irish took his time rearranging his cards and then comparing them to what was on the table. The kid was into them for some twenty grand now. It wasn’t as if Nash planned to collect; they kept the running tab purely for bragging rights and weren’t even playing for real money, but maybe he should let Thompson win a few hands before he left.

  “I think it’s messed up that her brother could get away with something like that,” Thompson said. “And if her father ordered it, then he’s just a sick bastard.”

  Sal passed around the pizza box from the Torri family’s pizzeria in nearby Albany—if forty miles could be considered nearby. Nash took several slices and a cold Near Beer.

  His marshals didn’t drink on duty.

  And Nash didn’t drink, period.

  As far as he was concerned, Sari’s father and brothers deserved worse than prison for the mental and physical abuse they’d subjected her to. But Sari’s story was so personal there’d be no hiding her identity.

  That would be bad news for her. And for him.

  He’d like nothing better than to testify in open court himself. But that wasn’t going to happen when transmitting a pixilated image and altered audio from another room could protect his identity.

  And for one very good reason....

  Suddenly Nash’s thoughts went some sixteen hundred miles away again.

  He could go days, weeks, without even worrying about Ben. Knowing he’d left his son in capable hands. But then there were days—like today—when he’d realized the reality of his choices meant more than just missing out on the first seven years of his son’s life.

  And it always hit him hard.

  Of course, he’d known the sacrifices he was making in going after Cara’s killer and then not killing the man. He could have had his revenge a long time ago and no one would have been the wiser—and maybe he should have.

  But he wanted to clear his name for Ben’s sake.

  Even if Nash was no longer his last name. Or Ben’s.

  Sal Torri was telling a story about his own son, and Nash forced a laugh. Swapping sea stories over Near Beer, pizza and poker with the guys was almost like being part of the Team again.

  Only back then the beer had been genuine.

  And so had he.

  Sal did the majority of their cooking and grocery shopping. Once a week he drove into Albany for supplies and—Nash suspected—a quick visit with his large Italian family, which included a pregnant wife and a young son.

  While they played cards, Sal also did most of the talking. The man’s familiar street-tough accent lulled Nash into slipping back into his own every now and again.

  As far as safe houses went, this one was rather low tech.

  Security cameras. Perimeter alarms.

  A panic room.

  Once a popular vacation spot for New Yorkers, the row of vacation homes had burned to the ground in the late ’70s. For whatever reason, the owner had been unable to rebuild and his heirs further neglected the taxes.

  Eventually the government seized the property along with the only building left standing. The caretaker’s residence had been a safe house for close to thirty years without a single breach. In fact, no witness in the history of the U.S. Marshal Service had ever died while under protection—with the caveat—while following the rules of the program.

  The rules were simple—but maybe harder for some than others to follow.

  You could never return to the town from which you were relocated. You could never connect with known associates, or friends and family not in the program.

  Never was a long time.

  And this wasn’t a reflection on his babysitters, but he’d already decided against going into the Witness Protection Program once the trial was over. He wasn’t stupid, though. He knew he’d have to don another identity and then move on regardless of whether he entered the program.

 
But this time he wanted to be truly anonymous.

  Outside government control and way beyond government contact.

  Nash could make a good living in the private sector or he could retire to a quiet life. He had enough money to do whatever he wanted. Either way, he was willing to disappear so that Ben wouldn’t have to.

  As far as the al-Ayman network knew, Kenneth Nash was already dead. And the identity of the undercover agent testifying against them, the man they knew as Sayyid Naveed, would remain anonymous.

  Suddenly the perimeter alarm wailed and lights flooded the exterior.

  As a precaution the house went into auto lockdown.

  All three men abandoned the card table. At first glance, the monitors above the duty station built into the kitchen revealed nothing going on.

  One camera focused on the only road in or out, barricaded with a warning that a nonexistent bridge had been washed out. The others focused along a footpath and the outer and inner perimeters.

  The cameras were motion-sensitive and this wasn’t the first time they’d gone off. Any movement, a deer, a skunk, or the rustle of the wind through the trees, and it appeared on the screen.

  Torri did a quick computer scan. “I’ve got nothing. Irish, get the asset to the basement while I check this out.” He drew his weapon and picked up a transmitter and then tossed one to Irish.

  Translated: they were locking him in the panic room as a precaution.

  Witnesses weren’t allowed to carry. Though Nash was the exception—being more agent than criminal—this was their show, not his.

  He knew better than to argue. He was no good to anyone dead.

  Thompson put a hand on Nash’s back. But before either of them could take a single step in the right direction, the front and back doors exploded. Followed by two pops. Torri slammed backward with his brains all over the kitchen floor. Two men dressed in black leather from head to toe and wearing motorcycle helmets entered through the back and then another one from the front.