The SEAL's Special Mission

by Rogenna Brewer

  Irish put himself between Nash and the first shooter. He got off a couple of rounds in each direction before dropping to his knees from a bullet to the leg. He took another bullet to the arm before he could get off another round.

  Nash made a move for the kid’s gun and instantly had two beads on him.

  He raised his arms and straightened slowly.

  Irish raised his arms, but couldn’t rise above his knees.

  The first shooter through the door, the one who’d shot Torri, sauntered over to within feet of where Nash stood in the middle of the small living room. He lifted his dark visor on his grotesquely scarred face. “Sayyid, my brother,” he said with a big grin on his face.

  And then Bari Kahn shot Irish twice more, once to the neck and once to the face without so much as a passing glance at the young marshal who would die thinking Nash was a traitor.

  Nash winced on the inside. On the outside, he played it cool.

  Bari kicked Irish’s firearm under the couch as he eyeballed Nash through his drooping lids. “Or should I say Lieutenant Commander Kenneth Nash?”

  So much for playing it cool.

  “Remove the Kevlar.” Bari motioned with his gun. “You won’t need it where you’re going,” he said as his two henchmen ripped the protective vest off Nash at the Velcro tabs.

  They also relieved him of the weapon he’d hoped to keep hidden. And then forced him to his knees, facing the window so that his back was to their leader.

  “I’d be happy to take you to hell with me, Bari,” Nash said over his shoulder.

  Bari stepped farther into the room and over Irish’s limp body, circling around to level the barrel of his gun at Nash’s chest. “Tell me where my sister is.”

  “Even if I knew, you know I wouldn’t tell you.”

  “Sadly, I do know.” Bari continued his circle until he was at Nash’s back again.

  The TV went from being background noise to being the only noise as Nash caught Bari’s reflection in the window. The man raised his gun to the back of Nash’s head and then lowered it.

  Nash blinked. Surprised to find he was still alive.

  “Father wants you alive. So he can have the pleasure of torturing you himself, I’m sure.” Bari’s reflection shrugged as if it made no difference to him. “Lucky for you he ordered me not to kill you.”

  “Since when have you ever listened to your father?”

  “Exactly.”

  Nash caught Bari’s reflected nod toward his man.

  In that same instant, Nash grabbed Bari by the arm and wrestled for possession of his gun. Bullets went flying through the cramped space. Nash angled the weapon at Bari’s men. One man went down. Nash shoved Bari into the other and then launched the downed man helmet first through the window.

  Diving after him through the shower of glass and bullets, Nash landed in a heap outside the window. He reached for the downed man’s Glock mere inches from his own torn and bloody hand and then rolled onto his back, firing through the empty window.

  Scrambling to unsteady feet, he angled toward the heavily wooded area with Bari and his man not far behind him. Nash ran full tilt, dodging stray bullets and low branches for several heart-pounding miles until he was sure he’d outrun them.

  Even then, he only slowed enough to access the damage.

  ATVs rumbled in the distance. Bari and his man?

  That would give them a light source and the ability to cover more ground, but it also meant Nash would hear them coming.

  More than likely, Bari had changed up his plan. From here on out it would be a race against the clock to try and stay one step ahead of the terrorist.

  How in the hell had Bari found him in the first place?

  Nash had been in this business long enough to know that when enough money exchanged hands, almost anyone or anything could be found. Had Bari bribed someone in the federal prosecutor’s office? Used his father’s fancy lawyers to get to someone on the inside? Blackmail, maybe?

  Could they have been followed back from the federal prosecutor’s office in New York City that morning? All this speculation was just that, speculation. The one thing he did know was that his cover was blown.

  Trust no one.

  Right now his priority was to stay alive.

  More important, he had to keep those he loved alive.

  His mother, his son.

  Nash didn’t even want to think about what might happen if Bari reached Ben before he did. Running headlong into a trap was the least of his worries. Nash removed some of the larger, more uncomfortable shards of glass from his palms and did his best to stanch the flow of blood from the apparent bullet wound at his side.

  He’d been struck from the front at close range with no exit wound—more than likely in his struggle with Bari. Only he’d been too pumped full of adrenaline to feel anything until now.

  No telling how much blood he’d lost.

  Fatigue had already started to set in. He could feel it in the weight of his limbs.

  By the time he reached the nearest town, the last of his strength was fading. He barely remembered stealing a car and driving into the city. Once he got there, he ditched the stolen vehicle and grabbed what he needed from a locker he kept for emergencies.

  Then he hopped on a subway to sanctuary.

  Nash hunched his shoulders and kept his head down. Shoving his hands deeper into the pocket of his dark hoodie where he cradled the Glock, he entered a long-forgotten alley on the west side. He used what little strength he had left to knock on the door. It took several minutes for someone to answer.

  When the door opened, an elderly man stood on the other side.

  “Rabbi Yaakov?”

  “Yes?” The old man studied him from behind wire-framed glasses.

  “I’m with the Institute.” Nash kept his voice low, using the literal English translation for Mossad.

  The Institute was responsible for covert operations and counterterrorism, as well as bringing Jews to Israel from countries where official immigration agencies were forbidden and protecting Jewish communities.

  The rabbi looked up and down the alley before pulling Nash inside. “You can’t be here,” he hissed.

  “I need your help.” Nash unzipped the hoodie to reveal his blood-soaked T-shirt. “I can pay in cash.” He dropped his backpack to the floor at the rabbi’s feet.

  “Oy,” the old man said. Nash’s knees threatened to buckle as the rabbi ducked under his arm to support his weight and led him to an industrial-size stainless steel kitchen. “If you’re going to pass out, do it up here.”

  * * *

  WHEN NASH CAME to, he was stretched out on one of the stainless steel workstations, watching the rabbi drop the last of his instruments into a stainless steel bedpan. The rattle must have been what had woken him. Nash glanced at the pan full of instruments. He eyed the bullet and bloody gauze with distaste, wondering if he’d just traded that bullet for a lifetime of hep C.

  “You want I should call a doctor?” Rabbi Yaakov said when he caught the frown on Nash’s face. The old man snapped off the latex gloves with equal disgust. “The Institute sees to it that I’m well equipped. I use only sterile instruments.”

  Nash did not dare question the man’s medical practice further.

  Mossad took care of its own.

  Besides which, beggars couldn’t be choosers. Any emergency room staff would have to report him to the authorities.

  “I need a plane.” Nash pushed to sit up and then dropped back to his elbows. He turned and then threw up into the bedpan. “Preferably one with a pilot,” he said, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. “To Denver.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Less than twelve hours later

  IDLING IN A black Ford Explorer on the
crimson and gold tree-lined drive, he could pass for any other parent waiting for his son or daughter after school.

  Except the snowcapped mountain license plates had belonged to an abandoned junker in an overgrown backyard. And the tamper-resistant expiration stickers had been lifted off a newer vehicle.

  Grit scratched his sleep-deprived eyes like sandpaper. He removed his Ray-Ban Predators and wiped at his weary lids. If he closed them now he wasn’t sure he’d ever open them again. Replacing his sunglasses, he pulled his ball cap lower.

  The three o’clock bell signaled an end to the school day and the school week since it was Friday. Boys and girls poured out of the building, clamoring to be heard above the final peal. Mallory had put him in a private school, which made the boy harder to find. But not hard enough for anyone looking.

  Not that he believed she’d hidden him out of fear or as a precaution. If that were the case, she and the boy wouldn’t be living in the same house she and her sister had grown up in.

  He was sketchy on the details of the past seven years, but he knew her mother had passed away some time ago and that her father now resided in a nearby nursing home.

  Nash glanced at the dated surveillance photo on the seat beside him. Hell of a thing not to know your own son. But he would have recognized the boy anywhere, right down to the Transformers T-shirt—it could have been his own second grade photo staring back at him.

  Nash spotted Benjamin among a group of boys in uniform skipping down stairs despite being weighted down by backpacks bigger than they were. Quickly folding the photo along worn creases, he tucked it back into his pocket. As he watched, a man in a black turban approached the group of small boys. Nash reached for the door handle but pulled back at the last minute as a dark-skinned boy broke off from the crowd and ran up to embrace the lucky bastard.

  Nash relaxed his grip on the Glock in his lap hidden beneath a newspaper.

  He should have known better. His enemies wouldn’t be that obvious. If they even looked like his Middle Eastern brethren.

  The group of second grade boys thinned out as they reached the sidewalk, with two of them breaking off in one direction and Benjamin in another.

  “Damn it!” Nash checked his mirrors and then shoved the Explorer into gear. She didn’t seriously allow the boy to walk those six blocks to the house alone, did she?

  After everything he’d seen and done these past seven years, he wouldn’t let a kid wander next door to his own house, let alone down the block in his own neighborhood. Urban jungles were some of the most dangerous.

  As he pulled away from the curb, a teenage girl with two-toned, blond-on-black hair, rushed up to Benjamin. He heard her simultaneously scold him for not staying put and apologize for being late. The apparent babysitter and the boy continued down the block toward a rusted-out red Volvo.

  The combination of an old car and a young driver didn’t make Nash feel any better about his son’s safety. But he drove on without so much as a glance in passing. Turning left at the third stop sign, he avoided the unmarked car parked across the street from his former in-laws’ home, which now belonged to Mal—not just his former sister-in-law, but also his son’s aunt and guardian.

  If not for that familial connection, he would have braked at his first opportunity and snatched the boy right then and there. He checked the rearview mirror as the Volvo stopped at the same intersection before continuing toward the house.

  Nash turned right at the alley and slowed the Explorer.

  Modern pop tops punctuated the row of American Craftsman homes that made up the old Washington Park neighborhood that lay within spitting distance of downtown Denver. He’d scouted the area earlier. The stakeout appeared to be limited to the two Feds sitting in a black sedan out front.

  At least a dozen federal agents should have been swarming the place by now. Unless, of course, they thought he was dead like the two federal marshals assigned to protect him.

  In which case, they should have taken even more precautions.

  He winced as a spasm in his side reminded him of his narrow escape and just how much blood he’d lost at the scene. Shoving back the brim of his ball cap, he swiped the beads of sweat forming on his brow.

  Focus, Nash.

  He tugged the ball cap back down and then took a familiar left turn out of the alley. He knew these lanes well—he’d grown up here.

  After he’d entered the service, his mother had moved back East to be with family. As far as Sabine Nash knew, her only child—a convicted murderer—had died a coward in prison. He’d had to rely on Rabbi Yaakov to see that his mother paid a visit to their relatives in Israel for the time being. He didn’t have the time to get both her and his son to safety. Nash beat back a twinge of guilt.

  Thank God his father hadn’t lived to see this day.

  Though it was unlikely anyone from the old neighborhood would recognize him, including his own mother, Nash continued straight instead of taking another right. He didn’t want to drive past the old house where he’d grown up just in case their elderly neighbor, Mrs. Rosenberg, had lived to see her eightieth birthday.

  * * *

  MALLORY PUSHED HER father’s wheelchair, enjoying the relatively warm autumn weather as they strolled the parklike grounds between the assisted-living facility and his nursing home. The late afternoon sun reflected off the pond as they followed the winding path toward a chorus of honking geese who were making a pit stop on their way south for the winter.

  “Slow down, Margaret! You’re driving too fast.”

  “It’s me, Daddy, Mallory. Mom—” There was no point in bringing it up again. He’d just relive the pain of losing his wife of thirty-five years. Or worse, would only feel frustrated because he couldn’t remember her at all. “Mom couldn’t make it today.”

  “Mallory?” He cranked his neck but couldn’t turn his head far enough back to look at her, so he shifted his frail body to face her. “I have a daughter named Mallory.”

  “I know.” Mallory sat on a bench and then angled his chair toward her, hoping for some sign of recognition from him today. At least this seemed to be a good day.

  “Going to make a damn fine lawyer someday.” The pride in his voice turned the remembrance bittersweet.

  Her father had just made deputy district attorney when she’d told him she wasn’t going on to law school after receiving her undergraduate degree. Instead she’d applied for, and had been accepted into, the FBI Academy.

  She’d told him that she still intended to put her pre-law studies to good use, but in law enforcement. Mallory had explained that she had a hard time seeing herself stuck behind a desk for the next thirty years.

  She’d always been a serious tomboy, with no time for boys, at least not in the boyfriend and girlfriend way—she’d been too busy competing with them both academically and physically. Despite that, she’d always had more male friends than female friends in high school and college. She just found it easier to relate to men. More often than not, her male friends considered her one of the guys, and she’d come to accept that that made her a better friend than girlfriend.

  These days she had very few friends of either sex, though she still preferred the company of men—to a point. Because by both male and female agents she’d forever be known as that rookie whose brother-in-law murdered her sister. The one who pulled her gun and then fainted.

  She’d spent most of the past seven years behind a desk, constantly passed over for promotions. But it turned out to be in the best interest of the two most important men in her life, and she couldn’t regret that. Putting herself in the line of fire and leaving her father alone and Ben an orphan was not an option.

  Being a single parent came with its own set of rules and responsibilities.

  More recently, however, she’d made her own opportunities and finally felt as if she’d put the pa
st behind her. She’d become part of an evidence recovery and processing team.

  It might not be the job of her dreams, but at least she found her work interesting and maintained special agent status. This also meant she did a lot more fieldwork these days and carried a badge and a firearm again, which Ben thought was kind of cool and she found comforting.

  Goose bumps raised the hairs on her arms, and she shivered.

  “Are you cold, Daddy?” She tucked the lap blanket around him.

  “Cold, no. I’m not cold.” He took a moment to assess his surroundings. “Maybe a little.” He amended his answer.

  Mal lost track of time as the afternoon sun faded into evening and the temperature dropped. A slight breeze blew through the umber and gold trees with their scattered leaves. The afternoon sun had warmed their earthy fragrance and she breathed in the crisp, clean scent as it clung to the evening air.

  Halloween was just around the corner. Exactly one week from today.

  She must remember to stop by the grocery store on her way home for the pumpkin she’d promised Ben.

  Taking the remnants of stale bread from the bag inside her purse, she handed a slice to her father. They took turns tossing bits and pieces into the water. Whenever the honks died down, one or the other of them would toss out another bit of bread for the geese to clamor over.

  Her dad used to take her and Cara to Wash Park—Washington Park—to feed the geese on days just like this.

  If he had to be lost in his memories, she figured that would be a nice one to get lost in.

  While it often felt as if she and her dad were having two different conversations, every once in a while they connected over something as simple as the weather and a flock of geese.

  Brushing the crumbs from her lap, Mallory reached out to her father and just sat holding his fragile hand in hers. She listened to the familiar nuances in his voice while he talked as if she were away, studying pre-law at Colorado University in Boulder and her mother and sister were still with them.