Stan, with his basset hound eyes and long overdue for retirement, exchanged a look with his young bulldog of a partner, an ex-marine named Christopher Tyler. Though not well acquainted with either of them, Mallory knew both men from the downtown office. Tyler even hung out on the fringe of her social group and had asked her out once or twice. But she gave dating him or anyone from the office a wide berth.
At the very least these two men owed her the professional courtesy of a response. “Guys?”
“Nash was in the custody of two U.S. marshals found dead early this morning,” Tyler said. “He’s a person of interest.”
“Meaning what, exactly?” She crossed her arms. “Are you saying he killed two federal marshals?”
Stan shifted uncomfortably. “I’m sure that’s what the Marshal Service would like to find out.”
“There’s enough ballistics and blood evidence to suggest he was wounded at the scene,” Tyler said. “They really want to find the guy.”
“Where was this?”
“Back East, somewhere.”
“That doesn’t tell me anything, Stan. New York? D.C., Virginia...? Where back East?”
“Mallory,” Stan said, sounding rather paternal as he ignored her question—he reminded her of her father and everything about him that she would miss once he was gone. “Kenneth Nash is considered armed and dangerous. He’s been a deep-cover operative for a while now. It’s not unheard of for these guys to turn rogue. If you come up against him, do not try to take him down alone this time. He’s not the same man you knew seven years ago.”
“The man I knew seven years ago killed my sister. I wouldn’t put anything past him.” She brushed back a loose strand of hair before tucking her hand back in her crossed arms. “Why was he in custody?”
“They didn’t tell us much,” Stan admitted. “Until we got the call a few hours ago, we were under the impression the guy was dead.”
“Suicide or something, wasn’t it?” Tyler’s watchful eyes became piercing. “Of course you must have known different?”
“I don’t know anything.” She ignored his subtle probing accusations and held his gaze as she offered up that half-truth. Deep down she’d known this day would come and had prepared for it. “Good night, gentlemen.”
She turned to step back inside the house.
“Mallory.” Stan stopped her from closing the door. “We can’t protect you and the kid if you don’t tell us what you know. Where is he?”
“What I know?” she said. “What I know is that you can’t protect us from him. But if he was here, you’d already be dead.”
She closed the door and then leaned against it with a resigned sigh.
“Ben, turn off the video game.” She forced a calm she was far from feeling into her voice. “I dropped the pumpkin. We need to run to the grocery store for another one or we won’t be able to carve it tonight. If we go now we can stop by the party store and pick up that Iron Man costume you wanted. Hurry up, okay?”
“’Kay.” His response lacked enthusiasm and she knew from experience it would be several minutes before he turned off the game. She needed those minutes to compose herself anyway. If Nash was coming from the East Coast, it would take him at least a day to get here, unless he hopped a plane. Assuming he’d avoid major airports, train and bus depots, he was mostly likely traveling by car. Assuming being the operative word.
She had no idea what Nash would or wouldn’t risk to get to them.
Only that he would get to them. Unless she managed to stay one step ahead of him.
She scooped up her purse and the bag of groceries by the door. She found Jess, Ben’s babysitter, in the kitchen, eating popcorn—iPod so loud she could hear the faint strains of music without the benefit of earbuds herself. It was no wonder the girl hadn’t heard Mallory calling for Ben.
Jess removed an earbud. “He got bored with my project.” She let the handful of orange-colored popcorn fall into the bowl.
“Thanks for staying late this evening, Jess.” Mallory dug out her checkbook, scribbled out the amount for the week with a sizable bonus and then tried not to appear as if she were rushing the girl out the door.
Stay calm, Ward. This is no time to panic.
“No problem.” Jess stuffed the check into the pocket of her strategically ripped jeans without so much as a glance at the amount, and then grabbed her hoodie off the wall rack on her way out the back door. “See you next week.”
Next week was too far into the future to think about when the next few minutes were all that counted. Mallory followed the girl to her car parked in the drive at the side of the house. Jess could just as easily have crossed the alley to her own yard, but try telling that to a seventeen-year-old in her first year of unrestricted driving. With one eye on the back door and the other on the car, Mal watched headlights fade as Jess backed around the Prius and then out onto the street.
It might very well be the last time they saw the girl.
For peace of mind, Mal had to make sure she left safely.
Darting a quick glance toward the unmarked car parked across the street, Mal hurried back inside and grabbed the keys to her father’s vintage Mustang off the same rack where they hung their jackets. She seldom drove the car except to keep the battery charged for the occasional Sunday drive with her dad. It was parked in the detached garage off the alley, which meant they could get to it before anyone stationed out front even knew they were gone.
A well-tuned muscle car had the added advantage of being fast.
“Ben!” she called out as she stepped back into the kitchen. Unpacking the groceries by rote, she paused to check her cell phone to see if she had any new messages. She’d taken the afternoon off to run her father to his doctor’s appointment, but she’d had her phone with her the entire time. No calls.
Nothing from Special Agent Galena. Or Commander McCaffrey.
If something was up, wouldn’t one of them have contacted her? She dropped the phone back into her purse.
For years now Nash hadn’t even been a blip on her radar screen. About a year after he’d been transferred to Guantanamo Bay, under an assumed name known only to a select handful of important people, three prisoners escaped. A fourth was shot in the attempt. Mal knew upon hearing the reports that Nash was among the escapees.
It was all hush-hush. As far as the public was concerned, no detainee had ever escaped from Gitmo.
Shortly after that, he appeared with wild hair and a full beard on the FBI’s Most Wanted list under the alias Sayyid Naveed. If it wasn’t for his eyes, she never would have known it was Nash. He was unrecognizable to the point she would have passed him on the street. The very thought gave her chills.
Shortly afterward she learned that asking questions invited trouble.
The commander himself came to debrief her. He even threatened to have her security clearance downgraded.
That’s when she realized she might need an escape hatch someday and began systematically socking away resources in storage lockers around the state. But Nash had never appeared on her radar again, until tonight.
“Ben, now,” she said in her best mom voice. That should get him moving.
“Coming.” His answering whine meant he’d heard the seriousness in her tone and would wind down the game. These next few hours, days—maybe even weeks and months—were not going to be easy for him to understand, so she’d allowed him this small rebellion. It wouldn’t be easy leaving everything behind.
If she’d known today was going to be the last time she’d see her father, what might she have done differently?
Don’t even go there, Ward.
It was going to be hard enough walking out the door and never looking back.
She’d spent that first year after Nash’s “suicide” looking over her shoulder, preparing for this m
oment. Panic set in now that her day of reckoning had come and she realized just how unprepared she really was. She should run up the back stairs and grab the stash of cash she kept in the lockbox.
But the hairs on the back of her neck kept her rooted to the first floor where she could see both the front and back door from the kitchen, while remaining within an arm’s reach of Ben.
No. There was no time to waste. She was already wearing her service revolver. And she had her badge and handcuffs, too.
Best to leave with as little as possible. They’d still need cash, but a single withdrawal from an ATM close to home would get them to their next destination. She’d planned this carefully enough so that no matter what direction she was forced to take, she and Ben would be able to start a new life.
Shoving the carton of broken eggs to the back of the fridge, she closed the door and then jumped. Nash stood on the opposite side of the refrigerator, looking scruffy in his ball cap with his overlong hair and five o’clock shadow.
“Hello, Mal.”
“There are two FBI agents out front.” She put the center island between them and picked up the butcher knife from the block of knives next to the cutting board. Reaching for the celery, which hadn’t made it into the crisper, she began chopping the bunch without washing or removing the rubber band. “I’ll give you a ten-minute head start before I scream.”
“I don’t need ten minutes. And you’re not going to scream.”
She didn’t scream as he moved right up behind her and stilled the knife in her hand with his hand. She let go and the butcher knife dropped to the cutting board. He picked it up and tossed it out of reach to the sink.
It would be futile to resist. She wasn’t about to challenge him in hand-to-hand combat—until she had to.
“They think you killed two marshals.”
He didn’t move from behind her. “What do you think?”
That he was capable of doing just that.
She ignored his loaded question as he reached inside her jacket for her gun. Her breath caught on the intake as his arm brushed the underside of her breasts and pinned her against his chest as he checked the safety on her firearm before tucking it into his own jacket pocket. “What are you doing here, Nash?”
“Smart move not going for the gun.”
He began patting her down underneath her jacket.
His impersonal check felt far too personal and she slid around to face him. With her back to the island, she groped for a steak knife and managed to get a good grip on one. He blocked the jab, took the knife and the whole block of knives and dumped them in the sink out of her immediate reach.
“Enough games, Mal. You and the boy are coming with me.”
He latched on to her elbow and she shook off his grip. “We’re not going anywhere with you.”
“We don’t have time for theatrics. Call him again.” He picked up what she recognized as her gym bag and tucked her gun from his jacket into a side pocket, and then picked up Ben’s backpack and tossed it over his shoulder as he nodded toward the back door.
“Ben.” She modulated her tone so there was little to no urgency in it, hoping he’d be too engrossed in his game to break away. Heart pounding, Mallory moved toward the living room as if to hurry him along. She flicked the kitchen light switch in passing.
Nash was no dummy. He hauled ass toward her with menace in his stride.
She stood there with her hands on her hips and made sure she had plenty of room to maneuver before picking a fight with him.
She was a trained professional. All she had to do was stand between Nash and Ben until two armed agents burst through the doors. If Nash dared to make a move in Ben’s direction, she would lay a world of hurt on him. Not even a Navy SEAL could easily get past a mama bear intent on protecting her cub.
“Can we get a big pumpkin this year?” Ben asked as he entered the kitchen. “I mean really big.” He held his arms out wide and then stopped just inside the doorway, frozen in his big pumpkin stance staring at Nash.
“Do you know who I am?” the man asked.
The boy nodded. “You’re him. You’re my dad.”
From one heartbeat to the next, Nash swooped up Ben along with their bags, and then ran for the back door as Tyler burst through the front door, splintering it off its hinges. Mallory barely had time to react before Special Agent Tyler shoved her out of his way. She went down hard, hitting her head against the granite countertop.
“You all right?” He glanced back without stopping.
Dazed, she waved him off. “Go, go! He’s got Ben!”
But Special Agent Tyler was already gone and so far ahead he probably didn’t even hear her.
* * *
NASH CROUCHED NEXT to the boy as they took shelter in the overgrowth, waiting for Mal to come out of the house. They’d hopped the chain-link fence across the alley just ahead of the first agent out the back gate. The narrow space beside the detached garage, bordered by the six-foot wooden privacy fence on the other side, hadn’t seen a lawn mower in years.
Since both houses were third from the end, Nash had counted on the agents to assume that he’d run the short distance out the alley. But instead of trying to chase them down, the agent on their tail had stopped by the Dumpster behind Mal’s house and pulled out his walkie-talkie.
The younger agent caught up to the older agent as he was calling for backup. The two men argued. Nash mouthed the word ninja to the boy, who stared back at him with big eyes. A shot rang out and Nash covered Ben’s near yelp with his palm.
Thankfully, the boy hadn’t seen the incident so much as heard it.
Nash, however, had a perfect view. He kept the boy’s face turned away from the old guy slumped on the ground.
The young guy would have shot the older man again, but a dark sedan, not the same model as the one parked out front, came screeching around the corner. Instead of looking guilty, the young agent—if that’s what he was—started shouting orders to the driver. Something not right was going on here, and all Nash needed now was for Mal to step out her back door right into the middle of it.
Maybe he should be more worried that she hadn’t exited the house by now.
Nash kept one hand curled over Ben’s mouth.
The other on his Glock.
Finger on the trigger, he held his breath until the young agent bolted down the short end of the alley while the car drove up the other end and disappeared—but not before Nash had caught a glimpse of the sedan’s rental plate.
Removing his palm from the boy’s mouth Nash brought his finger to his lips, warning the boy to remain quiet.
Picking up a flat, chalky-white stone—a native form of limestone—he scratched the license plate number into the wood siding of the garage.
Ben crouched beside him, his panicked breaths coming in hard and shallow. The boy started to turn his head toward the downed agent again.
Nash pointed two fingers at his eyes. Eyes on me, not on him.
The boy turned his head back to focus wide-eyed on him.
Nash didn’t know if the kid understood SEAL sign language, but he’d always kept his signs simple enough that any BUD/S on his first mission would get their meaning.
The next thing Nash knew Ben was burying his face in Nash’s shoulder.
He wanted to put his arms around his son, offer him the comfort and reassurance he needed. But he didn’t allow himself the indulgence to pull Ben closer for that first hug.
He needed both hands free. Especially his shooting hand.
Nash shoved Ben behind him, making sure to put himself between the boy and whatever was coming. The boy kept his face plastered to Nash’s back—which was exactly where he wanted him to be. As they crouched in the weeds Nash felt himself growing queasier by the minute and it wasn’t from the blood loss
. The boy was probably worried sick about his aunt—and so was he.
There’d only been the one shot, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t been incapacitated. By the shooter or the driver. Or someone else. A silencer—even a pillow—could have muffled the sound of a gunshot.
Or a knife.
There was only one way to find out.
He was getting ready to pick up Ben again when Mal came barreling out the back gate. He didn’t immediately reveal their hiding place. But he did reach around to tap the boy so Ben could see his aunt was okay.
Now that they knew Mal was okay, he could get Ben to the SUV and let Mal catch up to them.
* * *
MALLORY FOUND STAN slumped against the Dumpster in the alley and hunkered down beside him. The agent was bleeding and barely breathing, but he wasn’t dead.
“Son of a bitch shot me.” Stan gasped for air.
“Shh...quiet, now. Keep pressure on it.” Mal pressed his hand to the wound at his gut as she looked up and down the alley.
No sign of Nash or Tyler. Or Ben.
She didn’t know how long she’d been out cold.
A few minutes, maybe?
Her head still felt woozy. She must have hit her head on the countertop harder than she thought.
When she’d tried to push to her feet to follow Tyler, she’d blacked out. The next thing she knew she’d heard the shot ring out. She managed to stumble to the back door and down the steps before tossing her cookies.
A concussion was the least of her worries right now.
Thanks to the static of Stan’s radio, she found it within easy reach under the Dumpster. “Did you call for backup?”
He offered a weak nod.
A curious neighbor stepped out his back door with a bag of trash and glanced their way.
“You,” she called to the elderly gentleman who looked as though he was about to head in the opposite direction toward another garbage bin. “Stay with this man until the ambulance arrives. Keep pressure on it.” She demonstrated before shoving the radio at her neighbor and reaching for Stan’s firearm.
Without hesitation, she wiped her bloody hands on the pants of her Ann Taylor designer suit for a better grip on the weapon. She hated to leave Stan like this, but Ben had to be her priority.
The SEAL's Special Mission Page 6