The SEAL's Special Mission

by Rogenna Brewer

  Every once in a while he touched his side and winced.

  He needed medical attention, but she was too busy plotting her and Ben’s escape to care. Nash might have saved them from some unknown danger, but she was pretty sure that he was the one who’d put them in jeopardy in the first place.

  Why doesn’t he just turn the heater off?

  Because he was cold. Too much blood loss could cause a person to go into shock. Weakness, fatigue, confusion were all signs, followed by a rapid heartbeat, low blood pressure and finally death.

  Even in the dim light he looked ashen. He was probably cold because of decreased cardiac output.

  Dead man driving.

  “Nash, you need to pull over and let me drive. Right now.”

  “I’m not pulling over.”

  “Find a gas station, now,” she ordered. Her concern had more to do with Ben’s safety. But Nash driving with impaired cognition put them all at risk.

  “Yeah. I need to go pee,” Ben piped up. So much for the earbuds. Ben seized the opportunity at the mention of a gas station to make his needs known, and he was no doubt still hungry.

  “Ben needs to use the bathroom and so do I. And you need to get the hell out from behind the wheel.” She spotted the blue gas, food and lodging sign just before the exit. “Take the next exit.”

  Nash must have been even worse off than she suspected, because he didn’t put up much of a fuss about pulling off the highway. Ben’s mouth watered as they passed several familiar fast-food chains. He set his game aside and sat forward in eager anticipation. But he didn’t make a peep as Nash passed one neon sign after another and the busy and brightly lit Kum and Go in favor of a four-pump mom-and-pop stop.

  Gas prices were higher in the mountains than in the city. The fact that he was willing to pay even more meant he was cognizant of security cameras and of keeping them away from the big rigs and any burly truckers who might be willing to help aid her and Ben in an escape.

  He pulled up to the overpriced pump and they all scrambled out of the SUV to stretch their cramped muscles. The cold mountain air frosted her breath. Mal hadn’t been this far west of her favorite ski resort in a decade.

  Nash kept Ben close by, letting him push the pay inside button and help with pumping. He shot her a warning look over Ben’s head that said she’d better not even think about going inside without him.

  Leaning against the hood of the SUV, Mal crossed her arms against the chill and waited until the gas tank was once again full and the gas cap replaced. Then she hurried in ahead of Nash and Ben. She wanted the chance to use her credit card and leave a trail. She’d thought long and hard about their odds.

  There’d be people looking for her and Ben, people who could help.

  Her boss at the Bureau for one, and possibly Tess.

  The more she thought about it, the less likely it seemed that Special Agent Tyler had been shooting at them. He simply fired a single warning shot, missed and hit the window by accident.

  And she supposed it made some sense that he’d taken aim at the vehicle—stray bullets in a residential neighborhood did more harm than good. It’s just not what she would have done had the situation been reversed. Special Agent Tyler might have used poor judgment, but he did not open fire on them. There was only one bad guy in this scenario, and that was Nash.

  It took a criminal to know one.

  And just because he was testifying didn’t mean he was innocent. More than likely he’d gotten involved with the terrorists group’s criminal activities.

  Two federal marshals were dead and Nash was near death himself.

  And he wasn’t talking. Or at least not to her satisfaction.

  Only one thing bothered her about her rationalization of the whole Tyler situation.

  Nash had let her keep her firearm—or rather Stan’s gun. Why would he do that unless he thought she’d need it to protect herself or Ben? Or was he just trying to use it to gain her trust? She’d also proved once again she couldn’t shoot him—so why not let her keep it.

  Plus, he knew she wasn’t going anywhere without Ben.

  If it was just her, she’d have gotten away by now. But she had Ben to think about and she wouldn’t do anything to risk his welfare. She did not believe Nash would hurt Ben, but she wasn’t quite so confident he wouldn’t hurt her. He was certainly capable of it.

  The only way they could get away from Nash was with a head start.

  She simply had to bide her time as he grew weaker and weaker.

  But Mal had no intention of involving civilians. She wasn’t the only one armed and she didn’t know how Nash would react if he felt threatened.

  Plus, it wasn’t as if she could cry for help and people would come running. It was a sad fact that people tended to ignore a woman’s screams. Especially if they thought it was a domestic situation. Screaming “fire” was far more effective than either “rape” or “help.”

  But instead of running into the quickie mart shouting “fire,” Mal finger-combed her hair and buttoned her black suit jacket to cover up the traces of blood on her white button-down shirt—Stan’s or Nash’s blood she couldn’t be sure.

  An electronic bell went off as she entered. The man behind the counter sat on a stool watching the ten o’clock news. She glanced up at the screen. But there was no top-of-the-hour news flash or announcement of a manhunt with Nash’s picture.

  She forced a smile for the clerk and then headed straight to the coolers in back.

  The bell went off again as Nash and Ben entered.

  “Can I have a bag of chips?” Ben asked.

  “You can have whatever you want,” Nash responded. Mal glanced over her shoulder at him as he said it. Typical of a guilt-ridden absentee father, he’d just essentially promised Ben all those bad-for-him things she never let her son have—her son! Ben was her son. Nash had given up his right to parent Ben all so he could run around playing his little spy games. It was no wonder Cara had begun the process of divorcing him.

  “I can’t do this anymore, Mal. I’m terrified of losing him. Of having to raise our son alone.... I can’t be married to a Navy SEAL.”

  Spoken like a desperate woman. But one desperately in love.

  “You, too,” he said. It took Mal a minute to realize she’d been staring at Nash this whole time and that he’d been talking about her grabbing anything she wanted. She made eye contact before looking away from his penetrating brown eyes. Yes, her sister had been desperately in love with the man. But every time Mallory looked at him, she only saw Cara lying on the kitchen floor, in a pool of her own blood, and wished him to hell and gone.

  It’s all my fault. She hadn’t really been listening to what her sister was saying.

  “I can’t be married to a Navy SEAL.”

  The prosecutor’s closing argument put Cara’s fear into context. “Lieutenant Commander Kenneth Nash, in a PTSD episode, attacked his pregnant wife. When he snapped out of it—saw what he had done—the Navy SEAL turned his attentions to desperately trying to save their unborn child....

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I’m asking you to look beyond the hero to the evidence in this case. Ms. Ward was there and she was not applauding her brother-in-law’s actions. You heard her testimony. She was appalled by what he was doing. She drew her service pistol and read the man his rights....

  “Kenneth Nash is no hero. He’s a sad statistic, yes. Post-traumatic stress is a real issue for our service members returning from war. Nonetheless, he’s a statistic who murdered his wife. Just because he can’t recall or refuses to recount what happened before he dialed 911 does not let him off the hook.”

  “What are you mumbling about over there?” Nash asked from the next aisle over. He stood head and shoulders above the convenience store shelves.

  “Buying junk food
for your kid doesn’t let you off the hook. It just makes you a bad father.” Mal left the aisle in a huff.

  The store was a decent size with several rows. Yet there were no other customers around—it seemed they were the only ones subjecting themselves to high-priced gas and trans fats.

  Mal noticed that Nash had returned to Ben’s side to help guide his choices. She was comfortable enough with the situation as long as she was between Nash and the door. She grabbed three bottles of water and waited until Nash and Ben worked their way toward the back of the store before heading to the cashier. Once at the counter, she added a map of California to her purchases.

  Hopefully this would help her boss piece things together.

  “Evening,” the clerk said. “White Chevy Tahoe, pump four?” His fingers hovered over the register keys ready to ring up the gas.

  “No, my husband will pay for that,” she lied smoothly.

  The man’s smile changed to a scowl as she pulled out her credit card.

  “There’s a minimum purchase.”

  The overpriced water and map easily added up to over ten dollars. “Fine, add the gas.” She forced her credit card on the reluctant business owner.

  The man sighed heavily.

  Nash appeared at her side and leaned into the counter with a wad of cash. “I got this, sweetheart.” He added a prepaid phone and peeled off two hundred dollars in twenties from a wad that she’d bet was five hundred dollars thick...and stolen from her emergency stash. “May as well wait until the boy’s done.”

  The owner was more than happy not to swipe the card.

  “Honey.” Mal played along. “Is that our vacation fund?”

  Nash pushed his ball cap back on his head and went from America’s Most Wanted to Good Ol’ Boy in a heartbeat. “These independently owned gas stations don’t make any money off credit. You should know that, hon.”

  The man behind the counter looked as if he wanted to crawl over it and kiss Nash on the lips. “Kum and Go undercuts us by six cents a gallon. Then the damn credit card companies put the screws to every transaction by taking their percentage. It’s so a man can hardly make a living anymore.”

  The clerk extended the credit card toward her.

  Nash looked at her with amusement in his brown eyes.

  Glad he found this so funny. Mal stuck her nose up in the air and didn’t bother reaching for the plastic.

  “Mind handing me those scissors?” Nash asked the clerk as he pointed to the flowerpot/pen holder behind the counter. The man handed over the scissors and shot Mal a smug look as Nash cut up her credit card.

  She turned her back on both of them and went to supervise Ben who was still perusing the aisles. He carried a red handled basket filled to capacity with junk.

  So much for fatherly guidance.

  Ben looked at her, all wide-eyed guilt and innocence. No doubt expecting her to make him put it all back.

  Under normal circumstances, she preferred he eat healthy snacks.

  But she wasn’t going to be the bad guy here and make him put back chips and mini doughnuts after Nash said Ben could have whatever he wanted.

  “Make sure you add some good choices, too.” She brushed back his hair and hugged him to her side. He hugged her back. Despite his brave front, he had to be scared. She rubbed his back and gave him another squeeze before letting him go.

  No matter what he said, he was still her baby.

  She just made sure not to call him that.

  Even though she wanted to.

  He added apples and cheese to his basket, then Nash helped him make a rainbow slushy from a variety of choices. Mal grabbed a diet soda and some chocolate for herself.

  Everyone was allowed a few bad choices once in a while.

  Besides chocolate was a cure-all.

  She looked over the nonfood items for anything else that might come in handy.

  If she grabbed a box of tampons, would that be the same as giving in to the idea of a long ordeal? But what if she didn’t grab them and got caught without? What then? Nash had said they were headed to Coronado—California wasn’t exactly the middle of nowhere.

  Oh, what the hell? Tampons were good for plugging up bullet holes.

  She grabbed two boxes and a first aid kit.

  She might hate him and wish him dead, but she could be humane about it. She also grabbed a sewing kit, tool kit, mini flashlight and batteries—enough for Ben’s game system and the flashlight.

  She grabbed anything and everything that looked useful.

  “Almost done, sweetheart?” Nash called to her in a syrupy sweet voice.

  “Be there in just a sec, honey buns,” she answered without the sticky sweetness. On her way to the counter, she grabbed three Colorado-tourist-type T-shirts—one child, one medium and one large adult-size stamp of tourism.

  Eventually she wanted to change out of her blood-stained clothes, and though she’d rather not wear the lace panties that Nash had packed, she didn’t see any underwear displayed—practical or otherwise.

  Once she was done shopping, she did a quick calculation of the items in her basket—Nash would have to cough up another hundred dollars, easy. Served him right for stealing her money.

  “Look, Mom. It’s our house on TV!”

  Ben pointed to the small screen. Nash and the store owner turned toward the set at the same time she did.

  Moving closer for a better look, she caught the tail end mention of a gang-related drive-by shooting. There were no gangs in her neighborhood.

  The alley behind her house had been cordoned off. In the distance an ambulance and police cars surrounded the Dumpster where she’d left Stan in the care of her neighbor. And the victim they spoke of was described as an elderly man who lived alone.

  Were they referring to Stan? Or her neighbor, Mr. Covey?

  Both had been very much alive when she’d left them.

  No mention of a wounded FBI agent.

  No mention of a fugitive Navy SEAL.

  What the heck?

  Mal felt a chill run down her spine.

  “Good thing we’re moving out of that neighborhood,” Nash said for the clerk’s benefit. He loaded down Ben with shopping bags and then steered him toward the door, away from the kid’s morbid fascination with the television account of events they’d just lived through.

  “May I have the key to the restroom out back?” Mal asked.

  The owner reached underneath the counter for a key attached to a cable—attached to a hubcap—and set it on the counter.

  “Seriously?”

  There was that smirk again. “People drive off with the key all the time,” the man said.

  Really? She doubted that a key attached to a hubcap would deter someone from raiding the place for TP.

  Overloaded with enough tampons and whatnot to patch up an entire bullet-ridden marine battalion, Mal snatched the key from smirky guy. “Come on, Ben.”

  Nash could hardly put up a fuss in front of his buddy about his kid having to use the restroom. They’d already drawn enough attention to themselves that the gas station owner wasn’t likely to forget them as just another family of tourists passing through.

  That was a good thing, right?

  The goose bumps spreading across her skin right now had nothing to do with the frigid air outside. Nash carried his own purchases and used the key fob to unlock the SUV from a distance. The lights flickered and the car gulped twice. The liftgate opened and Ben ran over to dump his bags inside before racing back toward the restroom with her and Nash right behind him.

  The place really was not that well lit when compared to the Kum and Go.

  “Guess it’s boys first.” Nash took the key from her just as she was about to follow Ben into the unisex bathroom. From the glimpse
she’d gotten, it was small. One stall. One sink. And no windows, only a small air vent from the look of it.

  Nash took his bag that held the prepaid phone with him. She off-loaded her bags to the back of the SUV while waiting for them to finish. As if the shovel, rope, duct tape and full five-gallon gas cans weren’t enough to freak her out, she uncovered a bulk supply of dry goods underneath an old wool blanket and camping gear.

  The amount of food gave her pause—there was enough here to feed the three of them for about a month. Mal closed the liftgate and backtracked toward the restroom. She heard the echo of their movements inside the small bathroom through the vent. The toilet flushed, and then flushed again.

  “Is Mr. Covey dead?” Ben asked on the other side of the door, his voice coming through loud and clear without a hint of that earlier fear.

  “Is that your neighbor?” Nash asked.

  She couldn’t hear what was said next over the sound of running water.

  Mallory cringed. No seven-year-old boy should be having a casual conversation about death with his fugitive father. She needed to get Ben someplace safe where they could talk about these things. Preferably as far away from Nash as possible. She wanted no part of whatever trouble followed him.

  The running water stopped.

  The door opened and Nash held it for Ben to exit.

  Ben came out wiping his hands on his pants. His face and hands were clean. “The dryer’s broken and there’re no paper towels. There is toilet paper, though.”

  “Thanks for the report.”

  Nash came out, bag in hand, looking as if he’d splashed water on his face, and from the dripping curls underneath his cap it appeared as if he’d slicked back his hair, as well. She grabbed the hubcap from him and without any resistance on his part. Propping the door open with her hip, she hesitated and held out her hand. “Car keys.”

  “We’ll be right here when you’re done.”

  He smiled that sardonic smile of his. He knew exactly what she was thinking—that there was the very real fear he’d leave her here and take Ben with him.