“Good.” He nodded. “Then we’re on the same page. As for this operation, we’re calling it Mama Bear.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
NASH STUDIED MALLORY as she slept. Cara’s kid sister, all grown up.
Curled up on the couch like that, she didn’t look so grown up. She looked vulnerable. Scared.
And totally unprepared for the events of the evening, yet she’d risen to the occasion. Hell, she’d even challenged him. That was why he’d chosen her as his son’s guardian. Protector.
“He calls you mom.”
“Yes,” she said.
He hadn’t meant to say that out loud. Didn’t think she was aware enough to answer. Her eyes drifted open again, a sleepy half-mast kind of open. Firelight picked up the red highlights in her hair, but there was something different about it. There was something not quite right to his way of thinking. All those once unruly curls tamed into submission. What a shame.
Nash leaned forward in his seat. Held back a wince as pain radiated from his side. “Does he know you’re his aunt and not his mother?”
“Of course.”
Which wasn’t really an answer, or at least not the one he was looking for.
What did the boy know about his mother? Her death?
Him?
“He’s not afraid of me.”
She shifted to a sitting position and hugged her knees. “A mistake on my part obviously.” Her gaze drifted to the still-sleeping boy, and his followed.
“Just curious,” he admitted. “I saw an old photo of me on his dresser.”
“He found it in Cara’s things. I told him you were killed in action. I thought it best for him to think of his father as a hero.” She said this in a way that let him know she thought he was anything but a hero. And she was right.
“And Cara?”
“He knows she died when he was a baby. Ben has grown up healthy and happy. He hasn’t needed the details regarding his parents.”
“That’s good.” It was the way it should be.
Except it wasn’t.
A boy shouldn’t have to grow up without either of his parents. So many times over the years he’d thought about packing it all in. Returning home.
But home to what? A son who was better off without him?
And it would have meant breaking the promise of no contact he’d made to Mal. A promise he had kept and would have continued to keep, except under the most dire of circumstances—which these were.
He’d wanted Mal and Ben to live a life without having to look over their shoulders. That kind of life was no longer possible now. He wondered if she fully understood that there would be no career to go back to—and not because she’d done anything wrong.
“You must really hate me right now,” he acknowledged.
She sucked in her breath and let it out slowly. “I have every reason to hate you, Nash.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t save her for you. For the both of us.”
He caught the sheen in her eyes as she turned her head away from him.
Because really, wasn’t that why she hated him? Not because she thought he shouldn’t have made every possible effort to save Ben’s life. And not because she truly believed he’d flipped a switch and strangled Cara. But because he was a Navy SEAL and hadn’t been home to save his own wife when she needed him.
All because of some petty argument over circumcision. An argument that at the time, when wrapped up in religious convictions, hadn’t seemed so petty.
He should have been there to protect Cara. To fight for her. It was worse knowing she’d been targeted simply because she was his wife. The al-Ayman leader had bragged to his face about knowing the names of every SEAL Team member who’d been involved in a raid that had killed the man’s oldest son.
The terrorist group’s plan had been to take out the oldest son of every team member. “We started with the Jew’s wife because she was carrying his unborn son,” Mullah Kahn had bragged one night to Nash, or Sayyid, as he knew him to be. “But it turned out much better than planned. Her murder was pinned on the husband and he was sent to prison where the infidel killed himself.”
Nash even found out that the assassin had entered his home posing as a rabbi.
He now knew Cara had stopped by a synagogue, where he’d sometimes attended, several days before her murder and had talked with a rabbi there, asking questions about the Jewish faith and traditions. That was why Nash was so certain they were on their way toward reaching a compromise and working things out. They were both open-minded adults who’d chosen to love each other for better for worse, until death do us part.
Beyond death.
At the time, when Mullah Kahn had first relayed these events to him, Nash had wondered if it was a setup or a test. He’d had a hard time not killing the al-Ayman leader right then and there. But he knew he had to get his hands on that list of SEALs. Discover how invasive it really was and then get word to Mac.
The list turned out to be less a manifest and more of a compilation of random names from various teams—which was bad enough, but less pervasive than a leak or a breach. And from the inside Nash had been able to make sure the list disappeared and that no other assassinations were attempted, let alone carried out.
But he’d also discovered something else about himself. That he needed to clear his name more than he wanted vengeance. And he needed to do it for Ben.
Both he and Mal seemed to be lost in their thoughts in the firelit cabin. There was so much he wanted to tell her, without also dumping all the shit he’d been through on her.
“He’s so much more than I expected or deserved,” he said suddenly, watching Ben with an unfamiliar lump forming in the back of his throat. “Thank you.”
He had her full attention once again.
He wasn’t the type of man who felt the need to apologize or explain. Or even offer his gratitude.
But he owed her more than an explanation. Nash searched for the right words but had a hard time putting them together in a way that would make sense to anyone.
“I chose not to testify in my own defense, not because I was guilty, but because I knew I could turn it to my advantage. And that decision has allowed me to go after Cara’s killer.” He held her gaze as he said, “Her real killer, Mal.”
She shifted in her seat.
“I know you and I will never see eye to eye on certain aspects of the truth,” Nash continued. “The how and why I chose to deliver Benjamin into this world, for one. But you have to believe me when I tell you that Cara was my world.”
How would Mal react if she knew that the man who’d sanctioned Cara’s killing had done so for no other reason than that she was his wife? A payback for a mission that he and his team had carried out.
By the time Mal arrived on the scene that fateful day, Cara was already dead—whether or not she wanted to believe it. He’d sent Mal outside under the pretense of retrieving his phone even though he’d already called 911.
He’d sent her out because he’d known then what he was about to do.
They could argue the fact that he wasn’t a doctor—or a coroner—and that he had no authority to pronounce anyone dead. Let alone perform a C-section on his own wife.
As a SEAL he’d been EMT trained. And he’d seen enough death and dying to know that the only woman he’d ever love had died in his arms.
Cara’s last words to him were “I’m sorry, the baby.”
With her dying breath, his wife had been thinking of their child, so how could he not? He could have continued CPR until his lungs exploded. He could have given in to his grief and broken down right there.
Neither of those things would have brought her back.
And neither of those things would have saved Ben.
He’d chosen a course of
action that very few would have dared taken. But he didn’t care about what anyone would or would not have done in his situation.
He actually thought he was years beyond caring about anything. But he’d thought wrong.
If today had taught him anything, it was that he still cared. He cared about Ben. He cared about Mal. Practically speaking, he needed her for one reason, and one reason only—and that’s why she was here. But now that she was here, he knew the real reason he needed her was to keep alive the memory of the family that might have been. She was Ben’s anchor.
Only she wasn’t just Ben’s anchor.
She was his anchor, too.
He’d been telling himself he felt a sense of obligation to her because of Ben. But she was that place he dreamed of coming home to long after he’d forgotten how to dream. She wasn’t Cara, but aside from Ben, she was all he had left of Cara. Nor was she Ben’s biological mother, but she was the only mother he could give his son.
“You don’t trust me, I get it. But can you at least believe that I would never intentionally do anything to hurt Ben? Or you?”
“I want to believe you, Nash. And maybe I do. I don’t know. But that doesn’t mean you haven’t already hurt us. Or that we won’t get hurt. And please don’t pretend you haven’t dragged us into something deep here.”
“You haven’t asked me if I killed those two marshals at the safe house.”
Maybe she had just assumed he did.
The way she had assumed he’d shoot an agent for no good reason?
She leaned back against the arm of the couch, staring up at the low-beamed ceiling. “Why’d you come for us? You don’t need us. We’ll only slow you down.”
“Right on both counts.”
What if he just told the truth and said that he’d never left? That he’d always been right there in the background of their lives watching from a distance. Apart and separate, but somehow whole, too. Because they were safe. But now they weren’t.
“Why, then? Do you really think you’re going to raise Ben on the run? Always looking over your shoulder? And what about me? Do you think I’m just going to go along for the ride? We had a good life, Ben and I.”
“Had being the operative word, Mal.”
That life was over. Whether she knew it or not, chose to believe it or not.
He wasn’t here to give her false hope. He was here to save their lives.
Uncertainty filled her eyes. If she hadn’t been afraid before, she was now. “What are you not telling me, Nash?”
“What do you think?” He pushed to his feet. He needed to have a look around. Secure the perimeter. Find the generator so they could have a hot shower and a hot meal in the morning. He stopped alongside the couch. “I’m sorry if you can’t trust me, Mal, but you’ve got no one else you can trust. My cover’s been blown. And because of that—because of me—you and Ben are in danger. So I guess you could look at the situation and say that I did bring danger to your door, but I’m trying my damnedest to keep you one step ahead of it. And for the record, I didn’t kill those two marshals. No matter what anyone else says.”
* * *
MALLORY DRIFTED IN and out to the sound of running water and a few short hours later was jerked awake as daylight streamed through the front window. Nash had given her a lot to absorb before she’d dozed off, and she’d had an uneasy night despite the exhaustion. How long had she been out? She looked around to find Ben eating a protein bar at the kitchen table. The contents of his backpack were strewn across the surface and he appeared to be busy humming as he drew pictures.
“Where’s Nash?” she asked.
Ben pointed overhead and the sound of running water registered as a shower on her consciousness. Did that mean there was hot water? Because there also appeared to be electricity in the cabin now. She switched off the table lamp beside the couch and tossed off the afghan. A wave of nausea hit her as she sat up. The tender spot at the back of her head reminded her that she no longer knew the good guys from the bad guys.
She certainly did not know which category her former brother-in-law fell into. On the one hand, it appeared as if he’d risked his life to save theirs. On the other? Well, he’d brought a world of hurt down on them that had nothing to do with her or Ben.
Nash had left her gym bag by the chair next to the fireplace. The ash gave off a temperate glow. There was a chill in the air, so she added more kindling and another log to get the fire going again.
Then she rummaged through the gym bag looking for the car keys and came up empty-handed. “How long has he been up there?”
She straightened and glanced around the small space to see if she could figure out where he might have hidden the weapons. Last count they had four handguns—her graduation present, her service pistol, Stan’s service pistol and the Glock he’d gotten from somewhere, plus a box of bullets.
Her plan was still to put as much distance between them and Nash as possible. Ben could hardly object to leaving their kidnapper behind in a nice cozy cabin. Even if the thought pricked her conscience.
She needed to contact Tess, someone she trusted. And to get in touch with the Marshal Service directly. She could check out Nash’s story and then arrange to hand him over. The burn phone was somewhere, but where?
Still in the car, maybe?
The first order of business was finding a pain reliever for her pounding headache. In the kitchen, she found a bottle of Tylenol and filled a glass with tap water to down the pill. They wouldn’t have much time to make their escape.
How long was Nash going to be in that shower?
Mallory switched the tap from cold to hot, only to find it ran tepid.
The hair at the back of her neck prickled and she forgot all about her headache and plans to take Nash in as she shut off the water. She put a hand on Ben’s shoulder. “Stay here.”
He continued drawing as she crossed the short distance to the stairs. There was a gun cabinet at the foot of the staircase. She could see a full rack of hunting rifles through the tempered glass. She tried the doors, which were locked. As was the drawer beneath where the ammo was most likely stored, and quite possibly the weapons they’d brought with them.
She grabbed the next best thing, a baseball bat from the umbrella basket beside the front door, and tiptoed up the stairs. With every creak of the floorboards, she stopped to hold her breath and listen. The shower was still running, but her gut told her there was no way in hell the man was taking a twenty-minute shower in tepid water— especially considering their current situation.
There was an empty bedroom and bathroom situated at the top of the stairs. The running water was coming from behind a closed door, which appeared to be the master bedroom, likely with an en suite bathroom.
Mallory brought the bat to her shoulder and pushed on the door.
The door opened inward with a creek, but she was ready to take a swing at the first sign of trouble. The master bedroom was fully furnished but empty of any life-forms. The en suite bathroom door was open and she moved toward it with caution. How embarrassed would she be if she caught him innocently taking a cold shower?
That was not the case, however. He appeared to have passed out on the tile floor before he’d even gotten undressed.
He lay there pale and lifeless.
For all she knew he was already dead.
“Did you hit him?” Ben screamed at her from the doorway.
“No, I did not hit him.” She set the bat aside and stepped over Nash’s prostrate body. Reaching into the shower, she shut off the running water and crouched down beside him to check his pulse. Same as before. Rapid and far too strong for her liking.
“Is he dead?” Ben asked in hushed tones.
“No, he’s not dead.” But he was back to burning up with fever and didn’t so much as groan when she rolled him
over onto his back. At least he appeared to be breathing. She inched up his dark T-shirt and found it plastered to the wound at his side with dried blood. “Hand me a wet washcloth.” She nodded toward the sink.
Ben grabbed a washcloth from the top of the stack. After running it under the faucet, he handed it to her dripping wet. Mallory applied it to Nash’s T-shirt until she could work the material free from the wound. As careful as she was, he started to bleed again.
The sutures were professional enough, but more than a couple of them were ripped open now. The wound itself looked an angry red and the skin surrounding it felt hot to the touch. She cleaned around the wound as best she could and felt that moment of guilt again for punching him back at the gas station.
Ben handed her a dry washcloth without her having to ask. “I’ll get the first aid kit.” He scrambled for the stairs.
“Don’t you dare die today. Do you hear me, Nash? I’m not letting you cause that little boy any more pain.”
After she tended to his wound the best she could, she hooked her arms under his, and half dragged, half carried him toward the bed. He was lean muscled, but heavier than he looked because he weighed a ton. “Nice to know you gained back all that weight you lost in prison.”
The mattress dipped from their combined weight as she fell back onto the bed into a semi-reclining position with him in her lap. The mattress dipped again when she slithered out from underneath him. With the lower half of his body still mostly off the bed, she picked up his legs at the knees and turned him perpendicular to the headboard.
She couldn’t help noticing the bulge in his pocket and fished out the keys—car, house and a tiny one, which was probably for the gun cabinet. After a thorough search of all his pockets, and finding nothing more useful than the keys, Mal removed his shoes and dropped them one at a time to the foot of the bed. She adjusted the pillow beneath his head.
He was almost as pale as the bedsheets. She brushed his dark curly hair back from his sweaty brow. All the time she’d known him, she’d never seen him with hair long enough to know it curled.
His marine dad probably never let him grow it long and then he’d joined the navy.
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