The SEAL's Special Mission

by Rogenna Brewer

  “She’s upstairs with the new boyfriend,” Tyler said from behind him. “I have no wish to hurt her. You’re the one I want. She’s better off without you. The world is better off without you. Now, hands above your head, nice and easy.”

  Nash could see the body on the floor belonged to one of Bari’s men. He raised his hands above his head. He remembered Tyler exiting the saloon and calling out all-clear to his superiors.

  Nash wondered why Tyler didn’t step in to take his gun, which he still held in his hand.

  “You’re Joseph Tyler’s brother. Your brother was a guard at Gitmo.” Nash did not have to guess—he knew this for a fact.

  “My brother was a marine and a patriot. You’re not fit to lick his boots, Nash.”

  “Your brother was an asshole and a sadist. One of the worst I’ve ever come across.”

  “Yeah, well, he pretty much said the same thing about you. How you were the camp leader. You started that hunger strike—”

  “In protest. To draw attention to the mistreatment. Your brother maimed and tortured prisoners and small animals for the sheer pleasure of it.”

  “You’re no better than animals, the lot of you. You think because you were born here that you’re different than them? Than him? You still have that same Middle Eastern mentality they all have.” He pointed with his gun to the dead man on the floor. “You’re just like him. And you deserve to die just like him. I read your file. You’re so dirty not even the government knows what to do with you—one of the unclean. It was only a matter of time before some higher muckety-muck decided to burn you anyway. I’m doing Washington a favor.”

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I know my brother went to prison because of you. I know he hanged himself in Leavenworth and it wasn’t a fake suicide. The whole time you were at Gitmo—sucking up to the enemy, planning and plotting to help them escape—you were spying on marines.”

  “If your brother and the men arrested with him were acting like marines, they wouldn’t have been on my radar. It’s men like your brother that give the military a bad rap.”

  “Shut up. Just shut up. Here’s how this is going to go down,” Tyler said. “Dead guy shoots you with his gun. I shoot him with mine. Everybody rushes in and I’m the only one left standing to explain the situation.”

  Nash had tried to talk the guy down. Had given him the benefit of the doubt because of his brother, but now it was time to act.

  Nash lunged at Tyler and they fought. The guy had him dead to rights.

  He heard the click. And then two shots fired.

  And knew he should be dead.

  Tyler fell to the floor. And Mal stood right behind him with a gun in her hand. “I shot him.”

  “He would have killed me.”

  Nouri swung through the window. He looked at the two bodies on the floor. Looked at Mal still holding the smoking gun. And then exchanged looks with Nash. “We have an insurgent and agent down,” he said into the mic.

  And then it was left to Nash, not Tyler, to explain the situation.

  * * *

  MAL SAT OUTSIDE on the dilapidated boardwalk as they carried the body of Special Agent Christopher Tyler out in a body bag. Dave looked at her with pity in his eyes. He was a fair man and Nash’s story had checked out. One of the bodies, with a bullet to his head, found by the side of the road near the cabin belonged to an ex-marine with ties to both Christopher and Joseph Tyler.

  The first sniper—the one who’d blown the head off Crusty the Snowman—had not been working for al-Ayman, but rather for money or vengeance on behalf of the Tyler brothers. The kid had probably freaked after his failed hit and Tyler had shot him, either because he was a liability or because he was a loose end.

  “I’m going to be looking into Stan Morgan’s shooting, personally. There was an attempt on his life while he was in the hospital that set back his recovery. If it wasn’t for Tess, I might not have realized in time to save him and spread the rumor that he’d died. I should have caught on faster. There’s no doubt looking back now, that Tyler’s demeanor changed after that shooting at your house,” Dave told her.

  “I’m glad that Stan’s going to be all right.”

  “Officially, Tyler will be ruled as shot in the line of duty. I just wanted you to know that your name will be kept out of all of this. Looks like your ride is here, Mal.” He nodded toward the convoy of four white vans entering the town. “Good luck, Mal.”

  He offered his hand. Mal stood to shake it.

  He was a fair man and a good boss. She was going to miss working with him.

  Shooting a fellow agent in the back without warning—even a bad one—was not how she had wanted to end her career. Tucking her hands into her back pockets, Mal watched her old life begin to fade as Dave walked up to the driver of the first van and introduced himself as the officer in charge.

  Because the Feds had jurisdiction over terrorism, the prisoners were loaded into three of the four secure vans for transport by the U.S. Marshal Service.

  The dead bodies were bagged and loaded into the other.

  As the four vans drove off, two white SUVs pulled in.

  The SEALs had finished their sweep of the town and surrounding area and had given the all-clear. With the immediate threat contained or removed, everyone in the ghost town seemed more relaxed.

  Yet Mal paced outside the saloon. Nouri stood nearby without flirting. Nash had given the SEAL strict instructions to guard her. But suddenly he disappeared somewhere with McCaffrey, only to return a short while later with Ben. Nouri stood off to the side as Ben ran straight up to Mal and hugged her.

  A woman in jeans, a fitted white blouse and a fringed suede jacket, looking as if she belonged to the old mining town in another era in her cowboy hat and boots, got out of the lead SUV with tinted windows, instead of off a horse. She wore her holstered weapon concealed rather than on her hip. And she had a laptop case strapped across her body instead of a saddlebag. Definitely from this era.

  She flashed a badge in their direction.

  “Jane Bowman, U.S. Marshal.” The woman tipped her hat to Nash. “Lieutenant Commander, good to see you alive and in one piece. Mallory Ward, Benjamin Ward and Mr. Nash. Would you folks come with me please?”

  Bowman led them past the vehicles with their tinted windows to the small schoolhouse on the hill. Mal glanced in passing before refocusing her attention on the small hand in hers and where they were going.

  “I’m told there’s limited seating in this town.” Bowman glanced at them over her shoulder. “I wanted some privacy as we go over what to expect as you enter the witness protection program.”

  Mal felt Nash’s hand at the small of her back as they stepped across the threshold of the schoolhouse. The back had been completely stripped, but there were a couple of dusty benches and tables up front still bolted to the floor with rusty hardware.

  Bowman removed the strap of her laptop bag from around her neck and placed it on the desk at the front of the room. She turned around and propped up against it. Before they even had a chance to sit down, an older woman entered through the side door to the schoolyard. “This is my colleague, Corin. Corin is a child psychologist and she’s going to take Ben out to the swing set. As much as he would like to stay, Nash is going to go with them.” She looked pointedly at him and he ushered Ben out the side door behind Corin.

  There was no door to close behind them and Mal had a clear view of the rusty old swing set and seesaw in the snow-covered gravel schoolyard.

  “We like to have minors evaluated before entering the program,” Bowman said, recalling Mal’s attention to the front of the room. “Especially those who’ve been through a traumatic event like your son. He may try to test you or act out some when you first settle into your new life, but trust me when I tell you
that kids are usually more resilient than their parents. Corin’s going to be with us for the next couple of weeks, and then once we get you settled, we’ll arrange for weekly therapy sessions to help Ben transition.”

  Mal nodded.

  “If you’d like to see a therapist I can arrange for that, as well. Other than that, I’m your new best friend. There are no secrets between us, so feel free to spill the beans. Rule number one—I will never lie to you and Lord help you if you lie to me.”

  “Is Nash coming with us?”

  “No. He’s not entering into the program.”

  Mal’s gaze wandered outside again. It was more or less what she’d expected to hear. Ben twisted in the swing. Nash leaned against the metal pole and the psychiatrist stood nearby, chatting with both father and son. “What about my dad?”

  “I’m sorry,” Bowman said. “With his Alzheimer’s he’s not a candidate for relocation and could be a liability. Don’t be nervous. No one in the history of the witness protection program has ever been killed following the rules. I’m good at my job. Right now I need you to empty your pockets and place the items on the desk. Remove any jewelry, including piercings. Any clothing with your name on it? Body art or tattoos?”

  “Nothing up my pockets and nothing up my sleeves.”

  “Did you bring a purse with you?”

  “All I have on me are my badge and my SIG.”

  “I’ll need them both.”

  Mal handed them over. And tried not to cry when giving up her badge.

  “I’ll try to find you a job on the periphery of law enforcement, but I can’t promise you anything. You’ll receive a sixty-thousand-dollar-a-year stipend from the program and all your assets will be liquidated and turned over to you again if not found to be from criminal gain. Any accounts in the Cayman Islands? Or hidden money?”

  “I keep four storage units.” Bowman entered the locations into her computer as Mal explained what the woman would find in each one.

  “Aliases and false IDs were my next question. You’re a treat for me, Mal,” Bowman said. “I’m used to relocating a more criminal element.” A voice broke through the static of Bowman’s walkie-talkie. “All right,” she answered. “Excuse me for a minute,” she said to Mal, and then went to go take care of business.

  Mal moved toward the door. Corin was sitting on the swing rocking back and forth while Nash was crouched down to talk to Ben. Ben was nodding and trying hard not to cry. Much like Mal.

  The helo could be heard starting up outside.

  “They told me to wait in here.”

  Mal turned toward the soft cultured tones. A woman wearing a head scarf, a hijab with an accompanying veil and a niqab for the face was staring back at her with the most exquisite exotic eyes. There was no mistaking that this woman was Nash’s undercover wife.

  “Do you look much like your sister?”

  Mal shook her head. “No. She was a strawberry blonde and petite. Less freckles.”

  “I meant was she as beautiful as you? I worry, I think, that I cannot compete with his love for her and that he finds me unappealing.”

  “Oh, I kind of doubt that.” Mal folded her arms and started out the door, hoping to discourage further conversation.

  But that only brought the woman in closer. “My name is Sari, by the way. Do you know my husband well?”

  “Not at all,” Mal lied. Was it really a lie?

  Was she now looking at a stranger she only thought she knew?

  “I think you do.” The woman called her on it. “A woman knows these things.”

  Mal leaned back against the doorframe and locked eyes with the other woman. “Do you know him as well as you think you do?”

  “I know that if he chooses me it will be because he feels obligated.”

  She dropped her scarf and veil at the same time.

  Mal sucked in her breath. The woman’s beautiful face had been scarred by acid.

  “This was for rejecting the ugly suitor my family had chosen for me. My brothers punished my vanity. I did not have any suitors for a long time. Then Sayyid came to work for my father.” She referred to Sayyid Naveed, Nash’s undercover identity. “My father and brothers wanted to test his loyalty. They told me they would kill us both if he did not choose to marry me. I think he knew this to be true. I have known his kindness, but I have never known his love.”

  Sari put her scarf back on. “We are both competing with a ghost for a flesh-and-blood man. I wish you well, sister of my heart.”

  * * *

  “REMEMBER WHAT I told you?” A lump formed in Nash’s throat as he said it. The boy nodded and Nash scuffed his dark head before pushing himself to his feet. He only remembered seeing his dad crying once, when Nash’s grandfather died, and that was not the last impression he wanted to leave with Ben.

  Corin nodded to him and took the boy’s hand.

  Nash looked up as Sari stepped out of the schoolhouse. Mal stood in the doorway right behind her. The team was making its way to the helicopter. He stopped one of his old teammates and asked him to see that Sari got to the helo.

  Mal took those few steps out of the schoolhouse and he met her halfway. He knew he should say something, but there just weren’t any words.

  Mac was calling him. The marshal was calling her.

  “I can’t do this,” she said.

  Her tears were his undoing.

  “Yes, you can,” he said. “Mal, you’re the strongest woman I know.”

  “I’m not that strong without you.” She tried to bury her head in his shoulder, but he wouldn’t let her.

  “Look at me.” He held her face so she had to look at him. “Ben needs you to stay strong. I need you to stay strong.” His words came out harsh. Much the way he’d talk to one of the guys.

  Her tears dried instantly. “I need you not to do this.”

  “I have to testify—”

  “I’m talking about setting us aside.”

  How did he explain to her that he wouldn’t have much of a life after this?

  But maybe he could, a little voice inside him insisted.

  He’d much rather have them safe, and he wasn’t sure he could have both.

  Someone called his name.

  “I’m coming,” he shouted back, though he didn’t move right away.

  “Do you think this is what Cara would have wanted? For you to be so focused on avenging her death that you’ve lost sight of everything standing right in front of you? Please promise me you’ll come find us when this is all over.”

  She threw herself into a kiss with so much promise he wanted to savor it, but all he could do was tear himself away. “I have to go.”

  Nash didn’t allow himself to look back until the helicopter was in the air.

  Mal stood in the exact spot where he’d left her.

  “She loves you, I think,” Sari said.

  “I know.” He settled back against the jump seat and closed his eyes.

  “I think you love her, too.”

  He opened his eyes, looked at his wife in name only and thought maybe he should apologize for that but didn’t. He couldn’t.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  MALLORY WARD DIED the next day in a fiery crash along with her nephew and adopted son, Ben. She’d lost control of a late-model Chevy Tahoe on an icy back road coming down from the mountains, according to the Denver Post.

  “Read it. Let it sink in. And then forget about it.” Jane Bowman put the dated paper in front of her at breakfast. They’d been holed up in a Seattle hotel for two weeks now. The story was buried deep within the pages of the Denver newspaper and would be of little interest to anyone, but it was a symbol of the end.

  Jane—the sadist—had made her write her own obituary. Even though she’d b
roken down several times during the attempt.

  “That’s all right get it all out.” Jane encouraged tears up to a point.

  Mal wondered if her colleagues at the Bureau would believe it.

  Had anyone attended their funerals?

  Corin was at present keeping Ben busy with crayons. He’d re-created every one of those pictures he’d had to leave behind at the cabin and then some. Most were of Nash. Though he didn’t seem to be as pissed with his father as she was.

  The one thing Jane did not allow was television.

  Especially not terrorist trials on C-Span.

  “Enough of that,” Jane said when Mal started to pore over the details of her death for a second time. “Happy birthday, Megan Warren.” Jane set the Washington State driver’s license with the Seattle address in front of her. “I shaved a year off. You’re the only thirty-year-old I know who can say she’s twenty-nine and mean it.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “I thought you might.”

  Jane had been working overtime these past two weeks to keep Mal’s spirits up.

  So far the rules were simple. Mal had gotten to pick her new name. Jane suggested keeping the initials M.W.— a trick that made it easier to cover up if she screwed up signing her own name. Which Jane had made her write over and over again until her hand cramped. Because Meg and not Megan was a pet name for her mother used by her father and known only to the family, Jane had let her keep it.

  Ben got to keep his first name. Only because he didn’t have much of a paper trail at his age.

  New names.

  New city.

  New job. New school.

  New house.

  Tomorrow was the first full day of their new lives.

  * * *

  FOUR MONTHS INTO their new life, Mal/Meg was sitting in the doctor’s office. “Megan.” Dr. Elizabeth Bacca entered the exam room with her nose buried in Megan Warren’s medical record. “Something’s not right here.”

  “Is the baby okay?”

  “Test results confirmed you are pregnant. Congratulations. And the baby’s fine.” The doctor put a reassuring hand on Megan’s knee. “But you’ve mentioned you have a son, and your medical record is telling me you’ve given birth before, but your cervix is telling me you haven’t. Mind telling me what’s going on?”