Table of Contents
Title Page
SEAL Team: Disavowed
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Epilogue
Dear Reader
OUTCAST
About the Author
Copyright
ROGUE
Laura Marie Altom
SEAL Team: Disavowed
To become a United States Navy SEAL, a man must be physically forged in steel and able to mentally compute life or death situations with laser accuracy and speed. Our country trusts these men with the most sensitive military operations—many so covert that once they are successfully completed, they are never spoken of again.
This series celebrates one particularly fierce band of brothers who valiantly battled terrorists whose crimes against nature and humanity were far too great to chance escape. On a dark night, on foreign soil, SEAL Team Alpha witnessed acts so unspeakably cruel against women, infants and small children that their consciences would not allow anything other than their own brand of justice for the scum terrorist cell.
A trial would have been too good for these pigs, and so, one-by-one they were taken out, and the women and children they’d used were freed. By dawn, an entire region breathed easier. The men of Alpha found themselves heroes to those whose lives they had saved, but virtual criminals in the eyes of the organization they served. After a lengthy investigation, their elite, covert team was formally disbanded.
They now spend their lives deep undercover, still serving—no longer their country, but individuals who find themselves in need of not only their own personal warrior, but a particular brand of justice.
While honorably discharged, these men and their actions will forever be disavowed . . .
1
ONE WRONG MOVE.
That’s all it would take for Maisey and her unborn child to die.
For disavowed Navy SEAL Nash Adamson, Maisey represented his first crush, his first kiss. His first everything. They could have had it all—until she’d dumped him. Now that fate had forced their reunion, they not only had years between them, but his dead wife and son.
The irony of the situation hadn’t escaped him.
In and out, he chanted in his head with each breath. He’d make this an in-and-out mission, then never see her again.
Through his NVG’s alien-green light, Nash counted ten of her husband’s thugs guarding the south Florida compound’s west border. The Everglades were isolated, but this place was located on a remote island among hundreds of islands. Even with satellite maps and photos and state of the art GPS, it had taken Nash hours by boat to reach it.
As a SEAL—make that ex-SEAL—he might have been trained to deal with all manner of chaos, but he was also smart enough not to rely on miracles. Rather than fighting what was sure to be an overwhelming show of force, he realized his best course of action was stealth.
The single-story, sprawling Spanish style home might be remote, but a fortress it was not. The stucco exterior featured plenty of easily accessible windows and balconies with handy-dandy, climbable trellises. The roof was tile, and sloped low enough to run across in a pinch.
In short, Maisey’s hubby, drug kingpin Vicente Rodriguez, was a dumbass.
Still—even a dumbass could get Maisey or Nash’s ass killed.
Above Nash’s steady pulse sang the nighttime swamp. The hum of insects. The bellow of bullfrogs and the occasional grunt of a gator. The place had more bio-danger per square inch than anywhere else he’d recently traveled. Sure, the Amazon basin had the Sunshine State beat, but not by much. Escaping Maisey’s sicko hubby was only half the battle. He’d then have plenty of slimy, hissing, biting obstacles to circumvent to ensure their safety.
Once he’d established a rhythm to the perimeter guards’ flow, Nash eased through shadows to the compound’s weakest link—its electrical box that was linked to a generator. The security system was surprisingly rudimentary. Took mere moments to rewire.
The early August day had been a scorcher.
Crouched against a still-warm brick wall, he flipped up his goggles, giving his eyes time to adjust before using a retractable mirror to peer into the window above. Three goons lounged around a kitchen table, M16s resting alongside steaming coffee and Danish.
Nice domestic scene.
Research told Nash that Vicente was one of the region’s most lucrative dealers. Miami authorities had had him on their radar for years, but when it came to maintaining his squeaky clean image, the guy was a master. Not only was he suspected of buying off every local police force within a hundred miles, he’d wooed locals with perks like college scholarships for underprivileged youth and new public pools, clinics and baseball fields. Did Maisey know he already had a nice, Catholic wifey tucked away in his Columbian palace? The fact that Nash could possibly be the one telling her made him sick. Her mom had been the one to alert him that she was in trouble.
Satellite photos had given Nash a blueprint to follow. A quick check of the laminated diagram he’d stashed in a pocket reminded him to hug this wall to a ninety degree turn, at which point he’d find a courtyard with a pool framed by six bedrooms. The trick would be finding the one housing Maisey.
Lucky him, lights were out behind all but one set of French doors.
The lone illuminated room had open curtains.
Lying on a floral spread, looking fourteen-months pregnant was Maisey. If she hadn’t sported tear-stained cheeks and cuffed hands clasped over her belly, he might have thought her at peace. Her blond curls were as unruly as ever and her petite frame made her appear all the more vulnerable.
Throat unexpectedly tight, he fought a nostalgic rush—not only memories of good times shared, but the agonizing finality of learning his pregnant wife’s fate.
Thirty yards behind him, a twig snapped.
He froze, then ducked behind the pool equipment shed to wait for a two-man guard team to pass. The guy nearest him smoked. The acrid scent warred with the swamp’s mossy, fungal smells.
The pool pump kicked on.
Once the men passed, Nash used the noise to his advantage, masking his steps across the pea gravel pool surround.
With Maisey’s room exposed, he entered the house through one of the darkened rooms. She’d understandably be happy to see him, but he couldn’t risk that scene being played out in front of her guards.
The French door’s lock was easy enough to pick.
Inside, the artificially-cooled air hit him like a wall. It took a moment to adjust after the swamp’s stifling heat. Nash assumed the dark space would be empty—wrong. The courtyard’s dim lights showed an off-duty goon stretched across the bed, his black fatigues and boots out of place on the floral spread.
Holding his breath, Nash crept to the door, eking it open. Once his vision adjusted to the brightly lit hall, he searched for signs of life.
Finding no one, he turned left, reining in his hammering pulse. He’d been on far more dicey missions, yet this was personal. In an odd twist of fate, he’d been given the opportunity to save his wife and unborn child all over again and he wouldn’t let them down.
Only, you already did.
Nash squashed the negative voice in his head to focus on how to best approach Maisey without inducing an emotional show. He had to keep her cool. He couldn’t risk her alerting guards within her view.
Holding his breath, he entered what for all practical purposes was Maisey’s cell.
She appeared to be sleeping, but taking no chances, he kept to the room’s edge. If he shut the curtains before she woke, he could privately brief her on the escape plan. Otherwise, to assure they had no audience, he’d duck behind her bed.
Three feet from his goal, she bolted upright. “Who are you?”
“Mais,” he whispered, removing his combat helmet, “it’s me—Nash.”
“Who?” Narrowed pale blue eyes spoke of her confusion. “Nash? From high school? You work for Vicente?”
“No. Your mom asked me to find you.”
His peripheral vision caught a glint from outside. If Vicente’s men caught him now, he’d be in a shitstorm. Ducking beside a dresser, he put his finger to his lips. “Don’t look at me. I’m not here.”
Not only did she not follow his instructions, she waved toward whoever was outside.
“Knock it off,” he ground from between clenched teeth. “What’s wrong with you?”
“You have to leave or Vicente will kill us both.”
“Leave?” He shook his head. “Woman, I’m here to rescue you.”
A knock sounded on the French door. A muffled voice asked from outside, “Miss Maisey, you okay?”
Mouth dry, Nash readied his Glock for action.
“I-I’m fine,” she called. In an awkward scoot from the bed, she approached the drapery, then jerked it shut. “Thanks for checking in.”
Nash took the luxury of exhaling, then lit into her. “What the hell’s wrong with you? You’re treating your jailers like friends.”
“I have no choice.” Seated on an upholstered side chair, she hugged her hands to her belly, whispering, “Vicente made it clear. Either I play by his rules, or he’ll kill me.” Voice trembling, she said, “I-I saw him shoot a supposed friend—a man we’d shared meals with—in the head. For my baby’s sake, I have to do as he says. More than anything, he wants a son. He won’t hurt me as long as I’m carrying his child.”
“Key words . . .” Kneeling in front of her, Nash searched for the right message to make her see reason. “As long as you’re carrying his baby, you’re safe. What happens after your son’s delivery? Do you honestly think, having witnessed Vicente murder on a whim, he’ll keep you around?” He gestured to her cuffed hands. “He’s restrained the mother of his child. Who does that?”
“I know.” Her expression clouded. Tears pooled in her eyes. “I’m in a bad spot, but I have to trust that everything’s going to be okay.”
Rocking back on his heels, Nash closed his eyes and groaned. “This is the most busted-ass rescue mission ever. Any second, Vicente’s goons could rush in here, killing us both, and you’re in a unicorn and rainbow fog. Wake up, Maisey. We’ve got to get out of here—now.”
Her soft cries only steeled his resolve.
“No time for tears. Sorry your marriage went bad. But—”
“We’re n-not even married. H-he lied to me. He already h-has a wife, but she’s in Columbia. She can’t have children, but he told me he’ll never divorce her because of his faith.” Her once light tears were now borderline hysterics. “His faith! What about mine? A-all my life I’ve struggled to be good, yet here I am, the unwed mother of a drug lord’s b-baby.”
Nash should’ve reached out to Maisey, drawing her into a hug while whispering sweet assurances into her hair, but he was no longer capable of that level of compassion. Losing his wife and son had changed him. Steeled him. Now, he was a machine calibrated to one goal—keeping this woman safe.
“Get your act together.” Grasping her wrists, he made quick work of popping the locks on her cuffs. “Sixty seconds, we’re ghosts.”
“I can’t,” she said on the heels of a wail. “Where would we even go?”
“Trust me. I’ve got a plan.” Nash rose to his full height, and slapped his helmet back on. “I don’t mean to be cruel, but wise up and realize Hubby views you as nothing more than his own personal incubator, which is why we’ve got to bounce.”
He scooped her into his arms.
“Put me down!” Bucking against his hold, she made it a nightmare for Nash to kill the room’s overhead lights, then gauge between a crack in the drapes if their friends were within eyeshot. “You don’t know what you’re doing. Vicente will kill us both.”
“No biggee . . .” Jaw clenched, Nash forced a breath before opening the door leading to the hall. “If you don’t stop fighting me, we’re already dead.”
2
MAISEY BLAKE BUCKED and kicked and did everything within her power to escape Nash’s binding hold. The one thing she didn’t do was scream. Why? The last thing she wanted was to attract attention. What didn’t Nash get about the fact that as long as she was pregnant, she held all the power? As soon as she went into labor, Vicente would get her and their son safely to a hospital. Once there, she’d solicit help. While she adored her mother for sending out her own personal cavalry, if Vicente or one of his men caught her trying to escape, there would only be more trouble.
“Stop fighting,” Nash demanded.
“I will if you put me down. I have a plan for after the baby’s born. I know I can get Vicente to see reason and let me share in raising our son.”
“What happened to you, Mais?” Nash kept right on charging down the endless corridor. He passed a light switch and flicked it off. “Back when I knew you, you weren’t this clueless.”
She struggled all the harder, writhing to pummel his chest. “Put me down!”
“Hey!” called a voice from the dark. Maisey winced against the sudden glare of lights.
“Miss Maisey?” The guard sounded confused.
“Boss told me we’re moving her,” Nash said in an authoritative tone.
“I haven’t heard. Mr. Rodriguez briefs everyone regarding his woman.” Eyes narrowed, he asked, “Who are you?”
“Set me down.” Throughout the exchange, Maisey’s heart beat faster. Afraid runaway blood pressure could harm her baby, she tugged Nash’s sleeve. “I’m fine walking on my own.”
“Sure?” The warmth in his voice feigned concern. In reality, if Nash cared one iota, he would never have interfered in her business. All the same, he set her to her feet, never loosening his hold on her upper arm.
“Both of you stay put.” The guard took a walkie-talkie from his belt. “Mr. Rodriguez, this is Manuel. I’ve got a situation with Miss Maisey. I need to verify you gave the okay for her transport?”
“Negative,” said Vicente, his voice tinny over the radio. “Shoot to kill whoever she’s with and disable her—just don’t aim for my child.”
In the moment it took Maisey to grasp the fact that the man she’d once loved had ordered his associate to hurt her, any illusions she might have had for her pregnancy to have a happy ending were shattered.
Nash was right.
She’d been a fool in not doing everything in her power to escape.
“Run!” Nash delivered two blows to the guard, dropping him to his knees. After taking the injured man’s weapon, Nash steered Maisey into the night.
“Shoot her!” The booming voice unmistakably belonged to the man she’d once believed to be her husband. “Aim for her legs! Don’t hurt my son!”
“I’ll cover,” Nash pushed her ahead. “Get out that side door. I’m right behind you.”
Gunfire erupted.
This time, she didn’t question his orders. Why hadn’t she listened before? If she’d left peacefully, it might have been hours before anyone had noticed she’d gone.
She wrenched open the deadbolt, then darted into the dark, muggy night. Thick air gripped her as tightly as her fear, making it hard to think or breathe. As Nash had directed, she should have kept moving, but where would s
he even go?
Bullets exploded against the lawn where she stood, forcing her to run blindly. She wore a flimsy nightgown and slippers. Dirt hit her exposed arms and cheeks with such force she couldn’t be sure whether or not she’d been shot.
“Hurry!” Fingers once again digging into her upper arm, Nash propelled her off of the manicured lawn and into the swamp. Vines tangled about her feet and thorns clawed her hands. Warm mud oozed into the soles of thin satin house shoes. “Faster!”
“I’m trying,” she snapped, barely able to catch her breath. Pulse racing, love for her baby propelled her ever deeper into the night. As much as she tried telling herself this could only be a nightmare from which she’d soon wake, the continued pop of gunshots shattered all illusion, drumming into her head their horrifying reality.
“I-I can’t do this,” she cried, on the verge of throwing up. Though this was hardly the time for a hormonal breakdown, once tears started they refused to stop.
“Yes, you can.”
When she slowed, Nash hefted her into his arms, somehow impossibly still trudging forward through mud and riotous vegetation.
The gunshots had stopped, but Vicente’s bark carried on the thick, moldy-smelling air. Find her!
“We’ll never escape him,” Maisey cried against Nash’s chest. “He’ll never give up.”
“Neither will we.”
He carried her for what she guessed was another fifteen minutes before they came to a clearing and a small, sandy beach.
“Son of a . . .” After setting her down, he flicked on a light on his helmet to inspect a section of rope tied to a cypress. “Looks like it’s been cut. See how clean the break is? The markings in the sand?”
“Yes.” By faint moonlight, she noticed footprints and a wide indentation where it looked as if something heavy had been dragged.
“Looks like Hubby’s friends circled around us, and helped themselves to our ride. Not sure why they didn’t just wait for us to show up, but I’m not complaining.”
“Don’t call him that.”
“Huh?” He cocked his head.
Rogue (SEAL Team: Disavowed Book 1) Page 1