Rogue (SEAL Team: Disavowed Book 1)

by Laura Marie Altom

  Room 777.

  Please, let Nash and my baby be there.

  Trembling from exhaustion brought on by the punishment her body had been through, she gripped the rail. The first flight was torture. The second flight—hell. By the time she’d finished the third, the walls blurred and her every breath became a struggle.

  For an instant, she squeezed her eyes shut and focused on her baby. Nash.

  She reminded herself how literally her entire life depended on getting the rest of the way up these stairs. Over and over she repeated the climbing motion until finally spotting the Seventh Floor sign.

  She dragged the heavy fire door open, pulling herself through.

  Wobbling like a drunk, she zigzagged the endless corridor until finally spotting their room—lucky 777.

  Dizzy with relief, she pounded the heels of her fists against the door. “Nash! Nash, it’s me. Let me in. Harding’s not who you think!”

  He opened the door, only when she glanced up to lose herself in the sight of his dear features, she realized she’d made a horrible mistake.

  The stranger gazing back at her wasn’t Nash . . .

  21

  “MAISEY? CAN YOU hear me?” Nash’s chest walls could hardly contain his heart’s frantic beats. After all they’d been through, if she died . . . He refused to finish the thought—not because he would allow himself to need her in his life, but because the more he was around her, the more he realized his feelings went so much deeper than friendship.

  He didn’t know what that meant, and sure as hell didn’t have time to dissect the meaning of the knot lodged at the back of his throat or the tears stinging his eyes. All he knew with one hundred percent certainty was that if the worst were to happen, he wasn’t sure how he’d go on. “Angel, you’re safe, and so is your son. I’ve got him right here. I know you’re tired, but open your eyes at least long enough to let me know you’re okay.”

  With the help of his friend and associate, Jasper, Nash carried Maisey’s limp form to the room’s bed. She’d collapsed at the door—no doubt exhausted from fleeing the hospital and then Harding.

  Nash’s boss was understandably pissed about having his pride and joy custom Hummer hijacked—Harding had flown to Miami from Denver, but had Jasper drive the vehicle carrying their firepower. He understood Maisey’s reasoning, and Nash had already sent their pal, Briggs, to retrieve him.

  Nash perched on the edge of the bed. “Come on, Mais. Wake up.”

  What was in reality only a minute seemed to take lifetimes. Her breathing was shallow, and her coloring off. Harding had a network of discreet doctors on call for the firm, and he’d promised one was already on the way.

  “Please, angel.” Come back to me. Nash had nothing to offer her by way of the sort of permanent commitment she deserved. He had no house, and half the time, his battered truck that was still down in the Everglades refused to run. He hadn’t even worked out what remained of his feelings for Hope, but he was trying. One thing he had learned was that he no longer wanted to be alone. More specifically, he no longer wanted to be without Maisey—the girl, now woman, who’d been first in his heart, and who he now recognized had never left his soul. “Please . . .”

  Her eyelids fluttered. “Nash?”

  “I’m right here.” His breath caught in his throat.

  “My baby?”

  “He’s here, too.” While blinking his stinging eyes in relief, he held up her swaddled son. “We’ve been bonding over room service and ESPN.”

  “Look at you,” she whispered to her newborn. Her eyes welled with tears. “You’re beautiful.”

  Not half as good looking as his momma.

  “There were so many stairs . . . When the door opened, and you weren’t here . . .”

  “Sorry I gave you a scare. While I was on diaper duty, Jasper manned the door.”

  “Hey.” His friend waved from the foot of the bed. “Sorry we didn’t meet under better circumstances.”

  Maisey managed a faint smile, then drifted back to sleep.

  The doctor came and went, explaining that her vitals were good, but she needed rest. Lots.

  Briggs returned with Harding, and now the four of them sat around the adjoining room’s coffee table, munching burgers and tossing around ideas for catching Vicente. Harding’s police contacts had said the compound where Maisey had been held was empty, as was a Miami residence owned under the corporate umbrella of Rodriguez, Intl.

  The man had for all practical purposes evaporated, which did little to ease Nash’s worry.

  “The way I see it,” Nash said. “We’ve got two options. Either flush him out by planting a story in the media or hunt him like the dog he is.”

  “Personally,” Jasper dredged a fry in ketchup. “I enjoy the hell out of a good hunt. Woof-woof, motherfucker.”

  “Ditto.” Briggs stole one of Jasper’s fries. At five-eleven, Briggs was the smallest on their team, but the guy ate more than all of them put together.

  “Look,” Nash said, “no one would rather eradicate that sonofabitch in a seriously painful, creative way more than me, but the bottom line is Maisey and the baby’s well-being. My FBI contact says the feds have been tracking this guy for years, waiting for him to slip up. Even if he surfaces, they have nothing but hearsay to charge him with. With Maisey, they’ll at least have an eyewitness to murder, drug trafficking, kidnapping, etc. I say flush him, then let him fend for himself. Though I’m not sure how Maisey feels.”

  “There are merits to both directions.” Harding finished off his burger. “But I agree, the most—”

  “Kill him . . .” Maisey emerged from the adjoining room. She held her son in her arms, and though an air of exhaustion still clung to deep shadows beneath her eyes, her coloring had improved and her gaze shone with steel. “He’s a monster.”

  “There you have it,” Jasper said. “A woman after my own heart.”

  Clinging to the door jamb for support, she said, “When I think of all he put me through—indirectly, his own son—it makes me sick. Then, there’s this kidnapping charge against Nash. We could spend years watching our backs while he dances around the legal systems with high-priced lawyers, I can’t . . .” She bowed her head. “I can’t imagine living scared one more day. Harding—I’m so sorry for taking off without you. See? That’s how crazy this man makes me.”

  “We’re good,” Harding assured. “I like your spunk.”

  Nash went to her, slipping his arm around her fragile form. In such a short time, she’d come to mean the world to him all over again. She’d become that much more precious as a package deal with her son. He wasn’t saying he was ready to leap back into anything official, but he wanted to, and that was confusing as hell.

  “Here’s what I think we should do.” Nash tucked one of Maisey’s flyaway curls behind her ear. “This isn’t the Wild West, so as much as I’d enjoy shooting Vicente between his black eyes, I legally don’t have that luxury. Harding,” he looked to the hulking form who’d pilfered a trio of Briggs’ fries, “do you still have that bigwig press contact in DC?”

  “Sure, but how’s that going to help us flush a guy in Florida?”

  “It won’t unless you manage to wrangle us a mighty big favor. Here’s what I’ll need you to do . . .”

  22

  THURSDAY MORNING, TWO days after her hospital escape, Maisey felt infinitely stronger and more like herself.

  Nash had moved her from the hotel to a safe house, and had even brought both of their mothers along for the ride. He’d told her they were there to help with the baby and keep her company, but she knew better. He was afraid Vicente might use one of them as a bargaining chip to get his hands on her son. She loved Nash all the more for ensuring that wouldn’t happen.

  While he and Harding and more of the men he worked with put their complex plan to catch Vicente into motion, she waited. And wrung her hands and wished and prayed for the whole mess to soon be over.

  That afternoon, after putting her s
on down for a nap, she joined her mother, Maxine, and Nash’s mom, Gloria, on the screened porch surrounding an elaborate free-form pool and waterfall. The two women played mahjong as if neither had a care in the world and viewed this intrusion upon their lives as a vacation. Maxine had aged well, and rocked faded jeans and a Krispy Kreme Donuts T-shirt she’d won at Bingo. She wore her dyed strawberry blond hair in a sassy short cut, and never left her bedroom in the morning without full make-up. Gloria was a retired nurse, but still wore colorful scrubs with sneakers. Today’s selection were baby blue, dotted with pacifiers and rattles—in honor of Maisey’s son. She also wore her hair short, but it had turned gray. She’d never had the time nor the patience for make-up.

  The two women had been friends and neighbors for as long as Maisey could remember. That lifelong bond was comforting—to a point. As much as Maisey enjoyed having her two moms with her, she was now as scared for them as she was for herself, her son, and Nash.

  The six-bedroom home was located in an affluent Jacksonville suburb, and Nash had left all of them in the capable hands of four stone-faced men who weren’t especially chatty, but seemed intent on doing their job. Nash explained that the place belonged to a businessman they’d helped out of a dicey situation. He was currently working in China and welcomed them to stay indefinitely. All of which was convenient, but hardly put Maisey at ease. The thought that somewhere out there, Vicente was stalking her to get his hands on their son made bile rise in her throat.

  “Why so glum?” Gloria asked after placing her latest tile.

  “I’m restless. Nash should have called by now.”

  “Relax,” Maxine took her turn. “You and the baby are safe and well protected. You’ll hear from him soon.”

  “You know what I want to hear about . . .” Gloria shared a laugh with Maxine, then they toasted with their lemonades. “During all that time you and Nash were on the run, were there sparks?”

  I wish. “You mean other than the ones coming from gun barrels?”

  Maxine cringed.

  Gloria shuddered. “I’ll never get used to my son being in danger. He was upset about leaving the Navy, but I was secretly relieved. Then he joined this security firm and he’s right back in perpetual trouble. I’d hoped he’d settle down to a nice job in sales.”

  “You know that sort of thing isn’t in his nature,” Maxine pointed out. “Even as a little boy, he was chasing around the neighborhood, saving little kids from bullies and Maisey from that blasted treehouse the two of them built. I lost count of how many times you got yourself trapped up there by knocking down the ladder.”

  “To be fair,” Maisey found a faint smile, “it happened plenty of times to Nash, too . . .”

  “True,” Gloria said with a wistful expression. “Life was simpler when getting stuck in a tree was the extent of my worries about him. When he was deployed, I was lucky to get a couple hours of sleep each night. And then when his sweet wife was the one who ended up dying in that fire . . .” She shook her head. “It was beyond tragic. They’d tried years to get pregnant. Nash was beyond inconsolable. I’d thought I’d lost him to a place darker than death. But then you went and got yourself in trouble again, and in saving you, he seems to have a found a new lease on life.”

  “Gee, glad I could help,” Maisey said with a wry smile.

  “You never seriously answered my question.” Gloria took a sugar cookie from a plate in the center of the table. “Do you think there’s a chance for you and my son to once again be an item?”

  “No,” Maisey said with a firm shake of her head. Not because she didn’t want that, but because Nash had admitted he wasn’t ready. Might never be. The fact broke her heart all over again, but considering she’d been the one who’d initially rejected him, then gotten herself messed up with a drug dealing psychopath, she couldn’t exactly blame Nash for shying away.

  Incapable of answering more questions and desperately needing space, she wandered through the sprawling home to her bedroom, where her son slept peacefully in the portable crib one of Nash’s coworkers had delivered. There was also a stroller and changing table and mounds of clothes, diapers, bottles and formula. Her son still didn’t have a name, which greatly bothered her, but the stress of escaping Vicente, and then that detective’s ugly accusations at the hospital had her all messed up. Naming her son implied a future she was terrified they might not share. But if that were the case, then she should name him—now—to banish the dark fear clawing her mind.

  Craving fresh air, she went to her room’s balcony, and stood at the wrought iron rail, staring at the golf course and the swampy marsh beyond. She dragged in the moist, briny air praying for clarity and safety and peace. Most of all, she prayed for Nash’s safe return. And for him to tell her Vicente was gone, that there’d been no more violence, and he’d conveniently vanished, guaranteed never to return again. But that was a fairy tale.

  A golfer hit his ball into the house’s backyard.

  He drove his cart to retrieve it, caught sight of her and waved.

  She waved back, glad to feel somewhat normal for at least a few seconds.

  But then one of the security goons stepped around from the side of the house, and asked the man to move along. The golfer retreated, reminding Maisey that far from what her mother chose to believe, this place was no vacation home, but instead another gilded cage she’d been forced into to save herself and her son from the man she’d once loved.

  Back in her room, she perched on the edge of her bed, staring at her sleeping child. “Why can’t I name you?” she whispered. “How can I love you with every breath of my being, but be terrified you’re only a dream?”

  A knock sounded on her bedroom door, startling her and making her feel silly for asking such deep questions of an only days-old infant.

  “There you are.” When Nash entered, a rush of elation swelled, only to fade when he didn’t smile or step closer for a hug, or do any of the myriad of things a man who’d missed a woman might do. “This house is a trip, huh?”

  “It’s huge, but Vicente has half a dozen even larger.”

  “Swell . . .”

  “Did you find him?” she was almost afraid to ask.

  He winced. “Not exactly.”

  Her stomach churned. “What’s that mean?”

  “We’ve got trouble.” He took a folded newspaper clipping from a side pocket of his black cargo pants, spread it open, then set it on the bed. It was the front page of the Miami Herald and read: Philanthropist Offers Five Million for Safe Return of Kidnapped Wife and Infant Son. Alongside the article were full-color photos of not only herself, but Nash as well. “This ran in nearly every newspaper in Florida and neighboring states. Even worse—he’s being interviewed on local and national news. With that much money at stake, people are hunting you for cash and me for sport. Since I was the one seen on hospital security with your son . . .” He shrugged.

  “What about what I told police? That Vicente’s the true criminal. Why haven’t they taken him into custody? This makes no sense.”

  “Welcome to the American justice system. At this point, it’s your word against his, and apparently his lawyers win at working the media machine.”

  “I thought you and Harding were working your own media angle? You promised this would be over soon.” Her throat ached with frustrated tears, but she had none left.

  “It will . . .” He stepped toward her, wrapping his arms around her, but she lurched free.

  “No, Nash. It won’t. Not ever. Guys like him always win, and the stupid, moonstruck girls who think he’s their savior lose. Worst part is that there’s no one but myself to blame. But I can fix it. By God, for the sake of my son, I will force police to realize Vicente is to blame for all of this—certainly not you.” She marched to her balcony door and thrust it open. Outside, she shouted to everyone on the crowded golf course, “Hey! Look at me! This is what five million—”

  “What’s wrong with you?” Nash grabbed her from behind, clam
ping his hand over her mouth. “Have you got some kind of death wish?”

  She put up a strong fight to break free, but it was no use. In her weakened condition she was outmatched. Once Nash had her safely back inside with the curtains drawn, he released her.

  “Don’t do that again. We can protect you against one man, but now that Vicente’s employed practically the whole, damned state, we’ve got to be all the more careful.”

  “What good will that do? Other than prolonging the inevitable?”

  “It will keep you and your baby safe.” This time when he pulled her into his arms, she let him. Those brief shining moments of absolute security served as a godsend, bolstering her strength and resolve to see this through. “From where I’m standing, that’s a very good thing.”

  “Why do you even care? It’s not like you want me.” She hated her petulant tone, but her statement was true. Even if by some miracle they managed to escape her ex, then what? Would Nash go on to his next mission and leave her to begin the rest of her life as a single mom? She was beyond excited about raising her son—whatever the circumstances. But it would certainly be more fun with the man she loved—had always loved—alongside her.

  “That’s BS, and you know it.” Gripping her shoulders, he eased her back, staring into her eyes with enough intensity to make her shiver. Their mouths were close enough for her to feel his warm exhalations. The familiar scent of his breath made her punch drunk-dizzy with irrational longings. “You and me—it’s no secret we share incredible history, but until this mess with Vicente is cleared up, my role is to protect you—not kiss you. Besides, you know I owe it to my wife to remain faithful.”

  “Your dead wife?” Screw it. Maisey once again wrestled away, but he was pulling her back. “I’m such a fool. This whole situation has me losing my mind.”

  “Then we’re even.” He was beside her again, resting his forehead against hers.