Rogue

by Laura Marie Altom

  “Here you go. Have you and your wife decided on a name?”

  “No.” The pink-cheeked, blanket-wrapped bundle looked nothing like the infant Nash had in a small way helped bring into the world. His throat ached with awe, fear for what nasty surprises Vicente might next pull, and determination to keep this precious being safe—no matter the personal cost.

  Staring into the tiny creature’s blue eyes, Nash felt lost, but then found. The infant was a miracle in every sense of the word, and his mother deserved all the credit.

  The nurse said, “Press the call button if you two need anything.”

  “Thanks. I will.” Nash had been so absorbed in thoughts of this little guy’s future that he’d forgotten she was in the room.

  “Hey,” he said to him once she’d gone. “You look a lot more handsome after a proper bath.” Careful to keep his touch feather light, Nash traced his fingertip along the infant’s faint brows. “Your mommy should be coming back to us soon. Are you as excited to see her as I am?”

  Of course, the little guy didn’t answer, but Nash’s aching heart did.

  His instant connection with her son proved he still cared for Maisey—had always cared for her—which made him feel all the more traitorous to the memory of his wife. In the same breath, he couldn’t wait for Maisey to return. Not just to this room, but to him. Us. How had all the emotion he’d once felt for her come rushing back so fast? Where had all of that been? Or had he been fooling himself all those years, to think it had ever been fully gone?

  The door creaked open. Elated that Maisey had returned, Nash looked up, only he didn’t find the woman to whom he had so much to say, but a man in a dark suit and mirrored sunglasses.

  Vicente?

  Pulse surging, Nash tightened his hold on Maisey’s son.

  20

  MAISEY WAS SLOW to wake.

  Her memories of her son’s birth and what happened after were at best, vague. Nothing more than flashes of dappled sunshine skipping atop her closed eyes as Nash carried her and her son to their borrowed truck. And then the cool glare of fluorescents when strangers explained she’d lost a lot of blood and needed surgery.

  Now, her mouth and throat tasted like she’d downed cotton balls for dinner, followed by thumbtacks for dessert.

  On the bright side, she was excited to see her baby. And Nash. He’d saved her life yet again, and she couldn’t wait to thank him.

  Where was he?

  She fully opened her eyes for her first look at her latest surroundings. Heat and bugs and impenetrable green had been replaced by soothing pale blue walls, striped curtains, a dim light glowing above a counter sink, and a dark window looking out upon a twinkling nighttime view. She didn’t have a clue what city she was in, let alone the name of the hospital. All she did know was that thanks to Nash, she and her baby were finally safe.

  She happily stretched, breathing deeply of the cool air. Despite the faint antiseptic smell, she had no complaints. In fact, after the past couple days, she was pretty sure she’d never complain again.

  A knock on the door startled her, but then, expecting Nash—maybe even her mother, if he’d been thoughtful enough to call—she smiled at his dark figure. “Hey. This is sure an upgrade from our last hangout.”

  He stepped into the faint light, and she froze.

  The man wasn’t Nash, but a hulking stranger. One of Vicente’s men?

  “Nurse!” Pulse racing, she fumbled for the nurse’s call button.

  “Relax . . .” He held out his hands palms up. “My name is Harding Breslow. Nash and I go way back. I’m here to help.”

  “Help with what?” Her gaze darted about the room, searching for a weapon or an escape route. She had to find her baby and Nash. No way would he have left her alone.

  “You’ve been out of it for a while, and there’s no easy way to say this, so I’m going to come right out with it. Your ex stopped by for a visit. He—”

  “Wait. What?” Barely able to hear her voice above her pounding heart, Maisey needed time to process the man’s words. “Where’s my son? And Nash? Are they hurt?”

  He winced. “For now, I’m assuming they’re safe. Ten hours ago, I was in my Denver office when Nash called me collect. We only spoke for a few minutes before he was cut off, and I hopped a charter flight. All I caught was that he has your baby, and that he’s headed for where you had your first time. Does that make sense?”

  The Holiday Inn. But it was hours from here. Nash wouldn’t have left her unless . . . The thought of Vicente having been here, in this very room, made her skin crawl. She pressed harder on the nurse’s call button.

  “Yes?” a muffled voice asked over the intercom. “Help!” Maisey cried. “I need help!”

  Her door burst open, and a nurse followed by a uniformed cop and a guy in a rumpled suit burst through.

  Eyes tearing, heart hammering at a frightening pace, Maisey clutched her sheets to her chest. “I don’t know this man, and he said someone took my baby?”

  The man who claimed to be Nash’s friend retreated to the room’s shadows. “Ma’am,” the man in the suit stepped forward. “I’m Detective Howard with the Stanhope Police Department. I realize you are understandably upset, but here are the facts as we know them. At seven thirty-five yesterday evening, a nurse entered your room to check on your husband and baby. When she returned approximately thirty minutes later to find them both gone, she alerted hospital security, who alerted local authorities of a suspected kidnapping. Hospital security footage shows a man holding your husband at gunpoint while leading him out of the facility. Once outside, your husband kicked the gun from the assailant, then fled. The assailant was rendered unconscious, but upon waking, also fled in a black SUV. We were unable to get a positive ID on the license. Here’s the tricky part. This man claiming to be your husband, isn’t really your husband at all, is he? We did some rudimentary background checks, and turns out you’re actually married to Vicente Rodriguez who is claiming custody of your child. He’s paid your bill in full, and has hired a team of attorneys to secure custody of his son. The man who has your child—the man claiming to be your husband? He’s been charged with kidnapping.” Nash was now in trouble?

  “That’s crazy. I can explain. My true husband is a monster—we’re not really even married.” Would this nightmare ever end? Maisey tugged at the needle taped to the top of her left hand. “If you’d help me get this IV out, I’ll take you to him.”

  “Not so fast,” the detective said while writing notes in a pocket-sized spiral notebook. “We see this sort of thing more often than you’d think. Who you choose to have relations with is your thing, but if your son has Vicente Rodriguez’s DNA, then he needs to be returned to his father. End of story. If you know where the man posing as your husband might be, you need to tell us now, before criminal charges are also filed against you.”

  “No. You have it all wrong. I can explain.” She forced a deep breath, then admitted, “Vicente Rodriguez is my son’s true biological father. I can only assume my friend, Nash, lied to hospital admissions to protect my identity in case my ex pulled a stunt like this.”

  By the time the detective finished questioning her at length about the crimes she’d witnessed Vicente and his men commit, dawn streaked the horizon in bands of yellow and gold. The only thing keeping Maisey from losing control was the knowledge that as long as her baby was with Nash, he would be safe—not that the fact made her anymore happy about her temporary separation from either of them, but as soon as she ditched her entourage, they’d soon be reunited.

  “Harding?” She yawned from exhaustion, but until she found her son, there was no way she’d find sleep.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He answered with a thick Southern drawl.

  “Will you take me to my baby and Nash?”

  “That’s the plan. He texted me an hour ago from a burner phone. But don’t you have recovering to do?”

  She shook her head. “I’ll rest on the way.”

  “
I don’t know . . .” He gestured toward her IV and row of monitors. “Sure you’re feeling up to this? You had a baby, then surgery.”

  “Ever heard the expression not to mess with a momma bear?”

  “Say no more.” He reached into the backpack he’d held beside him on the bench window seat. “While you were with the detective, I found these for you in the gift shop.” He set a predominantly pink wad of clothes topped by pink flip-flops on the foot of the bed. “Guessed on the size.”

  “Thanks. Really.”

  He flashed a tight smile. “I’ve had triage medical training. Let me help with your IV.”

  Maisey closed her eyes while he took her hand, withdrawing the business-end of her tubing. It stung, but only for a moment after he’d added a cotton ball and then medical tape. The pang of missing her son and Nash hurt far worse.

  Once freed, she made a solo trek to the restroom. Dressing was no easy feat, yet determination proved more valuable than strength in tossing off her hospital-issued blue gown, then stepping into the shower. She would have skipped it to save time, but one look in the mirror told her there was no way she’d ever pass for normal without basic personal hygiene.

  Freshly scrubbed, she towel-dried, then tugged on elastic-waisted pink capris and a matching cotton T-shirt bearing a pink-sequined flamingo. Not exactly subtle, but it was clean and would be cool in the summer heat. She slipped her feet into the flip-flops, skimmed her damp curls into a neat ponytail, then forced a deep breath.

  You can do this, she coached the shell-shocked stranger in the mirror.

  She forced down the knot of fear lodged at the back of her throat, then left the bathroom to tell Harding she was ready.

  On the walk from her room to the elevators, Maisey’s heart beat so loud she feared passing staff members might hear. But they hadn’t, and so she focused on each step, forcing her wobbly legs to move.

  Harding was kind, offering his arm for her to hold for support.

  “How do you know Nash?” she asked during the short journey down.

  “We met during our SEAL training, then got assigned to the same team. We were the only two Southern gentlemen, meaning the guys gave us more than our fair share of grief.”

  A soft ding alerted them that the elevator had reached the lobby-level.

  Harding guided her through a maze of people to the hospital’s entry. “Smile and try to act normal. Pretty sure we’re being followed, but I’ll ditch them as soon as we hit traffic.”

  While struggling for her next panicked breath, she forced her lips to curve upward. Would Vicente never quit?

  “Do you feel strong enough to walk to my ride?”

  “Yes. I think so.” Her rubbery legs weren’t so sure. With every step, muggy, early morning air took superhuman effort to drag in. Heat already rose from the blacktop, and she was creeped out by the almost certain fact that somewhere amongst this sea of cars, Vicente or his men watched.

  “Good. It’s a bad idea for us to separate, or for me to carry you—I don’t want to draw attention—but I could snag a wheelchair if you—”

  “I’m fine,” she snapped. “Please get me to Nash and my son.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  He led her to a black Hummer.

  Before she had a chance to ponder how she’d climb in, he settled his hands around her waist, giving her a chaste boost into the passenger seat.

  She thanked him, but her words were lost when he left her to walk around the car and get settled behind the wheel.

  With the engine started, he zigzagged through the lot, checking the rearview with every turn for company. “Depending on traffic, our trip’s going to take about five hours. You’d make me feel better about springing you from the hospital if you’d get some rest.”

  “I will, but not until we’re on the interstate.”

  “Fair enough.”

  They made it to I-95 without incident. Maisey wished she could stay awake, but her body had a different plan. She woke hours later, not sure whether her breasts, abdomen, or heart hurt most. She opened her eyes to catch slivers of urban sprawl passing by.

  “Where are we?” she asked.

  “About thirty minutes south of Jacksonville proper.”

  “Great.” she managed a faint smile. “But first, would you mind stopping at a convenience store? I could use a restroom.”

  “You got it.”

  She sipped from a bottled water, but managed to spill more down her sequined flamingo than she drank.

  “There should be napkins in the glove box,” Harding pointed that direction.

  “Thanks.” She opened the compartment and grabbed a few. She was on the verge of closing it when a pamphlet caught her eye. It was a promotional piece for one of Vicente’s pet charities. The Little House that Love Built was an Orlando-based foundation for pediatric cancer victims. It paid their expenses, and sent them to theme parks. It made Vicente look like a saint instead of the monster he was. The fact that Harding had the pamphlet raised red flags. She took it out, and flashed it to him. “What are you doing with this?”

  “Research.”

  She returned it to the glove box and shut the door. His answer was plausible, but what if like Mildred and Harvey he’d been bought? Just how well did Nash know him?

  Her pulse raged with fresh fear. What should she do?

  He took the next exit, and a few minutes later, eased the massive vehicle alongside the convenience store’s north side, aiming it outward, she assumed for ease if they needed to make a quick getaway.

  She yawned. “On second thought, I don’t need the restroom, but I’m awfully thirsty and spilled the last of my water.” She rubbed her throat. “Think the thirst is a side-effect from surgery?”

  He eyed her funny, then killed the engine. “I’ll help you inside.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d rather stay in the car. I don’t have the energy to budge. Could you pretty please grab me a Sprite? Oh—and if you don’t mind, could you leave the motor running. It’s already too hot to be trapped in here with no air.”

  “You’re not thinking of pulling a fast one on me, are you?” His eyes narrowed. “This Vicente character is freakishly well-connected. He has eyes everywhere.”

  “Where would I go?” she asked with what she hoped came across as an innocent tone. Better than anyone, she realized how dangerous the man she’d believed to be her husband truly was. That’s why she needed to escape Harding. Sure, he said he knew Nash, but what proof did she really have? What if he’d had the brochure for personal reasons? Maybe he had a child—a niece or nephew—with cancer, and Vicente offered to fund their cure? With Nash and her baby’s lives at stake, she could never be too careful.

  “Exactly.” He roared the engine back to life, then cranked the air to high. “Hungry? Want me to grab you a pudding or crackers?”

  “Both, please. You’re a doll.”

  He winced. “I’ve been called a lot of things in my years, but never that. Be right back.”

  “Thanks.” Big smile.

  She waited until he vanished amongst the lunch crowd rush to gingerly ease behind the driver’s seat and gun the engine forward. In panic mode, she killed it, and then couldn’t get it started. Her heart hammered to the point of pain. She was out of breath and frenzied, but forced a deep inhalation and tried again while Harding tore out of the store’s double doors.

  She pressed the driver’s side auto-lock button.

  “Don’t do this!” he shouted. “You’re being a fool!”

  “How do I know Vicente hasn’t bribed you? I have to get to Nash—warn him that you’re crooked!” With her line of sight narrowed to a slim black-ringed tunnel, she scooted to the seat’s edge to gain better control of the gas pedal. The vehicle was enormous, and to stand a better chance of escape, she eased out of the lot, uncaring that Harding ran alongside her.

  “Pull over!” he shouted. “I told you, the stupid pamphlet was research!”

  “I don’t trust you!
” She’d convinced Nash to drop his guard around Mildred and Harvey, and look what a disaster that turned out to be. She refused to take one more unnecessary risk. Even though Harding knew where she was headed, she’d hopefully beat him by enough time for her and Nash and the baby to run.

  Biting her lower lip, gripping the wheel tight enough to hurt, she merged left, only daring to breathe once she’d made it a few miles down I-95.

  I did it.

  Elation was short-lived when she fumbled for the power button to ease her seat further forward, but at least she was on the right track. She hadn’t been anywhere near the Holiday Inn where she and Nash had spent the night of their first prom in over a decade, but that was okay. Some things you never forget, and that night was certainly one of them.

  The hotel was near the airport, so she followed the signs.

  Fifteen minutes later, after a wrong turn on a one-way highway access road, she careened the vehicle into the hotel lot. She parked it in the rear, backing it in with the use of a rear-mounted camera.

  Physical pain threatened to shut her down, but she refused to let it. As soon as she and Nash and her baby were safe, she’d take time to properly heal. Until then, she fought for even shallow breaths.

  Outside the car’s cool temperature, hot, humid air raised goose bumps on her forearms.

  The jolt on her abdomen and spine from the hop from the driver’s seat to the blacktop proved agonizing. She froze a moment to regain her composure, then aimed for the hotel’s rear door, praying at this time of day it would be unlocked.

  It was, and not wanting to risk possible exposure by wandering around, looking for an elevator, she ducked through a door promising stairwell access.

  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.