The SEAL's Special Mission

“Out of sight, out of mind.” Mallory shook her head in disbelief.

The commander gently disengaged himself from the baby’s grasp and pushed to his feet with his mask securely in place. “We weighed in heavily against telling you anything, Ms Ward.”

“So why did you?” She glanced at the two-way mirror again.

“Frankly, Nash’s odds of survival are better on death row,” the commander said. “He may be a free man, but he won’t be free. And he won’t be Kenneth Nash.” His firm mouth held a grim line. “There’s no reason for you to be afraid. Should he survive this operation, Lieutenant Commander Nash has agreed to no contact with you or his son. Ever.”

He might want to believe there was no real danger to her or the baby, but the pounding in her chest told Mallory otherwise. She choked back a laugh as she looked the commander in the eye. “A lot of good a restraining order did my sister.”

He didn’t balk at her accusation. The facts were irrefutable.

At the time, Mallory had tried to talk her sister out of filing the protection order. The marriage had never been volatile. But Cara had kicked Nash out of their off-base housing for reasons that were still unclear to everyone, except perhaps Nash, and he wasn’t talking. He’d left without incident but had later returned drunk and dismal. Mallory had to drive him back to the bachelor pad where he was staying with friends.

Even then, she’d been on his side.

But the next morning Cara had insisted on filing a restraining order to keep him away. Mallory thought the whole separation ridiculous. Yet Cara was dead before Nash had even been served the papers—which proved, only too late, Cara had reason to fear him.

“Nash has made one stipulation,” the commander said.

“Just one?” She might have known.

“He wanted to see you and the baby one last time.”

“Seriously?” She jerked her head toward the mirror. “He’s behind that glass, isn’t he? That’s why you really brought us here?”

“He’s not asking—”

“What does he want?” She pushed to her feet with her nephew in her arms and faced off with her own reflection. “Forgiveness? Forget it!”

“To say goodbye, Ms. Ward. The man just wants to say goodbye to his son.”

Protected by that pane of glass, she put on her bravest facade and continued to stand there as tears pricked behind her eyes. She would not cry.

How had the boy her sister had dated since high school become the man who’d murdered her? No tears. Not for him.

She’d cried them all for Cara. Her best friend and big sister.

Gone forever.

“Fine. I want to see him, too,” she demanded. “I want him to look me in the eye as he begs for his get-out-of-jail-free card,” she hissed at the mirror.

“That’s not what’s happening here.”

“Even I know he has a better than average chance of survival, Commander—freedom. Anyway, why tell me any of this? What’s to stop me from going to the press?” Mallory knowingly put more than just her career on the line with that threat.

The commander’s demeanor changed in an instant. “That would be ill advised, Ms. Ward. I don’t think I need to remind you that this conversation is highly sensitive.”

Sensitive, meaning classified!

Every government agency out there—no matter what its initials—needed a deep-cover operative of Middle Eastern descent, more than they needed another homogenized desk jockey with unruly red hair and freckles like her.

Mallory scoffed at his words. “I’m not very good at keeping secrets.”

A muscle twitched in the commander’s jaw. Mallory clamped down on her back teeth to keep from saying something she shouldn’t. Tension filled the room as they squared off against each other.

“If you promise to keep quiet, Mallory, then Kenneth will sign over custody of his son to you—right here, right now, today. Plus, he trusts you.” Galena’s words broke through strained nerves and forced Mallory to look in her direction. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be here at all.”

Her ex-brother-in-law had no reason to trust her. He had to hate her as much as she hated him. But maybe this highly irregular request for her presence and then Benji’s was finally starting to make sense.

She wouldn’t be surprised to find the proposed undercover op was Nash’s idea. Something he and the commander had concocted and then taken up the chain of command, maybe even directly to the secretary of the navy, who’d taken it all the way up the chain to the President of the United States.

The president who’d pardoned her sister’s murderer.

She might just have to change her whole party affiliation.

“I want to see him now,” she demanded a second time as Benji began to fuss.

The commander nodded to whomever watched them from behind that plated glass. Mallory bounced Benji on her hip to keep her trembling body under control. A few pulse pounding heartbeats later the door opened.

A marine guard ushered Nash into the room with his hands and legs shackled.

Mallory forced herself to look at him—at the stranger he’d become. He’d lost weight since she’d last seen him at his court-martial. The prison uniform hung on his lanky frame and washed out his olive complexion.

The dark stubble on his head and clean-shaven face brought out the high cheekbones and the prominent nose descended from the nomadic princes of the Lost Tribes of Israel. But he’d always be that boy from Brooklyn, New York, to her. Just as he’d been the day he moved into their Denver neighborhood.

That distinctive New York boroughs accent had set him apart more than his mixed heritage. She remembered him as being street tough and smart—an irresistible combination for most teenage girls. She’d been younger than Cara by almost four years and halfway in love with “Kenny” Nash herself by the time she was twelve.

Her unrequited crush had evolved into something much less painful over the years and they’d become fast friends, family.

He’d lost that accent somewhere along the way. But not that edge.

Though she hated to admit it, even he would have a hard time pulling off a mission of this magnitude. Yet somehow she knew he would.

Fluent in half a dozen Semitic languages, including Hebrew, Arabic, Aramaic and Tigrinya, Nash had carried a double major in political science and theology while at Harvard. He’d graduated from the prestigious university with honors, and a B.S.D.—Bull Shit Degree, as he liked to call it—before joining the navy.

The navy had seemed like such an odd career choice for him at the time. And her sister had been less than thrilled to have her fiancé and future husband join the military.

Mal distinctly remembered their father saying the military was a good choice for a young man with political aspirations, although Mal just couldn’t see Nash as a politician. She thought his enlistment had more to do with the fact that his father had been a marine—either that or a restless desire to see the world. Nash had an insatiable curiosity with world religions and religious artifacts. He even went on to earn his master’s in education while in the service.

For a long time she’d held on to the romantic notion that he was more Indiana Jones than Navy SEAL.

Part scholar, part mystery. Passionate in his thinking.

She also knew better than most not to argue politics or religion with him.

Christian, Muslim, Jew. As far as she was concerned, a person’s religious beliefs and practices were his own business. But in some parts of the world, the distinction could get a person killed. This was why his mother’s family had fled Syria for Israel, and then later America, when his mother was a young girl.

Nash’s dark brown eyes remained sharp and focused on her. The chains rattled one last time as he settled against the wall.

Benji swiveled toward the sound. Resting his small head against her shoulder, he shoved a sloppy fist into his mouth as he stared without recognition at the man who’d brought him into the world.

Nash stood with his head high and met Mallory’s hate-filled glare before shifting his attention toward the son he’d delivered by cutting open his wife’s womb. Cara had died before help arrived. But was she dead before he’d slaughtered her?

That question haunted Mallory to this day.

The autopsy had been inconclusive at best. Medical experts testified to both scenarios, depending on their allegiance to the prosecution or the defense.

There were those who’d called Nash’s extreme measures heroic. He was a Navy SEAL, trained to assess and react in critical situations without hesitation. Then there was the fact that his actions were criminal.

He might have been EMT trained, but he was not a surgeon.

Hero or killer? He’d saved his son’s life either way.

A traumatized fetus couldn’t survive more than four minutes without oxygen from its mother. So if Nash’s story was to be believed, less than four minutes separated him from the real murderer. But his account of those two hundred and forty seconds was as muddy as his defense.

Regardless of how Cara wound up on the floor fighting for her life, Mal believed Nash sealed her sister’s fate with his knife.

Why didn’t he just continue CPR? Especially after she arrived and could have helped. Only Nash knew his real motive for sending her outside for a phone he knew she wouldn’t be able to find because he’d had it on him all along.

Records indicated he’d actually dialed 911 before she did. So there was no reason to even send her outside, except...

To save his son’s life? Or to cover up his even more heinous crime?

Or both.

The pinch near the corner of his mouth might have gone unnoticed if Mallory hadn’t been searching for a reaction from him.

“Take a good look,” she spat. “Because it’s your last.”

Until that moment, there’d been some niggling doubt that maybe she was wrong. Maybe he was innocent. She wanted to believe with her whole heart he’d fought off a one-armed man like Dr. Richard Kimble in The Fugitive. Because for as long as she could remember, Nash had been her real-life action hero.

But maybe there was no one-armed man. What there was, though, were telltale scratches on Nash’s face, his skin cells under Cara’s nails, and his partial prints on the phone cord that had been ripped out of the wall and then wrapped around Cara’s neck.

No forced entry, nothing missing.

Cara had trusted her killer.

Mallory wouldn’t trust Nash again if her life depended on it. If there was still such a thing as a firing squad, she’d volunteer to be the one and only shooter. She’d riddle his body with bullets just to watch him bleed. She wanted revenge, vengeance. Not freedom for her sister’s murderer.

The Uniform Code of Military Justice provided the death penalty as possible punishment for fifteen offenses, most of which had to occur during wartime. All nine men at present on death row had been convicted of premeditated murder or felony murder. The president had the power to commute a death sentence to life, and no service member could be executed without the personally signed order from the Commander in Chief.

Eisenhower was the last president under whom a military execution had been upheld. In fifty years, only George W. Bush had signed a single death writ, and that order was still under appeal.

Nash had plenty of time to plead his case.

The man she’d known wouldn’t have gone down without throwing at least one punch. If he was innocent, he would have—should have—fought harder to prove it.

He wouldn’t do the unthinkable.

Mallory took an involuntary step backward and plopped into her chair as Nash moved to sit across the table from her. Galena set some papers in front of him and then handed him a pen. His hand shook as he signed at the flagged lines without reading. When he finished, he set the pen aside and pushed the papers across the table toward Mallory.

Her lower lip threatened to tremble. The man didn’t deserve her pity. Strengthening her resolve, she raised her chin to look into Nash’s eyes.

“You just sold your son for your freedom.”

CHAPTER TWO

Midtown Precinct, Manhattan

New York City, New York

Seven years later

“COFFEE?” A PAPER cup appeared within easy reach of his cuffed wrists, chained to the table. Nash ignored the cup while the man who’d offered it scooted around the table to sit across from him. It was Good Cop’s turn to have a crack at him while Bad Cop scowled from the corner. Actually they were both Feds. But he wouldn’t hold that against them. “Sayyid,” Good Cop said as if confiding in his new best friend. “We know you’re his number-two....”

They didn’t know shit about him, but he wouldn’t hold that against them, either.

The man flipped through a file full of misleading information. Sayyid Naveed, born in Syria, educated in the U.S. as a devout Muslim. Detained at Gitmo for suspected ties to terrorism. Escaped from Gitmo—which was true. Though the actual account was classified and well above this guy’s pay grade, he probably had some version of that truth in front of him. As well as Nash’s mug shot on an FBIs Most Wanted bulletin. He was somewhere in the top one hundred, not high enough to attract any real attention, but high enough that anyone coming into contact with him would know they had someone important on their hands.

His file also read that he’d spent six years working his way up to a position of trust within the al-Ayman terrorist network—that was true, too. Helping Bari Kahn, the youngest son of Mullah Kahn, escape from Gitmo had all been part of his plan—the part he hadn’t disclosed to the authorities that had sanctioned his assignment. Nash had known going in that if he got the chance to escape—with or without Kahn’s son—he was going to take it.

He’d left it to Mac to smooth things over with the top brass.

The years of intel Nash had been feeding U.S. intelligence agencies since hadn’t hurt his case, either, but he’d always known he was in this alone. Which was why he’d hedged his bets with the Israelis. He might be working more than one angle, but he wasn’t a traitor to his country or his beliefs. The Allies wanted to put an end to the al-Ayman faction of a global terrorist network, and so did he.

Only his reasons were more personal.

“Just tell us what we need to know and we’ll go easy on you.”

His new BFF had made all sorts of promises over the past eight hours.

Nash stared past the man’s shoulder to his own reflection in the two-way mirror and remained silent. Most days even he didn’t recognize the man he’d become. His shoulder-length hair was long enough now that the natural curl had taken over and the scruff on his face was more beard than not.

He hadn’t asked for a phone call. A drink of water. Or to use the bathroom.

All of which were within his legal rights.

“Well, why don’t I tell you what we know?” Good Cop said. “We’ve shut down the entire al-Ayman operation today.”

Big Dog was barking up the wrong tree. Nash had supplied intel for the fifty-city sweep across the Americas and Europe from the inside.

Hitting al-Ayman hard at the sex trafficking level was one way to mess with their cash flow. Unfortunately they had other means.

Drugs. Prostitution. Money laundering.

You name it. If it was illegal, al-Ayman was into it.

It would take years for Nash to wash away the stench of his own participation in such activities.

No, today was about one thing—catching the man at the top in the wrong place at the right time. Seven long years he’d waited for justice, and now he was going to get it through the federal court system in the state of New York.

In the good old U.S. of A.

Kahn wasn’t the kind of terrorist that could be taken out with a drone.

He was a well-connected international businessman. With enough money and clout to make certain countries look the other way.

He’d have to be taken down by the legal system on a bigger, more public stage.

“Guys like you don’t last long in prison. Tough on the outside. All jelly doughnut on the inside.” Good Cop took a big bite out of a jelly doughnut for emphasis. Goop oozed from between his thick, smacking lips and a glob landed on his tie. He picked up a napkin and made an even bigger mess.

Hunger gnawed at Nash’s insides, a hunger for justice. Besides the scene in front of him was enough to curb his appetite for food. The box of doughnuts had been sitting there all day— They were probably stale by now anyway.

“A pretty boy like you—” Bad Cop shrugged from the corner “—you’ll be someone’s bitch inside a week.”

“How long do you think before one of your cohorts rolls over on you, Sayyid?” Good Cop asked. “We’re questioning them right now. Why not do yourself a favor? I can get you a nice cozy cell in isolation, away from the general population.”

The man pushed a pen and pad of paper toward Nash for his confession.

Seriously? The pen was a mistake. He could kill both of the agents and be free of his handcuffs before whoever was watching the box could enter the room.

Not that Nash would.

He’d done enough bad shit in the past seven years.

Honed his skills. Acquired new ones.

But it was all sanctioned shit.

Killing a Fed for no justifiable reason? Well, even Mac wouldn’t be able to get him out of that one.

Nash wished his ride would hurry up and get here.

As amusing as these guys were, he was getting kind of bored hearing the same fairy tale over and over again. Just to prove wishes really do come true, the door opened. Nash caught a glimpse of Mac and two U.S. Marshals reflected in the mirror. Another man, important and harried looking, wearing dress pants and a white dress shirt with rolled-up sleeves, entered the room behind them. “This one belongs to the Marshal Service now.”

The captain, or whoever he was—whatever police precinct had assisted the FBI with the raid—walked over and unlocked the chains that tethered Nash to the table. The look on the faces of Good cop/Bad Cop was worth the wait.

Without a word, Nash stood and followed the lead U.S. Marshal out the door while the other marshal and Mac walked behind. He was still shackled and for good reason—his very life depended on him never blowing his cover.

As they exited the room, Mullah Kahn was being hauled out of another room in shackles. Flanked by two federal agents and trailed by a couple of designer suits with leather briefcases, Kahn was on his way to Booking. The al-Ayman leader might have a couple of high-priced attorneys on the payroll, but he wasn’t making bail this time.

The snake turned to stare at Nash in passing. Saw Mac’s uniform and the Windbreakers identifying the marshals. “Where are they taking you?” the al-Ayman leader demanded.

“Gitmo,” Nash said with the expected contrition of an underling.

“Shut up and keep moving.” McCaffrey shoved him from behind.

Kahn shouted in Arabic as the FBI led him away.

“What the hell was all that about?” Mac asked once they were outside and beyond earshot of anyone else that might be listening.

“He still thinks he’s in charge.” Kahn had called him son and promised to keep him out of prison. “Nice touch with the shove, by the way.”

“Just doing my part. How are you holding up?”

“About as good as I look.”

“Well, you look like crap,” McCaffrey said. “So I guess that answers my question.”

“What’s the word on Bari?” Bari Kahn, the little weasel, had slipped out before the raid on the warehouse down by the docks.

Mac shook his head.

“Lieutenant Commander Nash.” The redheaded marshal opened the back of an unmarked white van used for prisoner transport. “Sorry, sir. Protocol. I’ve been instructed to leave the cuffs on. You’ll be riding in back.”

Nash had been through this once or twice before. He’d be taken to a secure location for debriefing before they’d let him out of his cuffs. Only this time he wouldn’t be given a new assignment.

Federal prosecutors would be present to take his statement and then he’d be moved to a safe house. Because this time he was testifying.

* * *

Safe house somewhere in the Catskill Mountains

“NASH, YOU IN OR OUT?” Irish tipped the kitchen chair back on two legs to poke his head around the corner.

“Go ahead and deal me in.” It’s not as if he had other plans. They’d been cooped up in this house close to fourteen weeks now. Only two more weeks to go until the trial. Nash eased the ache in his neck and then flipped from the Weather Channel to Thursday Night Football before setting the remote aside.

He’d been daydreaming through the forecast for the Western states again.

The snowstorm closing in on the Rockies in time for Halloween had him thinking of things other than the extended forecast. Things he shouldn’t be thinking about.

He hadn’t been this close to—or felt this far from—home in years.

He was born within a hundred-mile radius of where he stood right now and had spent several summers as a boy in the Hudson River Valley.

If he wasn’t for all intents and purposes a ghost, he could call on his mother for a visit.

As for Colorado...well, that was some sixteen hundred miles away and another lifetime ago. Yet he felt the pull. But this caretaker’s cabin in the Catskills was as much a prison as Leavenworth or Gitmo. And he wasn’t free to move about.

U.S. Marshal Reid “Irish” Thompson finished dealing as Nash and U.S. Marshal Salvatore Torri joined the freckle faced kid for a little three-handed Texas Hold’em. Thompson claimed marshals invented the game out of sheer boredom, though little was known of the actual origins of Hold’em poker, except that it first appeared in the early 1900s. The Texas Legislature laid claim before the game migrated to Las Vegas, Nevada, in the 1960s and became synonymous with the word poker.

All Nash knew was they’d played a lot of poker these past four months.

And he’d bet those marshals of old didn’t sit around playing cards in their body armor. Long johns, maybe. But not Kevlar.

His guards were cautious and he appreciated it.

“You’re not still thinking about what the federal prosecutor said this afternoon?” Irish asked once he finished passing out the chips.

Nash picked up his stack of red chips and let them fall through his fingers in a rhythmic motion. After this was all over and he’d given his testimony, he intended to let his chips fall where they may so to speak. Checking his hand against the flop, he plunked two chips off the top and then tossed them into the pot. “There’s no reason for Sari to testify.”

Sal raised his bet. “Can’t blame her for wanting to.”

Needing to was what Nash was afraid of.

Irish took his time rearranging his cards and then comparing them to what was on the table. The kid was into them for some twenty grand now. It wasn’t as if Nash planned to collect; they kept the running tab purely for bragging rights and weren’t even playing for real money, but maybe he should let Thompson win a few hands before he left.

“I think it’s messed up that her brother could get away with something like that,” Thompson said. “And if her father ordered it, then he’s just a sick bastard.”

Sal passed around the pizza box from the Torri family’s pizzeria in nearby Albany—if forty miles could be considered nearby. Nash took several slices and a cold Near Beer.

His marshals didn’t drink on duty.

And Nash didn’t drink, period.

As far as he was concerned, Sari’s father and brothers deserved worse than prison for the mental and physical abuse they’d subjected her to. But Sari’s story was so personal there’d be no hiding her identity.

That would be bad news for her. And for him.

He’d like nothing better than to testify in open court himself. But that wasn’t going to happen when transmitting a pixilated image and altered audio from another room could protect his identity.