Rogue (SEAL Team: Disavowed Book 1) (4 page)

Backing away from his charge, he took his seat on the log in front of the fire, glad for the distance between them. For safety from Vicente and his men, as soon as she drifted off, he’d douse the flames. But for now, for morale, she needed them.

“Thank you for this,” she said of the makeshift cushion.

“Sure.” He liked to think he’d have done the same for anyone, but how many nights had he spent in the field with his teammates and never felt the need to share? “Rest. We’ll head out in a few hours—oh, and use this.” From another pocket, he withdrew a rolled mosquito net, floating it over her head.

“You really do think of everything.”

“Kind of my job.”

“Still, thanks.” She reached up to take his hand, giving him a light squeeze. “No one’s ever done anything like this for me—putting your life on the line to . . .” Tears welled in her eyes. “. . . How did I let things get to this point?”

“I’m guessing you went into the relationship with your heart wide open. Granted, there may have been warning signs, but who’s looking for those when everything’s going good?”

“True.” A sad laugh escaped her. “Once I’m back home, my plan is to steer clear of all men . . .” She patted her belly. “Except for this little guy.”

“Sounds reasonable.” An image of his wife, Hope, prepping the nursery for their newborn son hit from nowhere. She’d been a space buff and ordered a shuttle mobile to hang over the crib. He hadn’t been able to find the right screwdriver to assemble it, and scoured the house in his search. Turned out she’d had it in her back pocket the whole time. He’d razzed her about it for weeks. Now, the pain of losing her was so great, he had to look away. He could literally stand anything other than feeling. Remembering all he’d once had and lost.

Ten minutes later, Maisey drifted off.

Accustomed to going long spells without sleep, Nash wasn’t especially tired. He’d planned on dousing the fire. Instead, he repaired the hole in his CamelBak, then set about boiling enough water to see them through the next day.

Humidity and a gunshot had his GPS wonky. Not a major worry as he’d been well trained in old-school compass reading. To prep this mission, he’d plotted escape routes using satellite photos. In a perfect world, calculating a travel time of thirty minutes a mile, come morning they’d make it well before nightfall to the secondary jon boat he’d brought and concealed. From there, it was a four-hour ride to where he’d parked his truck.

Finished with chores, he had two hours till dawn.

Maisey lightly snored.

The heat was still oppressive, but bearable.

Spying a patch of saw palmettos, he filled his free time keeping busy. He wove Maisey a frond mat that might make her rest stops more comfortable and bug free. He also made her a fan with a smooth cypress handle. Crude sandals to reinforce her slippers. It had been a screw-up, not packing her a change of clothes and shoes—just like not anticipating that she wouldn’t want to be rescued. He hadn’t seen that coming.

He should have anticipated that potential. Like the fire that had taken his wife and unborn child, though he’d been told the faulty wiring in their fixer-upper sparking a flame had been a fluke, it had been preventable. If only he’d had an electrician replace every inch of wiring. If only he’d insured nothing flammable had been anywhere near the master bedroom or that Hope had worn flame retardant PJs to bed instead of one of his T-shirts.

He dropped the palm fronds to press his fingers to his throbbing forehead.

Having reached the expert level on the
If Only
game, he knew the drill. A killer headache typically set in, followed by hours of nausea-inducing guilt. He’d down a half-dozen beers, sleep it off, then wake to a new day.

Here, with Maisey’s safety his responsibility, he didn’t have the luxury of nursing his pain. He needed to snap out of it and get his head back in the game. But that was kind of hard, considering Maisey’s baby bump constantly reminded him of all he’d lost.

Was he jealous that her son was still alive? Hell, yeah. But he was also that much more determined to keep him that way. He’d already lost one woman and child he had promised to protect, and it would never happen again.

As for the personal history between Maisey and him? Old news never to be revisited.

Nash forced himself to focus on his projects.

The insect chatter had a rise and fall rhythm to which he matched his inhalations. Slow breathing helped get his runaway emotions in check. Hope and their unborn son were in a better place, being looked after by a power far more capable than him. As for Maisey, she’d soon be back with her mother—although not in their hometown of Jacksonville as she’d planned. Until Vicente was dead or locked behind bars, Nash feared Maisey and her son might never be truly safe.

But then realistically, could anyone ever be one hundred percent safe?

Lord knew, he’d been a fool for thinking they could.

“I’VE GOT TO rest.” Maisey hated being physically weak, but two hours into their trek to the backup boat Nash had hidden, every inch of her body ached. Muscles she hadn’t even known existed screamed for relief—even better, a soak in a nice, hot bath.

“You’ve got five minutes,” Nash said. He presented her with the plastic tube from which she’d seen him drinking. Silly, but sharing the mouthpiece struck her as overly intimate.

The last time her lips touched his had been in high school.

She drank, but in the process, inadvertently locked her gaze with his. To her over-sensitized nerves, the sensation was akin to a kiss. Sharply looking away, she drank her fill, then returned the tube.

With her cheeks flushed from the brush of his fingers against hers, it seemed like the perfect opportunity to use the fan Nash had made her.

“Eat this.” From the fathomless pits of his cargo pants pockets, he took a protein bar. While it was misshapen and partially melted, never had food tasted so good.

“What about you?”

Kneeling alongside a decaying log with his back to her, he fished for an insect that his pose kept her from seeing. Popping it in his mouth, he chewed.

Fighting not to retch, Maisey asked, “How can you do that?”

“It’s called survival. Don’t knock it. If we’re out here much longer, you might also be dining on grubs.”

“Never,” she assured with a shudder, fanning all the harder.

“Watch what you say, or you’ll jinx us.” His smile lit his eyes—gray and crinkled at the corners from time in the sun. She couldn’t imagine the kinds of things he’d seen. Didn’t want to. But because of him, she was alive. Uncomfortable, but safe. She owed him everything.

Extending her his hand, he helped her back to her feet—no easy task this far into her pregnancy. As if protesting her sudden motion, her baby jolted.

She grimaced.

“What’s wrong? You okay?”

Nodding, she said, “This little guy has a way of kicking my ribs that seriously hurts. Wanna feel? He’s really on the move.”

He reached out, but then drew back. “I’m good. Thanks for the offer, though.”

“When your wife was pregnant, did you ever watch her belly?” Realizing that regardless of Nash’s answer, the question could be construed as cruel, she covered awkward silence with more of her own chatter. “A few months ago, before learning the kind of man I’d married—correction,
thought
I’d married—Vicente used to be fascinated with studying our son. Sometimes our baby’s tiny foot would arc all the way across my belly and Vicente would stare as if he’d never seen a better show. I don’t get it. How a man can be two people at once. To me—at least before I’d told him I was leaving—he’d been kind and gentle and caring. Upon realizing I’d not only witnessed him killing his associate but intended to tell police, he transformed to a monster. Sounds corny, but when we married, I’d never felt more vibrant and alive. Now, I feel like the ghost of someone I used to know.”

“Ready?” Nash tapped his watch.

“Seriously?” Maisey wasn’t sure what she’d expected from Nash after she’d poured out the most intimate details of the life she’d once shared with a madman, but acting as if she’d merely commented on the weather wasn’t it. “That’s all you have to say?”

Using his machete, he slashed a path for her to follow through thick vegetation. “Sorry for what Vicente put you through, but I asked you last night to stay out of my personal business. Asking me about my dead wife’s baby bump?” He slashed harder at the vines blocking their course. “Not cool.”

“For what it’s worth,” she struggled to keep up with his powerful pace, “the second the question left my mouth, I regretted it. Please don’t be angry. I—”

“I’m not angry.” He stopped alongside a water oak. Arched his neck. He wore a heavy helmet with night vision goggles on top. Sweat dampened his tan complexion and she could only imagine how hot he was under his equipment. Regret weighed heavy on her conscience for making what was already a bad time, worse. “What burns me is how you, my mom, my so-called friends—even your mom—all feel entitled to talk about a private, painful part of my life I’d rather lock in a vault.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“That’s another thing—” his renewed slashing took on a desperate feel “—I’m sick of folks telling me what I mean. How I should feel. Get it through your head, what happened to Hope and our unborn son is something I can’t even begin to process—don’t want to. They meant everything to me, and . . .” He froze.

“What?” she whispered, fearing another snake.

“Listen . . .”

From an impossible to judge distance came unmistakable baying. Dogs. “Think they’re out here for us?”

“Can’t say for sure, but if I were a bad guy, tracking my pregnant woman through an impassable swamp, seems like a reasonable way to go.”

JUST WHEN NASH thought his day couldn’t get worse . . .

With hounds baying from what couldn’t be more than a mile away, he surveyed the bullet-riddled aluminum jon boat. Stomach fisted, he eyed Maisey who barely had strength to stand. With Vicente having ruined their last best hope of a quick escape, this supposedly simple in-and-out mission had become infinitely more complex.

“Y-you have another backup plan, right?” Her complexion had turned unnaturally pale.

“Sure.” Of course, he had a plan, he just hadn’t voiced it yet—or, even thought of it. But for sure it was germinating. He hoped.

Removing his helmet, he used his forearm to wipe sweat from his brow. The day’s heat and humidity were brutal. Had he known they’d face this dilemma, he’d have taken the day to rest, opting to travel by night.

“Mind sharing?”

He glanced her way. “What?”

“The plan? Those dogs sound awfully close.”

True. “Sorry, but to mask our scent, we’re gonna have to hit the water.”

Nose wrinkled, she asked, “The black, mossy, foul-smelling water we’ve counted six hungry gators eyeballing us from?”

“One and the same.”

The dog’s barks grew more frantic.

Nash took the camo netting from the useless boat, then stood alongside Maisey, wrapping it around them both. “Let’s go.”

Spying a clump of alligator weed, he broke two lengths of the hollow stems.