Rogenna Brewer - The SEAL's Special Mission

“Can we get a big pumpkin this year?” Ben asked as he entered the kitchen. “I mean really big.” He held his arms out wide and then stopped just inside the doorway, frozen in his big pumpkin stance staring at Nash.

“Do you know who I am?” the man asked.

The boy nodded. “You’re him. You’re my dad.”

From one heartbeat to the next, Nash swooped up Ben along with their bags, and then ran for the back door as Tyler burst through the front door, splintering it off its hinges. Mallory barely had time to react before Special Agent Tyler shoved her out of his way. She went down hard, hitting her head against the granite countertop.

“You all right?” He glanced back without stopping.

Dazed, she waved him off. “Go, go! He’s got Ben!”

But Special Agent Tyler was already gone and so far ahead he probably didn’t even hear her.

* * *

NASH CROUCHED NEXT to the boy as they took shelter in the overgrowth, waiting for Mal to come out of the house. They’d hopped the chain-link fence across the alley just ahead of the first agent out the back gate. The narrow space beside the detached garage, bordered by the six-foot wooden privacy fence on the other side, hadn’t seen a lawn mower in years.

Since both houses were third from the end, Nash had counted on the agents to assume that he’d run the short distance out the alley. But instead of trying to chase them down, the agent on their tail had stopped by the Dumpster behind Mal’s house and pulled out his walkie-talkie.

The younger agent caught up to the older agent as he was calling for backup. The two men argued. Nash mouthed the word ninja to the boy, who stared back at him with big eyes. A shot rang out and Nash covered Ben’s near yelp with his palm.

Thankfully, the boy hadn’t seen the incident so much as heard it.

Nash, however, had a perfect view. He kept the boy’s face turned away from the old guy slumped on the ground.

The young guy would have shot the older man again, but a dark sedan, not the same model as the one parked out front, came screeching around the corner. Instead of looking guilty, the young agent—if that’s what he was—started shouting orders to the driver. Something not right was going on here, and all Nash needed now was for Mal to step out her back door right into the middle of it.

Maybe he should be more worried that she hadn’t exited the house by now.

Nash kept one hand curled over Ben’s mouth.

The other on his Glock.

Finger on the trigger, he held his breath until the young agent bolted down the short end of the alley while the car drove up the other end and disappeared—but not before Nash had caught a glimpse of the sedan’s rental plate.

Removing his palm from the boy’s mouth Nash brought his finger to his lips, warning the boy to remain quiet.

Picking up a flat, chalky-white stone—a native form of limestone—he scratched the license plate number into the wood siding of the garage.

Ben crouched beside him, his panicked breaths coming in hard and shallow. The boy started to turn his head toward the downed agent again.

Nash pointed two fingers at his eyes. Eyes on me, not on him.

The boy turned his head back to focus wide-eyed on him.

Nash didn’t know if the kid understood SEAL sign language, but he’d always kept his signs simple enough that any BUD/S on his first mission would get their meaning.

The next thing Nash knew Ben was burying his face in Nash’s shoulder.

He wanted to put his arms around his son, offer him the comfort and reassurance he needed. But he didn’t allow himself the indulgence to pull Ben closer for that first hug.

He needed both hands free. Especially his shooting hand.

Nash shoved Ben behind him, making sure to put himself between the boy and whatever was coming. The boy kept his face plastered to Nash’s back—which was exactly where he wanted him to be. As they crouched in the weeds Nash felt himself growing queasier by the minute and it wasn’t from the blood loss. The boy was probably worried sick about his aunt—and so was he.

There’d only been the one shot, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t been incapacitated. By the shooter or the driver. Or someone else. A silencer—even a pillow—could have muffled the sound of a gunshot.

Or a knife.

There was only one way to find out.

He was getting ready to pick up Ben again when Mal came barreling out the back gate. He didn’t immediately reveal their hiding place. But he did reach around to tap the boy so Ben could see his aunt was okay.

Now that they knew Mal was okay, he could get Ben to the SUV and let Mal catch up to them.

* * *

MALLORY FOUND STAN slumped against the Dumpster in the alley and hunkered down beside him. The agent was bleeding and barely breathing, but he wasn’t dead.

“Son of a bitch shot me.” Stan gasped for air.

“Shh...quiet, now. Keep pressure on it.” Mal pressed his hand to the wound at his gut as she looked up and down the alley.

No sign of Nash or Tyler. Or Ben.

She didn’t know how long she’d been out cold.

A few minutes, maybe?

Her head still felt woozy. She must have hit her head on the countertop harder than she thought.

When she’d tried to push to her feet to follow Tyler, she’d blacked out. The next thing she knew she’d heard the shot ring out. She managed to stumble to the back door and down the steps before tossing her cookies.

A concussion was the least of her worries right now.

Thanks to the static of Stan’s radio, she found it within easy reach under the Dumpster. “Did you call for backup?”

He offered a weak nod.

A curious neighbor stepped out his back door with a bag of trash and glanced their way.

“You,” she called to the elderly gentleman who looked as though he was about to head in the opposite direction toward another garbage bin. “Stay with this man until the ambulance arrives. Keep pressure on it.” She demonstrated before shoving the radio at her neighbor and reaching for Stan’s firearm.

Without hesitation, she wiped her bloody hands on the pants of her Ann Taylor designer suit for a better grip on the weapon. She hated to leave Stan like this, but Ben had to be her priority.

Stan latched on to her wrist. “Tyler—”

“Save your strength, Stan. Which way did they go?”

He pointed her in the right direction. Digging the Mustang keys from her jacket pocket, she raced the few feet to the garage. She stripped the drop cloth from the Skylight Blue exterior of the 1964 ½ classic, opened the door and sank into the blue and white pony leather. Blood from her hands stained the white leather steering wheel and gearshift as she backed out of the garage.

Assuming Special Agent Christopher Tyler was chasing Nash on foot, and that the ex-marine was in better shape than Stan right now, there was still a chance she’d find Nash hiding out in her neighborhood. Loaded down with a small boy and their two bags, he couldn’t have gone far. He wouldn’t try to outrun the agent—he’d try to outfox him. Maybe even lead him on a merry chase before circling back to wherever he’d parked his getaway car.

Which had to be around here somewhere.

Close. But not too close.

Not a car, an SUV. He’d want to blend in with the neighborhood.

She was wishing for the radio now or some way to communicate with the agent, but Stan had needed it more than she did. Why hadn’t she stopped to grab her cell phone? “Come on, Tyler. Flush him out.”

The average criminal wasn’t too hard to figure out. When he ran, you ran after him while your partner cut him off.

But Nash wasn’t your average criminal. He was better trained and he’d be familiar with their training.