Rogenna Brewer - The SEAL's Special Mission

Nash made a move for the kid’s gun and instantly had two beads on him.

He raised his arms and straightened slowly.

Irish raised his arms, but couldn’t rise above his knees.

The first shooter through the door, the one who’d shot Torri, sauntered over to within feet of where Nash stood in the middle of the small living room. He lifted his dark visor on his grotesquely scarred face. “Sayyid, my brother,” he said with a big grin on his face.

And then Bari Kahn shot Irish twice more, once to the neck and once to the face without so much as a passing glance at the young marshal who would die thinking Nash was a traitor.

Nash winced on the inside. On the outside, he played it cool.

Bari kicked Irish’s firearm under the couch as he eyeballed Nash through his drooping lids. “Or should I say Lieutenant Commander Kenneth Nash?”

So much for playing it cool.

“Remove the Kevlar.” Bari motioned with his gun. “You won’t need it where you’re going,” he said as his two henchmen ripped the protective vest off Nash at the Velcro tabs.

They also relieved him of the weapon he’d hoped to keep hidden. And then forced him to his knees, facing the window so that his back was to their leader.

“I’d be happy to take you to hell with me, Bari,” Nash said over his shoulder.

Bari stepped farther into the room and over Irish’s limp body, circling around to level the barrel of his gun at Nash’s chest. “Tell me where my sister is.”

“Even if I knew, you know I wouldn’t tell you.”

“Sadly, I do know.” Bari continued his circle until he was at Nash’s back again.

The TV went from being background noise to being the only noise as Nash caught Bari’s reflection in the window. The man raised his gun to the back of Nash’s head and then lowered it.

Nash blinked. Surprised to find he was still alive.

“Father wants you alive. So he can have the pleasure of torturing you himself, I’m sure.” Bari’s reflection shrugged as if it made no difference to him. “Lucky for you he ordered me not to kill you.”

“Since when have you ever listened to your father?”

“Exactly.”

Nash caught Bari’s reflected nod toward his man.

In that same instant, Nash grabbed Bari by the arm and wrestled for possession of his gun. Bullets went flying through the cramped space. Nash angled the weapon at Bari’s men. One man went down. Nash shoved Bari into the other and then launched the downed man helmet first through the window.

Diving after him through the shower of glass and bullets, Nash landed in a heap outside the window. He reached for the downed man’s Glock mere inches from his own torn and bloody hand and then rolled onto his back, firing through the empty window.

Scrambling to unsteady feet, he angled toward the heavily wooded area with Bari and his man not far behind him. Nash ran full tilt, dodging stray bullets and low branches for several heart-pounding miles until he was sure he’d outrun them.

Even then, he only slowed enough to access the damage.

ATVs rumbled in the distance. Bari and his man?

That would give them a light source and the ability to cover more ground, but it also meant Nash would hear them coming.

More than likely, Bari had changed up his plan. From here on out it would be a race against the clock to try and stay one step ahead of the terrorist.

How in the hell had Bari found him in the first place?

Nash had been in this business long enough to know that when enough money exchanged hands, almost anyone or anything could be found. Had Bari bribed someone in the federal prosecutor’s office? Used his father’s fancy lawyers to get to someone on the inside? Blackmail, maybe?

Could they have been followed back from the federal prosecutor’s office in New York City that morning? All this speculation was just that, speculation. The one thing he did know was that his cover was blown.

Trust no one.

Right now his priority was to stay alive.

More important, he had to keep those he loved alive.

His mother, his son.

Nash didn’t even want to think about what might happen if Bari reached Ben before he did. Running headlong into a trap was the least of his worries. Nash removed some of the larger, more uncomfortable shards of glass from his palms and did his best to stanch the flow of blood from the apparent bullet wound at his side.

He’d been struck from the front at close range with no exit wound—more than likely in his struggle with Bari. Only he’d been too pumped full of adrenaline to feel anything until now.

No telling how much blood he’d lost.

Fatigue had already started to set in. He could feel it in the weight of his limbs.

By the time he reached the nearest town, the last of his strength was fading. He barely remembered stealing a car and driving into the city. Once he got there, he ditched the stolen vehicle and grabbed what he needed from a locker he kept for emergencies.

Then he hopped on a subway to sanctuary.

Nash hunched his shoulders and kept his head down. Shoving his hands deeper into the pocket of his dark hoodie where he cradled the Glock, he entered a long-forgotten alley on the west side. He used what little strength he had left to knock on the door. It took several minutes for someone to answer.

When the door opened, an elderly man stood on the other side.

“Rabbi Yaakov?”

“Yes?” The old man studied him from behind wire-framed glasses.

“I’m with the Institute.” Nash kept his voice low, using the literal English translation for Mossad.

The Institute was responsible for covert operations and counterterrorism, as well as bringing Jews to Israel from countries where official immigration agencies were forbidden and protecting Jewish communities.

The rabbi looked up and down the alley before pulling Nash inside. “You can’t be here,” he hissed.

“I need your help.” Nash unzipped the hoodie to reveal his blood-soaked T-shirt. “I can pay in cash.” He dropped his backpack to the floor at the rabbi’s feet.

“Oy,” the old man said. Nash’s knees threatened to buckle as the rabbi ducked under his arm to support his weight and led him to an industrial-size stainless steel kitchen. “If you’re going to pass out, do it up here.”

* * *

WHEN NASH CAME to, he was stretched out on one of the stainless steel workstations, watching the rabbi drop the last of his instruments into a stainless steel bedpan. The rattle must have been what had woken him. Nash glanced at the pan full of instruments. He eyed the bullet and bloody gauze with distaste, wondering if he’d just traded that bullet for a lifetime of hep C.

“You want I should call a doctor?” Rabbi Yaakov said when he caught the frown on Nash’s face. The old man snapped off the latex gloves with equal disgust. “The Institute sees to it that I’m well equipped. I use only sterile instruments.”

Nash did not dare question the man’s medical practice further.

Mossad took care of its own.

Besides which, beggars couldn’t be choosers. Any emergency room staff would have to report him to the authorities.

“I need a plane.” Nash pushed to sit up and then dropped back to his elbows. He turned and then threw up into the bedpan. “Preferably one with a pilot,” he said, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. “To Denver.”

CHAPTER THREE

Less than twelve hours later

IDLING IN A black Ford Explorer on the crimson and gold tree-lined drive, he could pass for any other parent waiting for his son or daughter after school.

Except the snowcapped mountain license plates had belonged to an abandoned junker in an overgrown backyard. And the tamper-resistant expiration stickers had been lifted off a newer vehicle.