Rogue Page 4

  She was back to shivering. Teeth chattering, she continued sobbing.

  “You and me?” Kneeling before her, he tucked his fingertips beneath her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “We’re in a war. People are going to die. The goal is for those people to not be us.”

  She nodded.

  “No,” he again forced her gaze to his. “Look me in the eyes and tell me you understand I’m not a stone-cold killer like your ex.”

  “I do, but this is all too much.”

  “Agreed.” He took a bandana from a pocket, then cleaned it with drinking water. “Things got dicey there for a sec, but all’s good now.”

  “Good?” Her sad laugh rode the fringe of madness. “Oh—our situation is far from good. I’m cold and hungry and tired and thirsty and that dead man won’t stop staring at me.” Hand trembling, she pointed at the nearest corpse. “Plus, Vicente said over the radio he heard gunfire. That means he’s not far behind.”

  As tenderly as he could, Nash wiped tear-streaked mud from Maisey’s cheeks. He stroked it from her forehead and nose and chin. When she closed her eyes and exhaled, he cleaned her brows and the smile lines at the corners of her eyes. And when she opened those eyes, he leaned forward, resting his forehead against hers. “I will protect you.”

  “I know.” For the first time that day, her voice rang strong. Sincere. Her trust further heightened his resolve to see her and her baby safely through.

  She exhaled. Her warm breath hit his lips, tightening his stomach in a way he hadn’t felt in well over the year his wife had been gone. While the sensation was far from unpleasant, it was also unwelcome. Retreating to a safe distance, he asked, “Hungry?”

  “Very. What’s on the menu? Snake? Gator?”

  “Actually . . .” Nash eyed the still-fresh gator kill lying on the shore. “Seems a shame for the little guy to have died in vain.”

  “Little guy?” She laughed. “That alligator is longer than I am.”

  8

  AN HOUR LATER, while Maisey sat in relative comfort on a log, using her new palm frond fan, she watched with awe as Nash performed yet another crafty task. Using vines and sticks and a vicious knife, he’d constructed a rack on which he’d hung chunks of meat. He’d stripped the alligator and butchered it and already had a nice, juicy section roasting over a fire.

  While he’d buried the bad guys in shallow graves, her job was to listen and observe. The slightest change in bird calls or a cracked twig. Gunfire. Baying dogs. Anything outside of their current norm.

  “Nash?” She slowed her fanning.

  “Yes, ma’am?” Like back when they’d been in high school, his stoic expression was entirely too mesmerizing. Too brimming with the kind of innate self-assurance that was earned. If possible, he seemed more at ease here in the middle of a swamp than he ever had back in Jacksonville. He wasn’t just in his element, but seemed to have invented it.

  “What do you think happened to the other hound? Is he okay?”

  He paused in his digging with a collapsible shovel to frown. “My fear is that he ran straight home to his food dish and comfy bed. Don’t get me wrong, I love dogs as much as the next guy, but when he returned without his doggy friend or two handlers, it’s not that great a leap for whoever’s on the other end to realize there was trouble.”

  “Oh.” She hadn’t thought of it that way.

  “That’s why I need you to stay alert. We shouldn’t have this fire, but this much protein is hard to come by and you and the baby need regular meals.”

  “What’s gator taste like?”

  “Chewy chicken. Better than cottonmouth—though some of my team might find that debatable.”

  “Tell me about them.”

  “Who?” Head cocked, he used his sleeve to wipe sweat from his forehead.

  “The team you mentioned.”

  He covered the last of the two graves with vines. “The guys on my SEAL team—or, I guess that would be ex-team?”

  She nodded.

  “We still run missions, so sometimes it gets screwed up in my head. Anyway, me and Jasper, Harding, Everett and a bunch of other guys went through BUD/S together which—not gonna lie—was pretty intense.”

  Forehead furrowed, she said, “For those of us who aren’t ninja warriors, what’s that?”

  “Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training. It was months of straight-up torture. Swimming in open sea until I literally thought my limbs were frozen. Finally getting to dry land only to run twenty-miles carrying a raft on our heads, followed by another swim and push-ups. No way could I have gotten through it without the help of my friends. We might now be out of the Navy, but we’re still tight, protecting everyone from presidents to pregnant chicks like you.” His grin and wink combo were swoon-worthy.

  Why had she left him?

  Mrs. Adamson had been a lucky woman.

  Head bowed, she asked softly, “How did you meet your wife?”

  His grin faded. “Remember when I asked you not to talk about my family? I meant it.”

  “Sorry . . .” Her heart ached for him. “But it’s not natural for you to act as if your wife and baby never even existed. Wouldn’t you rather celebrate the good they brought to your life than dwell on the bad?”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong,” he snapped while adding more wood to the fire, “but isn’t there a proverb about folks living in glass houses not throwing stones? If I think about how good Hope and I had it, I’ll lose my shit. I don’t hear you waxing poetic about how our pal Vicente wooed you with roses and diamonds. At the moment, pretty much all you can wrap your head around is the fact that you not only married a psycho, but weren’t even legit married. But wait—like that’s not bad enough, he’s doing everything in his power to ensure you only live long enough to give birth to his son. Do I have it right?”

  His words stung to her core—not only because they hurt, but because he was right. She had no moral business trying to counsel him when her own life needed plenty of work. Throat tight, she willed tears to stay at bay, but they went ahead and fell. She longed to rail at Nash, demanding an answer to how he could be so cruel, but deep inside, she knew her own truth. The terror she felt over bringing her innocent baby into such a tumultuous world. Would she even be a fit mom? How could she when she hadn’t even been smart enough to realize the guy she’d fallen for was an already-married killer?

  “Sorry.” Nash stood before her, hands in his back pockets.

  “It’s okay.” Maisey lacked the strength to meet his gaze. “I had it coming. I promised I wouldn’t talk about your wife, but I did it anyway.” After a sharp exhale and brush of tears from her cheeks, she said, “I won’t make that mistake again.”

  They shared the surprisingly tasty meal in silence.

  Maisey ate until she felt near popping, then for her baby, forced herself to eat a little more. She drank deeply of the water Nash had so carefully boiled. She’d done all of that without either of them saying a word.

  After swatting a whiny mosquito, she asked, “Ever talking to me again?”

  He half-heartedly glanced her way before taking a bite from his latest chunk of meat.

  “Goody!” She clapped her hands with forced glee. “I love the silent game. Even back in third grade, you always were the master.”

  “Knock it off,” he finally said.

  “So you are capable of speech?”

  He shook his head. “I’m capable of a lot of things. Don’t test me.”

  Maisey rolled her eyes. “I’ve survived attack dogs, gators and gun-toting bad guys. You, Nash Adamson, don’t scare me one iota. In fact, I think behind your tough guy routine, you’re a big soft—”

  Before she finished her sentence, Nash pitched his meal to the ground. He clamped his hand over her mouth, whispering into her ear, “Not another word.”

  9

  THE WHOLE TIME Maisey yammered about feelings, Nash sensed they were being watched.

  It wasn’t until he detected a metallic glint i
n the sun that he forcibly shut Maisey the hell up. Had she forgotten where they were? Who wanted them dead? At this point, he wouldn’t put it past Vicente to carve out his son and leave Maisey’s remains for the gators. She needed to get a clue and realize how grave their situation actually was.

  She breathed hard against him. Her every forced inhalation burned his lungs. As much as he hated the fact, he couldn’t deny the two of them still shared a soul-deep connection. He’d assumed with the passage of time, the thread binding them would have frayed, but it had held surprisingly strong, making him all the more confused about what he felt for her when he should have remained focused on the task at hand.

  He’d screwed the pooch by tipping his hat to the fact that he knew Vicente’s men were out there. He should have let her rattle on while silently waiting for his chance to pop off whoever lurked in the shadows. He hadn’t been prepared for how much her poking at old wounds would throw him off balance. He never should have charged to her rescue—not when he was already screwed in the head. If he hadn’t been pissed about her bringing up his wife again, he would have noticed sooner that they had company.

  “Real slow,” he whispered, working overtime to ignore how familiar and right her soft curves felt against his hard angles, “we’re going to move around to the other side of this cypress. Nod if you understand.”

  She did.

  The seconds it took to get her to the marginally safe place lasted an eternity.

  He tried not to be rough about pushing her into the buttress formed by the ancient tree’s roots. Assuming Vicente’s men weren’t smart enough to attack from above, she’d be safe on three sides.

  “Take this.” He handed her his best knife. “Whatever you hear, don’t move unless you’re directly threatened. Understand?”

  Wide-eyed with silent tears forging streams down her dirty cheeks, she nodded.

  Nash hated leaving her, but had no choice.

  The stench of cigarette smoke rose above the musky swamp.

  A cough reached through the impenetrable vines and grasses, making the sound seem to come from everywhere all at once. Judging by where Nash had seen the glint of sun on metal, the bastard couldn’t have been out more than twenty yards. The bigger question—was he alone?

  After one last glance at Maisey, he raised his dry and ready-for-action Glock, then crept east of their temporary camp. With sun streaming through low-hanging Spanish moss, birds chirping and a woodpecker going to town on the rotting carcass of a dead cypress, the scene might have been idyllic were it not for the cottonmouth slithering into black water five feet off to his right.

  Needing to draw out their latest enemy, Nash knelt to grab a rock, then pitched it up and over his current locale as far as possible, given the dense foliage. The plan worked. The dufus fired a few rounds in the wrong direction.

  Now that Nash had his location, he doubled back, placing himself behind the guy for a swift, silent slit of his throat.

  Nash helped himself to his M16 and supply pack that was near bulging with bug spray, bottled water, granola bars, beef jerky and Cheetos. Score. Wasn’t exactly nutritious, but it beat the hell out of grubs.

  “Buck?” a voice called from the green gloom. “You okay?”

  Shit. Buck had company.

  Buck’s friend fired a few rounds. “Damned snakes.”

  For now, Nash abandoned the dead man’s gear in favor of neutralizing his companion.

  Luckily, he was about as graceful as a wild hog and just as easy to pick off. As soon as Nash had a clean shot, he nailed him between his eyes.

  His gear was even better. Nice big knife and way better chow—a few Mountain House freeze-dried meals and even a jet boil with all sorts of nifty accessories. Nash took it all. The guy even had a hammock and working GPS. Relief shimmered through him. With the supplies he’d gained, he could stay out here months, but Maisey couldn’t. The sooner he returned her to civilization, the better.

  After dragging both corpses to watery graves, Nash erased all trackable signs of anyone’s presence, then slung both men’s packs and weapons over his shoulders for the short return trek to Maisey.

  A hot meal could do wonders for morale, so he planned to get her nice and full on gator steak and sweet and sour chicken, then settled into the hammock for a good night’s sleep. In the morning, the GPS would get them to a road that would lead to a cheeseburger and a nice, soft bed—not necessarily in that order.

  Nash couldn’t wait to safely deliver Maisey to her mother. The poor woman had been out of her mind with worry. He remembered Maisey as a feisty, determined girl who never failed to speak her mind or gladly accept any dare—no matter how outrageous. Case in point—when he’d stupidly dared her on a class zoo field trip to jump into a turtle pond, and she’d dragged him along with her. They’d spent a month in detention, but at least they’d been together. What had that bastard Vicente done to reduce her to this shadow of her former self?

  What would it take to bring back the sparkle to her blue eyes?

  Nash struggled with the notion that he wanted to be the one who not only saved her from her fake hubby, but from herself as well. He wanted to erase the self-doubt that had settled into her soul, making her believe she was anything less than the perfect girl he’d always known her to be.

  Picking his way over rotting logs and tangled vines, it occurred to Nash that for the first time since losing Hope and their baby, he felt not only alive, but filled with purpose. Funny how he’d set out to save Maisey, but in a sense, she was unwittingly returning the favor.

  In the time since Nash’s former teammate and friend, Harding, had temporarily booted him from the private security firm they’d founded, Nash had put a new roof on his mom’s house, and helped a half-dozen of her widowed or single neighbors with odds-and-end home repairs and in general pissed around feeling sorry for himself. But all that had to end.

  As soon as Vicente was either safely behind bars or eliminated, everything would change. Nash would make a run to Denver, where their team had set up shop. Tell Harding he was ready to be put back on the assignment list. Just because Hope was gone, didn’t mean there weren’t plenty of other folks needing help. If anything, in her memory, Nash figured he should work harder to assist others in need.

  Everyone in need? Or only petite blonds you once had a thing for?

  He ignored the snarky voice in his head to forge through more tangled vines.

  Any of the guys in Trident, Inc. would feel the same. Man, woman or child—if someone needed protection, they’d each be willing to fight. As for the fact that Nash’s first mission outside of Trident happened to be ensuring the safety of an old friend, that was nothing more than a coincidence. The fact that Maisey hadn’t only unwittingly awoken the long-slumbering warrior in him, but something else…

  He refused to go there.

  She was pregnant and in danger. Nash was her protector—nothing more.

  He quickened his pace to return to her, fighting forbidden flashes of time they’d shared. Okay, so yeah, a million years ago, he’d planned his entire life around her. They’d talked marriage and babies. But then she’d dumped him, because she’d never wanted to be a military spouse. Her dad met her mom while he’d been stationed at Mayport, near Jacksonville, Florida. Nash’s dad had been stationed there, too. The difference was that his father had been a loyal, loving husband up until three years ago when he’d passed of a heart attack. Maisey’s dad was still alive and well and—Nash assumed—sleeping with a different woman every night. Maisey had been an accident, and he’d married her mom, but only stayed around long enough for her to get out of diapers. When Nash and Maisey had been kids, he remembered her dad showing up for birthdays and Christmases, but that was about it. Her mother never divorced him, and as far as Nash knew, had never been with another man. The whole thing was tragic, which made the mess that had become of Maisey’s life that much tougher to bear.

  Maybe Nash could help her adjust to her new routine? Clearl
y, they’d never again be lovers, but at least friends.

  He used a machete to hack his way out of a particularly nasty mangrove patch, then five minutes later exited from the foliage to reach their temporary camp.

  “Mais?” Nash rounded the tree he’d instructed her to stay beside, only to have his heart catch in his throat.

  This couldn’t be.

  Was he in the wrong place?

  He swung around to check for landmarks. The fire still burned. The gator still hung on the spit. His CamelBak hung from a low branch, but the spot where he’d told Maisey to stay put was now empty.

  Where the hell had she gone?

  Pulse hammering, Nash struggled to find her trail, then he made a sick discovery. He picked up her trail easy enough, then followed it to a place where the muddied ground and flattened brush showed evidence of a struggle. Nash’s heart fell as he made out four sets of tracks moving away—clearly not Maisey’s. She wasn’t walking, because she was being carried by Vicente or one of his men.

  10

  A TWIG SNAPPED.

  Not long after Nash left, the sound jolted Maisey from a deep sleep.

  Her gaze darted about their latest encampment, but when she saw nothing out of sorts, she drifted off again.

  Beneath closed eyes, sunlight played through the branches high above her head, forming a lacy pattern that made it easy to believe she was back home with all of this behind her. Shots hadn’t been fired, and she was no longer in a swamp, but in the park.

  Dreaming of a picnic.

  Of lying on a blanket spread over tall, swaying grass. Her baby boy rested beside her, giggling while she tickled his tiny nose with a dandelion. Nash was there, too. Not sharing her blanket, but standing watch. He carried a menacing gun and wore all black—cargo pants, T-shirt, boots, and gear. He hadn’t said a word. Just stared at her in that intense way he had back when they’d still been in high school, and she’d told him she’d never marry him