Rogue (SEAL Team: Disavowed Book 1) (16 page)

She waited until he vanished amongst the lunch crowd rush to gingerly ease behind the driver’s seat and gun the engine forward. In panic mode, she killed it, and then couldn’t get it started. Her heart hammered to the point of pain. She was out of breath and frenzied, but forced a deep inhalation and tried again while Harding tore out of the store’s double doors.

She pressed the driver’s side auto-lock button.

“Don’t do this!” he shouted. “You’re being a fool!”

“How do I know Vicente hasn’t bribed you? I have to get to Nash—warn him that you’re crooked!” With her line of sight narrowed to a slim black-ringed tunnel, she scooted to the seat’s edge to gain better control of the gas pedal. The vehicle was enormous, and to stand a better chance of escape, she eased out of the lot, uncaring that Harding ran alongside her.

“Pull over!” he shouted. “I told you, the stupid pamphlet was research!”

“I don’t trust you!” She’d convinced Nash to drop his guard around Mildred and Harvey, and look what a disaster that turned out to be. She refused to take one more unnecessary risk. Even though Harding knew where she was headed, she’d hopefully beat him by enough time for her and Nash and the baby to run.

Biting her lower lip, gripping the wheel tight enough to hurt, she merged left, only daring to breathe once she’d made it a few miles down I-95.

I did it
.

Elation was short-lived when she fumbled for the power button to ease her seat further forward, but at least she was on the right track. She hadn’t been anywhere near the Holiday Inn where she and Nash had spent the night of their first prom in over a decade, but that was okay. Some things you never forget, and that night was certainly one of them.

The hotel was near the airport, so she followed the signs.

Fifteen minutes later, after a wrong turn on a one-way highway access road, she careened the vehicle into the hotel lot. She parked it in the rear, backing it in with the use of a rear-mounted camera.

Physical pain threatened to shut her down, but she refused to let it. As soon as she and Nash and her baby were safe, she’d take time to properly heal. Until then, she fought for even shallow breaths.

Outside the car’s cool temperature, hot, humid air raised goose bumps on her forearms.

The jolt on her abdomen and spine from the hop from the driver’s seat to the blacktop proved agonizing. She froze a moment to regain her composure, then aimed for the hotel’s rear door, praying at this time of day it would be unlocked.

It was, and not wanting to risk possible exposure by wandering around, looking for an elevator, she ducked through a door promising stairwell access.

Room 777
.

Please, let Nash and my baby be there.

Trembling from exhaustion brought on by the punishment her body had been through, she gripped the rail. The first flight was torture. The second flight—hell. By the time she’d finished the third, the walls blurred and her every breath became a struggle.

For an instant, she squeezed her eyes shut and focused on her baby. Nash.

She reminded herself how literally her entire life depended on getting the rest of the way up these stairs. Over and over she repeated the climbing motion until finally spotting the
Seventh Floor
sign.

She dragged the heavy fire door open, pulling herself through.

Wobbling like a drunk, she zigzagged the endless corridor until finally spotting their room—
lucky 777
.

Dizzy with relief, she pounded the heels of her fists against the door. “Nash! Nash, it’s me. Let me in. Harding’s not who you think!”

He opened the door, only when she glanced up to lose herself in the sight of his dear features, she realized she’d made a horrible mistake.

The stranger gazing back at her wasn’t Nash . . .

“MAISEY? CAN YOU hear me?” Nash’s chest walls could hardly contain his heart’s frantic beats. After all they’d been through, if she died . . . He refused to finish the thought—not because he would allow himself to need her in his life, but because the more he was around her, the more he realized his feelings went so much deeper than friendship.

He didn’t know what that meant, and sure as hell didn’t have time to dissect the meaning of the knot lodged at the back of his throat or the tears stinging his eyes. All he knew with one hundred percent certainty was that if the worst were to happen, he wasn’t sure how he’d go on. “Angel, you’re safe, and so is your son. I’ve got him right here. I know you’re tired, but open your eyes at least long enough to let me know you’re okay.”

With the help of his friend and associate, Jasper, Nash carried Maisey’s limp form to the room’s bed. She’d collapsed at the door—no doubt exhausted from fleeing the hospital and then Harding.

Nash’s boss was understandably pissed about having his pride and joy custom Hummer hijacked—Harding had flown to Miami from Denver, but had Jasper drive the vehicle carrying their firepower. He understood Maisey’s reasoning, and Nash had already sent their pal, Briggs, to retrieve him.

Nash perched on the edge of the bed. “Come on, Mais. Wake up.”

What was in reality only a minute seemed to take lifetimes. Her breathing was shallow, and her coloring
off
. Harding had a network of discreet doctors on call for the firm, and he’d promised one was already on the way.

“
Please
, angel.”
Come back to me
. Nash had nothing to offer her by way of the sort of permanent commitment she deserved. He had no house, and half the time, his battered truck that was still down in the Everglades refused to run. He hadn’t even worked out what remained of his feelings for Hope, but he was trying. One thing he had learned was that he no longer wanted to be alone. More specifically, he no longer wanted to be without Maisey—the girl, now woman, who’d been first in his heart, and who he now recognized had never left his soul. “Please . . .”

Her eyelids fluttered. “Nash?”

“I’m right here.” His breath caught in his throat.

“My baby?”

“He’s here, too.” While blinking his stinging eyes in relief, he held up her swaddled son. “We’ve been bonding over room service and ESPN.”

“Look at you,” she whispered to her newborn. Her eyes welled with tears. “You’re beautiful.”

Not half as good looking as his momma.

“There were so many stairs . . . When the door opened, and you weren’t here . . .”

“Sorry I gave you a scare. While I was on diaper duty, Jasper manned the door.”

“Hey.” His friend waved from the foot of the bed. “Sorry we didn’t meet under better circumstances.”

Maisey managed a faint smile, then drifted back to sleep.

The doctor came and went, explaining that her vitals were good, but she needed rest. Lots.

Briggs returned with Harding, and now the four of them sat around the adjoining room’s coffee table, munching burgers and tossing around ideas for catching Vicente. Harding’s police contacts had said the compound where Maisey had been held was empty, as was a Miami residence owned under the corporate umbrella of Rodriguez, Intl.

The man had for all practical purposes evaporated, which did little to ease Nash’s worry.

“The way I see it,” Nash said. “We’ve got two options. Either flush him out by planting a story in the media or hunt him like the dog he is.”

“Personally,” Jasper dredged a fry in ketchup. “I enjoy the hell out of a good hunt. Woof-woof, motherfucker.”

“Ditto.” Briggs stole one of Jasper’s fries. At five-eleven, Briggs was the smallest on their team, but the guy ate more than all of them put together.

“Look,” Nash said, “no one would rather eradicate that sonofabitch in a seriously painful, creative way more than me, but the bottom line is Maisey and the baby’s well-being. My FBI contact says the feds have been tracking this guy for years, waiting for him to slip up. Even if he surfaces, they have nothing but hearsay to charge him with. With Maisey, they’ll at least have an eyewitness to murder, drug trafficking, kidnapping, etc. I say flush him, then let him fend for himself. Though I’m not sure how Maisey feels.”

“There are merits to both directions.” Harding finished off his burger. “But I agree, the most—”

“Kill him . . .” Maisey emerged from the adjoining room. She held her son in her arms, and though an air of exhaustion still clung to deep shadows beneath her eyes, her coloring had improved and her gaze shone with steel. “He’s a monster.”

“There you have it,” Jasper said. “A woman after my own heart.”

Clinging to the door jamb for support, she said, “When I think of all he put me through—indirectly, his own son—it makes me sick. Then, there’s this kidnapping charge against Nash. We could spend years watching our backs while he dances around the legal systems with high-priced lawyers, I can’t . . .” She bowed her head. “I can’t imagine living scared one more day. Harding—I’m so sorry for taking off without you. See? That’s how crazy this man makes me.”

“We’re good,” Harding assured. “I like your spunk.”

Nash went to her, slipping his arm around her fragile form. In such a short time, she’d come to mean the world to him all over again. She’d become that much more precious as a package deal with her son. He wasn’t saying he was ready to leap back into anything official, but he wanted to, and that was confusing as hell.

“Here’s what I think we should do.” Nash tucked one of Maisey’s flyaway curls behind her ear. “This isn’t the Wild West, so as much as I’d enjoy shooting Vicente between his black eyes, I legally don’t have that luxury. Harding,” he looked to the hulking form who’d pilfered a trio of Briggs’ fries, “do you still have that bigwig press contact in DC?”

“Sure, but how’s that going to help us flush a guy in Florida?”

“It won’t unless you manage to wrangle us a mighty big favor. Here’s what I’ll need you to do . . .”

THURSDAY MORNING, TWO days after her hospital escape, Maisey felt infinitely stronger and more like herself.

Nash had moved her from the hotel to a safe house, and had even brought both of their mothers along for the ride. He’d told her they were there to help with the baby and keep her company, but she knew better. He was afraid Vicente might use one of them as a bargaining chip to get his hands on her son. She loved Nash all the more for ensuring that wouldn’t happen.

While he and Harding and more of the men he worked with put their complex plan to catch Vicente into motion, she waited. And wrung her hands and wished and prayed for the whole mess to soon be over.

That afternoon, after putting her son down for a nap, she joined her mother, Maxine, and Nash’s mom, Gloria, on the screened porch surrounding an elaborate free-form pool and waterfall. The two women played mahjong as if neither had a care in the world and viewed this intrusion upon their lives as a vacation. Maxine had aged well, and rocked faded jeans and a Krispy Kreme Donuts T-shirt she’d won at Bingo. She wore her dyed strawberry blond hair in a sassy short cut, and never left her bedroom in the morning without full make-up. Gloria was a retired nurse, but still wore colorful scrubs with sneakers. Today’s selection were baby blue, dotted with pacifiers and rattles—in honor of Maisey’s son. She also wore her hair short, but it had turned gray. She’d never had the time nor the patience for make-up.