Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

Nash

N ash stood over Marcus Reeves, his knuckles bruised and raw from the interrogation, but the sting of physical pain paled in comparison to the ache inside his chest. The man slumped before him, bound to the rusted chair in the corner of the dilapidated fishing shack, had once been a brother. A fellow SEAL. Someone Nash had trusted with his life, someone who had stood by him through firefights and deadly missions. And now, here they were, enemies.

The betrayal cut deeper than any wound he'd ever endured in combat.

Marcus had been stubborn—defiant at first. He hadn't given up the information easily, not without Nash having to dig it out of him one punch at a time. The air in the small room was thick with the acrid scent of sweat and blood, and Nash could still hear Marcus's labored breathing, the rasp of it filling the silence between them. Deanna stood nearby, her face pale but her expression hard. She'd been silent throughout the interrogation, but Nash could feel the weight of her gaze on him, heavy with both concern and understanding.

Nash stared down at Marcus, feeling a surge of bitterness rise up inside him. He wiped the blood from his knuckles, his breathing steady but filled with simmering anger.

"You didn't have to go down this path, Marcus," Nash growled, his voice low but sharp. "You could've walked away. We both could've."

Marcus lifted his head, his face bruised and swollen from the beating, but the defiance hadn't entirely left his eyes. "We don't all get to walk away, Nash. Not like you did." He spat the words, his tone laced with bitterness. "You got out. You had options. I didn't."

Nash's jaw clenched as Marcus's words hit him harder than any punch. He knew the life they'd led wasn't easy. Being a SEAL came with a price. For some, it was the battlefield. For others, it was the life after—the disillusionment, the constant fight to find a new purpose. But that didn't excuse what Marcus had become.

"What the hell did they offer you?" Nash demanded, his fists tightening at his sides. "What was worth betraying everything we fought for?"

Marcus smirked, though it was a weak gesture, his energy clearly fading. "Broadmore's playing a bigger, longer game than you realize. He's got his hands on every corner of the world—Fatima's operation is just one piece of the puzzle. He's the one pulling the strings."

Deanna's sharp intake of breath echoed behind Nash. Her eyes flickered with shock, but Nash's blood turned cold at the mention of Admiral Broadmore's name. The man who had commanded them, the man who had shaped Nash into the SEAL he became, was involved in this? The conspiracy ran deeper than he could have imagined.

"You're lying," Nash growled, stepping closer, his shadow looming over Marcus. "Broadmore would never stoop to working with arms dealers like Fatima Al-Fayed."

Marcus let out a bitter laugh, one that sent a chill down Nash's spine. "You still believe in those fairy tales, Nash? Broadmore's got bigger ambitions than the Navy ever allowed. Fatima's just a means to an end. He's not just playing in the black market—he's building an empire."

Nash stood still, the weight of Marcus's words sinking in, tightening around his chest like a vice. Admiral Broadmore—his commanding officer, a man he had once looked up to—was involved in this. Broadmore. It made too much sense now. The technology, the resources, the reach. Only someone with power that vast could pull this off, and now it was clear that Nash wasn't just fighting Fatima's operation. He was up against a man who had taught him everything about loyalty, duty, and honor—and was now using that knowledge to tear the world apart.

Nash's hands trembled with rage, but before he could strike again, Deanna stepped forward, her voice soft but firm. "We need to go, Nash. We've got the information we need. Staying here isn't going to help."

She was right. Every second they wasted put them closer to danger. Fatima's team was undoubtedly closing in on them. Marcus had given up the critical information they needed, but there would be more coming—backup, reinforcement. They had to move now.

Nash took a deep breath, his anger still simmering beneath the surface, but he forced himself to focus. He leaned in close to Marcus, his voice low and filled with deadly intent. "If I see you again, you won't walk away. Understand?"

Marcus didn't respond. His head sagged, his breathing labored, but Nash had no time to care. Stuffing an old rag into Marcus's mouth, Nash used duct tape to secure it, before he smashed his fist into Marcus's face, knocking him out cold. He turned to Deanna, his hand already moving to her back as he guided her toward the exit. The urgency thrummed between them now. The stakes had just risen higher than either of them had imagined.

They slipped out of the fishing shack, the cool air hitting their skin as they made their way back toward the docks. Nash's mind was racing, piecing together everything they had uncovered. The conspiracy reached all the way to Admiral Broadmore. It wasn't just about arms deals—it was about control. Power. And now that they knew, there was no turning back.

Deanna kept pace beside him, her eyes sharp with resolve despite the fear Nash knew had to be coursing through her. He admired her resilience—she hadn't faltered, not even after everything they'd been through.

"We need a faster boat," Nash muttered as they reached the docks, scanning the moored vessels. The Zodiac wouldn't cut it, not with Fatima's team likely on their heels. His eyes landed on a sleek, high-powered speedboat parked just ahead.

"That one," Deanna said, nodding toward the boat. Her voice was steady, but he could see the tension in her body, the readiness for whatever came next.

They moved quickly, Nash slipping into the boat first and hot-wiring the ignition with a precision born from years of necessity. The engine roared to life, echoing across the quiet harbor. Nash looked over at Deanna, his expression grim but focused. "Let's get out of here."

Deanna didn't need to be told twice. She jumped into the passenger seat as Nash hit the throttle and sent the speedboat cutting through the water like a knife. The speedboat shot out of the harbor like a bullet, bouncing over the waves with a sharp slap against the water. The wind whipped around them, the salt spray hitting their faces as they tore across the open sea. The boat bounced across the waves, the spray of the sea hitting their faces as they sped away from the village.

Deanna gripped the side of the boat, her heart still racing from the fight, but the further they got from the village, the more the tension in her chest began to ease. The adrenaline was still there, coursing through her veins, but so was something else—relief. They had made it out. They had survived.

Nash stood at the helm, his expression hard, but when he glanced over at her, there was something softer in his eyes. A flicker of gratitude. Of respect.

"You saved me back there," he said, his voice rough from the fight.

Deanna met his gaze, her lips curving into a small smile. "I guess that makes us even."

Nash chuckled, the sound low and gruff, but there was something warmer behind it. Something unspoken between them.

The wind whipped through Nash's hair, the salty mist stinging his skin, but the rush of adrenaline kept him sharp. They were moving fast, but he knew it wouldn't be long before Fatima's people realized what had happened. The speedboat cut through the water with powerful ease, and for a moment, Nash allowed himself to feel a flicker of hope.

But the shadow of Broadmore's betrayal lingered in his mind, gnawing at him. This wasn't just about survival anymore. It was personal. Broadmore had betrayed everything Nash had once believed in, everything he had fought for. And now, Nash wasn't just fighting to stay alive—he was fighting to take down the man who had built him.

Beside him, Deanna gripped the side of the boat, her face lifted to the wind, her hair wild in the breeze. She looked fierce, determined, and in that moment, Nash knew one thing for certain.

They weren't running anymore. They were going to fight back. They might not be safe yet, but at least they were free.

The day wore on, and a comfortable silence developed between them. There was no reason to fill the empty air with words. The hum of the speedboat's engine filled the air, instead, as the sun began to set, its rhythmic pulse a steady backdrop against the vastness of the open water. The moon rose and the stars hung low in the sky, scattered across a velvet expanse as the dark sea stretched out before them, endless and undisturbed.

Nash stood at the helm, his eyes scanning the horizon, but his mind was far from the present moment. The adrenaline from their escape still coursed through his veins, but something deeper churned within him.

They were safe for now, but the weight of everything that had happened, everything they'd uncovered, pressed heavily on his chest. Marcus's betrayal, Broadmore's involvement—it all stirred old wounds, wounds that had never fully healed. And then there was Deanna. She sat in the passenger seat, silent but steady, her eyes fixed on the dark water ahead, the wind whipping her hair back from her face.

Nash's grip tightened on the wheel. He could feel the tension building between them, not the kind of tension that came from danger, but something quieter, more personal. He'd spent so much of his life locked up inside his own head, walled off from the people around him, the weight of his past too heavy to share. But Deanna—she had seen him at his worst, fought by his side, trusted him in ways that had caught him off guard.

And she deserved to know.

The boat cut through the waves, sending a light spray of saltwater into the air, but Nash barely noticed. His thoughts were swirling, memories creeping in like shadows at the edges of his mind. He wasn't the type to share his burdens, not with anyone, but with Deanna, something was different. There was a bond between them now, forged in the heat of battle and in the trust they had built. And maybe it was time to stop running from the past.

He took a deep breath, his voice breaking the silence. "I told you a little about why I left the SEALs."

Deanna's head turned, her eyes softening as they met his. She didn't say anything, didn't push him to continue, but the look on her face told him she was listening, that she understood there was more to this story than he had let on.

Nash's jaw clenched, his gaze dropping to the wheel. The memories clawed at him, jagged and painful, but he forced himself to continue. "It was a mission in South America. Classified op, deep into the jungle. It was supposed to be easy—a high value target to be sure, but the intel was supposed to be top notch. It wasn't."

He paused, his knuckles white as he gripped the wheel, the familiar ache in his chest rising with every word. "Nothing went according to plan. We were ambushed and the target had been dead for some time—longer than the intel we had was old. We were set up."

Deanna remained quiet, but he could feel her attention, her presence a steady force beside him giving him the strength to continue.

"Our extraction point was compromised, and my team got pinned down. We were outnumbered, outgunned. It was chaos." His voice tightened, the pain of that memory surfacing. "We fought like hell to get out, but… it wasn't enough. I lost three men that day. Brothers. And I made the call to pull us out and leave our dead behind. It was the right call, but it didn't feel like it then. It felt like I'd failed."

The boat rocked gently beneath them, the open sea a quiet contrast to the storm of emotions building inside him. Nash hadn't spoken about that day in a long time. It had been easier to bury it, to leave the SEALs and pretend that part of his life was behind him. But it wasn't behind him. It never would be.

"Even if I'd wanted to, I couldn't stay after that," Nash admitted, his voice raw. "I would never have been able to look my team in the eye, knowing I'd made the call to leave our dead behind. SEALs don't do that. I left the SEALs, started my own thing—took missions for Cerberus where it was just me, so I wouldn't have to worry about anyone else."

Deanna's voice was soft when she finally spoke, cutting through the tension in the air. "You weren't responsible for what happened to them, Nash. You made the call that saved the lives of the others. You can't carry that weight alone forever."

Nash shook his head, the guilt he had carried for so long gnawing at him. "That's the thing, Deanna. In combat, you do carry that weight. That's the job. You make decisions, and sometimes people don't come home because of them. Doesn't matter if it's the right call or not—it still eats at you."

Her eyes softened, and she leaned in closer, her hand brushing his arm lightly, a touch that grounded him. "But you did what you could. You're not a man who leaves people behind unless trying to bring the dead home is going to cost the lives of the rest. I've seen that in you. I've seen how much you care."

The sincerity in her voice cut through the walls he had built around himself. She wasn't just saying it to make him feel better—she believed it. She saw him, saw the parts of him he had tried so hard to hide.

And in that moment, for the first time in years, Nash felt something close to relief.

"It doesn't go away," he admitted quietly, his eyes meeting hers. "But maybe you're right. Maybe I've spent too long punishing myself for something I couldn't control."

Deanna's hand lingered on his arm, her touch warm and steady. "You don't have to carry it alone anymore, Nash. We've been through hell together. Whatever happens next, we'll always be connected."

Nash's throat tightened, the vulnerability of the moment catching him off guard. He wasn't used to this—to sharing his burdens, to letting someone else in. But with Deanna, it didn't feel like weakness. It felt like… strength. Like maybe he didn't have to keep fighting this battle alone.

The boat bounced over another wave, the spray of saltwater hitting his face, but Nash barely noticed. His focus was on Deanna—on the woman beside him who had seen him at his worst and stayed by his side anyway.

He glanced over at her, the wind tousling her hair, her eyes bright with understanding. And for the first time in what felt like years, Nash felt a flicker of something he hadn't let himself feel in a long time.

Hope.

They were out on the open water, their path uncertain, the danger still looming, but with Deanna beside him, Nash felt ready for whatever came next.

"I haven't had anyone to watch my back for a while now," he said, his voice rough but lighter than before.

Deanna smiled, the corners of her lips turning up softly. "Get used to it."

Nash felt his heart swell with something unfamiliar, something good. And as the boat sped toward the horizon, cutting through the waves, Nash knew that no matter what lay ahead, he wasn't alone anymore—not with Deanna by his side.