Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Nash

N ash's heart pounded as he stared down at the cache of advanced weaponry. The rifles, sleek and deadly, gleamed in the faint sunlight filtering through the canopy of trees surrounding the hidden cove. Each piece of gear was military-grade, more advanced than anything he'd seen in standard combat zones. His gut twisted with the recognition—this wasn't supposed to exist outside top-secret, high-security research facilities.

His mind raced. These weren't just black-market weapons. This was cutting-edge tech, the kind of equipment he'd only heard about in whispers during his time as a SEAL, when classified intel hinted at developments no one was supposed to know about. For it to be here, abandoned on a remote island in the Mediterranean? It didn't make sense. It screamed danger in a way nothing else had.

How the hell did this end up here?

Nash turned slowly, his eyes scanning the tree line, every instinct in his body screaming that they needed to move. Fast. His breath was steady, but underneath, adrenaline surged, sharpening his senses to a razor's edge. Whoever had scuttled this ship—whoever had left these weapons behind wouldn't be planning to leave them, and they wouldn't be far.

"Deanna," he said, his voice tight, "we need to go. Now."

Deanna, still standing beside the cache, looked up at him, her expression shifting from curious to concerned as she absorbed the urgency in his voice. "What is it? What are these?"

"Classified," Nash snapped, glancing at the wrecked hull one last time before stepping toward her. He grabbed her arm, gently but firmly, pulling her away from the pile of debris. "Weapons that shouldn't even exist outside a black site. We can't stay here."

"But—" Deanna started, her curiosity still flaring, but Nash cut her off, his tone leaving no room for argument.

"This isn't some shipwreck we stumbled on. These weapons belong to people who don't play nice and don't play by the rules. They won't let us just walk away."

The words hung heavy between them, the realization sinking in. Deanna's eyes widened, and she nodded, fear flickering across her features as she moved in step with him.

They left the cove behind, but the sense of danger followed, thickening the air with every step they took. Nash's mind was in overdrive, his military instincts taking over as they made their way through the dense jungle that separated them from The Reverie. Every snap of a twig, every rustle of leaves, made his muscles tighten, ready to spring into action.

The island, once so still and quiet, now felt alive with threat. Like unseen eyes were watching them from the shadows, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Nash didn't look back, but he could feel it—the weight of danger closing in, unseen but unmistakable. They were being watched and probably even hunted. Or worse—they were already cornered, and just didn't know it yet.

He kept Deanna close, his grip on her arm firm as they picked up the pace, moving quickly but carefully through the underbrush. The terrain was rough, uneven, but Nash barely noticed. His mind was already running through scenarios—ways to protect her, ways to get them back to the boat, ways to fend off an ambush if it came to that.

His senses were sharp, hyper-aware of the forest around them. The sun was starting to dip lower in the sky, casting long shadows through the trees, making everything feel more ominous. The thick canopy above blocked most of the light, plunging the path ahead into a dim twilight. It felt like the jungle was closing in on them.

Nash's heart hammered in his chest as they moved swiftly toward the shoreline. His hand instinctively rested on the hilt of the knife strapped to his side, his fingers itching for reassurance that he had something—anything—to defend them if the worst happened.

Deanna was quiet beside him, her earlier curiosity muted now by the growing fear. He could feel the tension in her, the way her steps had become more deliberate, more cautious. She trusted him; he knew that, but that didn't mean she wasn't scared. Hell, he was scared too—scared in the way only a man who had been in too many firefights to count could be.

They were almost at the edge of the jungle when Nash heard it.

A low, distant sound. The crunch of boots on gravel. He stopped dead in his tracks, holding up a hand to halt Deanna. His body went rigid, his head snapping toward the sound. The jungle was still, but the noise had been real. They weren't alone.

"Stay behind me," he whispered, barely audible.

Deanna froze, her breath catching in her throat as she did exactly as he said, moving behind him but staying close. Nash crouched slightly, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the thick brush ahead. The path to the beach was just beyond the next rise, but between them and safety was the distinct possibility of danger.

He crouched lower, motioning for Deanna to do the same. Every second felt like an eternity as he strained to listen. The sound had stopped, but that didn't mean whoever—or whatever—was out there had gone.

Nash's mind ran through the possibilities. Mercenaries? Arms dealers? Terrorists? Some shadowy group with access to classified tech? Whoever they were, they wouldn't hesitate to kill to protect the cache of weapons. His pulse quickened, but his thoughts stayed focused.

"We're going to make a break for the beach," he whispered, his voice low and controlled. "Once we're out in the open, run straight for the boat. Don't look back. Got it?"

Deanna nodded. He could see the fear in her, but there was also trust. Trust was dangerous. Trust got people killed.

But there wasn't time to dwell on that. Nash counted silently in his head, listening for any more signs of movement. The jungle was eerily quiet again, as if the whole island was holding its breath.

"Now," he whispered, gripping Deanna's hand as they bolted for the beach.

They broke through the tree line, the bright expanse of sand and water stretching out before them. The sight of The Reverie anchored in the cove sent a jolt of relief through Nash's body, but he didn't let himself slow down. They sprinted toward the boat, their footsteps kicking up sand as they raced across the beach. The sound of the jungle seemed to fade behind them, but Nash knew better than to assume they were safe.

"Go!" he urged, pushing Deanna ahead of him as they reached the shallow water.

She didn't hesitate, splashing through the surf as they reached The Reverie. She disengaged the alarm and scrambled onto the deck. Nash was right behind her, his senses still on high alert as he quickly untied the moorings and readied the boat to set sail. His hands moved swiftly, years of experience guiding him even as his mind raced.

As he powered up the engine and steered The Reverie out of the cove, Nash couldn't shake the feeling that they had barely escaped. Whoever had scuttled that ship, whoever had left those weapons behind, wouldn't just let them sail away unchallenged.

The danger wasn't over. Not by a long shot.

And as the island faded into the distance, Nash's gut told him that whatever they had stumbled into was far bigger—and far deadlier—than either of them could have imagined.

Nash felt the tension drain from his shoulders as The Reverie powered up beneath him, the engine vibrating softly through the hull as they began to pull away from the beach. His hands moved with precision, every instinct screaming at him to get as far away from the island as possible. But the gnawing sense of danger still clung to him, coiling in his gut like a warning that they weren't safe yet.

Deanna was next to him, breathing fast, her wide eyes searching his face for answers. She had been following his lead without question, but he knew she deserved an explanation. She wasn't the type to take orders blindly, and she'd seen too much today—too much for him to stay silent any longer.

He steered the boat into open water, the shoreline shrinking behind them, but his focus wasn't on the horizon. It was on the threat still lingering in the air, like a storm building just beyond sight.

"We're not out of this yet," Nash said quietly, his voice low and tight.

Deanna turned to him, her eyes sharp with curiosity and concern. "What are we up against, Nash? I need to know."

He didn't want to tell her. He didn't want to drag her into this any deeper than she already was. But she had been with him every step of the way—through the storm, through the wreckage, through the discovery of those weapons. She deserved the truth.

Taking a deep breath, Nash looked out at the water for a moment before turning back to her. His jaw tightened as he spoke, the words coming out harder than he'd intended. "Those weapons we found back there? They're not just any military-grade gear. They're classified. Experimental tech that shouldn't exist outside the highest-level research facilities. We're talking about things designed for covert ops, black-ops missions. Things no one's supposed to know about."

Deanna frowned, processing his words. "But how do you know all this?"

Nash hesitated. He had spent years keeping his past buried, but now there was no point in hiding it. She needed to understand the danger they were in. "I've heard about those kinds of weapons before. My last assignment as a SEAL was extracting a covert operative with classified tech. He'd been kidnapped and was being held hostage by people who were willing to sell it and him to the highest bidder."

"Did you save him?"

"No. By the time we got there, he'd been executed. We were under fire so there was no way to know if his kidnappers had done it or someone else. We had bad intel… really bad; the kind that cost some of the men on my team their lives."

Deanna's eyes showed sympathy. "I'm sorry. Do you think that's what's happening here—that somebody is trying to sell these weapons?"

"That would be the most logical conclusion."

"Any idea who?"

Nash nodded grimly. "I don't know for sure, but my best guess is Fatima Al-Fayed."

Deanna's brow furrowed in confusion. "Who is she?"

Nash clenched his jaw. "Fatima Al-Fayed is the daughter of one of the world's most dangerous arms dealers. Her father, Khalid Al-Fayed, built an empire selling weapons to warlords, militias, terrorists and corrupt governments. He was ruthless, made a fortune in blood money. But he was murdered a couple of years ago by one of his rivals. Since then, Fatima's been trying to step into his shoes—only she's got bigger ambitions."

Deanna's face paled as realization sank in. "You think she's behind this?"

"Yeah." Nash's voice was tight, every muscle in his body coiled with tension. "I've heard rumors about her—about how she's been trying to corner the market on hard-to-get, deadly tech. She wants to make a name for herself, avenge her father's death, and take control of the black-market arms trade. She's been building a network, gathering resources, and getting her hands on weapons like the ones we found. If she's involved, we're in a hell of a lot more danger than I thought."

Deanna's hand went to her mouth, her expression filled with shock. "So what do we do?"

"We get the hell out of here," Nash said firmly, turning his attention back to the water. "Once we're far enough away, we'll figure out our next move. But right now, all that matters is putting distance between us and?—"

Before he could finish the sentence, something caught his eye—a dark silhouette approaching fast from the north, cutting through the water like a predator on the hunt.

Nash's heart dropped into his stomach.

He grabbed the binoculars from the console, lifting them to his eyes, and his blood ran cold. It was a sleek, black speedboat, armed to the teeth, and heading straight for them.

"Damn it," he muttered under his breath. "We've got company."

Deanna moved to his side, her face pale as she saw the boat in the distance. "Who is it?"

"Fatima's people most likely," Nash said, his voice laced with a grim finality. "I should've known they wouldn't let us get away that easily."

As the speedboat drew closer, Nash could make out the figures on board—armed men, their weapons gleaming in the sunlight. And at the helm, standing tall and regal, was Fatima Al-Fayed herself. Her sharp, striking features were unmistakable, even from this distance. She had the same cold, calculating look that her father had been known for. The same ruthless ambition.

Nash's mind raced. His suspicions had been confirmed. They weren't up against just a few mercenaries. It was Fatima, a woman who was as deadly as she was determined. She wasn't here just to scare them. She was here to finish the job.

"They're closing in fast," Nash growled, spinning the wheel sharply to the right, trying to buy them some time. "Get below deck. Now."

Deanna didn't argue. She darted below, her heart racing, while Nash pushed The Reverie to its limits. The engine roared, the boat cutting through the water as he tried to put as much distance between them and Fatima's crew as possible. In the distance, gunfire erupted. But the sailboat was built for pleasure not speed, and Fatima's boat was faster, sleeker, and designed for pursuit.

He cursed under his breath. He knew it was only a matter of time before they caught up.

The speedboat was close enough now that Nash could see the cold smile on Fatima's face as she stood at the helm, her dark hair blowing in the wind, her eyes locked onto The Reverie like a predator hunting its prey. She raised her hand, signaling her men to prepare their weapons.

Nash's gut twisted. He'd been in tight spots before, but this was different. He wasn't just fighting for himself—he was fighting for Deanna too. He couldn't let Fatima take her.

With a surge of adrenaline, Nash veered sharply again, trying to make for a narrow gap between two rock formations just ahead. It was risky, but it was their only chance.

As he steered into the gap, the sound of gunfire ripped through the air. Bullets sprayed across the water, tearing into the side of The Reverie .

Nash's eyes darkened with resolve. He wasn't going down without a fight.

As they closed the distance, the gunfire got louder as bullets splintered the side of The Reverie . Nash's grip on the wheel tightened, every muscle in his body taut as the danger closed in. His mind raced, calculating their options, knowing full well that the boat couldn't outrun Fatima's men for much longer.

They had to make a choice. And fast.

"Deanna!" Nash yelled, his voice carrying over the chaos. "Get ready to move! We're heading for the island!"

Deanna scrambled up from below deck, her face pale but her eyes were focused, determined. She didn't ask questions, didn't waste time hesitating, and in that moment, Nash recognized something in her—she wasn't just a civilian caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. She had grit, a sharp mind, and an instinct for survival. That was something he could work with.

"Brace yourself," he barked as he turned the wheel sharply, steering The Reverie back toward the shallow waters near the island's rocky shore. The boat lurched, cutting through the waves at a dangerous angle as bullets continued to whiz past them, spraying into the water with deadly accuracy.

Fatima's speedboat was closing in too fast. Too close.

Nash's heart pounded as the narrow gap between the rocks came into view. It was a long shot—a risky move that could end with them smashing the hull on jagged stone. But it was their only chance to evade the speedboat and buy them enough time to get off the water.

With a final surge, The Reverie slid between the rock formations, narrowly missing the cliffs on either side. The speedboat, unable to follow due to needing deeper water, was forced to veer off just before the gap. Nash exhaled sharply, but his relief was short-lived.

They were far from safe.

"We're going ashore!" Nash called, steering the boat into a hidden cove nestled between thick trees and towering cliffs. The water was shallow enough here that they could jump and run without being too exposed. He powered down the engine, the adrenaline in his veins urging him to move faster.

Deanna was already beside him, her breath coming fast, but she wasn't panicking. She was waiting for his lead.

There was no time to grab the guns in the weapons locker. Nash leapt from the boat first, landing in the knee-deep water and turning to help Deanna down. Her fingers gripped his tightly as she jumped into the surf beside him, her eyes wide but steady. They waded quickly to shore, the dense jungle rising up in front of them like a fortress. It was thick with vegetation—perfect for disappearing, if they could move fast enough.

"Go," Nash urged, his voice low and controlled. "We need to put distance between us and them."

Deanna nodded without hesitation, and they took off into the trees, the thick undergrowth slowing them down but providing much-needed cover. Nash kept his senses sharp, his eyes scanning the shadows around them, listening for any signs that Fatima's men had followed. His boots crushed leaves and branches beneath his feet, the smell of damp earth filling his nose as they pushed deeper into the island's interior.

He knew Fatima wouldn't give up easily. She was ruthless, determined to avenge her father's death and claim her place in the arms trade. And she had her sights set on whatever tech they'd uncovered in that scuttled ship.

Nash glanced over at Deanna as they moved through the jungle. She was keeping pace with him, her breathing hard but controlled, her eyes sharp. There was no hesitation in her movements, no signs of panic. It surprised him—he had expected her to slow them down, to need constant reassurance or protection. But instead, she was right there with him, every step of the way.

As they ducked beneath low-hanging branches, the sound of distant voices drifted through the trees. Nash tensed, grabbing Deanna's arm and pulling her behind the cover of a thick tree trunk. He pressed a finger to his lips, signaling for silence as they crouched low. His heart hammered in his chest as he listened—footsteps, low murmurs, the unmistakable sound of boots crunching through the undergrowth.

Fatima's men were close. Too close.

Nash felt a bead of sweat slide down his temple as he calculated their next move. They couldn't outrun a trained team in unfamiliar terrain, not like this. Their only chance was to outsmart them—to use the jungle to their advantage.

He leaned in close to Deanna, his voice barely a whisper. "We're going to move quietly. Stay low, keep to the shadows. If they spot us, we're not going to get out of here."

Deanna nodded, her eyes meeting his with an intensity that almost caught him off guard. There was no fear there—only focus. She trusted him, and that trust was something Nash didn't take lightly.

They moved carefully through the underbrush, ducking beneath branches and keeping to the shadows as the voices grew fainter. Nash led the way, his senses sharp, every step measured as they wove through the dense jungle. The terrain was rugged, filled with sharp rocks and steep inclines, but Deanna never faltered. She was keeping pace, and Nash couldn't help but be impressed.

They reached a narrow ravine, its rocky edges descending into darkness below. Nash motioned for Deanna to stay close as they made their way along the ledge, careful not to disturb the loose stones beneath their feet. One wrong move, and the noise could give away their position.

But then, from behind them, Nash heard the distinct crack of a branch. He froze, his body tensing, his hand instinctively reaching for the knife strapped to his belt. Deanna stilled beside him, her breath shallow as they both listened.

Another crack. Closer this time.

Nash's pulse quickened, but he didn't let the fear show. He turned to Deanna, leaning in close enough that his breath brushed against her ear. "We're going to have to move fast. They're getting closer."

Deanna swallowed but nodded, her lips pressed into a thin line of determination. Nash could see the tension in her shoulders, the awareness that they were being hunted, but she didn't panic.

And then, as if on cue, the jungle exploded into motion. Figures in dark clothing emerged from the trees, moving toward them with frightening speed. Nash grabbed Deanna's hand and pulled her into a sprint, his heart racing as they tore through the undergrowth, feet pounding against the earth.

The jungle flew by in a blur of green and shadow, the sounds of pursuit growing louder behind them. Nash's muscles screamed with the effort of running, of keeping them both moving forward, but his focus never wavered. He could hear Deanna's breathing beside him, rapid but steady, her grip on his hand tight as they dodged low-hanging branches and leapt over roots.

But they couldn't outrun them forever. Nash knew that.

He spotted a thick cluster of trees up ahead, their trunks wide and gnarled, perfect for cover. "There!" he said in a voice only she could hear, pointing toward the trees.

They veered toward the cluster, sliding into the dense foliage just as the first shots rang out. Bullets tore through the leaves, the sound deafening in the otherwise quiet jungle. Nash shoved Deanna down into the dirt, covering her with his body as they huddled behind the thick trunk of a tree.

"Stay down," Nash growled, his breath hot against her ear. He could feel her body trembling beneath him, but she didn't cry out, didn't panic. She just nodded, trusting him.

The danger was closing in, but Nash wasn't about to let them be taken. Not like this. His mind raced, every second counting as he calculated their next move.

And in that moment, as he crouched over Deanna, the jungle alive with the threat of violence, he realized something.

She wasn't just an asset. She was a partner in this fight.

And he was going to make damn sure they survived it together.