Nick checked himself out in the mirror. He could see the baby bump now. It wasn't glaringly obvious. He could still fit his pre-pregnancy clothes, although they were definitely a little snug, and if he wore a bulky shirt no one needed to know. Second pregnancies or later usually started showing much earlier than the first, but the ten year span between Sammy, and the new baby kind of threw all of that to the wind.

Not that he had anything at all to be ashamed of. He was an adult. He was stable. People made assumptions because of the cast, but they could take their assumptions and shove them. He didn't have time for their nonsense.

Still, the little bump gave him some pause. No matter what the baby websites tried to tell him, baby bumps weren't sexy. Pregnant people didn't "glow," they sweated. No one looked at a sweaty guy with a big, swollen abdomen and even more swollen ankles and thought, "Hey, that's hot. I'm having bedroom thoughts right now!” No, they thought, "Gross. Get that monster back into the kitchen where I don't have to look at it."

He threw a shirt on as quickly as he could. It wasn't supposed to be about looks, right? He was growing another baby, growing a family. He wasn't a shallow guy. He loved Tom. He would love Tom even if a bomb maimed his face or took his limbs. Why would he expect Tom to be any different?

Because he was.

That wasn't true. Tom hadn't known about Sammy. He hadn't abandoned Nick because he was dirty or ugly or getting fat. He'd been sent away, and he'd failed to send for Nick because he hadn't known.

Using logic on the voice in his head usually worked. That was before pregnancy and the associated hormones took hold. Intellectually, he could say to himself, "Oh, okay, yeah, I'm not really this much of a mess, it's just the hormones.” He had a degree in this stuff—a degree he'd fought hard to achieve, and one he could be proud of. Intellect didn't have a lot of sway when his pulse raced and his palms sweated.

And, of course, he had the memory of being pregnant, homeless, and alone to keep him warm. Good times.

He pushed himself away from the memory and headed into the kitchen. He had a son to care for. If he focused on Sammy, he wouldn't be able to fret about the new baby or his relationship with Tom.

"How's it going, buddy?” He ruffled Sammy's sandy hair.

"Okay.” Sammy looked up at him. "Can I go to Noah's house for New Year's Eve tonight? His dad said I could, and I know you have to work."

Nick bit his lip. He knew Sammy would have more fun with Noah and the rest of the Boone family than he would sitting around the ER, but he hated to be separated from his son on a holiday. He guessed he could live with it, since it was what was best for Sammy. "Let me talk to Tony and make sure he's really okay with it, but I can't think of a reason to say no.” He sighed and let his hand linger on Sam's head. "I'm sorry. You shouldn't have to entertain yourself on New Year's Eve at ten."

Sammy squirmed away. "It's not a big deal," he said, eyes on his iPad. "I know they asked you to work. It's extra pay, right?"

"Right.” Nick edged back, just a bit. "And we haven't been in a good place, money-wise, for so long that I'm comfortable turning that down. Plus, I missed a bunch of work when I was in the hospital. And I'll miss more when the new baby is born."

"Oh, yeah.” Sammy looked back at Nick now. "How long do you usually miss?"

"Eight to twelve weeks, depending on the employer.” He went over to the coffee pot. "Are you looking forward to the baby?"

"Kind of. I like them. I know alphas aren't supposed to and stuff, but I figure I'll probably be a father someday, right? So it's probably okay to like them.” Sammy worried his lip and cast a glance over at his dad.

"Absolutely. And it's okay for an alpha to like babies no matter what. Just like it's okay for an omega to not like them."

"You like them, though.”

Nick snickered. "I like mine. I don't dislike babies. I'm not all gaga over them. I'm not running around sighing every time I see a baby going, 'Oh, let me hold it, let me feed it, let me change the little diaper.'“ He pressed his hands to his heart and rolled his eyes. "Some omegas would rather not have kids at all. But I like mine."

"You don't mind having me?"

Nick frowned. "Excuse me? Of course I 'don't mind' having you. I love being your dad."

"Even though I basically ruined your life?"

Nick had to lean against the counter as the strength ran out of his legs. "Wow. I have to know where you got that idea.” His mouth had gone dry, but he forced himself to speak normally. He knew he had to speak carefully here.

"The health teacher said babies ruined pregnant teenagers' lives.” Sammy looked down at the ground. "And then someone called the house, one time when I got home before you. A woman."

Nick bit the inside of his cheek. "Did she say who she was?"

"No.” Sammy shook his head. "It doesn't matter."

"It does. Listen, Sammy.” Nick pushed off the counter and plopped himself down in the seat beside his son. "You didn't ruin anything. Being pregnant didn't ruin anything. Attitudes in my old community ruined the life I could have had, okay? If I'd had the support I needed, I could have gone to college when I was supposed to, and we could have had a better life for ourselves.”

"But Sammy, listen. I never considered not being your dad. It was an option. If I wasn't willing, or thought I wasn't able, to be your dad in every way possible, I would have surrendered you for adoption to someone who could have been that for you.” He took Sammy's hand. "Sometimes I did wonder if I'd made the right decision for you, like when we didn't have a home. But there's never been a point when I haven't adored being your father. I didn't get the life I planned on before I got pregnant with you, but I got to be your father, and that's what makes me happiest in this world. You are my everything."

Sammy squeezed his hand and looked down. "But Dad, what about Tom?"

"Tom is your father. I wouldn't have you if it weren't for him.” Nick felt his cheeks get hot. He knew Sammy knew how that worked, but he still hated talking about sex with his son. "But you're my priority, kiddo. Okay?"

Sammy blushed and gave him a little smile. "Okay, Dad. I love you."

"I love you too, Sammy.” He hugged his son and headed into the living room to call Tony. He had to fight to stay calm, but inside he was seething. Sammy was the single greatest part of his life, his greatest accomplishment. He wanted to lash out and hurt anyone who’d put thoughts in his precious boy’s head about somehow “ruining” Nick’s life, but he wasn’t going to let Sammy see. He needed to let this not be a big deal, for his son’s well being.

Nick hadn't expected his son to be lying, but he knew kids sometimes got details confused. As it happened, Sammy's account was pretty accurate. Nick helped Sammy pack up for an overnight with his friend, and dropped him off at the Boones' house before heading over to the hospital.

The emergency department was hopping, as it usually would be on New Year's Eve. Nick saw a lot of alcohol poisoning cases. He saw more than a few DUIs, too, but because he tended to be assigned to more medical than surgical cases, he found himself prepping IVs and holding people's hair back more often than not. The shift was fast paced and grueling, and there wasn't a single part of him that didn't ache with fatigue by the time he was done. At least the shift was done quickly.

With Sammy over at the Boones' place, he could feel free to sleep in as late as he needed. He collapsed onto his narrow bed with a grateful sigh and let the blankets wrap him up.

This wasn't supposed to be where he was at this point.

He and Tom had plans. They were going to put this place, this small little bungalow, up for rent in the new year. They were going to be living together in Tom's larger condo. Sammy was going to be in the superior Virginia Beach schools at the start of the new semester. Instead, Baudin had attacked and everything changed.

It was Nick's fault. Of course it was Nick's fault. Baudin attacking wasn't his fault. Baudin made his own decisions. He clearly had some stuff to work through, and Nick wasn't responsible for anything that man did or said. Nick was responsible for the abandoned plans and dreams. It wasn't Baudin's fault Nick couldn't stay alone in the condo. That was all Nick. Baudin wasn't even in the country right now. He was off with Tom, fighting a different kind of evil than Baudin himself was.

They couldn't move forward on finding a place together until Tom got home, if Tom still wanted to find a place. Tom had been pissed about Baudin, but maybe things had changed. Maybe he and Baudin had reconciled. A lot could happen when people were away, facing life-threatening experiences together. Whatever Baudin had done to Nick, and however Tom had felt about it at the time, Baudin was a part of Tom's life that Nick could never touch.

He couldn't compete with that, and he shouldn't even want to.

What was Tom doing right now? The year had already turned over there. He was probably out fighting terrorists, like he usually did. That was his whole job. A holiday was no different from any other day for those guys.

He hoped Tom was keeping safe.

They had no legal ties to one another, except for Sammy. And even Sammy was contested, not by Tom but by his parents. Serena was handling it, but they were still fighting to keep the assignation of Tom's benefits to them instead of to Sammy.

Sleep found him eventually. He didn't wake up feeling all that refreshed, but it was something.

He went to pick Sammy up at the Boones' place, and Tony invited him in for a light brunch. Being around other people, even if they were mostly under ten, could only be good for Nick's psyche so he stayed. They chatted and laughed at the younger kids' antics, while Noah and Sammy continued to bond over a cartoon about an exceptionally gross summer camp.

The next day, Nick called Serena during his break. "Sammy told me something I found kind of disturbing," he told her. "Someone called him on the house line to tell him he 'ruined my life.' Not making this up. Said she was a woman."

"Hm. Do you think it might have been Tom's mother?” Serena's crisp voice cut through Nick's panic like a sword.

"Could be.” Nick took his first deep breath since New Year's Eve. "Yeah. It could be. I guess it could be my mother, but I don't think she'd have any way of finding out I had a boy, never mind where I live or what my land line number is."

"Well, my first recommendation is that you call the phone company, have them change your number, and keep it unlisted. I don't like the idea of anyone calling and harassing your son, especially like that. It's possible that it's that jackass SEAL who beat you up, but that doesn't really fit with his MO."

"No. No, it doesn't, and hassling Sammy is more appropriate for Tom's folks. They're the ones with the axe to grind against Sammy. Baudin doesn't seem to care about Sammy, he just hates me.” Nick closed his eyes. "This stuff is awfully complicated."

"That's why I went to school for so long to learn it.” Serena chuckled. "Look, I'm going to reach out to Tom’s attorney, Darrell, again. I'll see if I can get him involved. It shouldn't be too hard. Do what you can to protect Sammy."

"I always do.” Nick grinned, exhaustion coloring his words.

"I know you do. You're a good dad. Just so you know, we've had another party get involved with our suit against Baudin."

"Oh, my God. What, is the Navy trying to sue me out of existence now?” Nick covered his eyes. Who else would get involved with a suit between Nick and the guy who'd beat the shit out of him?

"Actually, it's Baudin's parents. I'm like ninety percent sure they don't have any legal basis for their involvement. I mean Baudin is an adult, but they're so rich they reek and that brings them a lot of privilege."

"Damn it.” Nick straightened his back. "Okay. I guess we'll deal with whatever comes up, when it comes up."

Serena's voice softened. "That's about all we can do. But Nick? We're going to win this. Don't you worry.”

Nick chuckled and made his goodbyes. Telling him not to worry at this point was about as useful as telling the sun not to rise, but he guessed it was the thought that counted.

He called the phone company during lunch. They changed the number right away. He gave the school his cell number instead of the land line, so there wasn't anyone who would be able to call Sammy at the house. It might not be perfect, but it would go some way toward keeping his son free from creeps.

The Department of Justice, at the request of the House Homeland Security Committee, began an investigation into the FBI's handling of the Douglass University "incident.” That meant more men in suits running around the emergency department, breathing down the staff's necks and asking questions that made no sense to anyone. Nick got pulled into seven different interviews with seven different pairs of men in suits. They all went more or less the same way.

"You worked on patients from the wreckage of the Douglass University incident, didn't you?"

"I did.” Nick kept his tone even and calm, although it wasn't easy.

"Did you see injuries that were consistent with a gas main explosion?"

"I saw injuries that were consistent with an explosion. I would not say they were consistent with a gas main explosion, no."

"What makes you an expert?"

"Gas mains aren't usually filled with ball bearings and rusty nails.” Nick folded his hands in his lap and looked at a point on the wall. It wasn't challenging enough to give the interviewers a reason to complain.

"Wouldn't the rusty nails be consistent with the building age?"

"No. And the ball bearings have no reason to be in the building at all.”

He and Mal sat together after the fifth interview and compared notes. "It's not exactly subtle," Nick complained. "They're deliberately trying to undermine the FBI investigation. Why would they do that?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Mal shook his head. "They want to call the heat off their guys. The Feds must be onto something, yeah?"

Nick rested a hand on his barely-there baby bump and looked out the window. "I wish they'd get on with it."

***

Tom lifted his leg and snapped it forward. The metal door creaked once and crashed down onto the ground. He stood back while Tinker and Iniguez cleared the entrance, and then he and Van Heel pushed into the old bunker.

It took his eyes a second to adjust to the near darkness of the concrete hallway, but he'd been trained for this. He could handle it. He kept his gun up and at the ready. Anything moving in this bunker was an enemy and had to die. The people they were following didn't take prisoners. The SEALs didn't expect to find anyone in the little lair buried into a hillside, but stranger things had happened. He wasn't going to take any chances.

They followed the corridor down into a medium-sized concrete room. There weren't any other doors leading in or out. The geology around here wouldn't allow for any secret exits or anything like that. No, this bunker consisted entirely of this room. People hiding out here would eat, sleep, and work in this one small space.

Tom had made do with worse.

They took three seconds to clear the room, and another minute to sweep for bugs and booby traps. Then Tom radioed back to Chief. "We're clear, Chief.” He could already feel the adrenaline ebbing from his system.

"Any goodies?"

Tom looked around. "We've got a stockpile of semi-automatic weapons and a couple of old cell phones.” He nudged one of the flip-style handsets with his toe. "They look kind of ancient."

"They could still be useful. Bring them home, would you?”

"Yes, Chief.” Tom gestured to the others. Van Heel moved toward the guns, Tinker took the phones, and Iniguez guarded the entrance.

It was a good thing they'd brought someone to guard the entrance. The sharp burst of gunfire echoed off the concrete, and all four SEALs hit the ground. Who the hell fired off a gun in an enclosed space like this? Idiots, that was who. Tom picked up his head and looked down the tunnel.

The scowling man rushing up the corridor at him wore the same clothes as local Sahrawi men, but the bearded face over the long blue tunic was pale. His hair and beard were a scraggly reddish-blond, and brown freckles dotted his features. The man's lip curled, and he fired a handgun at each SEAL.

Iniguez didn't even think about it. He returned fire, launching a powerful bullet through their assailant's shoulder. Momentum alone sent him to the floor, and Tom pounced. He sprang to his feet and crossed the concrete bunker in a second.

Their enemy was still on his back when Tom got to him, but he was trying to get up. Tom wasn't about to let that happen. He punched the man in the face, sending him back onto the ground with a groan. Then he kicked the man's handgun away from him and pulled some zip ties out of a pocket on his uniform.

"Prisoners?” Van Heel wrinkled his nose. "Seriously?"

"He'll have information.” He jerked his chin up the corridor. "Go look and see if Carrot Top here was alone."

Van Heel and Tinker trotted up the corridor. Tom turned his attention to their injured prisoner, whose injury was bleeding badly. "Iniguez, you want to patch him up?"

"Not really.” Iniguez dropped down beside the prisoner anyway, already going for the first aid kit.

The prisoner woke up when Iniguez touched his injury. He tried to sit up, but all it took to make him settle was Iniguez' hand on his throat. "You fuckers think you're something, huh?” The prisoner spoke English, with a Southern accent.

Tom wished he could say he was surprised.

"Let me guess," Tom said with a sigh. "You were just out for a walk one day, minding your own business in the Great Dismal Swamp, when you fell into some quicksand. Next thing you knew, you popped out in Western Sahara. And what's a good old boy like you supposed to do in a situation like that but try to make a living, right?"

The prisoner's skin was clammy and sweaty, but he gritted his teeth and managed to grin. "Got it in one, sea dog."

"Awesome. I'm sure that will go over well with your Moroccan prison guards.” Tom patted the prisoner with a little more force than necessary, right on his bullet wound. The man howled.

"I literally just bandaged that.” Iniguez rolled his eyes. "Could you not?"

"I'm an American!” The prisoner spat at Tom. "I've got rights, damn it. I ain't staying in no Moroccan prison!"

"Sorry, buddy. I don't make the rules. Your crimes were committed right here in Western Sahara, which is under Moroccan jurisdiction. And let me tell you, buddy, I don't think it's going to go well for you.” Tom grabbed his knife and sliced off their prisoner's backpack. "You're not going to mind if we grab this from you, though. I mean you'll probably be happy to have the evidence gone, all things considered. Assuming you get a trial, anyway. That's not a guarantee, you know."

"Fuck you, man.”

"Articulate, aren't you?” Iniguez wiped his bloody hands on the enemy's shirt. "Come on, guy. At least try.”

Tinker and Van Heel came running back down the corridor. "Okay, here we go. There were two other guys, but we took 'em out.” Van Heel looked down at the prisoner. "Ooo, we're taking him home?"

"I figured we'd let our hosts keep him. He seems like he likes it here and all.” Tom winked at the prisoner before he pulled out his radio. "Chief? We've got a new playmate. Requesting transport."

"Roger that."

They had to wait a good hour before Kelly and Toledano showed up with a pair of Jeeps. No one felt compelled to be too gentle to the prisoner who still hadn't bothered to give them his name. Tom guessed he couldn't blame him for it. He was in a lot of trouble; he probably didn't want to compound it.

They brought the prisoner back to shore, where they loaded him and the jeeps up into an amphibious vehicle that could bring them all back to the ship. Once they were on board, the ship's corpsman could take care of the prisoner's injury while Tom, Chief, DeWitt, Kelly, Lupo, and Robson went through his pack.

"I know I'm not the only one who noticed that all of the guns come from Smolak Enterprises.” Lupo looked around at the rest of the SEALs in the little gray compartment.

"So are half of ours.” Tom made a face. He didn't think it was a coincidence either, but he didn't want to put more credence into it than he had to. He didn't want to turn into one of those guys that saw conspiracies behind every corner.

"Aha!” Kelly pulled a laptop out of the backpack. "Look what I found!” He opened the machine up. "Oh look. Porn. I'm shocked, I tell you."

"Well, what else are you going to look at when you're sitting in a bunker, in the middle of the desert, waiting for work?” Robson looked over his shoulder. "Here, click on this file here."

Kelly obeyed. Tom couldn't see what they were looking at, of course, and he didn't care. He trusted them to know what they were looking for.

"Well, there's our evidence. It's plans for the tractor trailers, the ones with the modified exhaust.” Kelly's face turned greenish. "Jesus Christ. This guy must be the one who builds them, or mods them."

"One of them, anyway.” Chief shuddered. "My God. We've got a monster like that on this ship?” He shook his head. “I've seen evil. I've just never seen evil like this with my own two eyes before."

"What are we going to do about it?" Tom turned to DeWitt. "We can't hand this stuff over to Morocco. Sure, they're allies, at least kind of. But we can't just hand them the evidence about this guy's ties to a white supremacist group in the US, or how far it ties in to stuff in the US. We'll never be able to prosecute what happened there."

"True.” DeWitt bowed his head. "But they have to be able to prosecute human trafficking on their soil. And these murders, these mass wholesale killings—they have to be able to say they did something to fight it or they're not going to let us chase our bad guys in their kingdom."

"Send the Chaos Tree evidence to Mal.” Kelly snapped his fingers. "He can get it to Aliprandi and Baldinotti. And they can do what they need to with it. We take that stuff off the hard drive, and let this guy face the music for the murders, whatever that music might be."

"I guess we don't have a lot of choice, do we?” DeWitt rubbed at his face. "I'd love to bring this asshole back to the States and have him spill some tea there, but let's face it. Right now, I'm not sure his buddies in Congress wouldn't somehow get him excused."

"Well, that's disheartening.” Lupo perked up, just a bit. "What are the odds that our allies here just hand this guy over to the embassy?"

"I don't know.” DeWitt ran his tongue over his lips. "Go with Fitzpatrick and ask him some more questions. Chief, why don't you go and join them? I can only hope that our embassy doesn't get involved. After all, he committed crimes on Moroccan soil, he should face Moroccan justice. But we can't be judge, jury, and executioner.” He fixed each of them with a glare. "No matter how tempting it is. I picked you all for a reason."

Tom straightened up. Yeah, the temptation was there. Taking matters into his own hands would make everything a hundred times easier. An action like that would tilt the whole world forty-five degrees, a slippery slope to turning into Baudin or worse. "Yes, Sir.” He saluted.

They headed down to the infirmary. The corpsman saw them enter and looked down at his patient. "Looks like your luck just ran out, buddy.” He patted the prisoner on the wounded shoulder, exactly as Tom had before. "Tough break."

The patient glowered as the corpsman's dark hand pulled back from his pale, bare flesh. Tom grinned. If the prisoner had mouthed off with some racist nonsense, the corpsman might not have been all that gentle.

"What a dick," the corpsman said as he passed them. "Don't do anything I have to fix. I don't want to have to talk to him again."

"Roger that.” Chief winked at him, and they were alone with the prisoner.

Chief straddled a chair by the patient's bedside. "I don't suppose you feel like sharing your name. We can just call you Asshole, but you're going to get tired of hearing that after like a minute."

The prisoner spat at them. He'd been covered from the waist down by a sheet, revealing his tattoos. A massive Chaos Tree logo covered his chest. The number "14" hovered on his belly, just above the sheet. And both of his biceps had been covered by the Stars and Bars.

Tom leaned in and gave the prisoner his best leer. "Hey buddy? Pro tip for you. When you go into Moroccan prison, try to come up with a good story about those tattoos. Because I know for a fact that plenty of inmates are going to recognize the flags, and the dumbass tree there. And they ain't going to be happy."

The prisoner blanched, but summoned bravado from somewhere. "I'm an American. Americans don't go to foreign prisons. I'll get a slap on the wrist and go back to North Carolina, where I'll be treated like a damn hero."

"What, for gassing a bunch of refugees to death? No one's going to treat you like a hero for murder, asshole.” Kelly grabbed a tray of instruments and pulled it over. Tom didn't think he'd even looked at it before he dragged it to the prisoner's bedside, but the man on the bed broke out into a sweat all the same. "And I've got news for you. Your crimes were committed here, you're going to face justice here. No one's coming to help you."

"That's bullshit. We've got friends in high places.” The prisoner licked his lips. He glanced back at the tray of instruments.

Robson didn't miss the way the prisoner's gaze turned. He picked up a scalpel from the tray. "I'll bet you do. Congressman Cook, for example. He's one of yours, isn't he?"

The prisoner's pupils contracted. His breathing picked up. "How would you know anything about him?"

Tom found his own palms had broken out in a sweat, and he wasn't the one secured to a bed. He didn't think Robson would do anything with the scalpel. Then again, he could be wrong. It had happened before. "We know all kinds of things, buddy. It's kind of our job. Now about those 'friends.' Can they save you from the bottom of the Atlantic?"

Robson grinned, white teeth appearing even whiter in his dark face.

"Look. I'm over here trying to make money. I never had nothing to do with a bombing.” He swallowed hard. "I'm willing enough to gas a bunch of —" He cut himself off and glanced back at Robson and Lupo. "I'm happy to take out a bunch of illegal migrants who got no business trying to force themselves into countries that don't want or need 'em. I'm not so comfortable with offing Americans, okay? I didn't even like the whole thing where they bombed the—” he caught himself again, and the beads of sweat at his temple turned into a river. "When they bombed that nice college by the river, and it's obviously no secret that I don't like those people.” He glanced at Robson again. "No offense?"

"We don't like you either.” Robson promised.

Chief locked his fingers together and pursed his lips. "So here's the thing. You were all pretty comfortable sitting around in your own territory, trying to bring back the glory days and out-Klan the Ku Klux Klan, whenever you could be bothered to put down your beers or whatever. And then you, all of a sudden, start bombing stuff and show up in Africa—a continent full of people you freaking hate, man. I'm just not getting that escalation. And I'm not quite sure I understand how you're getting the money."

"See, staying at home was our problem before.” The prisoner squirmed. Tom would have guessed he was trying to lighten the load on his cuffs. "We weren't getting anywhere, you understand? We were just sitting around in one place, stalled out, and not accomplishing anything. So when Patrick Wolf came along and pointed out how much more we could be doing, if we were part of something bigger, we were already primed to say yeah."

"Patrick Wolf, from White Dawn.” Kelly snorted.

"He's a good man. A great man.” The prisoner's gray eyes burned. "He knows what's at stake for the race."

Tom wanted a bath. "Let me guess, a future for white children?"

The prisoner smiled, pleased. "You've heard the Fourteen Words, then."

"Once or twice.” Tom pressed his lips together. "And the guns. All being from the same place, I mean. Isn't that a little weird?"

"I don't know. They're free.” The prisoner sniffed. "Me, I prefer Smith and Wesson, but if someone hands you an arsenal, you're not going to say no. I guess Wolf likes 'em."

The SEALs exchanged glances. "Interesting, isn't it?” Chief stood up. "Well, everyone's got their preferences. I'll ask the corpsman to get you some pain meds.”

Tom could barely contain his nausea until he got out of sick bay.