Page 3 of Captivating Nash

Nash clenched his jaw, shoving the papers back into the envelope before tossing it into his duffel. The past would always be there, written in the scars on his body and the memories in his mind, but there was no going back now.

Time to move forward, he told himself, even though the words felt hollow.

With one last look at the tarmac, Nash threw his duffel into the back of the waiting plane that would take him away from all of this. He climbed in, took a seat and then looked out the window as it rumbled down the runway, he couldn’t help but wonder what life would look like now, away from the SEALs, away from everything he’d ever known.

He leaned back, resting his head against the seat, and let out a slow breath. The future was wide open—dangerous, uncertain, and, in some ways, more terrifying than any mission he’d ever been on.

But this time, he wasn’t going in with a plan or a team.

This time, it was just him.

American Bar, Savoy Hotel

London, England

Three Months Later

Nash walked into the posh environment of the American Bar at the Savoy, stepping into the dimly lit warmth of the place, where the scent of dark ale and aged wood greeted him like an old friend. It was a stark contrast to the cool London night outside, the kind of chill that seeped into your bones. He shrugged off his leather jacket, feeling the instant relief of warmth wash over him as his boots echoed against the worn floor.

The pub was nearly full, locals scattered around small, circular tables, lost in conversation. The crackle of the fireplace added a sense of coziness, but Nash wasn’t here for comfort. He wasn’t even here for the whiskey he was about to order, though he needed that too after the past few days. No, he was here to meet a man.

Robert Fitzwallace.

The name carried weight, especially in circles Nash normally avoided. Cerberus—a private military outfit with fingers in every pie you could imagine. The kind of work that wasn’t always clean, wasn’t straightforward, and sure as hell wasn’t for the faint of heart. Nash had been approached before, but after the SEALs, after his discharge, he’d been trying to put that life behind him.

Nash’s eyes scanned the room, and it didn’t take long to spot him. Fitzwallace sat alone at a corner table, an aura of power and command radiating from him. He was sharply dressed in a tailored suit that probably cost more than Nash’s entire wardrobe, but the way he carried himself wasn’t polished. It was controlled. His graying hair was combed neatly, but there was a roughness to his jawline and a hardness in his eyes that reminded Nash this wasn’t just some corporate bigwig. This man had seen things. Done things.

Nash made his way to the table, his steps slow, deliberate. Fitzwallace looked up as he approached, his eyes locking onto Nash’s with an intensity that was almost palpable.

“Maddox,” Fitzwallace said, his voice smooth but laced with authority. He gestured to the chair across from him. “Have a seat.”

Nash hesitated for a beat, then sat down, the leather creaking under his weight. He leaned back slightly, taking in the man before him. Fitzwallace’s eyes flickered to Nash’s face, taking stock, reading him as if he were sizing up an opponent.

“A drink?” Fitzwallace offered.

Nash gave a tight nod. “Whiskey. Neat.”

Fitzwallace raised a hand, catching the bartender’s eye. The man behind the bar poured the amber liquid into a glass and sent it over with a silent nod. Nash took the glass, the cold condensation slick against his calloused fingers. He didn’t take a sip immediately—he wasn’t here to relax.

“Fitzwallace,” Nash began. “I told you last time I wasn’t interested.”

“Aye, lad, that you did. But this is different,”

Nash nodded, “What do you and Cerberus want from me?” he asked, cutting straight to the point.

Fitzwallace leaned back in his chair, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Direct. I’ve always liked that about you.” He reached for his own glass, swirling the liquid inside. “As I’m sure you know, Cerberus operates where the world’s governments can’t. We handle situations others are too afraid to touch or too bound by politics to resolve.”

Nash’s jaw clenched slightly. “Sounds like mercenary work.”

Fitzwallace’s eyes darkened just a shade. “You aren’t necessarily wrong, but it’s more than that. What we do is necessary. You of all people should understand that, Maddox. You’ve been in the thick of it. The places no one else dares go, where the lines between right and wrong begin to blur.”

Nash took a long breath, acknowledging the tension that weighed heavily between them. “You didn’t bring me here to give me a sales pitch.”

“No, I didn’t,” Fitzwallace agreed. He leaned forward, his voice lowering. “I brought you here because you’re the best at what you do. And right now, I need the best.”

Nash finally took a sip of the whiskey, the burn sliding down his throat in a way that felt almost comforting. He set the glass down with a soft thud, meeting Fitzwallace’s gaze head-on. “What’s the job?”

Fitzwallace smiled—though there was no warmth in it, only satisfaction. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a thin black envelope, sliding it across the table to Nash. “This is bigger than anything you’ve handled before. It’s dangerous, high-stakes, and very off the books. But if you pull it off, you won’t just be a man looking for his next move. You’ll be a legend.”

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