Hard Landing (12 page)

Oh, hell, no
. He shook his head vehemently. He drew the line at killing a fellow peace keeper—an FBI agent, of all people!

Feeling short of breath, Max tugged loose the collar of his BDU jacket. Taking out a government employee wasn't the same as killing a couple of lowlife criminals. Hell, the special agent was probably a man like himself, with true grit and a flawless service record. Besides, even if Max killed him, another agent would take his place. Special agents were like SEALs in that regard. They avenged the deaths of their colleagues, and they didn't know the meaning of the word
quit.

"Fuck that," Max declared, tossing the article onto the seat next to him and starting up the engine.

Tonight on Google chat, he would let the Scarpas know that he'd be returning their down payment. He wasn't their puppet, and he wasn't scared of them. They could go to fucking hell for all he cared.

* * *

With moist palms and a heavy heart, Rebecca nosed her car into her garage. Bronco had retrieved Max's laptop from her car sometime that day, but it would likely be a while before Hack even got a look at it. The longer the Dell was out of the shop, the higher the odds that Max would find out she'd taken it. And then what? She'd have to answer for herself, which wasn't exactly fair, since Max was the one cheating the system, not her.

You won't have to answer for it if you're not here
, she reminded herself.

Reluctant to face her husband, she slowly got out of her car. As his Tahoe indicated, he was already home. She entered the house through the laundry room, hung her purse on the hook next to Max's keys, and listened. The house stood ominously silent.

She waded cautiously deeper, her footsteps audible as she crossed the tiled kitchen and forded the great room. Not a sound suggested Max was here, though she knew he was. A quick glance through the windows showed the back yard deserted, lights shining in the shell-shaped pool.

Her nerves pulled taut as she headed down the back hallway toward the light shining through the partly open door of their bedroom. Pushing it farther open, she drew up short to see Max standing between her and the
en suite
. His commanding breadth and intimidating scowl chased the air back into her lungs.

"Hi," she said.

He folded his arms across his chest. "Where've you been?"

The hostile question dumped adrenaline into her bloodstream. "I had to work late because I felt sick this morning and went to work at nine."

He sent her an ugly little smile. "You sure you weren't meeting Chief Adams at the park?"

The reason for his hostility became instantly apparent. Susan must have approached him with her news. Anger leached into Rebecca's bones, lending her courage. "Positive," she replied, toeing off her shoes as she always did at the end of the day. "And you can call the hospital to check my hours," she added, hoping to God he didn't take her up on that.

Max stalked her slowly. She had to lock her knees to keep from backing away from him. "And yet you met him there on Monday and Tuesday, didn't you? You weren't at yoga. You were cavorting with him at the park."

In actuality, she'd gone to the post office on Monday, but he didn't need to know that. Biting her tongue to abstain from correcting him, she bent to collect her shoes. Before she had the chance, he seized her jaw between his thumb and fingers and wrenched her gaze up to meet his fulminating glare.

"Answer me!" he raged.

"I ran into Chief Adams at the park on Tuesday," she admitted through her teeth. "We talked for a little while, that's all."

"Is it, now? I'm surprised you would even say a word to him. I'm pretty sure I made it clear you were never to talk to him again." He kept hold of her, lowering his face until it was scant inches from hers. Onion-laced breath assaulted her nostrils. "You're
my
wife," he continued. "I will not have you ruining my good name by consorting with that playboy."

Fury and fear competed for control of her tongue. "I doubt you need any help ruining your good name."

Rage exploded in his eyes. He released her jaw only to raise his hand as though to strike her. She flinched, but the blow never came. Instead, he grabbed her arm and hurled her toward the bed. She sprawled across the mattress, tried to scramble to the other side, but collapsed onto her stomach as a heavy hand descended on the small of her back and kept her pinned.

"Do I need to remind you who your husband is?" Max grated, crawling over her.

Grabbing the elastic waist of her scrubs, he hauled them down, using both hands to pull them nearly to her knees, panties and all.

Horrified, Rebecca thrashed to free herself. "Stop it!"

But he sat on her hamstrings, pinning her legs as he fumbled to release the fly at the front of his BDUs.

"Don't do this, Max. What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing is wrong with me, damn you!" he growled. "I'm asserting my marital rights to prove a point." He shifted, wedging a knee between her thighs.

"You have no right to force me!" Rebecca railed. She managed to twist onto one elbow, but her legs were still caught beneath his haunches. "Get off me," she commanded, shoving ineffectually at his shoulder as he leaned over her, pumping his flaccid member and breathing hard. She was never more grateful for his performance issues.

This taunting went on for another half a minute as he worked on himself and kept his other hand on her naked bottom. At last, he seemed to give up.

"Fine," he relented, lifting his weight off her and letting her wriggle away. He pointed a thick finger in her direction. "But you'd better remember where your loyalty lies or, by God, you'll regret ever betraying me."

The cruelty in his slate gray eyes stunned her. Over the past year she had become increasingly aware of this ugly side of him. Lately, it was becoming the only side that she could see.

He threw himself off the bed as if the very sight of her disgusted him. With a final, scathing glare, he stalked out of their bedroom, buttoning up his pants as he went. Slamming the door shut behind him, he knocked the tiny wooden cross hanging over the lintel off its nail. It fell to the floor, landing silently on the plush carpet.

Rebecca stared at the fallen cross. It had been a wedding gift from Joe and Penny Montgomery, SEAL Team 12's commander and his sweet-natured wife. Its plunge to the floor struck her as symbolic. Her marriage was over.

She sat up slowly, blinking back the tears that pressured her eyes. To hell with finding grounds for divorcing Max. Bronco was right. He was dangerous. He couldn't make her life any more of a living hell after she left him than he was making it now.

If she was ever going to respect herself, she needed to leave. Luckily, his upcoming assignment offered the perfect opportunity for her to get away.

Chapter 7

Brant ducked out of the hatch of the C-17 Globemaster military transport plane and jumped onto the tarmac in Vieques, Puerto Rico. Hot, humid air buffeted his woodland-camo BDUs as he trudged with the rest of Echo Platoon to the back of the plane to collect his gear. His boots felt heavy. He had trouble finding his smile. Only half of the task unit was needed for this mission, and Charlie Platoon had been left behind. He wished it had been the other way around.

Get your head in the game, man,
he scolded himself. It was his job to motivate the others, and normally a mission like this had his blood thrumming and his testosterone revved up. But not this time.
What the hell's wrong with you?

He drew a deep breath and attempted to center himself the way Bullfrog had taught him in his Jujitsu class. Sultry air, redolent with scent of the Caribbean and of wild-growing hibiscus, reminded him that he loved Puerto Rico. The sun, the turquoise waters, the stunning sunsets—who could ask for more?

But as he glanced at his phone, it was his proximity to the U.S. and his uninterrupted cellular service that he cared about most. And—check it out—Becca had finally texted him!

His first smile of the day tugged at the edges of his mouth as he read her message.

Hey, this is my new cell phone number. I'm looking for an apartment this weekend—R.

"Awesome." Pride rolled through him at the realization that she was actually doing it—she was leaving Mad Max! Regret caught up to him, however, keeping him from doing a happy dance. This wasn't all good news.

Sure, she'd be safer now, especially if his hunch was right and Max had gotten involved with an organized crime family. And true, they could now spend time together without Max breathing down their necks. But, as he'd already reasoned, spending time with Rebecca would only deepen their feelings of affection for each other. It violated his relationship guidelines, which meant he was going to have to end their relationship eventually.

But not any time soon, he decided. She needed his encouragement right now. And what were friends for but to be there for each other, in spirit, if not physically?

Cool,
he texted back. Almost immediately, he sensed that he was being watched. Glancing up, he encountered Max's narrow-eyed stare, and an icy sensation climbed his spine. He swallowed against a dry mouth and put his phone away. Imagine how Max would react if he knew his wife was texting his chief. Turning to collect his pack, Brant slung it over his shoulder and transitioned to the transport vehicles.

Forty minutes later, he sat with his platoon members in the abandoned administration building, which was now their temporary operations command, or TOC. Several of the windows had been broken since the regular military had ceased using Vieques as a training facility. Only Special Operations still used it, and they considered real windows an unnecessary luxury. A hot breeze wafted through the shattered panes. Fat, droning flies kept the men awake as Max briefed them on the mission.

"Tonight and again tomorrow we run through the procedures we've been drilling. The mission begins in the evening in advance of the storm's arrival. It'll still be a ways off the coast, but it's going to be a rough ride to Cuba," he warned.

Hence the code name that the departing squad had invented for themselves—Rough Riders, a nod to local history and the group of men Teddy Roosevelt had commanded over a century earlier to seize San Juan. Brant, in his determination to follow his father's example in the rodeo circuit, had ridden rough throughout his youth. The thought of weathering a helicopter ride in a hurricane punched up his adrenaline only slightly.

What gave him a real jolt was Max's cold gaze, which seemed to go straight through him. He suffered the sudden certainty that the woman at the park had put a bug in Max's ear. That would account for the deadly glitter in the CO's eyes. Or maybe he'd learned that his laptop had been removed from the repair shop.

Not that it mattered either way. For the time being, they were still teammates with a common objective: Destroy the Cold-War era listening stations that the Russians had resurrected in Havana a year earlier, installing over three thousand soldiers and complex gadgetry to spy on the neighboring U.S.A. The hurricane bearing down on Cuba afforded the SEALs the perfect opportunity to disable the station while making it look like the storm had wrecked it.

Their mission took precedence over personal concerns. They were professionals. If Brant couldn't trust his own commander in a combat situation, who the hell could he trust?

Master Chief Kuzinsky's tenor voice wrested his attention as he took over the briefing. In spite of his slight build, the auburn-haired warrior struck fear into the hearts of junior SEALs because of his fearsome reputation. His dark brown, almost black, eyes reflected the horrors of the worst battles in SEAL history, which he alone had survived. He rarely smiled, more rarely cracked a joke, but when he addressed a group of SEALs, they hung on every word coming out of his mouth. Only the highest ranking SEALs ever called him by his first name, Rusty.

He brought up an aerial photo of a hurricane, three-hundred-miles wide and swirling toward the West Indies, then swiped the screen bringing Cuba into their line of sight. "Here's where you'll touch down, six miles from the target."

Toggling closer, he magnified their view of an uninhabited bit of swampy land on the edge of Havana Harbor. "You'll hunker here and wait for the storm to hit in earnest. Once the power's knocked out and the roads are flooded, you'll make your way along the shore and through this neighborhood called
Barrio de la Regla
to the listening station. You'll destroy the antenna boxes on the roof and disable the components exactly as we've drilled. When the job's done, you'll swim out through the harbor—" He toggled toward the north, "—passing over the Havana Tunnel. The sub will be waiting to pick you up three miles out. Halliday has the coordinates. Any questions? Sam?"