Hard Landing (14 page)

The thug on her left untied the gag, and she licked her injured lips before relaying Max's number. The light of Tony's phone illuminated his smirk as he appeared to send Max the photo he'd just taken. She imagined what she looked like in it, bound and gagged and clearly terrified in the presence of two masked men.

At the risk of being gagged again, she asked the question burning inside her. "What do you want from Max?"

The two men in ski masks burst into guffaws, clearly amused by her ignorance.

Tony looked up from his cell phone. "Shut up," he barked at them, and they fell instantly silent. "What do you think I want?" he asked, regarding her intently.

"I have no idea," she answered honestly.

"You don't know what Max has done for us?"

She shook her head. "No." If only she did, she'd have no concerns about deserting him.

"Good," he said on a note of approval. "Max knows how to keep a secret, then. Let's see what he has to say about you keeping us company."

"You might not get through to him," she warned. "He's on a mission." Max's phone worked almost anywhere in the world, but sometimes he was too busy to notice his calls.

"For your sake, let's hope we do," he retorted. His words chilled her to the marrow while hollowing her heart with regret.

Why did this have to happen now, when she'd finally taken measures to live apart from Max? At this rate, she might never get to know Bronco the way she wanted to.

* * *

"Yee haw!" Brant sought to alleviate the tension in the rear bay of the Sikorsky UH-60 Black Hawk by pretending to ride a particularly ornery bronc. The blacked-out helicopter—the same aircraft used in the Osama bin Laden raid—bucked and shuddered as it clattered over the Caribbean ocean on its way to Havana, Cuba.

The operations officer must have underestimated the winds whipping over the water in advance of the approaching hurricane. It was all the Black Hawk could do to punch through the gale and to carry them toward their destination. Brant could see it in the faces of his teammates made barely visible by the muted striplighting—
doubt.
They weren't exactly certain they would make it.

Sam, more than anyone, sat still and stiff on the little seat that folded down, his mouth compressed in a resolute line. Haiku looked as if he were mouthing a prayer or one of his abstract sayings. Bullfrog had escaped into a deep meditative state. Only Halliday, a racecar driver in his former life, seemed totally at ease.

Brant felt compelled to reassure his platoon leader. "We're good, sir!" He had to shout to be heard over the rotors and the howling wind.

The welded pins that kept the Black Hawk in one piece strained and groaned as the hull flexed in the crosscurrents. They skidded through the sky—left, right, up, down.

"I think we're through the worst of it," he added. Stretching out a hand, he touched Sam's knee. It was easy to understand that he must be thinking of his wife and new baby, perhaps wondering if he'd ever see them again. "Remember the ride through Khyber Pass three years ago? This is a walk in the park compared to that."

On that particular mission, their helicopter had clipped a limestone overhang, causing it to spiral into a tailspin and crash-land in Taliban-controlled territory. Not a fun three days. Maybe he shouldn't have brought that up. "The point is we all survived. We'll get through this."

"Ten clicks to the LZ," the pilot reported, reinforcing Brant's assertion.

"See? We got this." No sooner had the words left his mouth than the Black Hawk pitched face down on an updraft. Brant's stomach vaulted into his mouth. The back end dropped just as suddenly, and he gritted his teeth to keep from losing his dinner. For the first time, doubt bloomed inside of him. Christ, they would be lucky if they made it ten more kilometers.

Under normal circumstances, he'd be sitting in the open doorway, manning the mounted M60 machine gun, fending off surface-to-air missiles. That was standard operating procedure in Afghanistan. But no one knew about their little vacation in the Caribbean, so defense wasn't necessary at this juncture. Besides, if the cargo door stood open, their helo would be blown around like a hot air balloon.

Turning to peer out the window, he sought any sign of land. Clouds surrounded them, and when he leaned close and looked straight down, all he could make out was the ocean, roiling fitfully below.

"Power on the mainland is down," the pilot reported.

That was good for the SEALs. The inhabitants of Havana had battened down the hatches and were braced to weather the storm. Ideally, they'd never notice the muted clatter of the stealth helicopter as it swept over them.

Bam!
The Black Hawk lurched sideways, nearly tipping over as a cross gale smashed into it.

Brant tightened his grip on the harness that kept him in his seat. "Hooyah," he managed, fighting to stay positive. He could sense the pilots scrambling to bring their aircraft under control. It plunged earthward, at the mercy of a hundred-mile-an-hour gust.

"Circling back to pass again."

They'd missed their opportunity to land. Brant surprised himself by sending up a quick prayer.
Please let me see Rebecca again
.

He glanced at Bullfrog, hoping his friend's visualization techniques were as effective as he claimed. Bullfrog once insisted that he could shape the outcome of events with only his thoughts.

Brant directed his gaze through the window again. This time he caught a glimpse of palm trees swaying in the dark, each one bowed under the onslaught of the wind. And Hurricane Ishmael hadn't even arrived in earnest yet.

Rooftops of the impoverished capital came into view next, and then they were skimming over a body of water that he guessed to be the Bay of Havana. The landing zone lay just beyond the head of the southernmost inlet.

Almost there. We're going to make it.

They dropped fifty feet, another twenty. Then the aircraft ceased its forward momentum. For a moment, it teetered uncertainly over what looked to be marshy terrain dotted by scrubby trees. With an ungainly clatter, they struck earth, first one wheel, then the other, nearly pitching over sideways. Then all movement ceased.

The rotors sang a descending scale that mirrored the exhalations of the operators and the crew. Brant didn't envy the pilots their return trip home. He would much rather swim out to a sub in deep, undisturbed waters than make a ride like that again.

"Let's go," Sam ordered in a tight voice.

It was Brant's job to pull open the bay door. Sultry, wet air billowed in.

Peering through his NVGs, he swept an assessing gaze around them. Not a soul in sight visible through his night vision goggles. Operation Rough Rider was still a go, and this was just the beginning of a near-impossible mission.

Chapter 8

Max felt the cellphone in his breast pocket vibrate, but he ignored it. He, Kuzinsky, and the remaining eight members of Echo Platoon hovered around the radio in the TOC, eager for news of a successful insertion. The last report to reach them had come from the pilots several minutes ago, relaying that the LZ was ten kilometers away. But they hadn't heard anything since.

"Trust Buster to Rough Riders, do you copy?" Third-class Austin Collins, who manned the radio, repeated the hail for the fifth time. Everyone knew the Black Hawk ought to have landed by now. They ought to have heard something.

Max took note of the tiny beads of sweat glistening on Kuzinsky's upper lip as he leaned over Collin's shoulder. The possibility that the helo hadn't made it to Cuba didn't disturb Max the way it did the master chief. He would have one less problem in his life if Brant Adams perished that very night.

Their only answer was a steady hiss, rather like the roar of the wind and rain coming through the broken windows behind him. Hurricane Ishmael was skirting the southern coast of Puerto Rico on its way north to Cuba, but it was causing flooding and destruction, even in Vieques.

"Keep trying," Max instructed, and Kuzinsky nudged Collins to key the radio again.

Max's cell phone vibrated a second time.

With every eye in the room glued to the handset, he lifted his android out of his breast pocket and stole a quick glance at the screen. The only people who knew his private number were Rebecca, Kuzinsky, and a couple of paramours whom he trusted to be discreet.

We have your wife
. The message, accompanied by a picture, hit him like a kick in the gut. At his stifled gasp, Kuzinsky glanced up.

Max swiveled away from the group to scan the rest of the message, his horror rising.
If you want her to stay alive, you'll take the job
.

The message came from a number he didn't recognize, but the New York area code leapt out at him. Tony was holding Rebecca hostage.

Ah, so they hadn't liked his refusal to kill the FBI agent. Now the fucking Scarpas were twisting his arm, threatening to harm his wife. The sons of bitches! Look at her!

Rage built within him like the winds whistling outside. She was sitting in the back of a car, wedged between two thugs, eyes glazed with panic and a gag over her mouth.

He swallowed the sour taste in his mouth. They had him over a barrel.

If he let them kill Rebecca, there would be a massive investigation. Law enforcement would probe into Max's business, possibly finding clues that linked him to the infamous Scarpas. Even if they didn't, people would gossip about him and speculate whether he had killed her. Besides, he was the only man with any right to determine her fate.

Damn it
. He had to tell them what they wanted to hear. But he couldn't let them think he was easily intimidated or they'd continue to exploit him. He needed to be the one who called the shots. With thumbs that shook with rage, he typed a return message.

Double my deposit and let her go. Then you have my word.

Hitting send, he suffered the sense that he had crossed an invisible line and could never go back again. Stuffing his phone into his pocket, he turned toward the radio just as it crackled to life. The roar of a brutal wind muffled the voice of First Class Special Petty Officer Chuck Suzuki.

"Rough Riders to Trust Buster," Haiku shouted. The half- Japanese SEAL, who handled Echo Platoon's communications, displayed unflappable self-control at all times. "We're in position and waiting for go time."

Every man in the room aside from Max uttered an exclamation of relief.

"Copy that," Kuzinsky replied, his face cracking into a rare smile. "Doppler says you have about twelve hours until the storm reaches its peak."

"Roger. Any updates?"

Kuzinsky flicked an inquiring glance at Max, who shook his head. "Not on this end, Rough Riders. Stay the course, and we'll see you all in thirty-six hours or less."

Haiku said several words that the wind snatched away. "Over and out," he added, and then the line went quiet.

Max ordered Collins and his teammate to remain by the radio. "Get some sleep," he suggested to Kuzinsky. Sensing that man's dark gaze on him, he turned and exited the room.

Tomorrow night, with the storm unleashing havoc on the island, the Rough Riders would proceed with their mission. Meanwhile, back in Virginia Beach, Rebecca would require his reassurance, assuming that Tony had agreed to his demands. There'd been no answering text from him yet.

Resentment flared in Max when he realized she must have given Tony his number. What did he expect—that she would sacrifice herself to keep his number secret? Only a SEAL would be that noble.

Traversing a narrow hallway under lights that flickered, Max located the door to his self-appointed quarters. He shut himself inside, flipping on the bare lightbulb before drawing the curtains. Then he threw himself down on his neatly made cot and waited. Every muscle in his brawny body remained rigid until, at last, his phone vibrated.

Deal,
Tony replied.
Screw with us again and your wife won't be so lucky next time.

A surge of power curled Max's upper lip. Did Tony think his threat actually scared him? Hardly. He'd given in with laughable ease, which told Max he'd had no intention of harming Rebecca in the first place—that would cost him his new ace assassin. Max had more flexing power than he'd realized. He went suddenly lightheaded.