Hard Landing (15 page)

What if the sky was the limit and he could command whatever payment he desired? That home in Bermuda that he dreamed of didn't seem so out-of-reach anymore.

After he killed Special Agent Castle, making it look like an accident, the Scarpas would consider him indispensable. He would rise straight to the top of the pecking order, exactly as he had with his military career.

I am lord of my destiny
, he marveled.

* * *

Rebecca sat unmoving in her driver's seat. Making use of her mirrors, she followed the taillights of the BMW with her eyes until they turned and disappeared from view. The flex cuffs had been cut from her wrists and ankles. They'd never put the gag back on. And now they'd let her go.

But Tony's parting words still echoed in her head, keeping her breaths shallow.

Next time you won't be so lucky.
The lewd glint in his dark gaze as it trekked down her body had struck terror into her heart.

There won't be a next time,
she vowed to herself. Groping for her purse, which still sat on the seat next to her, she located her new cell phone. Her first impulse was to call the police, to relay everything that had happened, including Max's involvement. But Tony's threat kept her from punching in 9-1-1.

Her thoughts went to Bronco. He would know what to do, except that he was on an op with Max, and his safety depended on him focusing and having no outside distraction, not to mention on his ability to trust his leader. She didn't dare upset their working relationship—not during a critical mission.

Who else? Maddy had a baby to care for and didn't want to hear about Rebecca's marital problems. Rebecca's mother would be sympathetic, of course, but
she
would insist Rebecca fly out to Hawaii, and her lawyer had advised her over the phone not to leave the state or it would
really
look like she'd deserted Max.

The only thing she could do right now was to drive straight to her new apartment and pray that Tony and his goons didn't follow her. He hadn't made mention of her moving. Perhaps he hadn't realized she'd been packing up with the intention of leaving.

Once at her new apartment, she would immediately make a sketch of Tony from her memory of the thug's face. The gift of drawing that had helped her pay her way through nursing school would come in handy when she worked up the courage to approach the Naval Criminal Investigative Service about Max's suspicious activities.

One thing she would not do was to call her husband and reassure him of her safety. It was his fault she'd been assaulted by those goons in the first place, even if his cooperation had resulted in her freedom. Not only that, but she didn't want Max knowing her new cell phone number. She'd surrendered her old phone when she'd gotten the new one.

If Max assumed, when he couldn't reach her, that the Scarpas had taken her, then that was his problem. He deserved to be shaken up after what he'd just put her through.

* * *

Searing pain exploded in Brant's cheek as a component flying out from the compromised antenna box smashed into his face as it went sailing off the building.
Damn it!
He peeled off his glove to assess the damage and came away with blood-soaked fingers. The cut was deep, and the blow had left his head ringing.

Sam skidded across the roof toward him, propelled by the steady hundred-mile-an-hour wind. He grabbed Brant to catch himself and peered with concern at his injury.

"You all right?" he shouted.

"It's only a cut," Brant bellowed back. Digging into his pack, he produced a square of gauze and tape, slapping the bandage over the laceration and holding it there with two large, sticky strips. But he could feel the blood welling up and soaking through the pad instantly.

Even a small cut at this juncture could have serious consequences. They'd slogged their way to the listening station, climbed to the top, and decimated the antenna boxes. Thus far, the mission was a rousing success. Sam's frown of concern told him he was thinking of the upcoming three-mile swim out to the submarine.

Sam gestured to the others. It was time to go, before someone came to look for the two guards Brant had shot in the head fifteen minutes earlier.

Still dazed by the blow and feeling more and more lightheaded, Brant began the perilous descent back down the pipes. An unexpected regret accompanied him as he slid down the rough cylinder and landed with a splash in four feet of water. He couldn't believe he'd never even kissed Rebecca. What if he didn't make it back? What if he never got the chance?

Don't think that way
. Bullfrog had convinced him that negative thoughts resulted in negative outcomes. Their luck had held out thus far. He was going to make it back. And when he did, he would kiss Rebecca soundly, regardless of the consequences.

* * *

Agitation needled Max's skin, compelling him to pace the temporary operations command.

Blue skies filled the broken panes of the windows where a fresh ocean breeze and the calls of tropical birds conveyed the fact that the storm was long over. A hot sun beamed down from where the clouds had seethed and roiled just thirty-six hours earlier. The puddles of water Max had been stepping over in his circuit of the chamber were steadily shrinking.

Puerto Rico had weathered the storm with minimal destruction and casualties. But Cuba hadn't fared so well, and the fate of the Rough Riders remained a complete unknown.

Of the three other men in the room—Kuzinsky and two junior petty officers—only the master chief even dared to look at Max as he continued his orbit around the silent radio. No doubt he attributed his leader's seething tension to the fact that the submarine, waiting at the appointed coordinates, reported no contact with the Rough Riders as of yet. Whether they were living or dead, whether they'd succeeded or failed in their mission, no one knew.

Given Kuzinsky's grim expression, the Rough Riders were history. But optimism still shone in the faces of the younger SEALs who sat before the radio. As for Max, he wasn't even thinking about his men.

It was, in fact, the voiced recording that Rebecca's phone number was no longer in service that had him pacing like a caged lion.

He hadn't heard a word from her since Tony Scarpa had sought to blackmail him. Tony's last text had implied that they'd let Rebecca go, but if that was the case, then why wasn't her phone in service? Max had considered calling Tony directly, now that he had his number, but direct communication with a mob member wasn't smart. Plus, asking Tony about his own wife would weaken Max's image.

The uncertainty elevated his blood pressure. Growing hot in the warm room, he wrenched off his BDU jacket and cast it aside. The sub couldn't wait indefinitely for the Rough Riders to appear. If it didn't report contact in the next two hours, he was going to instigate a search and rescue mission.

The Joint Special Operations Task Force awaited an update. There'd been no word on the squad's status since they were dropped off in Havana forty-eight hours earlier. In retrospect, it seemed ludicrous to have dumped eight SEALs into the midst of such a storm and expect them to accomplish an already difficult task. But ludicrous was what they
did
and what they always succeeded at doing.

Max flicked a glance at his watch. "Collins, check the satellite images," he barked. The sooner he could proceed with a search and rescue, the sooner he could attend to his pressing business at home.

"Yes, sir." Collins swung away from the radio to download the latest satellite view of Havana Harbor.

Max and Kuzinsky stepped toward the monitor for a closer look.

"Holy hell," the master chief breathed. Only a few houses in
Barrio de la Regla
still had roofs. Those without a covering looked like rectangular swimming pools all filled with water and debris.

"The station is still standing," Max noted. "I want a close-up of the rooftop." He fully expected to see the antenna boxes lining the roof as before. When he didn't immediately see them, he frowned and leaned in closer.

"By God, they did it." Kuzinsky pointed to what was left—a few hunks of twisted metal. "They're completely destroyed."

"Could've been the storm," Max insisted. Conflicting emotions vied for preeminence. On one hand, if his men had accomplished their mission, then he could take the credit. On the other, if they'd managed to do that much, then they might just make it back to the sub alive—and he preferred Chief Adams out of the picture forever.

At that precise moment, the radio crackled. "Trust Buster, this is Low Rider. We have picked up eight hitchhikers. Repeat, eight Rough Riders have been recovered."

Max gave a start as Collins and his comrade vaulted out of their chairs with triumphant shouts. They threw their arms around each other, whooping and hollering.

Kuzinsky turned and eyed Max expectantly. Summoning his widest smile, he stuck out a hand for the master chief to pump with congratulatory zeal.

Damn it, Adams was harder to kill than Max had hoped.

Chapter 9

Brant craned his neck to peer out of the Globemaster's inset window in the hopes of glimpsing the U.S. coastline. He'd been gone a whopping five days, yet it felt more like five weeks. The C-17 cruised over wispy clouds that obscured his view and frustrated his desire to see land. Giving up, he faced forward again and flinched to find Bullfrog leaning close, inspecting the stitches on his face.

"I could have done a better job," his friend said, criticizing his own handiwork.

Brant fingered the cut. The sutures closed a gash about two inches long, running from just under his left eye and along his cheekbone at a diagonal angle. "You did great, considering how much I flinched."

"You're entitled to flinch when you don't get anesthetic," his friend said with a sympathetic smile. "Must suck to be allergic to Lidocaine."

"It sucked when I was riding broncs and needed to get stitched up every other week," Brant agreed. "But don't worry. It'll help me pick up chicks."

"Ever the optimist," Bullfrog drawled.

Brant had only mentioned picking up chicks because it was expected of him. Getting laid might be a high priority after over two weeks of celibacy, but the truth was he wasn't thinking of chicks, in general. Only one particular female had occupied his thoughts with alarming frequency lately. Considering the message he'd found waiting on his cell phone, Rebecca had been thinking of him, too.

Please come over at your earliest convenience
.
I have something important to tell you.

Her new address had jumped out at him, making his head spin. She'd actually gone through with his suggestion and left Max! Now there was nothing to prevent him from spending time with her, even kissing her the way he'd regretted not kissing her while on top of the listening station. He could feel a kiss tingling on his lips, awaiting delivery.

Yet, while it thrilled him to imagine putting his lips to hers, kissing her the way he wanted was a bad idea. It would transform the nature of their relationship, changing it from friendship to something he had studiously avoided the whole of his adult life, especially with women he cared for.

You are so much like your father.

His mother had said that to him since he was a boy, usually with a poignant smile and heartbreak still evident in her eyes. Brant had been told who his father was. He'd watched him on television, developing a case of hero worship for the charismatic bull rider. As a teenager, he'd approached and even befriended the man, finding him warm-hearted and fun to be with. But he'd never forgiven Quinn Farley for breaking his mother's heart. And he absolutely refused to repeat his father's transgression, especially with a woman as special as Rebecca.

Yet she clearly had something important to tell him—something, he was certain, that had to do with Max. He'd already involved himself in her effort to expose Max's questionable activities. He'd shared his suspicions with Bullfrog and enlisted Hack's help with the laptop. He couldn't just drop the ball now that she was living independently. He had to accept her invitation. To be honest, he really wanted to.

But he didn't dare drop by that night when he was as horny as a rabbit on steroids. "You want to go out tonight?" he asked his best friend.

Bullfrog grimaced. "Nah, I have to take a midterm."

"Again?" Brant stared at him incredulously. "Dude, how long are you going to be in school?" Bullfrog took two classes every semester through an online degree program.