Hard Landing (22 page)

Kuzinsky pushed his chair back. "There's a lot of speculation going on here," he stated. But an odd light glimmered in his dark eyes as he lifted them to gaze out the window at the marsh in his back yard.

"That's not all," Brant said, reclaiming his attention. "Did you know Rebecca left Max last weekend?"

Kuzinsky blinked, refocusing his attention on Brant. "No, I didn't."

"Of course not. Max would never admit to having marriage problems. But get this. The night she moved out, Tony was hiding in the back seat of her car. He made her drive at gunpoint to another vehicle." In as much detail as he could recall from Rebecca's rendition, he relayed how Tony had sent a photo of her, bound and gagged, to Max and threatened her life if Max didn't agree to Tony's terms.

Kuzinsky broke eye contact and stared at his empty mug. "I remember he got a message on his phone while we were in the TOC." He looked up suddenly. "Who else knows about all this?"

"Just the three of us," Brant said. "And Rebecca, of course."

The master chief considered the laptop for a moment. "Okay," he said, reluctance dripping off the two syllables. "You've convinced me that there's something going on. I'll take your suspicions to NCIS as soon as they can see me."

Relief loosened the knots in Brant's shoulders. "Thank you."

"In the meantime, I suggest you keep a low profile and keep your distance from Rebecca," his leader added sternly.

A wave of heat rose up his neck. "Yes, Master Chief." He determined that he'd heaped enough onto Kuzinsky's plate without bringing up his fears that Max might try to kill him. That was something he was going to have to deal with on his own.

Hack and Bullfrog would, of course, help to cover his six. But no one had held a gun to his head forcing him to sleep with the CO's estranged wife. That had been his decision alone and, in spite of the shit storm that was about to break loose, he couldn't bring himself to regret it.

* * *

Rebecca stirred and stretched. Her heightened senses catalogued the smooth glide of the sheets, the tenderness of her satiated body, and then the empty space beside her. She lifted her head with a stab of concern at finding herself alone.

"Bronco?" she called, not expecting an answer. Not a trace of his body heat remained, suggesting that he had left some time ago.

Disappointment pinned her back against the mattress, and her heart gave a throb of loneliness. What had she expected—that because it was a Saturday, he would spend the day with her? Yet, after last night, it had seemed nothing had the power to keep them apart, so why hadn't he stayed?

Because of Max, of course. Max had seen the one-of-a-kind Bronco parked near her apartment. If the evidence Hack had found on his laptop were true, then Max had announced his credentials as an experienced terminator to the mob. He probably had no compunction about killing Bronco, as he'd hinted at more than once now.

"Oh God." She rolled out of bed, stripped of her happiness.

Regarding her pale reflection in the bathroom mirror, she asked herself what, if anything, she could do to protect him. As she brushed the tangles from her hair, a suggestion skated into her thoughts. She recoiled from it, slamming her brush down on the marble sink top.
Never.

She left her room and crossed the living area, where her gaze strayed to the spot in front of the fireplace where they'd first made love. Her clothes still lay in a heap on the floor where Bronco had dropped them. Longing rolled over her in a powerful wave.

She went into the kitchen to fix herself a cup of tea. There, she encountered the dishes left over from their dinner. With a troubled heart, she washed them, replaying every special moment of their conversation, cherishing every spoken word, every subtle nuance. He'd told her that he really liked her. The words warmed her heart anew.

Then the awful idea that had occurred to her earlier lodged itself in her mind a second time. She was certain Brant could convince Master Chief Kuzinsky to approach NCIS with the evidence against Max. But then Bronco would be the first person Max suspected of betraying him—unless Rebecca rushed in and doused the flames of his suspicion.

She drew a troubled breath and let it out. Her heart beat unpleasantly hard.

A detestable plan, but it just might work.

Bronco, of course, would abhor it. She could practically hear him insist that he was a big boy, fully capable of defending himself.

But Bronco didn't know Max quite as well as she did.

I should do it
. Grim resolve slowed the tempo of her heartbeat. If it kept Bronco safe, then it was worth the humiliation and even the danger and punishment that could potentially arise.

Like a person being led to the gallows, she walked slowly toward her charging cell phone. Every fiber of her being rebelled at the prospect of talking to Max. And the last thing she wanted to do was to give him her new number, but if she called from a payphone, he would have reason to doubt her sincerity, and she had to be convincing—for Bronco's sake. She needed to make it look like she still trusted her husband.

Wetting her dry lips, she picked up her phone and tapped out Max's number. So long as progress was being made to investigate his wrongful actions, she could pretend to consider reconciliation. It was the only solution she could think of to keep him from going off the deep end.

* * *

Standing in a short line at the computer repair shop, Max willed the woman in front of him to hurry the hell up. He hated running errands on a Saturday. A dozen items needed to be struck off his to-do list that day. Amazingly, he had checked his new account and discovered that his advance had indeed been doubled. Now he was committed to killing Special Agent Doug Castle. But first he had to advance his plan to strike Brant Adams off the face of the earth.

It all came down to strategy. Luckily, Max had twenty-plus-years of experience at tactical planning. He was still the puppeteer, pulling the strings to make others dance at his command. Even the Scarpas had proven malleable to his will. The only person still making him look weak was his wife, who had left him to cavort with another man.

But not for long, Max vowed. All too soon, Adams would succumb to a drug overdose. His death would reveal his unhealthy habit, and a disillusioned Rebecca would realize what a mistake she had made in turning her back on her upstanding husband. If he had to coerce her to make her return to him, he would. But he would not,
could not,
let her go. What was once his would remain his forever.

The buzzing of his cell phone pulled him from his dark thoughts. He eyed the unfamiliar number before answering, "Commander McDougal."

"Max?"

Rebecca's familiar voice kept him mute.

"Can you talk?" Her hesitant tone was counterbalanced by a warmth that kept him intrigued.

He considered the customer in front of him, too engrossed in discussing her wireless connectivity issue to pay any heed to his conversation. "What do you want?"
Besides a divorce?
he added in his mind.

"I... I wanted to apologize."

He slit his eyes with immediate suspicion.

"I know that my leaving must have caught you off guard."

"Is this your new phone number?" he asked, ignoring her observation. He eyed the number again, glad to have it.

"Yes. I didn't think it was fair to you to stay on your phone plan."

What was she up to, trying to play nice when she'd deserted him? Oh, of course. She wanted him to agree to a no-fault divorce. Like
that
was going to happen.

"Anyway," she continued, plowing ahead in spite of his silence, "Chief Adams dropped by my place last night and suggested that I call you to try to patch things up."

Intrigued, he turned his back on the woman in front of him and marched to the front of the store to stare at the busy parking lot. "Did he, now?" He highly doubted it.

"Yes. I'm sorry I left the way I did. It must have jolted you to find me gone like that. It's just... I was traumatized by what happened to me."

He cupped a hand over his mouthpiece, hissing words that were meant for her alone. "That should never have happened. I told you the man was trouble. You should've called me to say you were okay. I was worried sick for days!"

"I'm sorry," she repeated. "I was so upset by what those thugs did to me. But you're not like them, Max. I should have trusted you to explain what's going on. Why would you even know people like them, anyway?"

Was this an olive branch she was extending? Why now, when she and Adams were surely conspiring against him?

"It's complicated," he hedged.

"I guess so." Her pitch conveyed disappointment. "Well, I wouldn't be talking to you right now if Chief Adams hadn't convinced me to try again. He reminded me what a skilled and capable commander you are," she insisted.

Christ, she was trying to protect her lover! To keep her husband from adding infidelity on top of desertion, as his reasons for declining her no-fault divorce. Not that he intended to pursue a fault-grounds divorce. She would be his again before any kind of divorce took place between them.

"Have dinner with me," he demanded. If he could look into her eyes, he could begin to work his will on her, while finding out how much, if anything, she'd already told the chief.

"Oh. I'll need to check with my lawyer to see if that's a good idea."

"You're referring to that line in the separation agreement about respecting your privacy and having no contact with you outside of the courtroom." He let her know by his mocking tone what he thought of the stipulation. "I haven't signed the agreement," he informed her. "Nor will I, ever."

"Oh." She fell quiet for a moment. "That-that line was my lawyer's idea," she stammered. "He thinks Tony sounds dangerous, and since he associates with you, it's better if you and I aren't seen together."

Christ, she knew Tony's first name. Did she know his last, too? Was she fishing for more information about him in order to taint Max's reputation? A cold sweat swept across his brow. "He's not an associate. Listen, I'm busy. I'll talk to you later," he told her, hanging up.

It made little difference whether her apology was sincere or not. She was threatening his hard-won prestige with her show of independence, and he wouldn't stand for it.

"Sir, can I help you?"

Marching back to the counter, he told the technician that he wanted his laptop back. The man had had it for a month, and he obviously hadn't fixed it yet.

At his hostile tone, the employee's eyes glazed over. "I'm so sorry. What's the name?"

"McDougal. Max McDougal."

"I'll be right back with it."

Five long minutes ticked by. The woman with the wireless issue departed, and two more customers ambled in. Max glanced at his watch, his jaw muscles jumping as he clenched and unclenched his molars.

Finally, the technician emerged from the back. His wispy hair stood on end. "Sir, I'm sorry, but my associate says your wife picked up the laptop almost two weeks ago. She didn't tell you?"

Shock reverberated down Max's spine. "You released it to her?" he growled.

"I-I didn't think that would be a problem. Can't you just ask her for it?"

Max curled his right hand into a fist. It was all he could do not to reach across the counter and crush the man's windpipe.

"Of course," he replied, tamping down his temper and summoning a tight smile. "Why didn't I think of that? I'll just ask her for it."

He wheeled away from the counter and stormed out of the store, nearly shattering the glass door as he tossed it open.

Rebecca had taken possession of his laptop. What did this mean? His heart flung itself against his ribs. What could she possibly think to gain when the virus that infected it kept it from powering up?

He forced himself to breathe as he crossed the parking lot. He could think of only one reason she would take it. She wanted to pry into its memory to search for the account she had glimpsed. Or perhaps she sought answers to the questions she'd asked him—who was Tony and what were Max's dealings with him?

Having minimal computer skills herself, she would have to enlist someone's help in her quest for answers. And who would that be? Someone her lawyer would hire? Or a friend of Chief Adams—someone like Hack, the new computer genius?

Horror broke Max's stride.

"No." His lungs convulsed. That couldn't be the case. She would have to have guessed that the laptop's memory held secrets he didn't want exposed—which it very well might. Until he got the Dell back and wiped its memory clean, he would live in fear that she might ruin him before he reeled her in again.

His thoughts in turmoil, he climbed slowly into his Tahoe and sat there.

He knew which apartment was hers. All it had taken to find that out was to call to the leasing office and tell few white lies. But breaking in to look for the laptop himself was far too risky.

The best way to get it was to hire some of the thugs who advertised their services on the Silk Road website. As long as total strangers broke into her apartment, Rebecca would have no cause to connect Max to the laptop's disappearance. What's more, Silk Road offered potential employers complete anonymity, if that was their preference. That would prevent the thugs he hired from fingering Max if something went wrong.