Hard Landing (23 page)

If the hoodlums-for-hire frightened Rebecca in the process, then so be it. Maybe she'd realize just how vulnerable she was, living all alone—especially after Adams was out of the picture.

Max rubbed his hands in anticipation then started up his engine. Not too long from now, Rebecca would beg for him to take her back.

Mark my words,
he assured himself.

* * *

Rusty Kuzinsky took the stairs to the second floor of the NCIS building on Oceana Naval Air Station in lieu of the elevator. Situated next to the air field, the steel-and-cement structure reverberated with the frequent roars of fighter jets and other military aircraft, taking off and landing.

At the height of the steps, he consulted the directional plaque mounted on the stark wall and turned left to course the long hallway. As he walked with stealth by habit, his boots scarcely made a sound on the marble floor. The number he sought jumped out at him from above a door up ahead. Special Investigator Maya Schultz was expecting his arrival.

He glanced at his watch and quickened his step to arrive precisely on time. She'd accommodated his last-minute request for an appointment by giving up her lunch hour. That was perfect for Rusty, who'd told Max he needed to meet with a contractor back at his house.

Approaching the cracked door, he transferred his briefcase—heavy with Max's bulky Dell tucked inside—to his left hand and pushed the door open wider. The reception area stood empty; the receptionist was probably out to lunch. Nonetheless, a pleasant voice called out from the inner office, "Come right in, Master Chief."

He crossed to the next door and stopped dead.

Ms. Schultz wasn't a day over thirty five. Her dark blond hair was curly and cut in short layers to frame her heart-shaped face. Light green eyes assessed him through plastic framed glasses that lent her an intelligent demeanor. She wore a black pantsuit over her slight frame. And when she stood up, she was still shorter than he was, even in heels, which he glimpsed as she came around the desk to greet him with her hand outstretched.

"Welcome," she declared, confirming his identity with a glance at the name stitched above his breast pocket. "I'm Maya."

Her handshake was a contradiction—firm yet dainty. "Call me Rusty," he said, impressed with her professional demeanor but suddenly doubting she was the right person for the job.

"My late husband fought with you on Gilman's Ridge," she announced, keeping his gaze captive. "Major Ian Schultz, 4th Marine Battalion. Perhaps you remember him?" Her casual tone could not disguise how important his answer was to her.

Gilman's Ridge
. The very name conjured up memories that gnawed at his heart like a parasitic worm. Eight years ago, every brave warrior on that rugged peak had died in their effort to hold off the insurgents. He had been the only man to make it out alive. The vision of a handsome, robust Marine who had taken over the M240 machine gun after his gunner blew up panned through his mind.

"I remember him well." He especially remembered how the man looked with his guts strewn across the rocks, but she didn't need to know that. Poor woman would have been a newlywed, still, when her husband died. "He gave everything he had and more. You should be proud," he added.

She sent him a tight smile. "It's a miracle that you survived."

Miracle
was not the word he would have used. "Thanks for working me in," he said, eager to change the subject and get down to business.

"Please, have a seat." To his relief, she went and closed the door behind him. The kinds of things he had to tell her didn't need to be overheard. Returning to her desk, she sat down at it gracefully, laced her hands together, and set them on the glossy, mahogany surface. "If I understood you correctly, you said you had some concerns about your commander's actions outside of the office?"

In lieu of answering, he toggled the locks on his briefcase, flicked it open, and pulled out Max's laptop, which Hack had fixed to run again. "May I?"

At her nod, he set it on the edge of her desk then handed her the detailed print out providing login information and what to look for within Max's user profile. "This laptop was given to me by Commander McDougal's estranged wife," he said, bending the truth for simplicity's sake. "There is history on here that bears some scrutiny, including evidence of a foreign account and activity on a black market website called Silk Road."

She eyed the laptop and the paperwork with interest as she took it from him, along with the power cord.

"Will you be working on this alone?" He couldn't stop himself from asking.

She regarded him for a moment. "Are you concerned that I can't get the job done?" Her polite tone held an edge to it that made him reevaluate her.

"I just hope you're tougher than you look," he admitted ruefully.

Her finely drawn lips curved into a smile. "Oh, I assure you, I am. But if it diminishes your worries, I do have a male partner who is currently out to lunch. You'll see him at our next encounter," she informed him sweetly.

Her feistiness tickled him. His mouth twitched toward a smile. He sent her a nod instead, gathered his thoughts, and presented the evidence that Brant Adams had brought to his attention, including the newspaper article found in Max's secret mailbox and Rebecca's portrait of the thug who'd briefly abducted her. He left nothing out that he could think of, not even Rebecca McDougal's marital discontentment and her possible affair with Chief Adams.

All the while, Ms. Schultz scribbled cryptic notes onto her yellow notepad. She broke off to examine the sketch more closely. "She drew this?"

"Yes."

"It's very detailed." Laying down the drawing, she perused the article next, her dark blonde eyebrows pulling together as she waded through it. "Someone sent this to him?"

"Yes. Mrs. McDougal believes her husband might be the sniper that the FBI is looking for."

The dubious glance Maya Schultz shot him over the top of the sheet brought unaccustomed heat to Rusty's face. "That's interesting," she said in a tone so skeptical he could tell she didn't believe it for a moment. She put the article back down. "Thank you for explaining all this so succinctly. I'll need to take a look into the user profile of this laptop, plus I'd like to speak with the parties involved, minus Commander McDougal, of course. Do you think you could provide me their contact information?"

He reached inside his briefcase one more time. Chief Adams had shared Rebecca McDougal's new address and phone number, simplifying the task. "Here you go."

"Well!" she exclaimed, clearly impressed by his foresight. "You do come prepared. But, then again, you can't anticipate every event, can you?"

Her words seemed to carry a veiled accusation. If he had planned better in anticipating the magnitude and firing power of the insurgent force on Gilman's Ridge, her husband would still be alive today. "Not every event," he admitted, pained by his shortcomings.

Her celadon gaze, paired with her pert nose and elegant mouth, made him want to sit there and stare at her forever.

She stood up, breaking the spell. "Give me a day or two to consider what you've brought me. I'll talk to each of these individuals either by phone or in person, and then I'll let you know whether we'll be investigating further."

"Thank you," he said, snapping his briefcase shut and rising to his feet.

"It was a pleasure to meet you, Master Chief," she said, extending her hand a second time.

Guilt gnawed at him as he squeezed her slender fingers and pictured her struggling through life without her strapping husband.
I'm sorry
. He swallowed down the apology. "Likewise, Ms. Schultz."

"I'll be in touch," she promised, opening the door and freeing him to leave.

Chapter 13

In his peripheral vision, Brant watched his platoon leader run a critical gaze up his rumpled battle-dress uniform to the bristles growing on his jaw. They stood on the edge of the obstacle course which was situated behind the Spec Ops building with the sun blinding them as it rose over the nearby Atlantic, awaiting their turn to put the junior SEALs to shame.

"You look like hell, Bronco," Sam finally declared, rubbing his hands together to warm them against the crisp autumn breeze that blew in off the crashing surf.

"Thanks, Sam. I feel like hell." He pretended to watch his teammates scramble up the unwieldy rope ladder to throw a leg over a thirty-foot bulkhead. But thoughts of how and when Max was going to ambush him kept him scanning the open area for suspicious activity. Thanks to his inability to sleep that week, his reaction time was seriously impaired. Max now had the edge he needed to catch him unawares.

"Does your present condition have something to do with Rebecca?"

Hearing her name on Sam's lips brought his head around. He met his friend's sympathetic gaze and looked away again. The desire to confide in him vied with the certainty that doing so would further undermine the cohesiveness of the task unit. They were still a fully operational unit that could go wheels up at any time. As platoon leader, Sam couldn't afford to view Max as anything but absolutely trustworthy.

"Can't tell you," he apologized, clapping Sam on the back. "Maybe one day." It all depended on whether NCIS thought Max was guilty of a wrongful act.

"Is Rebecca okay?" Sam pressed. "I hear she left the CO."

Brant blew out a breath. The rumors had begun already—Max wouldn't like that. "Yeah, I think so."

The desire to speak to her, to make love to her again, to hold her as she slept rode him so hard and relentlessly that he felt like he was one of the ornery broncs that used to try to toss him to the ground. He had never experienced a hankering this persistent. It made him numb to the chill that had Sam turning up the collar of his BDU jacket.

"I've noticed the chemistry between you two," Sam added, unsettling him further. "Always wondered what she saw in Max. Maybe you'd make a better couple. I'm sure you would."

The comment both gratified and terrified him. "No way." Brant stared straight ahead, ignoring Sam's puzzled frown.

"Why not?"

He gave a humorless laugh. "Dude, I'm not like you. I'm not the domestic type."

Sam rounded on him. "Christ, you make relationships sound like a disease. You're obviously crazy about her."

Brant refused to comment.

"And she obviously likes you. Enough to leave her husband."

"Whoa." He held up a hand to stem Sam's words. "She didn't leave him for me. Let's get that straight right now."

"Monogamy is not a disease," Sam continued, ignoring his protest. "Have you ever even tried it?"

Of course he hadn't. If anything, he deliberately sabotaged potential relationships by dating multiple women at once and not spending quality time with any one of them.

"I know you haven't," Sam said, answering his own question. "You've gone your whole life keeping women at a distance. If Rebecca's the right one for you, then pull her close, man. Otherwise, I'm telling you now—you're going to regret it. One day, you may realize she meant more to you than you knew, and it'll be too late."

Brant swallowed hard. Sam's advice only sent him into deeper confusion. Even if he trusted himself not to hurt her, Rebecca still had a jealous husband with nearly unlimited power on the base and also over Brant's life and career. The ease with which Max could set up a training situation that resulted in his getting fatally injured kept him on edge.

In war zones, he had gone for days and weeks in this state of hyper-awareness. At least back then, he'd known he could count on his fellow SEALs to look out for him, the CO included. Everything was different now. The CO was out to get him, and only Kuzinsky, Hack, and Bullfrog even knew about the situation. He would rather face a hundred enemy combatants than live with this kind of internal threat.

"Our turn," he announced, forestalling further counsel as he dashed toward the obstacle course.

With a curse, Sam sprinted after him. The man had nothing to worry about; he was still going to trounce him. Brant's mixed–up mental state and his serious sleep deficit would ensure Sam's victory, in spite of his own hefty head start.

How long can I keep this up?
he wondered. Something had to give.

* * *

Hope spurred Rebecca's pulse at the feel of her cell phone vibrating in the pocket of her scrubs.
Please be Bronco!