Hard Landing (29 page)

The words had her sitting forward and setting her laptop aside. "He's awake? He's responsive?"

"Yes, ma'am. Dr. Peterson said I was to call you first. According to the nurse on duty, Mr. Adams is asking to speak with you."

"Right now?" She glanced back at her clock.

"Now would be preferable. Since his vitals have stabilized, we're going to be re-stitching his cheek soon. He may not feel like talking after that."

It was midnight on a Saturday. Her thirteen-year-old son had probably just fallen asleep, having stayed up playing video games. Curtis would be dead to the world until late the next morning. "I'll meet you at the doors in half an hour," Maya promised.

Exactly half an hour later, Nurse Kelly admitted her into a quiet ICU. "Almost everyone is asleep."

For that very reason, Maya hadn't bothered to involve her partner. She would update Ben and the FBI special agent later. After perusing Doug Castle's files, she could see why he was intrigued with Rebecca McDougal's allegations. Her own skepticism had morphed into a chilling certainty that the commander was, in fact, mixed up in the notorious organized crime family, the Scarpas. Rebecca's sketch of Tony Scarpa resembled him right down to the bags beneath his eyes. That would come in handy during the Article 32 hearing, but was it enough to persuade a military judge, let alone the final arbitrator who played golf with McDougal?

The soles of their shoes scuffed the floor as they coursed a silent hallway. All but one of the glassed-in rooms on either side stood dark and still. Kelly swiped her hand over a sensor, and the door to that room swished open.

The broad-shouldered figure illumined by soft strip lighting inspired Maya's immediate sympathy. Brant Adams lay reclined in a wide hospital bed, the covers pulled to his waist. The gash on his face ruined the perfect symmetry of his wickedly handsome features. Tabs connecting him to the EKG dotted his tanned warrior's chest. Oxygen tubes snaked into his nostrils. He studied her approach through bleary blue eyes.

The last time they had met, which had been minutes after catching him kissing his CO's wife, he'd struck her as being so virile, so brimming with vitality, that it was obvious why Rebecca McDougal was smitten with him. At present, he looked decidedly less vital. Dark hollows gave testimony to how ill he was. But, even with his sallow complexion and red-rimmed eyes, he struck her as a force to be reckoned with.

Cautious of the array of medical paraphernalia attached to him, Maya drew carefully near to one side of the bed. "You made it," she stated, meeting his sardonic gaze.

His mouth quirked into a challenging smile. "Do you believe me yet?"

She appreciated his candor. After all, he had insisted at their meeting on Thursday that his CO was going to try to do him in. At the time, she had scoffed at the assertion. But now foreboding kept a tight grip on her scalp.

"I believe you," she admitted.

His eyes glinted before they swung toward the nurse. "Ma'am, could you give us a second alone?" He sent her a slow smile that visibly flustered her.

Nurse Kelly backed reluctantly out of the room. "Oh, all right. But we need to get you stitched up soon."

The moment the door closed behind her, Brant announced, "Max attacked me on my way home from the pub. He's not going to rest until I'm dead."

Maya glanced at the nurse standing in the hallway, regarding them through the glass. "You were legally intoxicated," she felt obliged to point out. "How can you be certain? Did you see him? Hear him?"

A humorless laugh grated in his throat. "Trust me. We work so closely in the Teams that I know how each man breathes and moves. It was Max."

The spiking on the EKG machine behind him made her nervous. "You don't need to convince me," she assured him. "I've been communicating with Doug Castle, the FBI special agent who's been investigating the Scarpas for years. According to him, Commander McDougal fits the profile of the assassin. But we still need a lot more evidence if we're going to convince Admiral Johansen of that. If you claim he tried to kill you, then we have to arrest him, with or without solid evidence. He could then take measures to block our evidence-gathering. I'd rather he remain ignorant of his impending charges until we're ready for the Article 32."

His mouth curved into a bitter-looking smile. "Maybe I should just die, and then you won't feel so rushed," he suggested.

She wagged a finger at him. "You're catching on, but that doesn't mean I want you to actually die."

His eyes narrowed. "Witness protection?"

"Something like that," she agreed, "except that I'd like McDougal to believe he got away with killing you."

His head fell back as understanding dawned. "We fake my death," he concluded.

She couldn't tell whether the suggestion appalled or relieved him. "Think about it. It would get your CO off your back. And it would give us a few more days to build our argument before the hearing."

A faraway look entered his eyes as he gazed down at his feet tenting the covers.

"The problem is finding a body to use in your stead," Maya added, mostly to herself.

"I know of one," he said absently.

"I'm sorry?"

He grimaced as if regretting what he was about to say. "There's an unidentified male in the morgue in the basement. Rebecca told me that he died in the ER two or three weeks ago. Supposedly, he even resembles me."

Her pulse quickened. "Well, let's hope he's still there." She started to turn toward the door.

"Wait. Who else is going to know about this?"

She swung back around. "I've already thought it through. Only one man on your team needs to know, and that's Master Chief Kuzinsky. He's got enough clout that he can sign the paperwork and retrieve the body."

"Max will want to see it, too."

"Then we'll have to cremate it."

Suddenly, she could sense regret emanating off him.

"Everyone else will think I'm dead," he stated. By everyone, she could tell he meant his teammates and, most especially, Rebecca.

"I'm afraid so. We need to convince your commander. It's the only way."

"How do you know he won't try to kill Rebecca, too?"

The terse question dropped a new seed of worry in her mind. "Has he ever threatened her?"

His jaw hardened. "Not that I know of, but that Tony creep has."

"Don't worry. We'll keep an eye on her," Maya assured him. "Now that the FBI is working with us, we have more manpower. She'll be safe, I promise."

His eyes sank shut. "How long?" he asked.

She knew what he was asking. How long before he could have his life back? "It's hard to say. Our evidence is good, but it's not complete. We need to work hard if we're going to convict someone of his stature."

The equipment blipped in the silence as she waited for his agreement. She couldn't force him to disappear. Frankly, she'd be astonished if he agreed to such a plan.

"Okay," he said at last, proving himself completely unpredictable. "Where are you going to send me?"

"How does a ranch in Idaho sound?" Having looked into his background, she knew he'd feel at home on a dude ranch out west.

"Fine," he muttered.

Her intuition told her that his outward calm disguised an inward battle, one he didn't want her to witness. She backed toward the door. "I'll let the nurse stitch you up while I go check on that body in the basement."

He sent her a faint, dismissive nod. She could practically see the thundercloud forming over him, and who could blame him? It wasn't in the makeup of a SEAL to walk away from a fight, to leave his arch nemesis gloating over his seeming victory. Worse than that, he'd be letting his teammates and the woman he loved believe he was dead.

Joining Nurse Kelly in the hall, she explained that she would need to speak to her and Dr. Peterson in his office, at the doctor's earliest convenience.

* * *

Brant paid scant attention to the nurse and her aid as they puttered around him, preparing to re-sew the gash on his face. His heart, still sluggish, contracted in slow painful beats that reflected the funeral march taking place in his mind.

Letting Rebecca and his teammates believe that he'd died when he hadn't went against every instinct he possessed. Still, Maya Schultz's rationale could not be argued. Max had to think his death was real, and for that to happen, his teammates needed to believe he was gone, too.

What other choice did he have? If he stuck around, Max would redouble his efforts to kill him. Plus, having had narcotics in his bloodstream, Brant would be removed immediately from active duty. People who didn't know him would automatically assume he'd taken recreational drugs and overdosed. A Navy SEAL from SEAL Team 4 had been caught just last June dealing heroin.

Agitation prickled his skin, making him claw his neck.

Rebecca, he assured himself, would know better. She would know that Max was behind his attack. Not only would she defend his reputation, but she might well verbalize her accusations, putting Max on the defensive. Alarm bells tolled in Brant's mind. How far would the CO go to protect his reputation? He would never consider harming her, would he?

I wish you could protect me
. The memory of her words caused him to gasp for the air that seemed suddenly harder to take in.

"Easy, hon," the nurse crooned, mistaking the reason for his gasp. He realized she'd been sticking a needle into his face, prepping him for the repair.

"The lidocaine will kick in soon. You won't feel a thing."

Lidocaine.
"What? Wait! You can't... I'm allergic."

He didn't get the chance to say anything more as his lungs suddenly seized. The room began to twirl, and one of the machines behind him gave a warning beep.

"His blood pressure is plummeting!"

"Did he say he's allergic to lidocaine?"

Past the roaring in his ears, he heard Nurse Kelly put two and two together. "Oh, dear God, he's going into anaphylactic shock! Get the epinephrine!"

Brant wheezed for breath. His vision clouded. He heard the nurses scrambling to save him, felt a needle jab his biceps. The noises in the room grew fainter. The world went gray and then black.

I'm dying for real!
was his last astonished thought.

Chapter 16

Sunday afforded Max the time he needed to plot Doug Castle's demise. Drawing the blinds in his office to keep the worker draining the pool out back from observing him, he sat at his desk researching his next mark on his home computer. A mug of black coffee and a cinnamon bun provided the fuel he needed to concentrate.

As he'd suspected, Special Agent Doug Castle laid claim to an impressive service record. He'd been a New York City cop for fifteen years before transferring to the federal side of law enforcement. At fifty-six years of age, he looked fit and formidable in his bio photo, which Max had found on a secured website. His clearance had given him access to all of Castle's personal information, including his permanent address and the names of his family members. The Scarpas would be pleased that Max had found out as much as he had, but they wouldn't pay him another dime until he dispatched Castle for good.

Where and how he did that were both up to him. It went without saying that he had to change his
modus operandi
. But with his pool man thumping around out back and so many loose ends snaking around in Max's thoughts, inspiration was slow to come. First off, incredibly, Adams was still alive. Secondly, the gangsters whom he had hired to steal back his laptop had not only failed in their attempt, but they'd been thrashed by one of Max's own SEALs and had wound up in custody.

A growl of frustration rumbled in Max's chest. At least law enforcement couldn't trace the gangsters back to him, thanks to the anonymity offered by Silk Road, but his laptop remained at large. It was still out there somewhere, a potential threat to his reputation.

The possibility that his own wife—a woman who had pledged to remain in his corner forever—had turned the laptop over to the authorities was a pill that Max refused to swallow. But why else would she have taken it from the shop? Perhaps she'd told Adams about his foreign account, and they'd put together a plot to run off with Max's money. Since he'd closed his old account, that couldn't happen. And now Adams was as good as dead. It wouldn't take much to send him on his way. If push came to shove, he'd pay his chief a visit in the hospital and speed him to hell himself.