Hard Landing (31 page)

Brant pocketed the money in the jeans she'd supplied him. Like the button-up shirt he wore, they hung loosely around his frame, suggesting that the previous owner had been a burly man. He hadn't asked whom the clothes belonged to, and she hadn't explained.

"Plus, I figured you could use an overnight kit."

She pulled a plastic baggie from her purse and handed it to him. He took a peek inside, catching a glimpse of a comb, razor, and toothbrush. He shoved it into his back pocket. "Thank you."

"And here's your cell phone." The familiar object glinted under the halogen lights buzzing high overhead, inspiring his first emotion of the day—relief that he had something connecting him to his past to carry with him.

She pulled it back before he could pluck it from her hand. "Remember, no contact with anyone but me until we call you back for the Article 32." A smirk touched her elegant lips. "I can't wait to see your CO's face when you walk into the courtroom."

Allowing himself a small smile as well, Brant took the phone and stuck it in his other back pocket. His military ID, his driver's license, and his old truck would remain in Master Chief's possession until the glorious day that Maya Schultz had just described, when Max would find himself facing court-martial on charges of multiple homicides, as well as attempted murder.

That day wasn't long in coming, he assured himself. Soon enough, Rebecca would realize that he'd been alive all along. Yet how would she ever forgive him for letting her believe he was dead, even for as short a time as a week? How could he bring himself to disappear on her, as abruptly as her father had—especially now, when she needed him more than ever? His thoughts in turmoil, he widened his stance to keep from keeling over.

Maya glanced at her watch. "The pilot ought to be here any minute."

"You don't have to stay," he told her shortly. The gamut of emotions and confused thoughts twisting through him demanded his attention, and he couldn't sift through them all with her present. Besides, she looked like she hadn't slept in forty-eight hours.

She searched his face through red-rimmed eyes. "I shouldn't leave you. You really should be sitting down," she insisted.

"I'm fine." Yes, he was weak, but considering how close he'd come to death—first at the hands of Max and then from his reaction to Lidocaine—he could tell that he would recover eventually. His anaphylactic attack had come at the perfect time. Maya Schultz had returned while they were reviving him. Pulling Dr. Peterson and Nurse Kelly into her scheme, she'd suggested that they pronounced him "dead" a short while later. And everyone else in ICU fell for it.

Master Chief Kuzinsky, who'd been let in on their secret, had been promptly called to sign the paperwork and claim the body. Brant had been covered with a sheet and wheeled to the morgue, where his clipboard had been transferred to the corpse named John Doe. While Metier ran interference at the hospital, Maya provided Brant with his present wardrobe and spirited him out of the morgue and into her van. They'd driven straight to a nondescript office building where Special Agent Doug Castle, an astute and determined man, had grilled him for hours about Max. After catching a bite at a drive-thru, Maya had then brought him here to await his flight.

"Seriously," he said. "You go ahead. You look beat."

"I am exhausted," she admitted. "My son is probably eating Cheetos for dinner."

The vision evoked a chuckle. "You'd better rescue him." He nudged her toward the exit. "I'll wait for the pilot right here."

She ordered him to text her when he got to Idaho. Then, looking like she couldn't decide whether to hug him or shake his hand, she sent him a curt nod and marched to her car. He watched her cross the tall grass, get into her car, and leave.

As her minivan disappeared around a bend, he tried and failed to accept the fact that, to the world, he was dead. He pictured his fellow platoon members all gathered around a bonfire on the beach—a custom they would enact tonight—grieving his death. He envisioned Rebecca's devastation. Knowing how sensitive she was, his death would make her physically ill. Yes, it made sense to let Max think he'd succeeded in killing him. But toying with the emotions of the people closest to him? It made him want to puke.

Besides, he wasn't the only one threatened by Max's existence. Max might not have verbalized any threats toward Rebecca, but the mere fact that he worked for the mob put her in imminent danger, as witnessed by the night she'd been abducted. Tony and his goons had demonstrated that they were willing to use her as a pawn to get what they wanted. What prevented them from doing so again? And wouldn't Max be tempted to snuff out her life if she accused him publicly of murdering Brant? Sure, Maya had promised NCIS would keep an eye on her, and Castle had reiterated that promise, but was it enough?

I wish you could protect me.

The memory of her words and of the faith shining in her brown eyes impaled him. He sucked in a breath, dropped his face into his hands, and dragged his fingers over his eyes. How could he leave her here to defend herself? That would make him a selfish bastard, thinking of his own safety over hers.

His heart slowed to a trot as he realized he could
not
simply get on a plane and leave her behind. "Forget this." It went against his code of honor, his very essence.

Making up his mind, he headed for the door right as a dark sedan turned the corner. The pilot had arrived in a police cruiser.

"Sonofabitch." Brant ducked back into the hangar, spotted a door on the far side of the building, and made his way swiftly toward it.

Without being spotted, he slipped out the back, hurrying as fast as his weak legs allowed toward the cover of nearby woods. Not a sound followed him into the forest of stunted evergreens. Pine needles crackled under his tennis shoes as he threaded his way through the trees. Feeble rays of sunlight showed him where to go, but it would soon be dark. He teased his phone from his pocket and accessed his map application, pinpointing his whereabouts in relation to Master Chief Kuzinsky's fixer-upper.

Brant might be as helpless as a kitten and perilously lightheaded at the moment, but for Rebecca's sake, he could walk as far as it took to find asylum. Luckily that was only three miles or so. Kuzinsky would probably chew him up one side and down the other, but he would respect Brant's decision to stay and, more importantly, he would help him protect Rebecca.

* * *

The second layer of silvery green paint provided the coverage that Rusty was looking for. He didn't want to have to paint all these rooms again, anytime soon. If everything went according to plan, he'd be too busy in his retirement to do any more home improvements.

Applying the roller in smooth up-and-down strokes, he paused to slide the spotlight over on the floor so he could see what he was doing. The light fixture overhead hadn't been updated and provided only a pale glow, and the windows in the room were still covered with clapboard, the new windows due any day.

As he worked his way along the wall, he thought of the men in Echo Platoon, presently gathered around a bonfire, lamenting Brant Adams' passing, and probably wondering why their master chief hadn't put in his usual appearance.

He didn't want to see his boys suffering for no reason. He'd only agreed to this charade because if Mad Max was as crooked as NCIS and the FBI believed, then Bronco was better off dead, or at least safely hidden on a ranch in Idaho. He ought to be halfway there by now.

A furtive tapping at Rusty's front door suspended his rolling. Why would anyone approach that door when it stood behind a partition of yellow caution tape? The porch could crumble at any moment. It had to be one of the birds nesting under the eaves pecking at the rotten wood in search of termites. He drew the roller the rest of the way down the wall.

The tapping came again, and this time there was no mistaking its human source. Or was it possibly one of the ghosts that haunted Rusty's dreams?

He eyed the boarded window as he lowered the roller into the tray of paint. Having no way to see outside, his imagination ran amuck. Why stop at one ghost? Why not a horde of disfigured operators standing in his front yard like zombies demanding to know why he hadn't managed to save any of them?

He thrust aside the ludicrous image and approached the door with his senses heightened. He put his mouth to the crack and asked, "Who is it?"

Someone panted out an answer in the form of a whisper. The sound of ragged breathing reached Rusty's ears. He reached slowly for the blade strapped to his calf. Unlike so many of his teammates who preferred to carry a pistol, Rusty opted for the versatility of a Gerber blade. The weapon complemented his short stature, giving him an instant advantage in any hand-to-hand encounter. Gripping it expertly in his right hand, he slowly unbolted the door with his left.

The knob turned on its own, and the panel swung abruptly open. Alarmed, Rusty went to block it, but the brilliant blue gaze of the intruder made him instantly recognizable, and he let him in. Chief Adams staggered over the threshold, nearly impaling himself on Rusty's weapon as he threw an arm around his master chief's neck to keep from hitting his knees.

"Bronco, what the hell are you doing here?"

Rusty staggered. Adams, who outweighed him by fifty pounds, held onto him like a man drowning at sea. They both went down. The Gerber blade skidded across the hardwood as they landed in a heap in the entryway.

Rusty stretched out a foot and kicked the door shut.

Chapter 17

Brant awoke to the smell of bacon and the first suggestion of daylight shining through a bare but pristine window. Jerking to one elbow, it took him several seconds to realize where he was—in one of the upper bedrooms in Kuzinsky's farmhouse. The bed he lay in might have been original to the early twentieth-century home. Springs squeaked as he sat up and put his bare feet to the floor. He was still wearing the clothes Maya had given him, though the contents from his pockets were now on the bedside table.

Snatching up his phone, he was not surprised to see four missed calls from Maya Schultz, along with a text that made him wince. She had vowed to flay him alive the next time they met. Stowing it in his back pocket, along with the wad of money, he headed for the stairs.

Master Chief stood at the sink in his kitchen, washing the pan he'd recently used. Dressed in his work BDUs, he turned at Brant's entrance, ran an assessing gaze over him, and turned the water off. "Help yourself," he said, gesturing to the plate of bacon and toast on the table.

The gnawing in Brant's belly urged him to accept the offer. He dropped into a chair and dug in. Kuzinsky brought him a glass of orange juice. "Thank you," he said between bites.

The master chief then occupied the seat across from him and watched him eat. "Ready to talk?" he asked, when Brant polished off the last strip of bacon, licking his fingers for good measure.

"Yeah. Sorry, I was wiped out last night."

"Obviously. Why are you here?"

The terse question conveyed aggravation, yes, but also a tinge of respect. Brant cast around for the best way to explain himself. "Would you leave if it was you?" he finally asked.

Kuzinsky blinked. "Probably not," he admitted.

"I need your help. The mob went after Rebecca once already. I have a really bad feeling that they'll come after her again."

"Then you came back to protect her?"

"Right," Brant affirmed.

"How are you going to do that when you're supposed to be dead?"

Brant shrugged. "I was hoping you could help me figure that out. Is my Bronco in your garage?"

"You can't drive that. You'd be recognized in a heartbeat."

"Not if I sell it."

Surprise registered widened the master chief's dark eyes. "Holy Christ," he exclaimed.

Brant wasn't used to seeing emotion on the man's face. "What?"

"Let me get this straight. You'd sell your truck for a
woman
?"

Brant's own surprise rose before he dismissed it with a shrug. "Well, yeah. But Rebecca's not just any woman, and I need a van. Something I can hide inside."

Kuzinsky considered him a moment longer. "You can borrow my dad's old delivery truck. It's in the garage along with your Bronco."

"You sure? Does it run?"

"Runs okay, if you don't drive too fast." Kuzinsky got up from his chair, crossed to a drawer, and pulled out a set of keys, which he tossed across the room.