Hard Landing (34 page)

Max drew a hand down his cold cheek. He couldn't let anything happen to her. He would protect her. But first he had to convince her to come back to him.

The ringing of his doorbell cut through his tortured thoughts. The last time his doorbell had rung, the FBI special agent had been paying him a call. Who could it be this time?

Fearing the worst, he withdrew his Glock from the strong box inside his desk drawer and tucked it into the waistband of his khaki slacks, against the small of his back.

A peek through the window by the door lowered his tension a notch as he recognized the uniform worn by the HomeWatch people who'd installed his security system and came out every couple of months to make sure it was working perfectly.

"Yes?"

The young man pinned a smile on his face. "How are you, Mr. McDougal? Ron from HomeWatch." He gestured at his name tag.

"
Commander
McDougal," Max corrected him. "I thought Ron had blond hair."

"That's the other Ron," said the tech with a dismissive shrug. "Had any problems with your system lately?"

"No, it's working fine."

Ron checked the clipboard in his hand. "That's odd. We've been getting an error message back at the call center telling us that one of your circuit boards in the mainframe is defective. I'll need to open up your unit, test it, and if it's burnt, replace it. It'll take me half an hour at most."

Suspicion tickled Max's nape. "Where's your partner? You guys always work in pairs."

"Home sick," Ron said with a grimace. "I'm on my own today."

Max hesitated. Was it coincidence that HomeWatch wanted to work on his system so soon after he'd mentioned his alibi to the FBI special agent? Was Doug Castle looking for a loophole? If this tech looked long and hard enough, he'd realize Max's security system wasn't complete—that the window in the master bath had never been wired, leaving him free to enter and exit at his whim. But could he discover that much in only half an hour? Not likely.

"You should have called first," Max groused. "I have to leave the house soon."

"I'll be done in a jiffy," Ron promised him.

"Fine. I'll let you in through the garage."

Chapter 18

Brant wedged his driver's license deeper into the crack between the rear door of Rebecca's apartment and the frame, working to depress the simple latch. Annoyance simmered in him that he had made it this far without being waylaid. He didn't bother keeping his movements stealthy. Apparently, he had to announce his presence to the special agents if he wanted to face their resistance.

Granted, he was a Navy SEAL sniper, and he'd slithered behind her apartment building on his elbows, six inches at a time over the course of the last two hours. But these men, working for Doug Castle, most likely, were supposed to be experts in the area of security. If they hadn't noticed Brant yet, how could he trust them to protect Rebecca from ruthless mobsters who would let nothing get in their way?

Obviously he couldn't. And it was up to him to point out their shortcomings in the hopes that they'd make the changes necessary to keep their witness safe.

As he'd noted before, Rebecca's back door was the obvious entry point for an intruder. The flimsy lock was already yielding to the stiffness of his plastic coated driver's license. The patio offered profuse cover in the form of bushes and low walls. All he had to do to disappear completely was to jump the privacy fence at the back of the complex into the maze of office buildings behind it.

Of course, keeping the FBI on their toes wasn't the only reason he was here. He'd kept his distance from Rebecca for as long as he could stand. The thought of her believing him dead all this time had worn him down. Now that she was heading to Hawaii, what harm was there in her knowing the truth?

Of course, Maya Schultz wouldn't see it that way, but Brant didn't particularly care whether he pissed her off or not.

The lock yielded suddenly, and the door clicked loudly open. Brant flinched. If that didn't bring an agent running, nothing would.

He put his back to the exterior of the building and waited. A beetle or a mole scuttled through the mulch under his feet. The noise of someone's television floated out of an adjacent apartment building. What was taking the man so long? He ought to have apprised his partner of an intruder by now. If the men played it out right, they would come at Brant from different directions and box him in.

At last, he detected a soft thud, followed by the cautious opening of the door. The snout of a pistol penetrated the widening crack followed by a pair of hands.

Oh, please
. Did they have to make this so easy for him?

Brant lunged forward, smashing the door against the gun and the hands holding it before jerking the agent forward and tearing the weapon from his grasp. Then he rammed his elbow into the agent's nose. With a grunt of agony, he sagged to his knees. As he pitched forward, Brant struck the base of his skull with his own weapon, rendering him immediately unconscious. As the agent collapsed facedown onto the patio, Brant stuck the second gun into his waistband.

Sorry, buddy
. Crouching down next to the unconscious agent, he checked his pulse before prying the earpiece from his ear and sticking it into his own to listen.

"Hobbs, you there? What just happened?"

Brant hadn't heard a car door or any footsteps approaching the building, so he assumed that the second agent was still sitting complacently in his car. Christ, what did it take to get these guys to react with any urgency?

Lifting Hobbs's wrist, Brant spoke into the microphone he knew was hidden there, connected to the earpiece by a wire running down the agent's sleeve. "Hobbs is going to be fine," he reported, matter-of-factly. "You, on the other hand, are going to get your balls blown off if you open any door or window on your vehicle. Don't worry. I'm not one of the Scarpas, and I'm not going to hurt the girl. Hobbs will come around soon enough. Consider this a drill. Your security sucks."

Dropping both communication pieces, he stood up and stepped over Hobbs, entering Rebecca's kitchen. There, he locked himself inside and the unconscious agent out on the back porch.

The familiar scent of her apartment licked over him like a warm tongue. His adrenaline rush gave way to a soaring of his testosterone. Crossing her dark living room to the front windows, he peeked through the blinds at the stymied agent. The man sat frozen in his vehicle, no doubt deliberating whether he should risk being ridiculed by calling for back up or whether he should wait for Hobbs to come to and rescue him. Brant figured he had fifteen minutes, tops, to complete this mission before at least one FBI agent came bursting through the door.

* * *

Rebecca lunged for her cell phone, only to knock it off the bed stand she'd bought from Walmart.

No!
It tumbled to the floor, rolling out of sight in her dark bedroom.

The sound of a brief scuffle outside had wakened her a minute earlier. Fear that the Scarpas had come to finish her off kept her heart hammering, which drowned out every other sound as she strained to hear.

For a long minute, there was nothing but silence. Then the stealthiest of footfalls moved across her living room. Impelled by fear, she rolled off the far side of her inflatable bed, dragging her blankets with her.

How could someone have broken in so easily with two special agents protecting her?

Her doorknob gave a jiggle. Envisioning Tony standing outside her door, she made her body as small as possible, covering herself from head to toe with the blanket. If only she hadn't dropped her phone, she could be dialing 9-1-1.

Too late now. The lock gave way with a
snick
. She froze, holding her breath to keep from being discovered.

"Becca?" called a voice she thought she'd never hear again.

It couldn't be Bronco. Her sleep-deprived mind was playing tricks on her.

Someone walked around the end of her bed.

"Honey, it's me. Is that you under there?"

His amused voice couldn't be mistaken for anyone else's. The covers slid off her abruptly, and a pair of eyes shining blue in the moonlight peered down at her.

Her heart forgot to beat as she stared up into his smiling face. "I'm dreaming," she declared.

"No, you're not." He stretched out a hand, reaching for her.

Terrified that he would evaporate when she touched him, she slowly put her hand in his. His warm fingers closed around it. With every cell of her body singing, she let him pull her to her feet and reach for him.

"Becca," he exclaimed. His arms encircled her, pulling her against the solid wall of his body.

"How can you be here?" she breathed against his chest, her voice as thin as a thread. "You're dead."

He pulled back to look down at her, and she saw that he was well on his way to boasting a full beard. "I'm not dead, honey. I never was. NCIS used that unclaimed body to make Max think that I was finished."

In light of TJ's call yesterday, his words made perfect sense, but she still didn't dare to believe it. "Why?"

"Why keep the truth from you?" he interpreted. "NCIS needed Max to believe I was no longer a threat to him. Everyone's grief had to be real, or he might not have bought it. Plus Ms. Schultz wanted to send me far away so I wouldn't be tempted to see you again. She doesn't want rumors of our affair discrediting your testimony. She tried sending me off to some ranch in Idaho, but I couldn't leave you, Becca." He pulled her close again, holding her tenderly, inviting her to rest her head against his shoulder.

Surrounded by his scent, his gentle strength, reality fully penetrated her consciousness. She gripped the fabric of his BDU jacket, pressed her face into the soft canvas weave, and gave a sob of abject relief.

Alive! Alive! He wasn't dead.
That
was
him driving the brown van yesterday! She wasn't losing her mind, after all.

"Oh my God," she murmured, over and over, unable to comprehend that the past days of suffering were really over. He was here, in the flesh.
Thank you, God.
But she couldn't stop the tears that came gushing out to roll down her cheeks. Her shattered heart contracted as the shards came cautiously together.

He rocked her as he would an inconsolable baby. "It's been killing me to let you think that I was dead." His gruff voice conveyed powerful emotion. His palm swept up and down her spine. "I used to think that I was like my father and I'd walk out on the best thing that ever happened to me. But I'm not." She felt him shake his head. "I could never let you think I was dead, let alone leave you here fending for yourself. I'll be so relieved when you get on that plane tomorrow."

She pulled back a little to look up at him. "I'm going to your memorial first."

"No, you don't need to do that," he assured her. "I'm not dead."

"But I have to. I'm giving Max's laptop back to him. NCIS put spyware on it. Did you know he hired some thugs to break into my apartment looking for it?"

A look of horror seized his face. "What? When was this?"

"While you were in ICU, before you... died. Bullfrog was here. He overpowered them, and they admitted they were hired for the job."

"Jesus."

"Anyway, Max never got his laptop back, but now he will. I'm going to give it to him."

He scrubbed a hand over his forehead, betraying agitation. "
Damn
it. I told Ms. Schultz to put you on plane to Honolulu as soon as possible. You're not safe here, Becca."

She gave a rueful laugh. "Was that your idea to send me to Hawaii? I should have known."

He gripped both her hands. "I swear if something happens to you, I'll never forgive her."

"It was my idea to stay," she assured him. "Besides, what's one more day? I'm leaving on the first flight out on Friday."

"Friday is two days away, not one."

Spying the neat line of stitches just above his new beard, she reached up and gently traced it. "They sewed you back up," she noted, changing the subject deftly.

"Yeah." He gave a short laugh. "They didn't know I was allergic to lidocaine."

She gasped. "What?"

"I went into anaphylactic shock. Almost died for real because of it."