Hard Landing (36 page)

"It's your laptop," she explained, scooping up the bag Maya Schultz had given her and holding it out to him. "It's been in the trunk of my car for weeks," she added at his gathering frown. "My friend Sandy's husband fixed it. He's an IT guy. This way you don't have to wait for the repair shop to fix it." Her heart raced as she waited for him to accept or reject her olive branch.

He plucked it from her grasp, freeing her to release her held breath.

"You've had it all this time?"

"Yes. Sorry. I've been meaning to get it back to you," she said.

His shuttered expression could not quite disguise the relief blazing in his eyes as he peered into the bag. "Thank you," he said. He raised his gaze to study her face.

"Sandy's husband said it had a boot sector virus, whatever that is. It didn't take him long to fix it."

"I see." His dark gaze seemed to take in every detail of her tense expression. "How are you doing?" he asked, with credible concern.

Fury and disgust strangled her vocal cords. "I've been better," she admitted. Here was her chance to set up what Maya Schultz wanted from her. "Lonely." She choked out the single word.

"Missing Chief Adams?" His upper lip curled into his mustache.

Her arms stole across her chest in a purely defensive gesture. "Do you think we could talk sometime?" she asked, instead of answering his question. The offer tumbled off her lips in her haste to get their conversation over with.

His ran a possessive gaze over her shivering frame. "You're cold," he noted. "Why don't you come inside?"

"No, I'm not staying. I only came here to give you back the laptop." She couldn't ask him the questions in The Galley that Maya wanted answers to—not in front of everyone else. It was clear to her he simply wanted to be seen with her to allay the rumors about their separation.

"Dinner then," he suggested smoothly. "What are you doing tonight?"

While marveling at his nerve, she was nonetheless grateful that he hadn't suggested a later date. "Tonight?" She pretended to think about it. "Nothing, as far as I know."

"We could go to The Pelican, like we used to do."

She envisioned the upscale restaurant they used to frequent, mostly so that Max could be seen by the upper brass there. "Too many windows," she said with a shudder. "I'd feel safer at the house with the security system armed. If that's okay with you," she added.

He looked pleased and mildly surprised by her suggestion. He shrugged. "Of course. But there's nothing in the refrigerator since I don't have time to shop."

"Take out would be fine," she suggested.

"The Vietnamese place up at the shopping center?"

"Sure. What time?"

"Let's say nineteen-hundred hours. I'll have to work late to make up for this time I'm taking off. You'll have to excuse the shape that the house is in."

Oh, poor Max. It had to be so hard for him to look after himself with his domestic servant no longer there to help
.

The sudden, clawing need to get away from him had her shutting the trunk of her car abruptly. "I'll see you at seven," she murmured, edging toward her car door only to jerk to a halt as Max flashed out a hand to stop her.

His thick fingers bit into the flesh of her forearm.

She suppressed the urge to snatch her arm free. "What?" He couldn't suspect her motives, could he?

He glanced around at the full parking lot. "Is there someone looking out for you?"

There was no way to stop the blood from draining from her face as her thoughts flew immediately to Bronco. "Wh-what do you mean?"

Max's eyes turned to slits. "I heard a rumor that you hired a bodyguard."

Then she remembered the FBI special agents. "Two of them, actually," she admitted. "I told you, Max. I'm afraid of that guy, Tony. He's been following me."

A muscle in Max's square face twitched. She could see him searching his peripheral vision. "Are they here?" he asked. "Are they watching you now?"

Her heart thudded uncertainly. She had no wish to admit to her vulnerability but no desire to point out her protectors, either. "They're civilians. They couldn't get on base," she answered.

His grip on her arm tightened.
No!
she protested inwardly as he hauled her closer, holding her prisoner against his brilliant white jacket. An array of service pins and medals swam before her eyes. His scent, intolerable to her now, had her holding her breath.

"You don't need to hire bodyguards, Rebecca," he whispered fervently in her ear. "Move back in with me. I can protect you."

The sudden wail of a car alarm startled both of them and gave her the excuse she needed to wriggle free of his embrace. Master Chief Kuzinsky's Camry, parked immediately across from her Jetta, blared its horn at steady intervals while one of the hazard lights flashed. The other appeared to be broken.

Max stepped back and glared with annoyance at the offending car.

"I'd better go." Rebecca wrenched open her car door at the same instant that Kuzinsky burst out of The Galley to check on his vehicle.

"Be safe," Max called as she settled behind the wheel.

Casting him a weak smile, she shut her car door with relief, revved the engine, and backed out of her parking space.
Be safe.
What horrible irony, coming from his lips.

A clammy sweat coated her. Belated chills ran down her spine. At least, that was done. Max had taken the laptop without seeming overly suspicious of her story. Now she just had to get through dinner with him that night.

What was it Bronco would say to encourage her—not that he would agree to the plan if he found out.
Easy Day
, he would say.

Yeah, right
.

Racing toward the gate, she broke the speed limit in her haste to get away. In her rear view mirror, she saw the special agents squeal out of their hiding place in their nondescript sedan. While their protection clearly wasn't foolproof, it was still a comfort to have them on her bumper now.

As the base exit came into view, her cell phone rang. It was probably Maya Schultz wondering how the transfer of the laptop had gone. Glimpsing Bronco's number on her caller ID, she gave a strangled cry of joy. He wouldn't want to hear what she'd decided to do for both their sakes. Taking advantage of her car's Bluetooth capability, she took the call with the push of a button.

"Hello?"

"He put his fucking hands on you!" came the explosive observation. "Baby, tell me you're okay. Did he hurt you?"

She nearly drove off the road searching her mirrors for him. "You saw that? Where are you?"

"Yes, I saw that. I was in the trunk of Kuzinsky's car. You didn't say if you're okay," he pointed out, still audibly fuming.

The realization that Bronco had been responsible for the car alarm going off drew a half-hysterical laugh out of her. "I'm fine," she assured him. "And no, he didn't hurt me. Thank you, though," she tacked on, letting him hear how shaken the encounter had left her. "That was really hard to do. I'm such a terrible liar."

"But it's over," he assured her. "You gave him the laptop, and he fell for your story?"

"I think he did," she marveled.

"Then you're done with your part," he cheered her. "All packed and ready to leave town tomorrow?"

"Um..." Now that the moment had come, she didn't know how to tell him.

"I need to be with you before you go," he added, without giving her the chance to answer. "I'll meet you at the airport. We can have coffee, maybe slip into a family restroom for a few minutes alone. You might not recognize me right away. I'll be wearing my disguise."

"Bronco, I'm not leaving." The sudden silence in her car had her checking her hands-free connection. "Are you there?"

"What do you mean, you're not leaving?" His flat tone conveyed a myriad of emotions, not the least of which was dread, which served to undermine her self-confidence.

"Listen to me," she begged, as she drove toward her apartment. "I don't want to fly five thousand miles away from you right now. I only agreed to that in first place because I thought you were dead."

"My being dead or alive isn't the issue," he countered, with restrained heat. "The issue is your safety. The fucking Scarpas have you on their hit list!"

"Yes, I know. And the only way to stop them is to arrest Max, who will throw them under the bus in order to save his own hide."

"How are you supposed to help?" Bronco demanded.

"I'm having dinner with Max at the house tonight."

"God damn it!" The expletive rattled her speakers.

She explained what Maya had told her about getting Max to discuss his work for the Scarpas while his security cameras were running. "She says that's all they need to ensure that the Article-32 hearing leads to a court-martial. He'll convict himself with his own words."

"Becca, don't do this." Bronco's dismay tugged at her heartstrings.

She wrung the steering wheel in her clenched hands. "I have to," she choked out. "I don't want to leave you here for God-knows-how-long, when I can help NCIS implicate Max. It could be over tomorrow."

"You really think it'll be that easy? Come on, Becca. Max isn't going to discuss the Scarpas. He won't admit that he's done anything wrong. What he's going to do is punish you for leaving him, then try to get you into bed."

She didn't want to hear what Max might do. "Maya's going to coach me on what to say. I have to try!"

"I don't like it," he muttered. "I don't like it one fucking bit."

This was Bronco in a rage, Rebecca realized, only he couldn't yell because he was hiding in the trunk of his master chief's car. "Sounds like you might be jealous," she suggested, praying he would just tell her that he loved her.

"Hell, yes, I am jealous!" he bit out.

Happiness blended with pain in an exquisite montage of emotion. He hadn't said he loved her yet, but his behavior suggested he did.

"I'll be okay, Bronco," she promised him.

She listened to him breathing—a beautiful sound that reminded her that he was alive, part of her life, and hopefully part of her future.

"I'll be close by the entire time," he told her gruffly. "Just don't be afraid. Max is a predator. If he smells your fear, he'll become suspicious."

A frisson of terror crackled through her. Her heart beat heavy in her chest as she waited for him to say the words she longed to hear. But the only thing to reach her ears was a
click
as he brought their conversation to a close.

* * *

Brant's vibrating cell phone made him jump. Until that moment, he hadn't realized just how tense he was, sitting in the brown delivery truck at the front of Rebecca's apartment complex, waiting for her to drive by on her way over to Mad Max's house for a dinner date.

A fucking dinner date with a homicidal psycho! It didn't help that the hours had crawled by at an agonizing pace since he'd first heard about her and Maya's crazy plan. He had immediately called Maya Schultz to grill her on the security measures she planned to put into place. Her refusal to answer his calls only increased his agitation. Obviously, she didn't want him anywhere near Max's house, where motion-detecting floodlights and hidden cameras threatened to expose Brant as being very much alive.

Well, that was too damn bad for Ms. Schultz because Brant wasn't going to leave Rebecca's well-being in the hands of NCIS or the FBI. He had meant what he'd promised her—that he would be close by, as close as he could get without being spotted.

This had to be Maya calling him now. Or maybe Rebecca was calling to say that she'd changed her mind. But it wasn't either of them. The name on the caller ID had him shaking his head.

Should he answer it, or go on letting Bullfrog believe that he was dead, even though the man had obviously intuited that he wasn't?

"Hey," he said, opting to put his friend out of his torment.

A prolonged sigh on the other end. "Did you end up in heaven or in hell?" his friend asked in a voice choked with relief.

"Oh, this is definitely hell," Brant assured him.

"Things are hellish in the task unit, too," Bullfrog divulged. "Mad Max has been living up to his reputation."

A fresh concern fizzed in Brant's belly. "Why? He doesn't suspect I'm still alive, does he?"

"N-no," but Bullfrog dragged the word out, conveying that he wasn't positive. "I think Rebecca leaving him has stressed him out. That or his business with the mob has him on edge."

Brant didn't like the sound of Max on the edge. Not when Rebecca was having dinner with him.

"When did you guess that I was still alive?" Brant asked, lifting the scope he'd removed from his Stoner SR-225 to his left eye and peering across a distance of two hundred yards and through the shadows of large trees at Rebecca's front door. Kuzinsky had retrieved his sniper rifle from his old locker at Spec Ops. It lay across the seat beside him. She still hadn't come out.

"I don't know," Bullfrog answered. "I wasn't completely sure until you answered the phone just now. Things just didn't feel right. That white urn at your memorial? It didn't have your aura."