Hard Landing (8 page)

The regret that laced her voice tugged at his heartstrings. "That's bullshit. You've got to talk to somebody. Besides—" He caught himself from relaying his discovery.

"Besides, what?" she pressed.

"Becca, you deserve better than him." He winced. Shoot, he'd made it sound like he was offering himself up in Max's stead. His heart thudded as he waited for her answer.

"I know that. I've pretty much decided that I'm going to leave him."

"You—you what?" He almost dropped the phone on top of his lunch.

"I've decided to leave him. But I can't just leave, or he could claim that I deserted him. What I really need is proof that he's involved in something criminal."

Shock radiated through Brant's body.
Rebecca wants to leave Max
. It was like the universe and all of its stars and planets had shifted their alignment. When his brain started working again, he thought of a way that he could help her out. "What if I said I might have proof?" he answered slowly.

Bullfrog's head swiveled as he gave up all pretext of reading and looked at him directly.

"Like what?" Her hopeful tone plucked at him the same way her despondency had earlier.

Avoiding Bullfrog's wary stare, Brant cast an eye around to make certain no one else was near enough to overhear him. "Remember the account you told me about?"

"Yes."

"Well, I had Hack look into it for me," he murmured, just loud enough for Bullfrog to overhear. "It's a foreign account, Becca. We're not supposed to have any foreign accounts."

"Oh, my God," she breathed. "You weren't supposed to tell anyone else!"

He winced. "I didn't say it was Max's," he promised. "Hack just checked out the company for me."

"Oh. Okay." Her voice sounded a little shaky. "So having a foreign account means he's doing something wrong, right?"

"I don't know. Probably. He could get in trouble with the Navy. And what's he doing to make all that money? Do you have any idea?"

"No." He pictured her shaking her head. "Maybe that guy Tony has something to do with it."

"Has he shown up again?"

"I haven't seen him." She fell thoughtfully silent. "Thank you for checking on that for me, Bronco, but I really need to handle this on my own from now on."

"Are you sure you're up to it?" Not that he doubted her inner strength, but he'd seen her kowtow to Max's demands, and it was hard to picture her defying him.

"I don't know. I feel like I'm walking on eggshells," she admitted.

Her words sparked an immediate visceral response in him. Now he wanted to protect her, damn it. "Listen, I'm here for you," he said on a low note. Beside him, Bullfrog dropped his face into his hands and moaned.

"Thank you. I just... I can't involve you any more than I already have."

"It's okay," he assured her. "I don't mind. Call me whenever you feel like it."

"Thanks." But he could tell by her tone that she had no intention of calling him for anything. "I'll see you."

"Bye." There was the briefest pause, and then the line went dead. Hanging up, he looked over to find his friend slowly dragging his hands from his eyes.

Bullfrog's mouth formed a straight line. "Are you sure you should have told her?" he demanded.

Brant ignored him, pulling his sandwich out of the bag to unwrap it. The ocean breeze threatened to snatch away the wax paper.

"Do you really want to get the CO in trouble? He'll ruin your career if he finds out you encouraged her."

Brant took a huge bite of his sandwich as he considered his reply. "I have to help her," he said finally. "She's a friend."

"She's the CO's wife."

"No shit, really?" He took another huge bite. "Anyway, she's planning to leave him," he added few chews later.

He refrained from mentioning how much her announcement rattled him. On the one hand, he was delighted to hear that she'd decided to move on. Max wasn't worth the dirt on the soles of her dainty little shoes. On the other hand, her being single would complicate their friendship. Without Max between them, there'd be no clear boundaries, no reason for him to deny himself the pleasure of her company. So he could spend time with her—yay. But time together would inevitably deepen their affection on both sides, and Brant didn't do deep—
ever
. Sticking to superficial connections meant less risk of anyone getting hurt. Of all the women on earth whom Brant didn't want to hurt, Rebecca was
numero uno.

Bullfrog folded his arms over his chest and leaned back reflectively. "Max is never going to let her leave him," he predicted.

The words shook the bars of Brant's complacency. "What the hell choice does he have? If she wants to leave him, she can leave him," he insisted, taking a vicious bite out of his sandwich.

His friend turned his head and stared straight into Brant's eyes. "We're talking about Mad Max, Bronco. He only cares about what
he
wants, not the other way around. I'm telling you, from what I know of the man, he's going to make it impossible for her to leave."

Brant forced himself to swallow. "How is it impossible?" he quietly raged. "She goes to a lawyer, tells him about Max's foreign account, and she moves out."

"She can't prove Max has a foreign account. Does she even have an account number?" Bullfrog raised his eyebrows.

Brant took a quick sip of lemonade to clear the lump now stuck in his throat. "Christ, you're right." It was suddenly, horrifyingly apparent to him. "Max is going to make her life a living hell if she tries to leave him." With no more appetite to finish his sandwich, he wrapped up the rest and dropped it back in the bag. "I have to help her find the proof she needs."

Bullfrog groaned as he shook his head. "I have a really bad feeling about this."

"Don't do that." Brant pointed a warning finger at him. Bullfrog's intuitions never failed him. They were always right on target.

"I'm not doing anything. You're the one wanting to help her out."

"Yeah, except she doesn't want my help," he recalled, though he guessed that wasn't exactly the case. She was merely trying to keep his CO off his back. The truth was she was scared and rightly so. Considering the resistance she was bound to face in the form of Max's overwhelming resolve, he didn't envy her situation one bit. "I still need to help her," he insisted.

"Why? Do you plan on taking Max's place?"

The quiet question drew Brant's incredulous gaze. He glared at his friend. "Hell, no. I'm the last man she needs in her life. She deserves to be happy—don't you agree?"

"I agree," Bullfrog admitted with reluctance.

"Can you even think of a nicer, sweeter, more decent woman than Rebecca McDougal?"

A faraway look splintered his friend's hazel gaze. "Just one," he said, so softly Brant wasn't certain he had heard him right.

"I have to help her," he repeated.

"You know you said that three times," Bullfrog pointed out. His mouth quirked at one corner. "That's like a magical number. Now you're committed to it."

"I guess I am," Brant agreed with a tremor of excitement. He'd never walked away from a challenge in his life. As long as Rebecca ended up happy, he didn't care if Max hated him so much that he transferred him to the West Coast. This wasn't about his future; it was about hers.

* * *

Rebecca topped off her gas tank, enjoying the gusty breeze that penetrated the weave of her linen dress and invigorated her spirits.
I can do this,
she assured herself.

The reading at church that morning, taken from the Book of Jeremiah, had tipped the scales regarding her decision to leave Max.
For I know the plans I have for you, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future
.

She had decided in that inspired moment that she would leave Max soon—as soon as she could prove he was breaking the law. His foreign investment account would be her ticket to freedom. She would pass it by the lawyer she had arranged to meet on her day off.

Screwing the gas cap back on, she gazed over the top of her car just as Max's Tahoe roared past the station. Tension whipped through her, drawing tight the muscles along her back.

Where is he headed on a Sunday at noon?
she wondered. He had avoided attending church with her, citing the need to prepare for the coming work week, but Dam Neck Naval Base and the Special Ops building where he worked lay in the opposite direction.

Intuition whispered that he was up to something. Slipping into her car, Rebecca eased onto the road to follow him, keeping his SUV within sight while hanging back a quarter mile. Unlike his lumbering Tahoe, her silver Jetta blended easily into the sparse traffic.

A curve in the road took them north on Princess Anne Boulevard, in the direction of the hospital, but then Max's left turn signal blinked on. Bemused, Rebecca let him veer into the Virginia Beach Municipal Center without following him. She continued straight another block, turned left on Nimmo Drive, and backtracked toward the courthouse. But the parking lot stood empty. Where could Max have gone?

The fear of being seen by him had her gripping the steering wheel with damp hands as she drove deeper into the municipal center. At last, her gaze lit upon his Tahoe, parked in the deserted post office lot. And there was Max, hastening for the front doors. She quickly turned the other way to avoid being seen by him.

Why would Max make a trip to the post office on a Sunday, when the service desk was closed? Only the lobby with the automated teller and all the private mail boxes could be accessed on a Sunday.
Oh
. A sudden suspicion popped into her head.

Was it possible he was using her old mailbox key?

Her thoughts flew in a dozen different directions at once. She hadn't remembered to ask him about it the previous night. Had he renewed her rental without her even knowing? Why would he need another mailbox when he had a permanent address—unless, of course, he got mail he didn't want her knowing about... Just like he didn't want her knowing about his account with Emile Victor DuPonte.

A chill settled over her at the realization that she'd stumbled on yet another secret.

The urge to share it with Bronco rose up in her immediately. She tamped it down as she drove toward her home. Bronco didn't need to be told everything his commander was up to. It would only corrode the fabric of the Team's working relationship, which needed to stay strong in order for the task unit to function optimally.

I'm not going to involve him,
she swore to herself. She could investigate this matter personally. If she was lucky, she would find proof that Max was breaking the law, and then she'd be able to leave her marriage in the hopes that he would be convicted.

* * *

Max could feel his designer-label polo shirt sticking to his back as he darted into the post office. Even on a Sunday, when the place was deserted, coming here elevated his pulse, especially since he had started working for the mob. At first, he had kept Rebecca's old post office box in order to monitor her correspondence, making certain she didn't have any old flames he needed to be aware of. Later, it offered a convenient way for him to receive his subscription of
Hustler
magazine. Now the Scarpas used it to send him information.

They'd identified his first two targets this way. The first time, they'd sent him a copy of a wedding invitation for a wedding taking place at Town Point Park on the Norfolk waterfront the evening of May 23, along with photos of the man they claimed was a snitch. Max had shot him during the outdoor reception, from the vantage of his boat, anchored half a mile off shore, in the Elizabeth River.

For his second victim, they'd sent him a photo of a fat, balding man sunning on the deck of a sailboat. Max had recognized the marina where the sailboat was moored. By water, it wasn't all that far from where he lived. Since his getaway had been so clean the first time, he'd opted to kill his second target the same way, though it had made him nervous to repeat the same strategy.

This time, if he went through with the job, he'd change up his
modus operandi
. Problem was he might get stuck working for the mob indefinitely. He was beginning to see how they would make it difficult for him to stop, dangling increasingly larger rewards before him. He had caught himself envisioning his second home in Bermuda lately.

Crossing the empty lobby, Max inserted the key at #2850, pulled the little door open and stared in disappointment. The box stood empty.
Damn it
. Now he would have to return on a weekday and risk running into someone he knew.

Slamming the box shut, he locked it back up and skulked out of the post office.

Chapter 5