Hard Landing Read online

  The operations officer must have underestimated the winds whipping over the water in advance of the approaching hurricane. It was all the Black Hawk could do to punch through the gale and to carry them toward their destination. Brant could see it in the faces of his teammates made barely visible by the muted striplighting—doubt. They weren't exactly certain they would make it.

  Sam, more than anyone, sat still and stiff on the little seat that folded down, his mouth compressed in a resolute line. Haiku looked as if he were mouthing a prayer or one of his abstract sayings. Bullfrog had escaped into a deep meditative state. Only Halliday, a racecar driver in his former life, seemed totally at ease.

  Brant felt compelled to reassure his platoon leader. "We're good, sir!" He had to shout to be heard over the rotors and the howling wind.

  The welded pins that kept the Black Hawk in one piece strained and groaned as the hull flexed in the crosscurrents. They skidded through the sky—left, right, up, down.

  "I think we're through the worst of it," he added. Stretching out a hand, he touched Sam's knee. It was easy to understand that he must be thinking of his wife and new baby, perhaps wondering if he'd ever see them again. "Remember the ride through Khyber Pass three years ago? This is a walk in the park compared to that."

  On that particular mission, their helicopter had clipped a limestone overhang, causing it to spiral into a tailspin and crash-land in Taliban-controlled territory. Not a fun three days. Maybe he shouldn't have brought that up. "The point is we all survived. We'll get through this."

  "Ten clicks to the LZ," the pilot reported, reinforcing Brant's assertion.

  "See? We got this." No sooner had the words left his mouth than the Black Hawk pitched face down on an updraft. Brant's stomach vaulted into his mouth. The back end dropped just as suddenly, and he gritted his teeth to keep from losing his dinner. For the first time, doubt bloomed inside of him. Christ, they would be lucky if they made it ten more kilometers.

  Under normal circumstances, he'd be sitting in the open doorway, manning the mounted M60 machine gun, fending off surface-to-air missiles. That was standard operating procedure in Afghanistan. But no one knew about their little vacation in the Caribbean, so defense wasn't necessary at this juncture. Besides, if the cargo door stood open, their helo would be blown around like a hot air balloon.

  Turning to peer out the window, he sought any sign of land. Clouds surrounded them, and when he leaned close and looked straight down, all he could make out was the ocean, roiling fitfully below.

  "Power on the mainland is down," the pilot reported.

  That was good for the SEALs. The inhabitants of Havana had battened down the hatches and were braced to weather the storm. Ideally, they'd never notice the muted clatter of the stealth helicopter as it swept over them.

  Bam! The Black Hawk lurched sideways, nearly tipping over as a cross gale smashed into it.

  Brant tightened his grip on the harness that kept him in his seat. "Hooyah," he managed, fighting to stay positive. He could sense the pilots scrambling to bring their aircraft under control. It plunged earthward, at the mercy of a hundred-mile-an-hour gust.

  "Circling back to pass again."

  They'd missed their opportunity to land. Brant surprised himself by sending up a quick prayer. Please let me see Rebecca again.

  He glanced at Bullfrog, hoping his friend's visualization techniques were as effective as he claimed. Bullfrog once insisted that he could shape the outcome of events with only his thoughts.

  Brant directed his gaze through the window again. This time he caught a glimpse of palm trees swaying in the dark, each one bowed under the onslaught of the wind. And Hurricane Ishmael hadn't even arrived in earnest yet.

  Rooftops of the impoverished capital came into view next, and then they were skimming over a body of water that he guessed to be the Bay of Havana. The landing zone lay just beyond the head of the southernmost inlet.

  Almost there. We're going to make it.

  They dropped fifty feet, another twenty. Then the aircraft ceased its forward momentum. For a moment, it teetered uncertainly over what looked to be marshy terrain dotted by scrubby trees. With an ungainly clatter, they struck earth, first one wheel, then the other, nearly pitching over sideways. Then all movement ceased.

  The rotors sang a descending scale that mirrored the exhalations of the operators and the crew. Brant didn't envy the pilots their return trip home. He would much rather swim out to a sub in deep, undisturbed waters than make a ride like that again.

  "Let's go," Sam ordered in a tight voice.

  It was Brant's job to pull open the bay door. Sultry, wet air billowed in.

  Peering through his NVGs, he swept an assessing gaze around them. Not a soul in sight visible through his night vision goggles. Operation Rough Rider was still a go, and this was just the beginning of a near-impossible mission.

  Chapter 8

  Max felt the cellphone in his breast pocket vibrate, but he ignored it. He, Kuzinsky, and the remaining eight members of Echo Platoon hovered around the radio in the TOC, eager for news of a successful insertion. The last report to reach them had come from the pilots several minutes ago, relaying that the LZ was ten kilometers away. But they hadn't heard anything since.

  "Trust Buster to Rough Riders, do you copy?" Third-class Austin Collins, who manned the radio, repeated the hail for the fifth time. Everyone knew the Black Hawk ought to have landed by now. They ought to have heard something.

  Max took note of the tiny beads of sweat glistening on Kuzinsky's upper lip as he leaned over Collin's shoulder. The possibility that the helo hadn't made it to Cuba didn't disturb Max the way it did the master chief. He would have one less problem in his life if Brant Adams perished that very night.

  Their only answer was a steady hiss, rather like the roar of the wind and rain coming through the broken windows behind him. Hurricane Ishmael was skirting the southern coast of Puerto Rico on its way north to Cuba, but it was causing flooding and destruction, even in Vieques.

  "Keep trying," Max instructed, and Kuzinsky nudged Collins to key the radio again.

  Max's cell phone vibrated a second time.

  With every eye in the room glued to the handset, he lifted his android out of his breast pocket and stole a quick glance at the screen. The only people who knew his private number were Rebecca, Kuzinsky, and a couple of paramours whom he trusted to be discreet.

  We have your wife. The message, accompanied by a picture, hit him like a kick in the gut. At his stifled gasp, Kuzinsky glanced up.

  Max swiveled away from the group to scan the rest of the message, his horror rising. If you want her to stay alive, you'll take the job.

  The message came from a number he didn't recognize, but the New York area code leapt out at him. Tony was holding Rebecca hostage.

  Ah, so they hadn't liked his refusal to kill the FBI agent. Now the fucking Scarpas were twisting his arm, threatening to harm his wife. The sons of bitches! Look at her!

  Rage built within him like the winds whistling outside. She was sitting in the back of a car, wedged between two thugs, eyes glazed with panic and a gag over her mouth.

  He swallowed the sour taste in his mouth. They had him over a barrel.

  If he let them kill Rebecca, there would be a massive investigation. Law enforcement would probe into Max's business, possibly finding clues that linked him to the infamous Scarpas. Even if they didn't, people would gossip about him and speculate whether he had killed her. Besides, he was the only man with any right to determine her fate.

  Damn it. He had to tell them what they wanted to hear. But he couldn't let them think he was easily intimidated or they'd continue to exploit him. He needed to be the one who called the shots. With thumbs that shook with rage, he typed a return message.

  Double my deposit and let her go. Then you have my word.

  Hitting send, he suffered the sense that he had crossed an invisible line and could never go back again. Stuffing his phone in
to his pocket, he turned toward the radio just as it crackled to life. The roar of a brutal wind muffled the voice of First Class Special Petty Officer Chuck Suzuki.

  "Rough Riders to Trust Buster," Haiku shouted. The half- Japanese SEAL, who handled Echo Platoon's communications, displayed unflappable self-control at all times. "We're in position and waiting for go time."

  Every man in the room aside from Max uttered an exclamation of relief.

  "Copy that," Kuzinsky replied, his face cracking into a rare smile. "Doppler says you have about twelve hours until the storm reaches its peak."

  "Roger. Any updates?"

  Kuzinsky flicked an inquiring glance at Max, who shook his head. "Not on this end, Rough Riders. Stay the course, and we'll see you all in thirty-six hours or less."

  Haiku said several words that the wind snatched away. "Over and out," he added, and then the line went quiet.

  Max ordered Collins and his teammate to remain by the radio. "Get some sleep," he suggested to Kuzinsky. Sensing that man's dark gaze on him, he turned and exited the room.

  Tomorrow night, with the storm unleashing havoc on the island, the Rough Riders would proceed with their mission. Meanwhile, back in Virginia Beach, Rebecca would require his reassurance, assuming that Tony had agreed to his demands. There'd been no answering text from him yet.

  Resentment flared in Max when he realized she must have given Tony his number. What did he expect—that she would sacrifice herself to keep his number secret? Only a SEAL would be that noble.

  Traversing a narrow hallway under lights that flickered, Max located the door to his self-appointed quarters. He shut himself inside, flipping on the bare lightbulb before drawing the curtains. Then he threw himself down on his neatly made cot and waited. Every muscle in his brawny body remained rigid until, at last, his phone vibrated.

  Deal, Tony replied. Screw with us again and your wife won't be so lucky next time.

  A surge of power curled Max's upper lip. Did Tony think his threat actually scared him? Hardly. He'd given in with laughable ease, which told Max he'd had no intention of harming Rebecca in the first place—that would cost him his new ace assassin. Max had more flexing power than he'd realized. He went suddenly lightheaded.

  What if the sky was the limit and he could command whatever payment he desired? That home in Bermuda that he dreamed of didn't seem so out-of-reach anymore.

  After he killed Special Agent Castle, making it look like an accident, the Scarpas would consider him indispensable. He would rise straight to the top of the pecking order, exactly as he had with his military career.

  I am lord of my destiny, he marveled.

  * * *

  Rebecca sat unmoving in her driver's seat. Making use of her mirrors, she followed the taillights of the BMW with her eyes until they turned and disappeared from view. The flex cuffs had been cut from her wrists and ankles. They'd never put the gag back on. And now they'd let her go.

  But Tony's parting words still echoed in her head, keeping her breaths shallow.

  Next time you won't be so lucky. The lewd glint in his dark gaze as it trekked down her body had struck terror into her heart.

  There won't be a next time, she vowed to herself. Groping for her purse, which still sat on the seat next to her, she located her new cell phone. Her first impulse was to call the police, to relay everything that had happened, including Max's involvement. But Tony's threat kept her from punching in 9-1-1.

  Her thoughts went to Bronco. He would know what to do, except that he was on an op with Max, and his safety depended on him focusing and having no outside distraction, not to mention on his ability to trust his leader. She didn't dare upset their working relationship—not during a critical mission.

  Who else? Maddy had a baby to care for and didn't want to hear about Rebecca's marital problems. Rebecca's mother would be sympathetic, of course, but she would insist Rebecca fly out to Hawaii, and her lawyer had advised her over the phone not to leave the state or it would really look like she'd deserted Max.

  The only thing she could do right now was to drive straight to her new apartment and pray that Tony and his goons didn't follow her. He hadn't made mention of her moving. Perhaps he hadn't realized she'd been packing up with the intention of leaving.

  Once at her new apartment, she would immediately make a sketch of Tony from her memory of the thug's face. The gift of drawing that had helped her pay her way through nursing school would come in handy when she worked up the courage to approach the Naval Criminal Investigative Service about Max's suspicious activities.

  One thing she would not do was to call her husband and reassure him of her safety. It was his fault she'd been assaulted by those goons in the first place, even if his cooperation had resulted in her freedom. Not only that, but she didn't want Max knowing her new cell phone number. She'd surrendered her old phone when she'd gotten the new one.

  If Max assumed, when he couldn't reach her, that the Scarpas had taken her, then that was his problem. He deserved to be shaken up after what he'd just put her through.

  * * *

  Searing pain exploded in Brant's cheek as a component flying out from the compromised antenna box smashed into his face as it went sailing off the building. Damn it! He peeled off his glove to assess the damage and came away with blood-soaked fingers. The cut was deep, and the blow had left his head ringing.

  Sam skidded across the roof toward him, propelled by the steady hundred-mile-an-hour wind. He grabbed Brant to catch himself and peered with concern at his injury.

  "You all right?" he shouted.

  "It's only a cut," Brant bellowed back. Digging into his pack, he produced a square of gauze and tape, slapping the bandage over the laceration and holding it there with two large, sticky strips. But he could feel the blood welling up and soaking through the pad instantly.

  Even a small cut at this juncture could have serious consequences. They'd slogged their way to the listening station, climbed to the top, and decimated the antenna boxes. Thus far, the mission was a rousing success. Sam's frown of concern told him he was thinking of the upcoming three-mile swim out to the submarine.

  Sam gestured to the others. It was time to go, before someone came to look for the two guards Brant had shot in the head fifteen minutes earlier.

  Still dazed by the blow and feeling more and more lightheaded, Brant began the perilous descent back down the pipes. An unexpected regret accompanied him as he slid down the rough cylinder and landed with a splash in four feet of water. He couldn't believe he'd never even kissed Rebecca. What if he didn't make it back? What if he never got the chance?

  Don't think that way. Bullfrog had convinced him that negative thoughts resulted in negative outcomes. Their luck had held out thus far. He was going to make it back. And when he did, he would kiss Rebecca soundly, regardless of the consequences.

  * * *

  Agitation needled Max's skin, compelling him to pace the temporary operations command.

  Blue skies filled the broken panes of the windows where a fresh ocean breeze and the calls of tropical birds conveyed the fact that the storm was long over. A hot sun beamed down from where the clouds had seethed and roiled just thirty-six hours earlier. The puddles of water Max had been stepping over in his circuit of the chamber were steadily shrinking.

  Puerto Rico had weathered the storm with minimal destruction and casualties. But Cuba hadn't fared so well, and the fate of the Rough Riders remained a complete unknown.

  Of the three other men in the room—Kuzinsky and two junior petty officers—only the master chief even dared to look at Max as he continued his orbit around the silent radio. No doubt he attributed his leader's seething tension to the fact that the submarine, waiting at the appointed coordinates, reported no contact with the Rough Riders as of yet. Whether they were living or dead, whether they'd succeeded or failed in their mission, no one knew.

  Given Kuzinsky's grim expression, the Rough Riders were history. But optimism still shone in the f
aces of the younger SEALs who sat before the radio. As for Max, he wasn't even thinking about his men.

  It was, in fact, the voiced recording that Rebecca's phone number was no longer in service that had him pacing like a caged lion.

  He hadn't heard a word from her since Tony Scarpa had sought to blackmail him. Tony's last text had implied that they'd let Rebecca go, but if that was the case, then why wasn't her phone in service? Max had considered calling Tony directly, now that he had his number, but direct communication with a mob member wasn't smart. Plus, asking Tony about his own wife would weaken Max's image.

  The uncertainty elevated his blood pressure. Growing hot in the warm room, he wrenched off his BDU jacket and cast it aside. The sub couldn't wait indefinitely for the Rough Riders to appear. If it didn't report contact in the next two hours, he was going to instigate a search and rescue mission.

  The Joint Special Operations Task Force awaited an update. There'd been no word on the squad's status since they were dropped off in Havana forty-eight hours earlier. In retrospect, it seemed ludicrous to have dumped eight SEALs into the midst of such a storm and expect them to accomplish an already difficult task. But ludicrous was what they did and what they always succeeded at doing.

  Max flicked a glance at his watch. "Collins, check the satellite images," he barked. The sooner he could proceed with a search and rescue, the sooner he could attend to his pressing business at home.

  "Yes, sir." Collins swung away from the radio to download the latest satellite view of Havana Harbor.

  Max and Kuzinsky stepped toward the monitor for a closer look.

  "Holy hell," the master chief breathed. Only a few houses in Barrio de la Regla still had roofs. Those without a covering looked like rectangular swimming pools all filled with water and debris.

  "The station is still standing," Max noted. "I want a close-up of the rooftop." He fully expected to see the antenna boxes lining the roof as before. When he didn't immediately see them, he frowned and leaned in closer.