Hard Landing Page 21

  Without Adams' corrupting influence, Rebecca would certainly see the error of her ways. She would soon come back to Max. He would entertain no other outcome.

  His cell phone, skipping on the glass desktop, pulled him from his dark thoughts. He snatched it up, his hopes soaring as he recognized the number. "Yes, Master Chief?"

  "Sir, I have... disheartening news."

  He held his breath, anticipating the words he longed to hear. "Go ahead."

  "Chief Adams succumbed to heart failure at zero eight hundred hours this morning."

  Max drove a fist into the air in silent triumph. Yes! "My God, that's terrible," he said out loud. He breathed once, twice, three times into the phone as if fighting his shock. "I guess I'm needed at the hospital to sign forms and claim the body?"

  "No, sir. I've taken care of that. But you could call the mortuary affairs office so they can notify his family. According to his reenlistment papers, Adams wanted to be cremated. I'll arrange for that. If you could call the base chapel and fix a date for a memorial service, I'll follow up with the details."

  "Absolutely," Max replied, grateful to Kuzinsky for doing so much legwork—though he would have liked to have seen the corpse for himself. "You think maybe a midweek service?" The mob was pressuring him to kill Castle by Friday.

  "Midweek sounds perfect, sir. Sorry to be the harbinger of bad news."

  "It happens. Adams was a solid sniper." He forced himself to say a kind word or two. "It'll be hard to replace him."

  "Yes, sir, it will."

  Max hung up, pushed his chair back, and surged to his feet with renewed optimism. He hoped Rebecca would be open to his consolation. If she let him, he could be her pillar of strength the way he'd been at the start of their relationship. Just as he picked up his phone again, the doorbell chimed.

  Who could that be? With a mutter of annoyance, he stalked through his great room to the foyer and peeked through the little window next to the door.

  The lean, weathered face of the man standing on his front stoop stripped the air from his lungs. Christ Almighty, what was Special Agent Doug Castle doing here?

  Recovering his poise as quickly as possible, he opened the door with what he hoped was an inquiring smile. "Yes?"

  Bright blue eyes—that oddly enough reminded him of Adams'—searched Max's face. "Commander McDougal?"

  "That's me."

  "Sorry to bother you." The man displayed the badge clipped to his belt loop. "Special Agent Castle, FBI. I require your cooperation in an ongoing investigation. Do you have a minute?"

  "Uh..." Panic put a momentary vise on Max's tongue. "Sure." Pulling himself together, he invited the man inside.

  The FBI agent joined him in the foyer while looking around. "Nice place," he said. "I noticed your lot is on the water. Do you get out boating much?"

  Max reeled. That had to be a leading question. "From time to time," he hedged.

  "You're on Rudee Inlet, right? So you've got access to the ocean?"

  "Yes." A cold sweat bathed his pores.

  "So you have your own boat." It wasn't a question. The man would have seen his boathouse from the driveway. "I'm an avid fisherman myself," Castle continued, "Maybe you'll take me out one day." He flashed Max a friendly smile, diminishing his concern that the man was toying with him.

  Max managed a careless shrug. "How can I help you?" he prodded.

  "Oh, yes. I'm investigating a couple of homicides that took place this past year. I hope you're not offended, but you fit the description of the perp."

  Max forced a smile. "How's that?"

  "It's simple. You're one of the ninety-six Special Forces snipers who can hit a mark from a distance of half a mile, from the water no less." He drew an index card and pen from his left breast pocket.

  Max gave a snort of derision. "Sounds like you're looking for a needle in a haystack."

  "No doubt I am, so I'll keep my questions brief. What kind of boat do you own?"

  Max refused to let the question rattle him. He had blacked out all identifying stickers both nights before taking his boat out. "It's a 32-foot Carver with a cabin."

  The man scribbled on his index card. "Old school," he said, mocking himself. "I can't make myself use an iPad." He looked Max straight in the eye. "Can you vouch for your whereabouts on the nights of May 23 and July 6 of this past year?"

  Max snorted. "I'm supposed to remember those dates?"

  Castle shrugged. "Check your calendar," he suggested.

  "Who were the victims?" Max asked as he pulled his phone from his pocket and accessed his calendar. "Where did these murders take place?"

  "I'm afraid that's classified."

  Max frowned up at him. "I have a top-security clearance."

  "With the Department of the Navy." Castle smiled sympathetically. "That's not the same as DOJ."

  With a grunt, Max accessed the calendar on his phone and scrolled to May 23. "I was stateside on the first date." He moved to July 6. "And also on the second. I would have been working on Dam Neck at the Spec Ops building by day and home at night."

  "Could your wife attest to that?" Castle peered down the hallway as if looking for a woman.

  The man had to be mocking him, but how could he know that Rebecca had moved out? "She could if she were here," he said shortly. "But I can prove I was home even without her statement. Follow me." He swiveled toward the garage, gesturing for Castle to trail him through the great room.

  On their way through the kitchen and the laundry room, it occurred to Max that he could kill his mark, right here, right now, and get it over with. Adrenaline stormed his bloodstream. There'd be no witnesses. His cameras weren't running.

  But there was a chance that his pool man might overhear something. Plus, his nosey neighbor might have seen Castle enter Max's house. No, there was simply too much left to chance, and impulsive kills went against Max's grain.

  "Watch your step," he said, opening the door to the garage and inviting Castle to precede him into the shadowy chamber.

  "What's in there?" Castle asked, putting his hands on his hips. The gleaming butt of a Magnum peeked out from the holster under his arm.

  Max took due note. "My security system." Flicking on the lights, he crossed to the black box mounted on the wall. Opening the panel, he stepped back to show Special Agent Castle the fancy components. "Every night, I arm this baby. If any door or window opens, an alarm sounds, the police are notified, plus I get an alert on my cell phone. If that's not enough of a deterrent, I've got motion sensing cameras that send videos to my phone. The system keeps a log. Let's see what happens when I look up those dates you mentioned."

  He'd saved every bit of data since the date of installation. "May 23 was it?"

  "Yes." Castle eyed him curiously as he opened the app on his phone and sifted through the data.

  "On that date, the alarm was armed at 8:36 PM. No exterior doors were opened. I went to the kitchen for a snack at zero three thirty hours, then went straight back to bed. The pattern is similar on July 6."

  The special agent glanced from his phone to his face. "What about your wife? She doesn't get up at night?"

  "Not to leave the room. We have an en suite." He didn't add that Rebecca took melatonin at night and consequently slept like a log.

  "Is there much crime in the area?" the man inquired, looking around him.

  "Not too much. I merely like to secure my possessions." Max sent him a tight smile. "Same way I keep my country secure," he added, with innuendo.

  "Your service is much appreciated," Castle assured him. To Max's bemusement, he closed the panel on the security box, his gaze resting on the company logo. "Well, I've wasted enough of your time." He stuck out a hand and Max automatically shook it, wishing his palm wasn't so moist. "Thank you for your cooperation, Commander. I'll check you off my list."

  "You do that," Max encouraged.

  Castle took note of the side door. "Might as well go out this way," he suggested. "Oh, take my card." He dre
w a business card from his breast pocket and handed it to Max. "If you can think of a Special Forces sniper who would sell his soul to the devil, be sure to call me," he added, edging around Max's Tahoe.

  The words were like barbs sliding under Max's skin. He trailed the man wordlessly toward the exit.

  "Whoa, is this a Ferrari?" Castle had run into the kit car.

  "No, it's called a Roy Kelly. The components are all Porsche," Max boasted.

  "You've got some nice toys, Commander. Don't blame you for wanting to protect them." With those parting words, Doug Castle unlocked the garage from the inside and let himself out.

  Max trailed him outside and watched him climb into his unremarkable pickup truck. The man lifted a hand in farewell, backed carefully out of the driveway, and drove away.

  What the hell was that about?

  For a long while, Max stood staring up the road where the pickup disappeared. How could the FBI possibly suspect his involvement? The angle of the shots and the muzzle flashes could have given away his location, but no one had been close enough to see him. Someone might have had a camera and taken a picture, but what details could have been captured on a night so dark and from such a distance? The only evidence out there was on the laptop he couldn't seem to lay hold of.

  It had to be as the special agent had said—he was one of ninety-six men capable of making either kill. That fact, alone, wasn't nearly enough to implicate him.

  * * *

  Rebecca stared sightlessly at the two small pills Bullfrog pressed into her palm.

  "Take these," he urged. "They'll help you sleep while I'm gone."

  Her distraught mind scarcely registered the fact that they were her own melatonin tablets, extremely mild compared to what she longed for—something that would put her in an unconscious state, indefinitely. Uncurling from the ball in which she'd lain for God-knew-how long, she accepted the cup of water to her mouth and swallowed both tablets obediently.

  "Where are you going?" she asked.

  He sat on the edge of the bed next to her. "The platoon is having a bonfire," he reminded her, sorrowfully.

  "That's right." He had told her about the bonfire a couple of hours earlier, only she'd forgotten. Nothing seemed to matter anymore. With Bronco dead, the entire world could go up in a bonfire and then crumble into cinder, and she wouldn't lift a finger to stop it.

  "I'd invite you to come with me, but it's a sort of team ritual. We honor our fallen brother..." His voice cracked, and he averted his face to keep her from witnessing his grief.

  In the back of her mind, Rebecca knew he needed comforting as much as she did. But despair had sucked all the strength from her body, leaving her, for once in her life, too apathetic to see to someone else's needs. All she could do was raise a hand slightly toward his shoulder, barely making contact with him, before she let it fall again.

  "I need you to lock the door behind me," he reminded her.

  She let him pull her to her feet and trailed him to the door on spongy knees.

  "If the doorbell rings, don't answer it," he advised as he stepped outside.

  She blinked in surprise at the brilliant sunset—a burnished color similar to the highlight in Bronco's hair. It took her aback that the sky could look so glorious after such a hideous occurrence.

  "I'll check on you tomorrow." Bullfrog grimaced. "Unfortunately, I have to report to work, but you should call in sick."

  She hadn't given a thought to her job. He was probably right. In her distraught state, she'd be no good to anyone at the hospital and could be a downright risk.

  "I'll stop by as soon as I get off, all right? Make sure you eat something."

  She sent him a faint nod, her stomach rebelling at the thought of food.

  As he turned and climbed into his Jeep, Rebecca shut the door, locking both the deadbolt and the handle. Feeling like an alien in someone else's body, she turned and plodded to her room, where a fresh wave of grief crashed over her.

  The racking sobs that shook her gave proof that she wasn't as dead as she felt. Only Bronco was dead, and Max had killed him—all because she'd naively involved him in Max's illicit activities.

  I will never, ever forgive myself.

  * * *

  "Here is some money."

  Brant looked over at Maya Schultz, who was holding out a folded wad of cash. Her voice, scratchy with fatigue, echoed off the metal walls of the dome-shaped hangar they'd just entered. Creeds Naval Outer Landing Field in Pungo had been decommissioned after WWII, but it was still apparently used by the Virginia Beach police and their affiliated pilots, as evidenced by the two fixed-wing aircraft standing behind them. Special Agent Doug Castle had enlisted one such pilot to fly Brant out of the area that night.

  "Take it," Maya insisted, as he continued to ignore her offering. "We cover all the costs associated with witness protection. Plus, it's going to be a long trip home. You'll need it."

  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.