Hard Landing Read online

  Making up his mind, he headed for the door right as a dark sedan turned the corner. The pilot had arrived in a police cruiser.

  "Sonofabitch." Brant ducked back into the hangar, spotted a door on the far side of the building, and made his way swiftly toward it.

  Without being spotted, he slipped out the back, hurrying as fast as his weak legs allowed toward the cover of nearby woods. Not a sound followed him into the forest of stunted evergreens. Pine needles crackled under his tennis shoes as he threaded his way through the trees. Feeble rays of sunlight showed him where to go, but it would soon be dark. He teased his phone from his pocket and accessed his map application, pinpointing his whereabouts in relation to Master Chief Kuzinsky's fixer-upper.

  Brant might be as helpless as a kitten and perilously lightheaded at the moment, but for Rebecca's sake, he could walk as far as it took to find asylum. Luckily that was only three miles or so. Kuzinsky would probably chew him up one side and down the other, but he would respect Brant's decision to stay and, more importantly, he would help him protect Rebecca.

  * * *

  The second layer of silvery green paint provided the coverage that Rusty was looking for. He didn't want to have to paint all these rooms again, anytime soon. If everything went according to plan, he'd be too busy in his retirement to do any more home improvements.

  Applying the roller in smooth up-and-down strokes, he paused to slide the spotlight over on the floor so he could see what he was doing. The light fixture overhead hadn't been updated and provided only a pale glow, and the windows in the room were still covered with clapboard, the new windows due any day.

  As he worked his way along the wall, he thought of the men in Echo Platoon, presently gathered around a bonfire, lamenting Brant Adams' passing, and probably wondering why their master chief hadn't put in his usual appearance.

  He didn't want to see his boys suffering for no reason. He'd only agreed to this charade because if Mad Max was as crooked as NCIS and the FBI believed, then Bronco was better off dead, or at least safely hidden on a ranch in Idaho. He ought to be halfway there by now.

  A furtive tapping at Rusty's front door suspended his rolling. Why would anyone approach that door when it stood behind a partition of yellow caution tape? The porch could crumble at any moment. It had to be one of the birds nesting under the eaves pecking at the rotten wood in search of termites. He drew the roller the rest of the way down the wall.

  The tapping came again, and this time there was no mistaking its human source. Or was it possibly one of the ghosts that haunted Rusty's dreams?

  He eyed the boarded window as he lowered the roller into the tray of paint. Having no way to see outside, his imagination ran amuck. Why stop at one ghost? Why not a horde of disfigured operators standing in his front yard like zombies demanding to know why he hadn't managed to save any of them?

  He thrust aside the ludicrous image and approached the door with his senses heightened. He put his mouth to the crack and asked, "Who is it?"

  Someone panted out an answer in the form of a whisper. The sound of ragged breathing reached Rusty's ears. He reached slowly for the blade strapped to his calf. Unlike so many of his teammates who preferred to carry a pistol, Rusty opted for the versatility of a Gerber blade. The weapon complemented his short stature, giving him an instant advantage in any hand-to-hand encounter. Gripping it expertly in his right hand, he slowly unbolted the door with his left.

  The knob turned on its own, and the panel swung abruptly open. Alarmed, Rusty went to block it, but the brilliant blue gaze of the intruder made him instantly recognizable, and he let him in. Chief Adams staggered over the threshold, nearly impaling himself on Rusty's weapon as he threw an arm around his master chief's neck to keep from hitting his knees.

  "Bronco, what the hell are you doing here?"

  Rusty staggered. Adams, who outweighed him by fifty pounds, held onto him like a man drowning at sea. They both went down. The Gerber blade skidded across the hardwood as they landed in a heap in the entryway.

  Rusty stretched out a foot and kicked the door shut.

  Chapter 17

  Brant awoke to the smell of bacon and the first suggestion of daylight shining through a bare but pristine window. Jerking to one elbow, it took him several seconds to realize where he was—in one of the upper bedrooms in Kuzinsky's farmhouse. The bed he lay in might have been original to the early twentieth-century home. Springs squeaked as he sat up and put his bare feet to the floor. He was still wearing the clothes Maya had given him, though the contents from his pockets were now on the bedside table.

  Snatching up his phone, he was not surprised to see four missed calls from Maya Schultz, along with a text that made him wince. She had vowed to flay him alive the next time they met. Stowing it in his back pocket, along with the wad of money, he headed for the stairs.

  Master Chief stood at the sink in his kitchen, washing the pan he'd recently used. Dressed in his work BDUs, he turned at Brant's entrance, ran an assessing gaze over him, and turned the water off. "Help yourself," he said, gesturing to the plate of bacon and toast on the table.

  The gnawing in Brant's belly urged him to accept the offer. He dropped into a chair and dug in. Kuzinsky brought him a glass of orange juice. "Thank you," he said between bites.

  The master chief then occupied the seat across from him and watched him eat. "Ready to talk?" he asked, when Brant polished off the last strip of bacon, licking his fingers for good measure.

  "Yeah. Sorry, I was wiped out last night."

  "Obviously. Why are you here?"

  The terse question conveyed aggravation, yes, but also a tinge of respect. Brant cast around for the best way to explain himself. "Would you leave if it was you?" he finally asked.

  Kuzinsky blinked. "Probably not," he admitted.

  "I need your help. The mob went after Rebecca once already. I have a really bad feeling that they'll come after her again."

  "Then you came back to protect her?"

  "Right," Brant affirmed.

  "How are you going to do that when you're supposed to be dead?"

  Brant shrugged. "I was hoping you could help me figure that out. Is my Bronco in your garage?"

  "You can't drive that. You'd be recognized in a heartbeat."

  "Not if I sell it."

  Surprise registered widened the master chief's dark eyes. "Holy Christ," he exclaimed.

  Brant wasn't used to seeing emotion on the man's face. "What?"

  "Let me get this straight. You'd sell your truck for a woman?"

  Brant's own surprise rose before he dismissed it with a shrug. "Well, yeah. But Rebecca's not just any woman, and I need a van. Something I can hide inside."

  Kuzinsky considered him a moment longer. "You can borrow my dad's old delivery truck. It's in the garage along with your Bronco."

  "You sure? Does it run?"

  "Runs okay, if you don't drive too fast." Kuzinsky got up from his chair, crossed to a drawer, and pulled out a set of keys, which he tossed across the room.

  Brant caught them. Touched that Kuzinsky would trust him with something of his father's, he said, "Thanks. I'll be careful with it."

  The master chief cut a critical look at his attire. "You'll need to change your appearance." He nodded at the orange juice. "Drink that, then follow me."

  Intrigued, Brant downed the contents of his glass before standing to follow his leader up the creaking stairs to another of what seemed to be countless bedrooms. Kuzinsky flipped on the light, revealing a hodgepodge of mismatched furniture. He crossed to an old maple chest and lifted the lid. "These clothes were my father's."

  Recalling that Kuzinsky, Sr. had died the previous winter and his son had taken a week of leave to close his estate in Orange, New Jersey, Brant peered into the chest, seeing several pairs of neatly folded, brown coveralls.

  "Tata delivered produce," Kuzinsky explained, using what Brant assumed was the Polish word for father. "He worked from dawn to dusk, every day of
his life, until he dropped dead."

  Brant didn't know what to say. Maybe that explained the rumor that the master chief was planning to retire soon. He didn't want to do what his father had done and work up to the day he died. He reached into the chest and pulled out a brown hat with a large bill that read Garden Grown on the logo.

  The master chief handed him a pair of silver-framed glasses. "The prescription's not too strong. Try them on," he invited.

  Brant put on the hat and glasses together. Kuzinsky's father had been slightly nearsighted, but the lenses didn't distort his vision too badly.

  Kuzinsky nodded his approval. "Good. Now trim your hair, don't shave, and no one will recognize you. That's all I can do for you today. I'm late for work."

  "This is plenty. Thanks, Master Chief." As the other man turned away, Brant studied his reflection in an old mirror and marveled at how different he looked.

  Kuzinsky paused at the door. "You need anything else?"

  Brant remembered his pistol. "Is my Sig Sauer still under the seat in my truck?"

  "I haven't moved it." Kuzinsky headed for the door. "Help yourself to whatever you need, and try to stay out of trouble."

  His tone implied that trouble was pretty much inevitable.

  Brant listened to him walk downstairs and exit his home via the back of the house. Seconds later, he glimpsed a familiar Toyota Camry disappearing up the dirt driveway. Sliding a hand into his pocket, he pulled out his phone.

  Becca. The urge to call her rode him like a determined rodeo rider. Maya had warned him that Max needed to believe he was dead. Rebecca's knowing the truth might possibly jeopardize their game of cat and mouse. For now, Brant would respect Maya's wishes.

  He regretfully set his phone down. Dropping the baggy pair of jeans he wore, he reached into the chest and pulled out a pair of brown coveralls. Fortunately, Kuzinsky, Sr. hadn't been as vertically challenged as his son. Tossing the uniform over his shoulder, he went hunting for a bathroom and a pair of scissors with which to cut his hair.

  * * *

  Rebecca eased into her Jetta and sat for a minute, her hand on her car keys, trying to remember where she was headed. Oh, yes, to discuss what had happened to Bronco with Maya Schultz. Compressing her lips into a determined line, she started up her engine. Bronco's death would not go unatoned, she vowed. She would make certain Max paid for his hideous crimes.

  The sound of her own ragged breathing brought her out of her churning thoughts. Focus. She was a danger to herself and others driving in her present condition. Her sleep had been intermittent at best and filled with horrific dreams. She'd spent her waking hours unable to work, unable to eat, and ignoring her mother's worried phone calls.

  With a sharp exhale, she depressed the clutch, toggled her shifter into reverse, and peered over her shoulder. The jangling of her cell phone halted her progress, even as it startled her overly taut nerves. She glanced down at her purse and decided to answer the call, in case it was Maya, canceling their appointment.

  "Hello?"

  "Is this Rebecca?"

  The voice sounded vaguely familiar. "Yes, it is."

  "Hey, this is TJ from the morgue at the hospital. Sandy gave me your number. I hope that's okay."

  "Yeah, sure."

  "So, you wanted me to tell you when John Doe's body was claimed? I came in this morning, and it's gone. Some family member came in yesterday while Fritz was working and took him home."

  "Oh, that's good," she said, trying to muster some enthusiasm, but all she could think of was that Bronco's body would have been down in that morgue, too, where someone from the team must have come to collect him. Bullfrog had told her his body would be cremated, and sent home to Montana following a memorial here. He'd wanted his ashes scattered on a mountaintop. "Thanks for letting me know."

  "No problem." TJ hesitated. "Hey, is everything okay?"

  "Not really. I'm sorry, but I have to go." She hung up quietly and put her phone back in her purse, before backing up.

  A sense of vulnerability assailed her as she exited her apartment complex. The worry that Tony and his henchmen were keeping a close eye on her had grown into an abiding certainty. Since the break-in the other day, she hadn't felt safe inside of her apartment, let alone driving around by herself. With Bronco now dead, she might well be the next one to die, especially if the mob realized what Max was probably starting to suspect: that she had turned his laptop over to the authorities.

  Surprisingly, even though life held very little appeal for her at that moment, she refused to become Max or the mob's next target. They were not going to win this fight, she vowed, gripping her steering wheel with white-knuckled hands.

  The memory of Bronco's infectious smile tore a sob from her chest. She caught it back, struggling to keep tears from blurring her vision as she drove along the busy streets toward Oceana Naval Air Station. The heavy traffic required her concentration. She edged into the right lane, letting a pushy red Volvo race around her. In her rearview mirror, a shiny black BMW mirrored her adjustment.

  Her pulse ticked upward as she stared back at it. Were her fears manifesting, or was Tony and his posse following her? There was one sure way to find out. Checking her blind spot first, she shot out of the right lane and accelerated as quickly as her 2.5 liter engine allowed.

  Forty-five. Fifty-five. Sixty-five. If she were pulled over now, she'd be cited for reckless driving.

  To her horror, sunlight glanced off the sunroof of the BMW as it moved into the center lane, increasing speed to close the gap between them.

  "Oh God." Not again.

  It was Tony. She was sure of it. The Scarpa family was stalking her, which meant they knew she was on to Max's dealings with them. Her days were numbered.

  Suddenly, a third vehicle, a brown delivery van, caught her attention as it cut off another car to keep pace with the sedan. Now three vehicles were flying up Oceana Boulevard at well over the speed limit. Did the van belong to the mob, too? Rebecca wondered. Maybe they were planning to box her in somewhere, toss her in the van, and drive off with her.

  Relief shuddered through her at the sight of Oceana Naval Air Station coming up on her left. She edged her speed even higher, waiting until the last instant to whip into the turn lane. She took advantage of a break in the oncoming traffic to peel into the entrance. The driver of the BMW started to follow her, realized she was heading into a military installation, and made a correction. The van showed no sign of turning in either.

  Glancing over her shoulder, Rebecca sought a glimpse of the van's driver. The air surged back into her lungs. Even wearing a hat and glasses, he looked just like Bronco!

  Tears swarmed her eyes at the cruel circumstances. Letting her foot off the gas, she slowed to a stop at the guard house, lowered her window, and handed the MP her dependent ID.

  He glowered down at her over the tops of his sunglasses. "Ma'am, you need to decrease your speed."

  "Yes, I know." She sent him a distracted nod. "I'm sorry. I'm safe now."

  He frowned in puzzlement, glancing into her back seat as he handed her back her ID. "Is everything okay?"

  Everyone seemed to be asking her that lately.

  "Not really." Offering up the same answer she'd given TJ, she put her car into gear and proceded toward the NCIS building, her speed far more subdued.

  * * *

  Brant used his cell phone to video record the BMW as he drove past it. Icy incredulity had ambushed him when he'd caught sight of it peeling out of a parking lot to follow Rebecca up Bonnie Road ten minutes earlier. Before that, he had thought himself the only one keeping an eye on her. The fact that the mob was tailing her confirmed his worst fears.

  He'd hung back a healthy distance, letting the driver of the BMW think he was the only one in pursuit. After Rebecca turned in to the air base, Brant decided he could overtake the sedan without endangering her.

  As he'd intended, the driver took note of his aggressive driving. Through the tinted glass, a broad-faced m
an shot him a dirty look. Brant gave him ample time to notice the cell phone pointed in his direction. A figure in the back seat lurched forward and gestured to the driver. Brant dropped his phone in his lap and flipped them both the bird before speeding past. The driver predictably accelerated, pursuing him, just as he'd hoped he would.

  "Come and pick on someone your own size," he invited.

  There'd been only two men in the car. Following a good night's sleep, he was confident he could handle two opponents, regardless of how much firepower they had, regardless of their tactics. After all, Rebecca's well-being hung in the balance.

  Brant frustrated the driver's intent to pass him. Without warning, the BMW crossed the double yellow line, breaking into the oncoming lane and unsettling an approaching driver so badly that she veered off the road and smashed into a ditch.

  Crash!

  "You crazy fuck!" Brant exclaimed, moving immediately into the right lane before the mobster killed somebody.

  The sedan slid along next to him, its fender mere inches from Brant's driver's-side door. Glancing over, Brant made out a face pressed against the back window, sending him a hard stare. Confident that the hat and spectacles concealed his features, he stared back. There wasn't any question that the man glaring at him resembled Rebecca's sketch of Tony Scarpa, identified by NCIS as the oldest son and heir to the notorious crime family.

  "Come and get me, asshole," he invited, mouthing the words clearly.

  Several seconds elapsed as he waited for the mobsters to try to force him off the road. His vehicle was bigger, but theirs was better built, and they couldn't ask for a more convenient place to do it. He'd get stuck in the grassy ditch and be forced to stop. And then the real fun would begin. But the man in the rear seat sat back, and the sedan sailed right past him. With a puff of exhaust, it pulled away so swiftly that Brant didn't even bother trying to keep up.

  Frustration burned the backs of his eyeballs as he watched the vehicle put more and more distance between them. Looking for the first safe place to pull over, he swerved onto a utility road and came to a stop. As his overheated engine cooled, he forwarded the video he'd taken of the mobsters to Maya's cell phone. With proof that the Scarpas were tailing Rebecca, she would have to take Rebecca's safety as seriously as she'd taken his.