Hard Landing Read online

  * * *

  Rebecca McDougal's pale face reflected abhorrence at Maya's proposition that she pretend to reconcile with Max. Ben Metier cleared his throat uncomfortably, while Doug Castle waited for Rebecca to process the request. Like Maya, he was certain she would come around.

  "Why would you even ask that of me?" the young woman demanded, her voice quavering. "Max murdered Bronco like a cold-blooded serial killer. How am I supposed to even look at him, let alone pretend to want to reconcile?"

  Maya bit her bottom lip. "I understand your reluctance—I do." She nodded. "But this could be the only way to convince both the military judge and Admiral Johansen of your husband's culpability. Look, just start out by giving him back the laptop. We've installed spyware on it. If he uses it again, we can capture his keystrokes, his passwords, that kind of thing. If he accesses an offshore account, we'll know it, and we'll be able to view it. If he was paid by a mysterious source to do something, that'll clinch our case."

  Rebecca's brown gaze dropped to the laptop sitting on Maya's desk. "What do I say when I give it to him?" she asked, with audible reluctance.

  "Tell him that you've had it in the trunk of your car for a while. You took it to a friend of a friend who fixed it, and you forgot to give it back, until now."

  Rubbing her forehead with a hand that visibly trembled, the commander's wife mumbled, "I'm sorry. I don't think I can bring myself to even speak to him."

  Frustration got the better of Maya's tongue. "Stop thinking with your heart and start thinking with your head," she implored. "Honestly, we could arrest him so easily if you would cooperate with us."

  Her words startled Rebecca's head up. At last, she had her attention. "How?" she asked.

  "Max's security company, HomeWatch, sends the FBI live audio and video feed of his security footage. Doug Castle has agreed to share the footage with us."

  As Rebecca's gaze swung toward the FBI special agent, Maya could see her comprehension dawning, and she pressed her advantage. "Max knows that you're aware of his relationship with the Scarpas—after all, they held you at gunpoint to procure his cell phone number. If you could get him to discuss what he's done for them under any one of the cameras in his house, his own words will implicate him. The military judge will recommend a court-martial. Admiral Johansen will realize he has no choice but to concur with the judge's recommendation. McDougal will be court-martialed, convicted, and find himself serving a life sentence."

  In the profound silence that followed, Maya's phone gave a muted chime signaling the arrival of a new text message.

  "You do want Max to go to jail, don't you?" she added on a gentler note.

  "Of course," the vacant-eyed woman whispered.

  "Then help us put him there," Maya implored. "At least give him the laptop. I can't force you to pretend to reconcile with him if you don't want to."

  As the two men in the room, Doug Castle and Ben Metier, waited patiently for Rebecca's answer, Maya stole a peek at her phone and realized Brant had just sent her a video clip. Well, look who the cat dragged in. After ignoring her calls, he sends her a video recording? What was this about?

  "I'm going to use the ladies room while you think about it," she said to Rebecca. Glancing at the men, she added, "I'll be right back."

  In the women's restroom, situated just down the hall from her office, she peered under the stalls, ensuring that the room was empty before playing the recording. After a few puzzled seconds of watching a car chase, it dawned on her that this was the episode Rebecca had related upon her arrival. Looking shaken and pale, Rebecca had sworn she'd been followed from her apartment to the Navy base by none other than Tony Scarpa. Maya, perceiving her to be out of her mind with grief, had doubted her story, given how dramatic it had sounded. Why hadn't the MPs gotten involved if there'd been a high speed chase right up to the gate?

  But there was no mistaking the scene depicted in the video for anything other than a show of intimidation on the part of a black BMW. The chase had been filmed from the perspective of a brown delivery truck, only the hood of which was visible, driven by none other than Brant Adams.

  Maya scowled. The SEAL had some nerve undermining her efforts to conceal him. Here he was insinuating himself into the middle of her investigation, adding a whole new variable to an already complex equation, although he may very well have just saved Rebecca's life.

  Had the mobsters recognized him? Did they even know who he was? How could they?

  Besides, he'd pointed out something she hadn't fully acknowledged—that Rebecca McDougal was in serious danger. From now on, Maya would do well to take her at her word. The poor woman wasn't any safer in this harrowing situation than Brant Adams had been—except it was the Scarpas and not Max who apparently wanted her out of the picture before she ratted on either one of them.

  Damn it! If Rebecca stuck around here pretending to reconcile with her ex, she could very well end up with a bullet in her head. Maya gave a low growl. So much for her plan to get incriminating evidence the quick and easy way.

  Dialing Brant's number, she glowered at her reflection in the mirror as she willed him to pick up.

  "Did you get my video?" he asked in lieu of hello.

  She counted to five before answering. "Yes. What the hell do you think you're doing?" she demanded.

  "Your job, I think."

  Guilt pinched the tops of Maya's shoulders. "I'm sorry. You're absolutely right," she admitted. "We should have had people watching her already. I didn't realize the Scarpas were so suspicious of her."

  "You need to send her away. Make her disappear like you did me."

  "If you'd disappeared, I wouldn't be talking to you right now," she said on a sarcastic note. "Besides, I can't just send her off. I need her to testify at the Article 32 hearing."

  "Have you filed for it yet?"

  "Not yet." She wanted to procure Max McDougal's unwitting confession before he was made aware of the charges being brought against him. "Maybe in a week or so."

  "Plenty of time for the mob to do her in," Brant pointed out. "Just put her on a plane to Honolulu. Her mother lives on the Coast Guard base there. You can fly her back for the hearing, but she's safer there than she is around here."

  Maya pondered the logistics of flying Rebecca back and forth between Virginia and Hawaii. "I'll look into it," she promised. "Listen, while I appreciate you protecting our witness this morning, might I suggest that you fly a little lower under the radar? It will completely undermine my surprise tactic if your CO suspects that you're alive before you walk into the court room."

  "Yes, ma'am." He chuckled at her vehemence.

  A sudden suspicion skewered her. "Wait, who gave you that van, anyway? Is Kuzinsky harboring you?"

  "Fugitives get harbored," Brant retorted. "I'm a dead man, remember?" Severing the call abruptly, he left her fuming and furious, her anger directed at a man whom she hadn't stopped thinking about since meeting him in the flesh a couple of weeks prior.

  Master Chief Kuzinsky might be considered the biggest badass in the Spec Ops community, but she wasn't the least bit awed by his reputation. In fact, she'd like to give him a piece of her mind, in person, at the earliest opportunity.

  But that would have to wait. Right now she had a depressed, exhausted, and very frightened woman in her office, whose life was imperiled by mobsters. Maya's hopes had hinged on Rebecca getting her husband to implicate himself, but she wouldn't be doing her job if she allowed her to get killed in the process. Plus, she needed her alive to testify.

  She would have to rely on the evidence they had procured so far. But was it enough to convince Admiral Johansen that his favorite commander had sacrificed his integrity for the chance to pay off his mountain of debts? The odds of that happening, Maya figured, were only about fifty percent.

  * * *

  Rebecca's jaw slackened in amazement at Maya Schultz's one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turnaround. Suddenly, the woman was hell-bent on putting her on a plane to Hawaii.<
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  "Hawaii?" she repeated with surprise. "My mother lives in Honolulu."

  "Yes, I know." The investigator sent her a tight smile. "You'll need to stay with her until Tony Scarpa no longer poses a threat to you. I'll fly you out this afternoon, if I can get you a seat."

  "But Bronco's memorial is tomorrow," Rebecca protested. "I have to go."

  Maya thrust her glasses higher up her nose. "What time tomorrow?"

  "Two o'clock in the afternoon."

  The blonde investigator sent a harried look at the FBI special agent. "Can you spare a couple of agents? I want round-the-clock-security on her until she's out of the area."

  It dawned on Rebecca that something had happened to convince the investigator that her life was truly in danger.

  "Sure," agreed the FBI agent. His concerned blue gaze reminded her of Bronco's.

  Picking up the laptop on her desk, Maya held it out to her. "Please give this to your husband at the memorial tomorrow," she pleaded. "If you can convince him that it's safe to use, it would help us so much."

  Picturing Max being apprehended and hauled off in a police car, Rebecca managed a slight nod. She would have to overcome her abhorrence long enough to talk to him.

  "Thank you." Maya slipped the hardware into a protective carrier. Handing it to Rebecca, she sent her an encouraging smile. "This will all be over eventually—I promise you, it will."

  Eventually. That made the waiting sound endless. Would it take months or even years for Max to be found guilty of the mob-related murders? And what about facing charges for Bronco's murder? Maya had said they had scant proof of that.

  Then there was Tony Scarpa to consider. Mobsters were historically adept at avoiding jail sentences. Rebecca might never get to return to her old life. But then, without Bronco alive to share it with her, what difference did it make?

  "Is there anything else?" she asked wearily.

  "Give me a minute to scramble up some men," Doug Castle requested.

  As he got on his cell phone, Rebecca envisioned how awful it was going to be to face Max at the memorial. Her stomach roiled at the task before her.

  Castle put his phone away. "Hobbs and Meyer will be here in twenty minutes. You can wait for them in the lobby, if you prefer."

  Leaving the investigators and the special agent to brainstorm a new approach, Rebecca left the office, headed for the lobby. Approaching the part of the hall where Bronco had held her in his arms and kissed her, her steps slowed.

  Was it only half a week ago? Tears she was reluctant to shed in public stung the backs of her eyes. Directing her hopeless gaze to the empty stairwell, she wished futilely that he would reappear.

  At least he knew that you loved him, her logic consoled.

  That was true. She'd never had the chance to tell her father that, and she'd always regretted it. But Bronco had died knowing that he meant everything to her. That was something, wasn't it? With a sob rising up in her throat, she crossed quickly to the elevator and pushed the down arrow.

  * * *

  Max stared at the message from Tony on Google chat. In the dark of his home office, he could see his own dumbfounded expression reflected on the screen.

  Your wife is in cahoots with the Feds.

  Denial sat on Max's shoulders. No way in hell, he thought. But he could not ignore the many signs that indicated that was possible. After all, Rebecca had taken his laptop from the shop. What for, if not to use it against him? The thugs hadn't been able to find it, suggesting that it was now in someone else's hands. Still, he had trouble envisioning his docile wife undermining his reputation—she simply wasn't cunning enough. Chief Adams might have emboldened her to defy him, but now Adams was dead. And it was just a matter of time before Rebecca came back to him.

  You're wrong, he typed back. She doesn't know anything. In the back of his mind, however, he questioned the truth of that assertion. She'd seen his foreign account with her own two eyes. Her testimony alone could be damning.

  We followed her to the air base this afternoon. Some guy in a delivery truck tried to pick a fight with us. He even took pictures. Who the hell was that?

  Max's fingers hovered over the keys. For once, he lacked an explanation. No idea, he finally typed as his mind sifted through the possibilities.

  Was it possible that Rebecca had already betrayed him? It wasn't like her to take that kind of initiative. It was Tony whom she feared, not him. After all, the man had abducted her once before and was now following her.

  Don't you lay a hand on her, Max warned. She obviously hired a bodyguard because she knows you're following her. Back off. I've got this.

  In the silence that ensued, Max ground his teeth together as he waited to see how Tony would reply. The last time he'd played hardball, the man had caved in to him.

  The Feds are on to you, Max, Tony finally replied. We're cutting all ties. Don't think you can finger us if you're caught, Tony added. You'll never get the chance.

  Max's laptop gave a bleep, and Tony's avatar disappeared from the upper corner of the screen, indicating that he'd left the chat.

  Max licked the sweat off his upper lip. Holy hell, Tony Scarpa had just threatened him! Alarm scorched his nervous system, forcing him to suck in a several breaths.

  But then another thought occurred that calmed his racing heart. By cutting ties, the mob had just freed him of future obligations. He didn't need to kill Special Agent Castle. But what about the money he'd already been paid? Would they take it back? They didn't have the capability to withdraw money from his account—did they?

  He decided that it didn't matter. He could do without a house in Bermuda, as long as his reputation remained untarnished. The Feds couldn't possibly be on to him. It was Tony's menacing behavior that was drawing unwanted attention.

  I'm still good, he reassured himself. But what if he wasn't? What if Rebecca had taken her suspicions to NCIS and they were now investigating him?

  If they possessed his laptop and could delve into his profile on the hard drive, then maybe they had reason to arrest him. God forbid that it ever came to that. Not only would the humiliation be unbearable, but Tony Scarpa would never let Max face prosecution—not when he could cop a plea in exchange for all the dirt he'd picked up on the Scarpa family. Tony would kill Max himself before he let that happen.

  Max swallowed hard. Had the hunter now become the hunted? Did the Scarpas consider him so dispensable? Where was the respect that they'd shown him only a short while ago?

  And what about Rebecca? Now that Tony had cut ties with Max, would they leave her alone, or would Tony seek try to silence her because she'd become a wild card, one that could identify him?

  Max drew a hand down his cold cheek. He couldn't let anything happen to her. He would protect her. But first he had to convince her to come back to him.

  The ringing of his doorbell cut through his tortured thoughts. The last time his doorbell had rung, the FBI special agent had been paying him a call. Who could it be this time?

  Fearing the worst, he withdrew his Glock from the strong box inside his desk drawer and tucked it into the waistband of his khaki slacks, against the small of his back.

  A peek through the window by the door lowered his tension a notch as he recognized the uniform worn by the HomeWatch people who'd installed his security system and came out every couple of months to make sure it was working perfectly.

  "Yes?"

  The young man pinned a smile on his face. "How are you, Mr. McDougal? Ron from HomeWatch." He gestured at his name tag.

  "Commander McDougal," Max corrected him. "I thought Ron had blond hair."

  "That's the other Ron," said the tech with a dismissive shrug. "Had any problems with your system lately?"

  "No, it's working fine."

  Ron checked the clipboard in his hand. "That's odd. We've been getting an error message back at the call center telling us that one of your circuit boards in the mainframe is defective. I'll need to open up your unit, test it, and if it's
burnt, replace it. It'll take me half an hour at most."

  Suspicion tickled Max's nape. "Where's your partner? You guys always work in pairs."

  "Home sick," Ron said with a grimace. "I'm on my own today."

  Max hesitated. Was it coincidence that HomeWatch wanted to work on his system so soon after he'd mentioned his alibi to the FBI special agent? Was Doug Castle looking for a loophole? If this tech looked long and hard enough, he'd realize Max's security system wasn't complete—that the window in the master bath had never been wired, leaving him free to enter and exit at his whim. But could he discover that much in only half an hour? Not likely.

  "You should have called first," Max groused. "I have to leave the house soon."

  "I'll be done in a jiffy," Ron promised him.

  "Fine. I'll let you in through the garage."

  Chapter 18

  Brant wedged his driver's license deeper into the crack between the rear door of Rebecca's apartment and the frame, working to depress the simple latch. Annoyance simmered in him that he had made it this far without being waylaid. He didn't bother keeping his movements stealthy. Apparently, he had to announce his presence to the special agents if he wanted to face their resistance.

  Granted, he was a Navy SEAL sniper, and he'd slithered behind her apartment building on his elbows, six inches at a time over the course of the last two hours. But these men, working for Doug Castle, most likely, were supposed to be experts in the area of security. If they hadn't noticed Brant yet, how could he trust them to protect Rebecca from ruthless mobsters who would let nothing get in their way?

  Obviously he couldn't. And it was up to him to point out their shortcomings in the hopes that they'd make the changes necessary to keep their witness safe.

  As he'd noted before, Rebecca's back door was the obvious entry point for an intruder. The flimsy lock was already yielding to the stiffness of his plastic coated driver's license. The patio offered profuse cover in the form of bushes and low walls. All he had to do to disappear completely was to jump the privacy fence at the back of the complex into the maze of office buildings behind it.