Hard Landing Page 24

  Of course, keeping the FBI on their toes wasn't the only reason he was here. He'd kept his distance from Rebecca for as long as he could stand. The thought of her believing him dead all this time had worn him down. Now that she was heading to Hawaii, what harm was there in her knowing the truth?

  Of course, Maya Schultz wouldn't see it that way, but Brant didn't particularly care whether he pissed her off or not.

  The lock yielded suddenly, and the door clicked loudly open. Brant flinched. If that didn't bring an agent running, nothing would.

  He put his back to the exterior of the building and waited. A beetle or a mole scuttled through the mulch under his feet. The noise of someone's television floated out of an adjacent apartment building. What was taking the man so long? He ought to have apprised his partner of an intruder by now. If the men played it out right, they would come at Brant from different directions and box him in.

  At last, he detected a soft thud, followed by the cautious opening of the door. The snout of a pistol penetrated the widening crack followed by a pair of hands.

  Oh, please. Did they have to make this so easy for him?

  Brant lunged forward, smashing the door against the gun and the hands holding it before jerking the agent forward and tearing the weapon from his grasp. Then he rammed his elbow into the agent's nose. With a grunt of agony, he sagged to his knees. As he pitched forward, Brant struck the base of his skull with his own weapon, rendering him immediately unconscious. As the agent collapsed facedown onto the patio, Brant stuck the second gun into his waistband.

  Sorry, buddy. Crouching down next to the unconscious agent, he checked his pulse before prying the earpiece from his ear and sticking it into his own to listen.

  "Hobbs, you there? What just happened?"

  Brant hadn't heard a car door or any footsteps approaching the building, so he assumed that the second agent was still sitting complacently in his car. Christ, what did it take to get these guys to react with any urgency?

  Lifting Hobbs's wrist, Brant spoke into the microphone he knew was hidden there, connected to the earpiece by a wire running down the agent's sleeve. "Hobbs is going to be fine," he reported, matter-of-factly. "You, on the other hand, are going to get your balls blown off if you open any door or window on your vehicle. Don't worry. I'm not one of the Scarpas, and I'm not going to hurt the girl. Hobbs will come around soon enough. Consider this a drill. Your security sucks."

  Dropping both communication pieces, he stood up and stepped over Hobbs, entering Rebecca's kitchen. There, he locked himself inside and the unconscious agent out on the back porch.

  The familiar scent of her apartment licked over him like a warm tongue. His adrenaline rush gave way to a soaring of his testosterone. Crossing her dark living room to the front windows, he peeked through the blinds at the stymied agent. The man sat frozen in his vehicle, no doubt deliberating whether he should risk being ridiculed by calling for back up or whether he should wait for Hobbs to come to and rescue him. Brant figured he had fifteen minutes, tops, to complete this mission before at least one FBI agent came bursting through the door.

  * * *

  Rebecca lunged for her cell phone, only to knock it off the bed stand she'd bought from Walmart.

  No! It tumbled to the floor, rolling out of sight in her dark bedroom.

  The sound of a brief scuffle outside had wakened her a minute earlier. Fear that the Scarpas had come to finish her off kept her heart hammering, which drowned out every other sound as she strained to hear.

  For a long minute, there was nothing but silence. Then the stealthiest of footfalls moved across her living room. Impelled by fear, she rolled off the far side of her inflatable bed, dragging her blankets with her.

  How could someone have broken in so easily with two special agents protecting her?

  Her doorknob gave a jiggle. Envisioning Tony standing outside her door, she made her body as small as possible, covering herself from head to toe with the blanket. If only she hadn't dropped her phone, she could be dialing 9-1-1.

  Too late now. The lock gave way with a snick. She froze, holding her breath to keep from being discovered.

  "Becca?" called a voice she thought she'd never hear again.

  It couldn't be Bronco. Her sleep-deprived mind was playing tricks on her.

  Someone walked around the end of her bed.

  "Honey, it's me. Is that you under there?"

  His amused voice couldn't be mistaken for anyone else's. The covers slid off her abruptly, and a pair of eyes shining blue in the moonlight peered down at her.

  Her heart forgot to beat as she stared up into his smiling face. "I'm dreaming," she declared.

  "No, you're not." He stretched out a hand, reaching for her.

  Terrified that he would evaporate when she touched him, she slowly put her hand in his. His warm fingers closed around it. With every cell of her body singing, she let him pull her to her feet and reach for him.

  "Becca," he exclaimed. His arms encircled her, pulling her against the solid wall of his body.

  "How can you be here?" she breathed against his chest, her voice as thin as a thread. "You're dead."

  He pulled back to look down at her, and she saw that he was well on his way to boasting a full beard. "I'm not dead, honey. I never was. NCIS used that unclaimed body to make Max think that I was finished."

  In light of TJ's call yesterday, his words made perfect sense, but she still didn't dare to believe it. "Why?"

  "Why keep the truth from you?" he interpreted. "NCIS needed Max to believe I was no longer a threat to him. Everyone's grief had to be real, or he might not have bought it. Plus Ms. Schultz wanted to send me far away so I wouldn't be tempted to see you again. She doesn't want rumors of our affair discrediting your testimony. She tried sending me off to some ranch in Idaho, but I couldn't leave you, Becca." He pulled her close again, holding her tenderly, inviting her to rest her head against his shoulder.

  Surrounded by his scent, his gentle strength, reality fully penetrated her consciousness. She gripped the fabric of his BDU jacket, pressed her face into the soft canvas weave, and gave a sob of abject relief.

  Alive! Alive! He wasn't dead. That was him driving the brown van yesterday! She wasn't losing her mind, after all.

  "Oh my God," she murmured, over and over, unable to comprehend that the past days of suffering were really over. He was here, in the flesh. Thank you, God. But she couldn't stop the tears that came gushing out to roll down her cheeks. Her shattered heart contracted as the shards came cautiously together.

  He rocked her as he would an inconsolable baby. "It's been killing me to let you think that I was dead." His gruff voice conveyed powerful emotion. His palm swept up and down her spine. "I used to think that I was like my father and I'd walk out on the best thing that ever happened to me. But I'm not." She felt him shake his head. "I could never let you think I was dead, let alone leave you here fending for yourself. I'll be so relieved when you get on that plane tomorrow."

  She pulled back a little to look up at him. "I'm going to your memorial first."

  "No, you don't need to do that," he assured her. "I'm not dead."

  "But I have to. I'm giving Max's laptop back to him. NCIS put spyware on it. Did you know he hired some thugs to break into my apartment looking for it?"

  A look of horror seized his face. "What? When was this?"

  "While you were in ICU, before you... died. Bullfrog was here. He overpowered them, and they admitted they were hired for the job."

  "Jesus."

  "Anyway, Max never got his laptop back, but now he will. I'm going to give it to him."

  He scrubbed a hand over his forehead, betraying agitation. "Damn it. I told Ms. Schultz to put you on plane to Honolulu as soon as possible. You're not safe here, Becca."

  She gave a rueful laugh. "Was that your idea to send me to Hawaii? I should have known."

  He gripped both her hands. "I swear if something happens to you, I'll never forgive her."<
br />
  "It was my idea to stay," she assured him. "Besides, what's one more day? I'm leaving on the first flight out on Friday."

  "Friday is two days away, not one."

  Spying the neat line of stitches just above his new beard, she reached up and gently traced it. "They sewed you back up," she noted, changing the subject deftly.

  "Yeah." He gave a short laugh. "They didn't know I was allergic to lidocaine."

  She gasped. "What?"

  "I went into anaphylactic shock. Almost died for real because of it."

  She couldn't even begin to process that there'd been another threat to his life. "You looked so terrible when you came into the ER. I've never felt so helpless in my life."

  "It's okay." He squeezed her hands. "I'm not that easy to kill." Lifting her fingers to his lips, he erased the awful memories by kissing her knuckles tenderly and then her palms. "Besides, I would never die on you like that."

  The words sounded so much like a promise, but no one knew ahead of time when they would die. Life, so fleeting, so precious, could be snuffed out in an instant.

  A car beeped in the parking lot, and he seemed to recollect himself. "Listen, we don't have much time." He reached behind his back, pulled out a pistol and laid it casually on her bedside table. Then he reached for her again. "I'm sure you've realized by now that the Scarpas consider you Max's weak link. They'd like to stop you from exposing him and, by association, them."

  "You mean, they are going to kill me," she interpreted, with a brittle nod.

  "Don't say that," he ordered gently. "No one is going to kill you, Becca. I won't let it happen. I'll be watching, protecting you every minute of every hour until you're safely gone. You may not see me, but I'll be there."

  The thought of not seeing him before she left, and certainly not after, had her pulling his head down for a kiss. At the first touch of their lips, heat ignited. Their tongues twined in a sultry dance. Desire that demanded nothing short of complete surcease exploded between them.

  Rebecca whimpered. Bronco responded by grasping the hem of her nightie and drawing it in one smooth motion over her head.

  She drew his mouth down to her breasts, rising on tiptoe to guide a taut nipple between his parted lips. Sinking her fingers into his hair, she realized he had cut it shorter. Her head fell back as he lapped first one peak, then the other, into stiffness.

  "Make love to me," she begged, heedless of the special agents who were out there somewhere.

  He turned her toward the inflatable mattress and lowered her across it, all the while lavishing her with his lips and tongue.

  She reached for the buttons of his jacket, undoing them with hands shaky with desire. Sliding them inside his jacket, she encountered yet another weapon, holstered under his left arm. Afraid to touch it, she slid her fingers lower to his fly, where she worked with single-minded purpose to free him. At last, he filled her hands with his tumescence, straining against her grasp as she lovingly cradled him.

  "God, Becca," he groaned, pausing to enjoy her sensual caress.

  Their breaths rasped in the quiet room. With a rumble in his throat that was half regret for his necessary haste, half eagerness to sink into her sweet warmth, he hauled off her panties, wedged his thighs between hers and sank into her snug slickness.

  Tears of joy and repletion streamed from Rebecca's eyes as they surged together, mouths locked, tongues seeking. Pleasure saturated her senses as they strained closer, harder, deeper.

  To think that she'd believed him dead a mere ten minutes ago! The joy that had been stripped from her then was resurrected now. In the wake of her supposed loss, her love for him had tripled.

  If time would just suspend its relentless march, she would cling to this moment forever. But the bliss scorching her body brought her ever closer to incineration. The magic of their union proved too powerful for either of them to command. It ran its course, burning hotter and brighter, until it spent itself in rapturous paroxysms that ended all too quickly, leaving her bereft and frightened for the future.

  "Bronco?"

  He was gazing down at her, suddenly alert, almost tense.

  Belatedly she overheard what he was listening to—the sound of someone banging at the back door.

  "You have to go?" she guessed with regret. A hundred scenarios could happen before she saw him again—if she ever saw him again. Getting him back, only to lose him again, was unthinkable.

  He rolled away and pulled up his jeans in one continuous motion. "This gun belongs to one of the agents," he whispered, gesturing to the pistol he had left on her bedside table. "Be safe, Becca," he added, dropping a kiss on her lips before crossing to her window. "I'll be looking out for you."

  "I love you," she called, watching him release the latch and open the window.

  He paused, turning his head to regard her intently. For a breathless second, it seemed to her that he might acknowledge her words with a confession of his own.

  But then from her kitchen came the sound of her back door crashing open. Someone had broken through the lock.

  Bronco popped the screen and put one knee up on the sill. She heard him utter, "We'll be together soon. I promise." And in the next moment, he disappeared, jumping feetfirst into the darkness. She heard a bush rustle as he tripped over it, but the sound of him running away assured her that he was okay.

  She had barely snatched the comforter off the floor and covered her naked body before the special agent named Hobbs burst into her room. Blood seeped from his nose. His wide eyes went straight to the curtains fluttering at the open window.

  "You okay?" he demanded with gunfire urgency.

  "Fine," she said, fighting an urge to laugh and weep simultaneously. "Is this your pistol?" she asked, pointing out the one beside her bed while noting that he wasn't carrying a gun.

  "Who was in here?" he demanded, crossing toward her to snatch it up before stepping to the window to peer cautiously outside.

  "A friend," she answered. Why bother lying? "I think he wanted to see how well you could protect me," she added pointedly.

  He sent her a surly scowl, put his gun away, and lifted his wrist to his mouth. "The witness is unharmed," he reported to his partner. "I'll be right out to check out your situation."

  Rebecca wondered what Meyers' situation could possibly be.

  Hobbs pointed a warning finger at her. "Don't you leave this room," he ordered.

  Rebecca waited for him to exit her bedroom before tunneling back into her nightie. The moisture seeping from inside her made her realize that, in their haste, neither she nor Bronco had spared a thought for birth control. With the mob determined to kill her and no guarantee of tomorrow, an unplanned pregnancy was the least of her worries.

  But then she remembered his promise that they would be together one day, and hope fluttered momentarily, only to grow still and cold.

  Until Max faced the consequences of consorting with the mob, Bronco would remain dead to those who knew him, and Rebecca would be sent to Hawaii for her safety's sake. How long she would remain there was anyone's guess. First Max would have to be jailed, the mob subdued. But, even then, what prevented them from keeping a hit out on her forever?

  Existing five thousand miles away from Bronco while they waited for justice to run its course struck her as intolerable.

  There had to be another way.

  There was another way.

  Maya had said if she could just think with her head instead of her heart, she could help NCIS secure what amounted to a confession from Max. All she had to do was to get him to talk about his affiliation with the mob under one of the security cameras in his house. HomeWatch would then send live feed of their conversation to the FBI, and they could promptly arrest him. Tony Scarpa would be picked up shortly thereafter, and, after testifying, Rebecca and Brant would be free to spend their lives together—perhaps transferring to the west coast as a precautionary measure against reprisal. But at least they'd be together.

  You can do it,
her heart insisted.

  Rolling out of bed, she dropped to her knees to search for her fallen cell phone.

  Chapter 19

  Rising from his seat on the front pew at the Chapel by the Sea, Max McDougal climbed the platform at the front of the church and approached the lectern to deliver the eulogy. Wearing his dress white uniform, the same one that he had worn on his wedding day three years ago, he wondered if Rebecca was remembering that occasion in this very sanctuary. As he moved behind the podium, he searched the packed church for a glimpse of her.

  With all thirty-five members of his task unit present, plus a slew of other SEALs from Team 12, including Commander Montgomery and his boss, Admiral Johansen, it was no wonder he hadn't been able to find her. But there she was, seated on the last pew, behind the broad shoulders of the dozens of men in attendance.

  Catching her eye, he sent her a faint nod of acknowledgment and was pleased when she returned it. The sunlight streaming through the tall windows of the contemporary chapel seemed to wash all color out of her face, or perhaps it was the black dress she wore—not her best color.

  What thoughts lay behind her fixed regard? he wondered, as he smoothed his speech on the lectern. Was she remembering her wedding vows to love and to cherish him for better or for worse?

  Clearing his throat, he projected his robust voice for all to hear what an outstanding SEAL chief Adams had been. Despite the possible addiction that had brought his life to a premature end, his unflagging optimism would always be an inspiration. His skill with a long-range rifle was the stuff of legends. He had served his country and his fellow frogmen tirelessly, and he would be sorely missed.

  It was all so easy to say, now that the man wasn't here to steal his wife.

  Confident of his eloquence, and under the approving gazes of his superior officers, Max abandoned the lectern to approach the life-sized poster of Adams' smiling face propped on an easel near the altar. Next to it, atop a wooden pedestal, there stood the white urn containing the man's ashes.