Hard Landing (13 page)

Officer in charge of the Rough Riders, Sam had thrust a hand into the air. "With all due respect, Master Chief, I think we need at least three contingency plans. I've weathered a category four before, and this is a five. Things aren't going to go down the way we're planning."

Sam's concern prompted a rumble from his platoon members.

"Plus our comms are bound to fail," Haiku added, implying that they'd have no way to communicate their back up plans.

"Look." Max pushed off the wall to pace before them. "You Rough Riders were chosen for your experience. You know as well as I do that there are too many unknowns in this assignment to plan for any fail-proof contingencies. Just use your combined savvy to surmount resistance. If you don't make it to the exfil in a reasonable amount of time, and if comms remain down, we'll find you by your infrared strobes, and we'll send in an extraction team. But let's hope it doesn't come to that. We have a critical goal here, and no one needs to know of our participation."

By no one, Max meant the Russians. If the SEALs were caught destroying the facility, that might well instigate a full-scale war.

Considering his fellow Rough Riders, Brant didn't suffer Sam's concerns. He had confidence in Sam, who would call the shots. Haiku would handle the radio. Tristan Halliday, a former NASCAR racer, would navigate. Carl Wolfe, their ordinance expert, would work with the dark-skinned Teddy "Bear" Brewbaker and with savvy Hack Stuart to destroy the antennas and the station's mainframe. Bullfrog, their corpsman, would patch up anyone who happened to get hurt. And Brant, a sniper with thirty-eight kills to his name, would dispose of unexpected human opposition.

Easy day.

"Enough talk." Max cut the briefing short by stalking to the door. "Let's get out there and run through this."

Joining the others in a resounding "Hooyah!", Brant pushed to his feet. It was hard to believe that in twenty-four hours he'd be slogging through a hurricane. His thoughts remained ensnared in Becca's circumstances and whether his intuition was right that Max had sold out to the mob.

But what if Sam's prediction of chaos proved correct, and the Rough Riders never made it back from Cuba?

The first seed of doubt rooted in Brant's mind.
Oh, hell, no
. He wasn't going to perish on this op and leave Rebecca to deal with Max all by herself. For the time being, he was still her friend. And friends didn't check out on you when you needed them most.

* * *

Max watched the Rough Riders flow flawlessly through the drill. The sun had dropped below the horizon, and their shadows drifted alongside them as they leapfrogged each other's positions up an alley lined with houses toward the mock-up of the listening station. The eight extras in the sixteen-man platoon hampered their approach, offering all manner of creative resistance, which the Rough Riders met without flinching. The one named Bullfrog harbored an uncanny ability to sense a trap before it happened.

Max narrowed his eyes on Chief Adam's silhouette as he raised a fist, bringing his squad to a halt. Through eyes that overlooked no details, the sniper scanned the three-story structure that was their target before giving the Rough Riders an all clear. Slinging his suppressed Stoner SR-225, a weapon with awesome range and accuracy, over one shoulder, he then shimmied up the pipe that ran vertically up the outside of the whitewashed building to the roof.

Max could see why Rebecca was drawn to him. Adams had the body of a hard-riding cowboy—broad shoulders, lean waist, muscular thighs. His reflexes were the fastest Max had ever encountered, and his aim was every bit as good as Max's. Plus, he was always smiling. Which was so fucking annoying. Even now, his white teeth flashed in the gloom, as he met each challenge with obvious enjoyment.

Jealousy burbled in Max's gut. Just how far had Adams gone with Rebecca? How close were they? Had she told him about his shortcomings in the bedroom? Was that before or after she mentioned Max's foreign account?

A moist spot formed between his shoulder blades. The rasp of Kuzinsky's voice, uttered practically in his ear, gave him a start.

"What do you make out their odds to be?" Kuzinsky's gloomy tone conveyed pessimism.

"They look good," Max retorted, watching as four of the eight men followed Brant up the metal pipes that fed water from the vestibule on the roof to the rooms below. Thank God for Havana's inferior plumbing system or the squad would have to get a rope up on the roof in hundred-mile-an-hour winds and then climb it. Once up there, they would dismantle the antenna boxes and pull wires, the storm masking their destruction. Meanwhile, Haiku, Bullfrog, and Halliday would guard the perimeter below.

"Ever experience a category five hurricane before?" Master Chief inquired.

A memory of torrential wind, slashing rain, and falling trees flashed through his mind. "Once," he admitted, having helped his sister to weather Hurricane Katrina.

Kuzinsky's subsequent silence spoke volumes. The man had voiced opposition to Operation Rough Riders from the start. Taking out the listening station was tricky enough without adding Mother Nature's wrath into the mix. But Admiral Johansen, head of JSOTF, and the SEAL Team commander, Joe Montgomery, both believed the mission could be done.

Hell, the Commander-in-Chief himself had ordered it. So it wasn't Max's fault if the mission failed. And if some of the men lost their lives due to the storm or unforeseen resistance—then, oh well. They would have died protecting American interests, something every SEAL was prepared to do. It happened that way sometimes.

And, if it happened this time, all of Max's troubles would be over. A dark hope penetrated his bleak thoughts.

If Kuzinsky was right—and Max had never known him to be wrong—this mission was doomed from the outset. The Rough Riders never stood a chance. While Max couldn't afford to lose the best eight men in his task unit, how better to get Chief Adams out of his life for good than to let this mission proceed as planned?

"They'll be fine," he said, silencing Kuzinsky's implied protest.

For once, he hoped he was wrong.

* * *

Rebecca filled the boxes on her bed with her jewelry box, her favorite books, a photo album from her childhood, and her knitting bag. These boxes would contain the last of what she was taking with her. She'd decided to leave behind anything that didn't fit into her car. She would rather not bring any memories with her, and most of their furniture had been Max's before they married. Still, moving had taken the better part of two days. It was Sunday night. She had to get up at dawn for work the next day and meet with her lawyer in the afternoon, and she was already dead on her feet. Not a good way to start the workweek.

Coming across a framed photo of her wedding day, she studied it in the light of her bedside lamp. How naïve she had looked three years ago! She'd had no idea then who Max really was. It was the idea of him that had appealed to her more than anything else. Tipping the frame over, she left it face down on the dresser and turned to empty her nightstand.

Her gaze strayed to their bed. Thank God she hadn't had to share it with Max the night of their last awful encounter. He had spent that night at Spec Ops and left with his task unit early on Friday morning. The very next evening, she'd gone apartment hunting after work and found a sweet little garden apartment with immediate availability. Situated near the hospital, it offered every amenity she needed, plus an affordable lease.

Her new life was about to unfold. Not a single twinge of uncertainty had assailed her as she'd packed up her possessions, only a nervous tremor when she envisioned Max coming home to find her gone. The words he'd spoken in this very room echoed in her head like a death knell.
You'd better remember where your loyalty lies or, by God, you'll regret ever betraying me.
It sounded hauntingly similar to the other threat he'd made.

Of course, he would view her leaving as a betrayal. In Max's eyes, she belonged to him, the same way that his boat and his kit car did. Her leaving him wouldn't change the way he viewed her, she was certain.

With the boxes full, she taped them shut and took a final look around. The room she had so carefully decorated struck her as cold and empty. Carrying the boxes one at a time to the garage, she loaded them into her car.

As she wedged the last box into her trunk, her gaze went to the dark sky visible through the open garage door. Soon, she would arm the security system and close that door with her remote control—the same way she would close this short era of her life—never to return again.

But the lateness of the hour dismayed her. She had wanted to unload the last of her things before nightfall, where they would join the rest of her belongings and three suitcases in the unfurnished apartment. She had already gone grocery shopping to stock her kitchen cupboards and had even purchased a queen-sized airbed at the Exchange to carry her over until she could afford to buy herself a new mattress.

Closing her trunk with finality, she retrieved her purse from the hook inside and shut the laundry room door. Then she crossed to the black box on the garage wall and set the intrusion detection system to come on thirty seconds after the automatic door touched down.

Slipping behind the wheel of the car which she had backed in trunk first, she cranked the engine and pulled straight out. Lifting the visor to point the remote control in the right direction, she punched it one last time. The satisfying sound of the door rumbling shut reached her ears.
Good-bye house
. Then, from right behind her seat came a rustling that preceded a metallic click.

"Easy," crooned a familiar voice as she let out a startled scream.

A backward glance confirmed her first guess. The dark hair and eyes of the man who'd introduced himself as Tony caused the steering wheel to wobble in her grip. Knowing he had a gun pointed at her head, she nearly struck one of the oaks at the head of the driveway.

"Steady now," he ordered in his distinct inner-city dialect. "Take a right out of the driveway. I'll tell you where to go."

"Wh-what do you want?" Her voice came out high and frightened.

"Head toward the Boulevard and don't panic," he added ignoring her question. "I ain't gonna hurt you."

Max isn't around
. She caught back the words in the nick of time. Tony might know that already, but why confess to her vulnerability?

Wrestling with her fear, she pointed her car in the direction indicated, driving without thinking as her mind raced. Was she being abducted? Shouldn't she do something immediately to prevent being taken?

She eyed a pickup truck on the side of the road, thinking she could swerve at the last instant and ram into the bed. Her airbag would deploy, keeping her safe while Tony would probably sail over the seat and hit his head. But what if the gun prodding the base of her skull discharged?

"Turn right at the next street," he instructed.

Right?
They hadn't even left the neighborhood. There was nothing down this way but an empty, marshy lot where the road dead-ended.

In dread, having no other plan up her sleeve, she turned the wheel to the right, where the familiar black form of Tony's BMW sucked the remaining moisture from her mouth. Two men in ski masks rolled out of the rear doors, and she knew at once that they were going to put her in that car.

"No!" she cried, braking abruptly. She started to jam her gear shift into reverse.

"Ah-ah!" He rammed the snout of his gun hard against her skull. "Park the car," he grated in a sterner voice.

"Please don't take me anywhere," she begged. "Max isn't here. He can't negotiate with you right now." The words, whether wise to admit or not, tumbled out of her. The two other men descended on her vehicle. Her driver's door popped open.

"Out you go," Tony encouraged.

Certain that she would never be seen or heard from again, she resisted mightily, letting loose a cry for help. But the larger thug clapped a hand over her mouth and subdued her struggles with his superior strength. He dragged her to the BMW and tossed her onto the back seat. Then he got in beside her while his companion entered through the door on the other side, bookending her between them.

Terror held a vise-grip on Rebecca's vocal cords. She drew herself in tightly, hugged her chest and pressed her knees together to keep from touching either man. Her heartbeat crested against her eardrums as she waited for whatever came next.

Tony slipped into the front seat beside the wordless, masked driver. He turned sideways, his eyes glinting in the darkness as he assessed her defensive posture. "I had a feeling we would meet again." He chuckled when she failed to speak. "Don't be so standoffish," he scolded. "We ain't gonna hurt you, so long as Max cooperates. Tie her hands and feet and gag her," he said, contradicting his promise.

"No, please!" Tears of terror flooded Rebecca's eyes. Rough hands reached for her. In the next instant, plastic cuffs cinched her wrists and ankles together. A handkerchief went around her mouth, so tightly that her teeth cut her lips and she tasted blood.

"Good enough," Tony declared. He held up an object that proved to be a phone. He used to take her picture, the bright flash blinding her briefly.

"Now," he said. "When my guy loosens the gag, I want you to tell me Max's cell phone number."

She started to shake her head, but then thought better of it. She wanted the gag loosened. And besides, why should she protect Max from receiving communications when he'd involved himself with these goons in the first place? She gave a slow nod of understanding.