Hard Landing

by Marliss Melton

  "I'm not doing anything. You're the one wanting to help her out."

  "Yeah, except she doesn't want my help," he recalled, though he guessed that wasn't exactly the case. She was merely trying to keep his CO off his back. The truth was she was scared and rightly so. Considering the resistance she was bound to face in the form of Max's overwhelming resolve, he didn't envy her situation one bit. "I still need to help her," he insisted.

  "Why? Do you plan on taking Max's place?"

  The quiet question drew Brant's incredulous gaze. He glared at his friend. "Hell, no. I'm the last man she needs in her life. She deserves to be happy—don't you agree?"

  "I agree," Bullfrog admitted with reluctance.

  "Can you even think of a nicer, sweeter, more decent woman than Rebecca McDougal?"

  A faraway look splintered his friend's hazel gaze. "Just one," he said, so softly Brant wasn't certain he had heard him right.

  "I have to help her," he repeated.

  "You know you said that three times," Bullfrog pointed out. His mouth quirked at one corner. "That's like a magical number. Now you're committed to it."

  "I guess I am," Brant agreed with a tremor of excitement. He'd never walked away from a challenge in his life. As long as Rebecca ended up happy, he didn't care if Max hated him so much that he transferred him to the West Coast. This wasn't about his future; it was about hers.

  * * *

  Rebecca topped off her gas tank, enjoying the gusty breeze that penetrated the weave of her linen dress and invigorated her spirits. I can do this, she assured herself.

  The reading at church that morning, taken from the Book of Jeremiah, had tipped the scales regarding her decision to leave Max. For I know the plans I have for you, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.

  She had decided in that inspired moment that she would leave Max soon—as soon as she could prove he was breaking the law. His foreign investment account would be her ticket to freedom. She would pass it by the lawyer she had arranged to meet on her day off.

  Screwing the gas cap back on, she gazed over the top of her car just as Max's Tahoe roared past the station. Tension whipped through her, drawing tight the muscles along her back.

  Where is he headed on a Sunday at noon? she wondered. He had avoided attending church with her, citing the need to prepare for the coming work week, but Dam Neck Naval Base and the Special Ops building where he worked lay in the opposite direction.

  Intuition whispered that he was up to something. Slipping into her car, Rebecca eased onto the road to follow him, keeping his SUV within sight while hanging back a quarter mile. Unlike his lumbering Tahoe, her silver Jetta blended easily into the sparse traffic.

  A curve in the road took them north on Princess Anne Boulevard, in the direction of the hospital, but then Max's left turn signal blinked on. Bemused, Rebecca let him veer into the Virginia Beach Municipal Center without following him. She continued straight another block, turned left on Nimmo Drive, and backtracked toward the courthouse. But the parking lot stood empty. Where could Max have gone?

  The fear of being seen by him had her gripping the steering wheel with damp hands as she drove deeper into the municipal center. At last, her gaze lit upon his Tahoe, parked in the deserted post office lot. And there was Max, hastening for the front doors. She quickly turned the other way to avoid being seen by him.

  Why would Max make a trip to the post office on a Sunday, when the service desk was closed? Only the lobby with the automated teller and all the private mail boxes could be accessed on a Sunday. Oh. A sudden suspicion popped into her head.

  Was it possible he was using her old mailbox key?

  Her thoughts flew in a dozen different directions at once. She hadn't remembered to ask him about it the previous night. Had he renewed her rental without her even knowing? Why would he need another mailbox when he had a permanent address—unless, of course, he got mail he didn't want her knowing about... Just like he didn't want her knowing about his account with Emile Victor DuPonte.

  A chill settled over her at the realization that she'd stumbled on yet another secret.

  The urge to share it with Bronco rose up in her immediately. She tamped it down as she drove toward her home. Bronco didn't need to be told everything his commander was up to. It would only corrode the fabric of the Team's working relationship, which needed to stay strong in order for the task unit to function optimally.

  I'm not going to involve him, she swore to herself. She could investigate this matter personally. If she was lucky, she would find proof that Max was breaking the law, and then she'd be able to leave her marriage in the hopes that he would be convicted.

  * * *

  Max could feel his designer-label polo shirt sticking to his back as he darted into the post office. Even on a Sunday, when the place was deserted, coming here elevated his pulse, especially since he had started working for the mob. At first, he had kept Rebecca's old post office box in order to monitor her correspondence, making certain she didn't have any old flames he needed to be aware of. Later, it offered a convenient way for him to receive his subscription of Hustler magazine. Now the Scarpas used it to send him information.

  They'd identified his first two targets this way. The first time, they'd sent him a copy of a wedding invitation for a wedding taking place at Town Point Park on the Norfolk waterfront the evening of May 23, along with photos of the man they claimed was a snitch. Max had shot him during the outdoor reception, from the vantage of his boat, anchored half a mile off shore, in the Elizabeth River.

  For his second victim, they'd sent him a photo of a fat, balding man sunning on the deck of a sailboat. Max had recognized the marina where the sailboat was moored. By water, it wasn't all that far from where he lived. Since his getaway had been so clean the first time, he'd opted to kill his second target the same way, though it had made him nervous to repeat the same strategy.

  This time, if he went through with the job, he'd change up his modus operandi. Problem was he might get stuck working for the mob indefinitely. He was beginning to see how they would make it difficult for him to stop, dangling increasingly larger rewards before him. He had caught himself envisioning his second home in Bermuda lately.

  Crossing the empty lobby, Max inserted the key at #2850, pulled the little door open and stared in disappointment. The box stood empty. Damn it. Now he would have to return on a weekday and risk running into someone he knew.

  Slamming the box shut, he locked it back up and skulked out of the post office.

  Chapter 5

  Rebecca eyed her old post office box with trepidation. She had left work early on a Monday to arrive at the post office before closing. The clerk hadn't so much as blinked at her story that she'd lost her key and needed another. Now a copy of the key was in her hand, and she stood at the verge of discovering something else Max might be hiding from her.

  It's going to be empty, she told herself. After all, Max would have emptied it on his visit here the day before. Sliding the key into the lock, she opened it with bated breath. Upon seeing an envelope inside, her heart started to pound. With a nervous glance behind her at the patrons rushing to beat the clock, she pulled out the letter, eyes widening to discover that the envelope was addressed to her.

  With a sense of unreality, she stared at it. Not only was Max keeping secrets, but he was hiding his dirty deeds under her name. The address had been typed on a label and affixed to the envelope. There was no return address, just an origination stamp next to the postage indicating that the letter had been sorted in Bronx, New York, two days earlier.

  Curious to know what lay inside, she slipped it into her purse, closed the box, and left the building, greatly relieved not to run into anyone she knew, particularly Max.

  Within the safety of her car, she took the letter out and studied it. Do I open it? How else would she discover what was inside? She could always stick the contents into another envelope, affix an identical label an
d re-mail it tomorrow. As long as Max paid no heed to where the letter had originated, he might never know the difference.

  Checking her peripheral vision to make certain no one watched, she slid her finger under the flap and tore it slowly open. Her heart suspended its beat as she withdrew the contents with a frown. A newspaper clipping? She angled it toward the waning sunlight and read the title.

  Sniper with Military Background Kills for the Mob.

  Intrigued, she waded through an article summarizing an FBI special agent's hypothesis that two homicides attributed to the organized crime family, the Scarpas, had been perpetrated by an assassin who could only have been trained as a sniper in the U.S. Special Forces. Both victims had been shot from a watercraft anchored half a mile away. The special agent was quoted as saying, "Only an ace sniper could mark a victim from that distance."

  A chill ascended Rebecca's spine. Why had someone sent this article to Max? Was it simply an item of interest? Max was in the Special Forces. Plus, he'd been a SEAL sniper for ten years before rising so high in rank that he no longer went into the field to fight. Someone just wanted him to read this story and know the facts.

  That had to be it. It couldn't possibly be that he was the sniper that the FBI was looking for. That would be ludicrous.

  With stiff fingers, she put the article back inside the envelope, the envelope back into her purse.

  For several seconds, all she could do was stare at the brick exterior of the post office. Max's foreign account—all the money in it; where had it come from? Maybe it wasn't so farfetched to think that Max might be working for an organized crime family.

  Her chest rose and fell as she thought it through. What do I do? She could show the article to her lawyer at their upcoming appointment. But she didn't want to wait that long. She needed to talk to someone about this now, someone who knew Max, who could tell her if she was out of her mind for thinking such treacherous thoughts about him.

  I need to talk to Bronco.

  "No," she grated, grinding a palm against her closed eye. Just the other day she had promised she wouldn't involve him any further in her problems. But he had assured her that he didn't mind and that she could call him any time.

  Breathing deeply, she sought to slow her rapid heartbeat. The pay phone she had used the other day stood right up the road at the 7-11 near the hospital where she worked. The temptation proved to be too much. Starting up her car, she exited the parking lot and drove in a state of distraction straight to it.

  * * *

  Brant hadn't expected to see the same number pop up on his cell phone any time soon. Concerned, he reached for the volume on his truck radio and turned it down. Luckily, he'd just exited the gate of the naval annex, freeing him to talk on his phone. "Becca?"

  "I'm sorry," she began. "I said I wouldn't bother you again, and here I am calling you already."

  Her shaken tone had him checking his rearview mirror automatically. "What's wrong?"

  He heard her inhale and exhale. "I need to show you something. Can I get you to meet me somewhere soon?"

  Possibilities swarmed his thoughts like a flock of blackbirds. "You mean like right now?" He was headed to the special Jujitsu class Bullfrog was teaching every night that week.

  "No, I can't right now. I need to get home." She sounded antsy, like she ought to be home already and expected to get into trouble for being late. "What about tomorrow evening? Can you meet me after work?"

  "What time do you get off?"

  "Right around 4 P.M."

  "That's pretty early, but I can probably get away. Where do you want to meet?" The bass on someone's car radio vibrated the windows of his old Bronco as he stopped at an intersection.

  He pictured her wetting her rose-tinted lips in a familiar, nervous gesture. "Do you know the park right next to the hospital where I work?"

  "Uh, yeah. Gateway Park, right?"

  "Yes, but the sign says Princess Anne Commons. Let's meet under the pavilion at, say, 4:15?"

  Her nervousness made his blood flow faster. "You going to tell me what this is about?"

  "I need to go. I'll show you tomorrow, okay? You'll be there?"

  "I'll be there," he promised. "Hey," he added before she could hang up.

  "What?"

  "Take a deep breath, hon." The endearment popped out of his mouth without his intending to say it. "It's going to be okay. I'm glad you called me. I'm right here."

  He thought he heard her breath catch, but then she said with commendable poise, "Thank you." With a click, she was gone. He lowered his cell phone onto the console next to his seat and pondered what she could have come across to rattle her so badly.

  Max was probably having an affair. Brant had heard a rumor the first time they were TDY in Malaysia that the CO had hooked up with their female CIA liaison.

  "Bastard," he muttered, hating the man for inciting fear in his own wife.

  It wasn't until he neared his apartment complex that he realized what a hypocrite he was. He'd hooked up with a lady-of-the-night himself while in Malaysia, and at the time, he'd been dating two women back in Virginia Beach. He wasn't any more honorable of a man than his commander was. Poor Rebecca deserved better than either one of them.

  * * *

  In the little restroom inside of the pavilion at Gateway Park, Rebecca checked her reflection in the mirror. Oh, for heaven's sake. It doesn't matter what I look like.

  After a sleepless night in which she'd fought to drown out Max's abrasive snores, she had worked a grueling twelve-hour day. Dark circles ringed her eyes. Her trust in her husband, along with her marriage, was falling to ruin. Yet here she was, trying to look pretty for Bronco, who had half-a-dozen women at his beck and call and thought of her only as a friend—the same way she thought of him.

  All the same, she slicked pink lip gloss on her lips and tugged her hair out of its ponytail before stepping out of the restroom to wait for him under the covered picnic area.

  Situated adjacent to the hospital, the park offered the perfect retreat during warmer months for her to eat her packed lunch in the middle of her workday. Her feet gave a throb of relief as she lowered herself onto a picnic bench and shaded her eyes against the low sun to watch several children clamber on the playground equipment.

  A soft footfall followed by a shift in the air announced Bronco's arrival a split second before he sat down next to her.

  "Boo," he said, grinning at the way she clapped a hand to her heart.

  "Where'd you come from?" she marveled.

  "Thin air." He paused to examine her face, no doubt seeing all the signs of strain she had failed to erase. "Want to walk with me?"

  The last thing her aching feet wanted to do was to take a walk, but his suggestion eased her concern that someone would see them sitting together. "Sure."

  Side by side, they started down the path that curved away from the common area to wind among the trees and all around the periphery of the park. The leaves had thinned, allowing sunlight to slant through the green canopy and dapple the tar strip under their feet.

  Rebecca looked down at her practical nursing shoes, wishing she'd taken the time to change. While Bronco, in his BDUs, resembled a poster model advertising the glamorous life of a Navy SEAL, she looked nothing short of frumpy in her light blue scrubs. Then again, this wasn't a date. The article she wanted to show him was tucked inside her scrub's front pocket.

  To her gratification, he didn't bring it up right away.

  "How was work?" he asked, slanting her an admiring glance.

  "Rough," she admitted, considering her long day. "We had several car-accident victims, including a five-year-old girl who should've been in a booster seat but wasn't. Her collarbone was broken, but luckily not her neck. The mother, who was driving intoxicated, broke her pelvis. We had no choice but to report the incident to social services."

  His burnished eyebrows came together. "You think they'll take the girl from her mother?"

  "No, I think they'll asse
ss the home situation first. The mother could probably use some counseling—she's all of twenty-one years old, so she's still learning herself."

  Brant's mouth twisted into a cynical-looking smile. "Where's the father?" he asked.

  "Not in the picture as far as I know. Some men aren't cut out to be fathers." She thought about her own dad.

  "True. Doesn't mean they have the right to disappear, though."

  Their footfalls sounded in tandem, making hers indistinguishable from his.

  "That's what my father did," she heard herself confess.

  He shot her a startled look. "I'm sorry. I thought he just died young."

  "He did that, too, but first he left—just disappeared one day, when I was thirteen years old." She shrugged. "The next time my mom and I saw him was when we claimed his body, five years later. Turned out, he'd been living in Minneapolis all that time."

  His jaw muscles jumped. "That must have sucked."

  "It's fine. I don't mind talking about it. I think he did his best to be the domestic type, and he just wasn't cut out for it." She smiled to convey her acceptance of the situation. "At least his body found its way back to us. There's an unclaimed body here at this hospital." She nodded in the direction of the building where she worked. "A homeless man who looks a bit like you, as a matter of fact."

  "Like me?" He sounded perturbed to hear it.

  "Same age, same hair color, that kind of thing. I keep hoping someone's going to claim him, but no one has, yet."

  He made a thoughtful sound in his throat. A heavy but not uncomfortable silence enveloped them as they followed the path. She was certain he would ask what she'd discovered about Max. Instead, he surprised her by saying, "My dad left, too, before I was born. He's still alive, though. Quinn Farley—maybe you've heard of him?"

  She frowned. "No, should I have?"

  "Maybe. He used to be a champion bull rider. Now he's a commentator for the Professional Bull-Riding Network."

  She slowed to a stop, forcing him to turn around to face her.

  Noting that his father's last name was different than his, she longed to pull more details out of him, but the fact that she was only now learning about this meant that he kept it a guarded secret. A yellow leaf floated to the ground between them. "Thanks for telling me," she said, simply.