"If I leave him, will you—?" She floundered for words, grateful that he couldn't see the blush searing her cheeks.
"Will I what?"
"Hang out with me sometime? As... as a friend, of course," she tacked on. Her pulse beat against her eardrums as she waited for an answer.
"Yeah, sure," he said, but the thread of reservation in his tone left her doubting his word. He was probably thinking it would kill his career to be friends with his CO's ex-wife. She couldn't blame him for being cautious.
An awkward lull fell between them.
She harkened to the reason for her call. "I'll go unlock my car now. It's parked right outside the ER. You'll let me know if Hack finds anything suspicious?"
"I doubt he'll have time before we leave but, yeah, I'll let you know."
"Be safe on the mission," she begged him.
"You be safe, too, Becca." His voice was low, its rasp seeming to resonate inside her.
"Bye." She hung up the phone slowly, warmed by his apparent concern and the way he'd said her name.
Since when had Echo Platoon's playboy become so important to her? The thought of harm befalling him filled her with panic. If not for his friendship and his support, she would be feeling totally lost. And yet Bronco, being a chief who was active in the field, participating in missions so terrifying it would curl her hair to learn the details, could so easily come to harm.
An image of him lying still and cold flashed through her mind. She blinked back tears of terror, then felt silly for letting her emotions run away with her. The mental image brought to mind the homeless man who had looked so much like him. Curious to know if that man's body had been claimed yet, she picked up the receiver once more and dialed down to the basement.
"Hi, this is Rebecca from the ER. I brought you a drug overdose victim over a week ago. Late twenties, with no name. Has anybody claimed him?"
"No, he's still here," said the young tech named TJ.
"I see." She already knew that the body could stay for up to thirty days. Then, if the next of kin still couldn't be found, the state medical examiner would either donate the body to science or hand him over to a funeral home for cremation and a proper burial service. "Don't forget to let me know if someone comes looking for him."
"I won't."
"Thanks." Hanging up, she swallowed the sour taste in her mouth.
Bronco isn't going to die, she assured herself. SEALs trained long and hard to ensure their own safety in spite of the dangers they faced. He would make it back safe and sound. Question was, when she finally saw him again would she still be living like a prisoner in Max's house? Or would she be free to spend time with him the way she so badly wanted to?
And would he be willing to see her as long as Max was his commander? In any case, nothing could happen until she moved out of her home.
You will rue the day that you mention a divorce to me again.
Max's old threat echoed in her head. What did it mean exactly? Was he capable of inflicting more pain and punishment than he'd ever shown her up to now? All of her life, she'd gone out of her way to avoid conflict—to soothe and help people in distress. By contrast, Max took pleasure in crushing his opponents, in coming out the victor. How far would he go to keep her from leaving him?
And did that matter? After all that Max had put her through and with Bronco cheering her on, she would seem so spineless if she didn't finally defy her husband. All she needed now was a little push.
* * *
Max drew the letter out of his post office box, wondering what the hell had taken it so long to get there. Like the other envelopes from the Scarpas, it was addressed to Rebecca, with no return address. He narrowed his gaze on the circular origination stamp. Virginia Beach, Virginia? The other two letters had come from Bronx, New York. But, then again, Tony Scarpa was probably still in the area, and he'd probably been the one to mail the letter, so that in itself was not suspicious.
The click-clack of high heels drew his distracted gaze toward the dark-haired woman walking in from the dusky outdoors. With the service desk closed, she crossed straight to the automated teller. Max would rather have come here on a Sunday, but since he was leaving the country at dawn on Friday, he didn't have much choice. The Scarpas were eager for him to get their next job done. Too bad they would have to wait for him to come back from Cuba. His first allegiance was to Uncle Sam. They had to realize that.
Tucking the letter under his armpit, he secured the box and turned briskly toward the doors, aware that the woman standing in front of the automated teller had glanced his way.
"Max? Is that you?"
He was tempted to ignore the greeting, except that he recognized the voice, and ignoring his neighbor would make their next encounter rather awkward.
He stopped in his tracks and turned to face her. "Susan." He inclined his head briefly.
Dressed in her professional attire—a red silk shirt, black skirt, and four-inch heels—the successful real estate agent exuded sex appeal, especially when she leveled her cat-like gaze on him and smiled a slow, seductive smile.
"How are you?" she purred. The machine beside her spat out a book of stamps, and she leaned way over, thrusting her lush ass behind her while letting her blouse gape.
Max caught a glimpse of her black, satin bra and his blood heated. "Fine," he clipped. While he would love taking her up on her unspoken offer, he wasn't stupid. Fucking his single neighbor wasn't exactly discreet. And it could ruin the reputation he'd fought long and hard to secure. "You?"
"Excellent. You know, it's funny that I should run into you," she mused, fanning herself with the stamps as she sashayed closer. "I ran into Rebecca the other day at Gateway Park. She was there with a man who works for you." She pretended to recollect the name. "Chief Adams, I think it was."
Her announcement hit him squarely in the solar plexus. "You saw them together?"
"Yes," she said with a hard smile. "Good looking man, too, but I wouldn't worry." She laid a consoling hand on his forearm and squeezed it in a silent invitation to take advantage of her consolation. "No one holds a candle to you, Max."
"Thank you. I'll tell her you said hi." Too shaken by her news to manage more small talk, he tugged his arm free and marched out of the post office ahead of her.
Seconds later, he shut himself into his Tahoe, so inflamed by Susan's announcement that he scarcely gave a thought to the letter tucked under his arm. Now that he considered it, Rebecca had come home late from work on both Monday and Tuesday evening this past week. She'd told him she'd stayed after for yoga, but was that even true? Or had she been rendezvousing at the park with his chief both evenings?
His blood heated to a simmer, then a rolling boil. My God, was she cheating on him with that cocky playboy? Surely she had more sense than that! He was certain she did, but why had she flagrantly ignored her husband's warning and connected with the chief anyway? She must think herself in love with the man!
That thought engendered an even more awful suspicion—what if she'd relayed her glimpse into Max's Swiss account to Adams? Granted, he'd immediately closed that account, opening a new one with the same company, on the off chance that she'd made a note of his account number. But the thought of his chief even suspecting that he was hoarding money offshore made him queasy. And what if Rebecca mentioned something about their visitor, Tony? Would Adams put two and two together?
Of course not. How could he know who Tony was? Even so, Adams becoming this friendly with his wife was intolerable. He was the CO, God damn it! It had to stop, and it had to stop now, before word of Max's erectile dysfunction became common knowledge, making him the laughing stock of the entire team!
He shuddered in dread. Whatever it took, he needed to get that message across to Rebecca, tonight, unequivocally. Her affair with Chief Adams, or whatever the hell she wanted to call it, was over.
Reining in his temper, he shifted his thoughts to the letter as he pulled it out from under his arm. A glance through his driver's
door showed Susan driving off in her Town Car. Drawing a deep breath, he slit open the envelope. A small newspaper article fluttered into his palm. Somewhere in this article he would learn the identity of his next target. Switching on the interior light, so he could better see it, he read the article with a gathering frown.
By the time he arrived at the end, his skin felt like it had shrunk two sizes.
It was apparent that the homicides being referred to in the article were the two that he had perpetrated. It was also apparent that FBI Special Agent Doug Castle, who'd been pursuing the Scarpas for a decade, suspected they'd hired a sniper with Special Forces training to kill for them. There was no question in Max's mind who his next mark was going to be.
Oh, hell, no. He shook his head vehemently. He drew the line at killing a fellow peace keeper—an FBI agent, of all people!
Feeling short of breath, Max tugged loose the collar of his BDU jacket. Taking out a government employee wasn't the same as killing a couple of lowlife criminals. Hell, the special agent was probably a man like himself, with true grit and a flawless service record. Besides, even if Max killed him, another agent would take his place. Special agents were like SEALs in that regard. They avenged the deaths of their colleagues, and they didn't know the meaning of the word quit.
"Fuck that," Max declared, tossing the article onto the seat next to him and starting up the engine.
Tonight on Google chat, he would let the Scarpas know that he'd be returning their down payment. He wasn't their puppet, and he wasn't scared of them. They could go to fucking hell for all he cared.
* * *
With moist palms and a heavy heart, Rebecca nosed her car into her garage. Bronco had retrieved Max's laptop from her car sometime that day, but it would likely be a while before Hack even got a look at it. The longer the Dell was out of the shop, the higher the odds that Max would find out she'd taken it. And then what? She'd have to answer for herself, which wasn't exactly fair, since Max was the one cheating the system, not her.
You won't have to answer for it if you're not here, she reminded herself.
Reluctant to face her husband, she slowly got out of her car. As his Tahoe indicated, he was already home. She entered the house through the laundry room, hung her purse on the hook next to Max's keys, and listened. The house stood ominously silent.
She waded cautiously deeper, her footsteps audible as she crossed the tiled kitchen and forded the great room. Not a sound suggested Max was here, though she knew he was. A quick glance through the windows showed the back yard deserted, lights shining in the shell-shaped pool.
Her nerves pulled taut as she headed down the back hallway toward the light shining through the partly open door of their bedroom. Pushing it farther open, she drew up short to see Max standing between her and the en suite. His commanding breadth and intimidating scowl chased the air back into her lungs.
"Hi," she said.
He folded his arms across his chest. "Where've you been?"
The hostile question dumped adrenaline into her bloodstream. "I had to work late because I felt sick this morning and went to work at nine."
He sent her an ugly little smile. "You sure you weren't meeting Chief Adams at the park?"
The reason for his hostility became instantly apparent. Susan must have approached him with her news. Anger leached into Rebecca's bones, lending her courage. "Positive," she replied, toeing off her shoes as she always did at the end of the day. "And you can call the hospital to check my hours," she added, hoping to God he didn't take her up on that.
Max stalked her slowly. She had to lock her knees to keep from backing away from him. "And yet you met him there on Monday and Tuesday, didn't you? You weren't at yoga. You were cavorting with him at the park."
In actuality, she'd gone to the post office on Monday, but he didn't need to know that. Biting her tongue to abstain from correcting him, she bent to collect her shoes. Before she had the chance, he seized her jaw between his thumb and fingers and wrenched her gaze up to meet his fulminating glare.
"Answer me!" he raged.
"I ran into Chief Adams at the park on Tuesday," she admitted through her teeth. "We talked for a little while, that's all."
"Is it, now? I'm surprised you would even say a word to him. I'm pretty sure I made it clear you were never to talk to him again." He kept hold of her, lowering his face until it was scant inches from hers. Onion-laced breath assaulted her nostrils. "You're my wife," he continued. "I will not have you ruining my good name by consorting with that playboy."
Fury and fear competed for control of her tongue. "I doubt you need any help ruining your good name."
Rage exploded in his eyes. He released her jaw only to raise his hand as though to strike her. She flinched, but the blow never came. Instead, he grabbed her arm and hurled her toward the bed. She sprawled across the mattress, tried to scramble to the other side, but collapsed onto her stomach as a heavy hand descended on the small of her back and kept her pinned.
"Do I need to remind you who your husband is?" Max grated, crawling over her.
Grabbing the elastic waist of her scrubs, he hauled them down, using both hands to pull them nearly to her knees, panties and all.
Horrified, Rebecca thrashed to free herself. "Stop it!"
But he sat on her hamstrings, pinning her legs as he fumbled to release the fly at the front of his BDUs.
"Don't do this, Max. What's wrong with you?"
"Nothing is wrong with me, damn you!" he growled. "I'm asserting my marital rights to prove a point." He shifted, wedging a knee between her thighs.
"You have no right to force me!" Rebecca railed. She managed to twist onto one elbow, but her legs were still caught beneath his haunches. "Get off me," she commanded, shoving ineffectually at his shoulder as he leaned over her, pumping his flaccid member and breathing hard. She was never more grateful for his performance issues.
This taunting went on for another half a minute as he worked on himself and kept his other hand on her naked bottom. At last, he seemed to give up.
"Fine," he relented, lifting his weight off her and letting her wriggle away. He pointed a thick finger in her direction. "But you'd better remember where your loyalty lies or, by God, you'll regret ever betraying me."
The cruelty in his slate gray eyes stunned her. Over the past year she had become increasingly aware of this ugly side of him. Lately, it was becoming the only side that she could see.
He threw himself off the bed as if the very sight of her disgusted him. With a final, scathing glare, he stalked out of their bedroom, buttoning up his pants as he went. Slamming the door shut behind him, he knocked the tiny wooden cross hanging over the lintel off its nail. It fell to the floor, landing silently on the plush carpet.
Rebecca stared at the fallen cross. It had been a wedding gift from Joe and Penny Montgomery, SEAL Team 12's commander and his sweet-natured wife. Its plunge to the floor struck her as symbolic. Her marriage was over.
She sat up slowly, blinking back the tears that pressured her eyes. To hell with finding grounds for divorcing Max. Bronco was right. He was dangerous. He couldn't make her life any more of a living hell after she left him than he was making it now.
If she was ever going to respect herself, she needed to leave. Luckily, his upcoming assignment offered the perfect opportunity for her to get away.
Chapter 7
Brant ducked out of the hatch of the C-17 Globemaster military transport plane and jumped onto the tarmac in Vieques, Puerto Rico. Hot, humid air buffeted his woodland-camo BDUs as he trudged with the rest of Echo Platoon to the back of the plane to collect his gear. His boots felt heavy. He had trouble finding his smile. Only half of the task unit was needed for this mission, and Charlie Platoon had been left behind. He wished it had been the other way around.
Get your head in the game, man, he scolded himself. It was his job to motivate the others, and normally a mission like this had his blood thrumming and his testosterone revved up. B
ut not this time. What the hell's wrong with you?
He drew a deep breath and attempted to center himself the way Bullfrog had taught him in his Jujitsu class. Sultry air, redolent with scent of the Caribbean and of wild-growing hibiscus, reminded him that he loved Puerto Rico. The sun, the turquoise waters, the stunning sunsets—who could ask for more?
But as he glanced at his phone, it was his proximity to the U.S. and his uninterrupted cellular service that he cared about most. And—check it out—Becca had finally texted him!
His first smile of the day tugged at the edges of his mouth as he read her message.
Hey, this is my new cell phone number. I'm looking for an apartment this weekend—R.
"Awesome." Pride rolled through him at the realization that she was actually doing it—she was leaving Mad Max! Regret caught up to him, however, keeping him from doing a happy dance. This wasn't all good news.
Sure, she'd be safer now, especially if his hunch was right and Max had gotten involved with an organized crime family. And true, they could now spend time together without Max breathing down their necks. But, as he'd already reasoned, spending time with Rebecca would only deepen their feelings of affection for each other. It violated his relationship guidelines, which meant he was going to have to end their relationship eventually.
But not any time soon, he decided. She needed his encouragement right now. And what were friends for but to be there for each other, in spirit, if not physically?
Cool, he texted back. Almost immediately, he sensed that he was being watched. Glancing up, he encountered Max's narrow-eyed stare, and an icy sensation climbed his spine. He swallowed against a dry mouth and put his phone away. Imagine how Max would react if he knew his wife was texting his chief. Turning to collect his pack, Brant slung it over his shoulder and transitioned to the transport vehicles.
Forty minutes later, he sat with his platoon members in the abandoned administration building, which was now their temporary operations command, or TOC. Several of the windows had been broken since the regular military had ceased using Vieques as a training facility. Only Special Operations still used it, and they considered real windows an unnecessary luxury. A hot breeze wafted through the shattered panes. Fat, droning flies kept the men awake as Max briefed them on the mission.
Hard Landing Page 8
