Hart's Last Stand

by Cheryl Biggs

  Hart had never known Rick to be without it.

  That memory made him wonder if the recovery team had found it in the wreckage when they’d retrieved Rick’s remains.

  Brenner Trent had been so fascinated by the trick that he’d nagged Rick for months to teach it to him. Rick had finally consented one night while they were awaiting flight orders for a mission in Panama.

  But both men were dead.

  Brenner Trent had been killed in an automobile accident shortly after the company returned from the Jaguar Loop mission. His body had been badly burned, but his wife had identified the remains.

  Hart stared into the mirror at the reflection of the man. The coin moved effortlessly over, under and between the fingers of his left hand. He raised a coffee cup to his lips with his right. He looked relaxed, nonchalant, normal, except that he never took his eyes off Suzanne.

  His hair was dark brown and a bit curly, ragged ends hugging the tops of his ears and his neck. Dark brows curved over eyes whose color Hart couldn’t make out, and it appeared that he hadn’t shaved in a day or so, or maybe that was just his look. He was dressed in a black T-shirt and black cloth jacket. His shoulders were broad, his chest wide and he didn’t wear a watch.

  Hart couldn’t shake the feeling that he knew the man from somewhere. The sense of familiarity was too strong, as was the suspicion that whatever was going on with Suzanne, and maybe the investigation concerning himself, this man had something to do with it.

  Hart glanced at Suzanne again.

  Did she know the man was there? Couldn’t she feel him watching her?

  An ugly but credible thought flashed into Hart’s mind. Maybe the man wasn’t watching Suzanne as much as he was watching her back. Which could mean he was also watching Hart. The idea made him uneasy. Could he have been the one in the car Hart had spotted behind him several times on the way to Tucson?

  Suddenly Suzanne and her friend rose.

  Hart grabbed a newspaper someone had left on the adjacent stool and buried his face in it as they passed behind him on their way to the door.

  A second later the other man rose and followed them out.

  Hart waited a minute before leaving, not wanting Suzanne to spot him. She and her friend had walked across the parking lot to the right, the man to the left. All were getting into their own cars.

  He swore, torn between following Suzanne or the man who’d been watching her. He climbed into the Vette and hurriedly scribbled down the number of the license plate on the man’s car.

  Suzanne pulled out and the man followed.

  Hart started the Vette and shoved it into gear. Not exactly the most inconspicuous vehicle to use to follow someone, but then, he hadn’t known he’d be playing private detective when he’d bought it.

  A red pickup truck pulled into the lot and stopped in front of Hart as he started to back out.

  He slammed on his brakes. Get out of the way, he ordered silently, clenching a hand around the steering wheel as he watched a woman who had to be at least ninety slowly climb from the cab of the truck. The driver waited until she was at the door of the restaurant before he pulled away to park.

  Hart finally pulled onto the street.

  Suzanne’s car was sitting at a stoplight at the corner.

  The man was gone.

  Half an hour later Hart watched her pull into the driveway beside her bungalow and walk into the house.

  What the hell had all that been about? Questions spun through his mind, but he had no answers.

  The urge to confront her was almost overwhelming, which was exactly why he decided against giving in to it. Overwhelming was too close to uncontrollable, and he couldn’t afford that.

  Anyway, he didn’t always think straight, or with his head, when he was near Suzanne. He turned his car around and drove to the base.

  “Roubechard,” he said as he entered the office, “here’s a license-plate number. See what you can get on it.” He tossed the crumpled piece of paper onto the aide’s desk without pausing and strode into his office, slamming the door behind him. He needed to be alone—to think.

  His notes and the official reports on the Jaguar Loop mission were still on his desk. He sat down and started to shuffle through them. Images of Suzanne instantly began to play havoc with his concentration.

  An hour passed before he realized that of the three pages of notes and five reports he’d gone over, he hadn’t retained a thing he’d read.

  Hart paced the office, drank cup after cup of coffee strong enough to make most men gag and stared endlessly and sightlessly through the window. He glared hatefully at the telephone every time it rang and wasn’t a call from her, and gruffly asked Roubechard a half-dozen times what he’d found out on the license-plate number, which was nothing. Then he paced some more.

  Patience had never been one of his virtues.

  Chapter 9

  “Hart,” Suzanne said as she swung open the door. Surprise glistened in her eyes. “I…I’m sorry, I didn’t expect you.”

  “I know, but…” Hart’s gaze moved over her from head to toe and back again, assessing and hopefully seducing. Her silk pajamas, the color of rich, red wine, shimmered in the porch light she’d switched on when she’d opened the door. The style was simple and tailored, but on her the outfit was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen.

  Hart swore silently. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. But it was too late now. And he didn’t have any others. He held out the chocolate cake he’d stopped and bought at the all-night grocery on his way, having remembered that chocolate was her favorite. “I felt like dessert and didn’t want to eat it alone.”

  Suzanne tried to pull her gaze from his and look at the bakery box he held out, but she couldn’t. She knew she should tell him to go. What had happened between them had been a mistake. Maybe one that had been simmering for a long time and been unavoidable, but still a mistake. They lived in different worlds now. They were different people from what they had been.

  That was what she’d been telling herself ever since he’d left her at the open house. When he hadn’t called or come by. When she’d wanted to see him so badly she’d scoffed at the need for caution and sneered at her suspicions and doubts. But with him standing before her now, so close it felt as if the warmth of his body was reaching out and caressing her skin, she wanted nothing more than for him to stay.

  Not seeing him had allowed her time to think, to convince herself that the feelings he aroused in her were merely physical, and not nearly as strong as she imagined.

  Or so she’d thought.

  She tore her gaze from his finally and glanced at the pink bakery box he held out.

  Tell him to go away, a voice inside her pleaded.

  She ignored it.

  “Is it chocolate?” she asked instead, a teasing lilt to her tone.

  Hart laughed softly. “Is there any other kind of dessert worth having?”

  She stepped aside to allow him entry. “Then how can I possibly refuse?”

  “I was hoping you couldn’t.” He walked into the kitchen and set the cake on the table.

  Suzanne poured and set two cups of coffee on a serving tray, along with two slices of cake, and carried it into the living room.

  Moonlight flowed in through the glass doors that led to the patio. Its glow softly touched the overstuffed white sofa and matching chair that contrasted dramatically with the colorful Indian-print rug, pillows and various potteries, baskets and paintings.

  She set the tray on the coffee table and moved to turn on a lamp.

  “Don’t,” Hart said, ignoring the sofa and taking the chair. He had to move more slowly this time. Be careful. He couldn’t afford another blunder.

  She paused and looked at him.

  “I like the moonlight.” It was more conducive to his intentions. Soft surroundings and easy light was relaxing and made you forget about the barriers and guards you might normally keep around your emotions…and the truth, if that was what you were trying
to hide.

  She settled onto the sofa opposite him and smiled. “Me, too.”

  Time slipped past quickly as they talked about everything except what had brought them back together.

  As midnight neared Hart startled himself by realizing that instead of working the situation, he’d actually been enjoying himself. A string of self-damning curses tripped through his mind. What in hell was the matter with him? His concentration on a situation was normally infallible, yet he was no nearer the truth now than when he’d arrived. He’d become so comfortable he’d nearly fallen into his own trap.

  “This was nice tonight,” he said, “just sitting here and talking with you. Relaxing. And I’ll tell you, I needed some relaxing after today.”

  Suzanne’s brows rose slightly. “Oh? Did you have a bad day?” She thought of her own. It hadn’t exactly been a joy or even fruitful. But that was something she had no intention of sharing with him, because if she told him she’d met with Brenner Trent’s widow, she’d have to tell him why, and that meant confessing that she’d taken the personnel files. But then maybe he already knew she’d taken them.

  “Bad day? Yeah,” Hart said. “You could call it bad. But I’m afraid it’s going to be a lot worse tomorrow. I think I’m going to have to put my aide, Marcus Roubechard, on report.”

  She felt a start of surprise. “That nice young man with the tattoo? Why?”

  “Some of the background files you and I were going over are missing. I think ‘that nice young man’ may have given them to the feds.”

  She nearly choked on her coffee and couldn’t stop herself from glancing at the large purse sitting on the floor near her bedroom door. She hadn’t had a chance to put the files back.

  “Too bad,” Hart went on. “I like him. He’s a good kid. Most likely would have made a damned good soldier.” He watched her closely.

  Panic niggled at Suzanne’s nerves. “But why would Private Roubechard take any of those files?”

  Hart shrugged. “Who knows, Suzanne? Some FBI hotshot probably promised him something. Roubechard wants to be career military, follow in his father and grandfather’s footsteps and fight for his country. Family tradition and all that garbage, you know? But—” Hart reached for his coffee “—he didn’t go to college, so he’s got a long way to go to become an officer.” He shrugged. “My guess is some fed probably made him an offer he felt he couldn’t refuse.”

  “But…couldn’t the files have just been misplaced or something? I mean, why would he…” She couldn’t believe this was happening. They’d been finished with the files. She’d heard Hart tell Roubechard to put them away. How had he discovered any were missing?

  Hart shook his head. “No. They’ve been boxed and in my office ever since you and I were working on them. And I keep my office door locked when I’m out. Roubechard is the only other person with a key.”

  Suzanne damned herself for not putting the files back, but that wasn’t going to do any good now. She couldn’t let an innocent man take the blame for what she’d done. She summoned every ounce of courage she possessed. “I took the files, Hart. Not your aide.”

  He stared at her, feigning surprise. “You took them? But why?”

  She turned, not wanting to meet his eyes, and stared at one of the paintings that hung on the wall, a scene of a desert landscape, the sun rising above a ragged plateau, a small wagon train moving through the valley below. “I wanted to look them over for myself.”

  “You didn’t trust me to tell you the truth?”

  She heard the skepticism in his tone and looked back at him. It was apparent immediately that the move had been a mistake. The infinite darkness of his eyes pulled at her, reminding her of everything she wanted from him and everything she couldn’t have. “You don’t trust me.”

  A slow smile pulled at the corners of Hart’s mouth. It was fruitless to deny her comment. They both knew it was all too true. He trusted no one. Not anymore. “Touché,” he said.

  She drew herself up, deciding to go on while she still had some courage left. “I have some concerns I feel you don’t share, Hart. Concerns about some of Rick’s old friends.”

  “Including me?”

  “There are just too many questions without answers.” She looked away again, knowing if she continued to meet his gaze, continued to let herself look into those fathomless midnight-blue eyes, she wouldn’t be able to go on. “I thought if I looked over the reports myself, maybe some of the questions would be answered.”

  “Were they?”

  She sighed. “No. The reports only stirred up more questions in my mind.”

  He remembered which files Roubechard had said were missing. “So tell me about them,” he said.

  Long minutes later, after she’d explained what unanswered questions were still bothering her, Hart pondered her concerns as she walked into the kitchen and got them more coffee.

  His dark gaze caught and imprisoned hers just as she returned to the sofa, setting his cup on the table between them.

  He leaned forward.

  She sat back.

  Hart noticed the silent retreat.

  “I was the only one to see Rick’s chopper shot down, Suzanne, because the squad had split into pairs in order to attack the enemy from several sides. Rick was my partner. We were flying in to attack from the rear. No one else was nearby.”

  She stiffened. “Which means it might not have happened the way you said.”

  “It might not have,” he said coolly.

  A harshness tinged his tone, and a chilling coldness flashed into his eyes. “But it did.”

  Silence, tense and brittle, hung between them for several seconds before Hart continued.

  “Lane Banner left the service after we returned from the mission because he discovered that his wife was seriously ill. He wanted to be with her every minute she had left.”

  Suzanne was overcome by guilt and compassion. She remembered Lane and his wife, Annie. They’d been devoted to each other.

  “Is she all—”

  “She died five months ago. She’d been hiding her illness from Lane so he wouldn’t jeopardize his career and quit the corps.” Hart paused a moment, as if thinking about his next words. “He’s returned to duty, but wasn’t assigned to the corps, though I know he’s requested to be transferred here. If the decision comes down to me,” Hart nodded, “he’ll get back in.”

  Suzanne suddenly wasn’t so certain of anything, especially her suspicions. “Hart, maybe I—”

  “Brenner Trent died in an automobile accident a couple of weeks after our return,” he went on, ignoring her interruption. “He fell asleep at the wheel, and his car went off the road and into a ravine.”

  Suzanne nodded. Trent’s widow had almost broken down in the restaurant as she’d described the night she’d gotten the call that her husband had been killed in an automobile accident.

  “The chief and his two mechanics are still on duty with the corps and checked out clear. And Zack Morrow and Rand Towler were just rookies at the time of the Jaguar Loop mission. They were included in it only as backup pilots, if that became necessary.” He looked at her pointedly. “It didn’t.”

  Suzanne turned and stared at the night beyond the room’s sliding glass doors. He’d erased her doubts about everyone but himself.

  “I guess that just about eliminates all your suspects, Suzanne, except for me,” he added softly as if reading her thoughts.

  She looked back at him, into those fathomless blue eyes, and felt a tug at every string dangling from her heart. The last person in the world she wanted to be guilty of murdering Rick, of stealing the plans and trying to frame her for it was Hart.

  Anyone but him, her heart cried.

  “I went to see Brenner Trent’s widow today,” she said, deciding she wanted no more lies and half-truths between them. At least, not if she could help it.

  Hart’s gaze remained locked on hers. So that was who the woman in the restaurant had been. He’d only met Trent’s
wife once, which explained why she’d seemed somewhat familiar to him, yet he hadn’t been able to place her. “Why? Didn’t you believe Trent was dead?”

  Suzanne smiled at the cutting remark. She deserved it and more, after what she’d done. “No, I…” She pulled in a deep breath, knowing she had to start at the beginning if he was going to understand. “Years ago, while I was attending college, I worked part-time as a clerk at Fort Monmouth, in Virginia.”

  “Monmouth.” He nodded. “Military Intelligence training center,” Hart said, his interest piqued.

  “Yes. I handled the personnel files of incoming trainees. It was rather tedious work, checking to make certain all proper documents were there, everything that needed to be stamped was stamped, what shouldn’t be there wasn’t and so on. To make the time pass more quickly I used to play a game with myself.” She paused, expecting him to comment. When he didn’t, she continued, feeling even more foolish and self-conscious. “I made up personalities for the files. Imagined what the men the files belonged to must be like.”

  He wasn’t quite sure where she was headed, but he didn’t interrupt.

  “After I graduated from college I left Monmouth. A few months later I met and married Rick. We moved around a lot, and then we came here. One day he introduced me to Brenner Trent, and I remembered the unusual name and boyish face from a file I’d processed at Monmouth.”

  Hart’s interest zoomed up. “Trent went to Monmouth?”

  “Yes.”

  Why hadn’t he known? “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  Had Lewis known? Had Rick? “Did Rick know about this?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. I never mentioned it to him or to Brenner Trent because I knew the information was classified.”

  Hart stood and walked to the glass doors. He looked out at the moon-touched horizon without really seeing it, his mind too lost in thought as he remembered the late mechanic, and realized there wasn’t much in particular to remember about him. He’d been rather quiet, did his job well, got along with the other guys, and about six months before his death he’d gotten married.