Hart's Last Stand

by Cheryl Biggs

  “Did you ask him about DeBraggo?” Hart said. “How the man might have known where you were staying when you were at the hotel?”

  “Oh, no, I didn’t have to.” She shook her head. “I guess I forgot to tell you, Mr. DeBraggo explained. He fibbed about talking to Clyde, but was reluctant to approach me without claiming some prior contact with the gallery. He’d seen my picture with an article the New York Times did on a purchase I made on behalf of the gallery a few weeks ago.” She shrugged. “It was just coincidence we were both in the same hotel, but…”

  “Yeah,” Hart said, not believing it for one minute. “Coincidence.” He could count on one finger the number of times he’d believed an incident was a coincidence, and there was still a lot of doubt in his mind on that one.

  Suzanne heard the derision in his tone and frowned. “You don’t believe that?” His skepticism made her nervous and, in spite of herself, afraid.

  “Let’s just say I’ve never encountered a coincidence I liked,” Hart drawled.

  His comment stirred doubts and unnerved her further. What if he was right and Mr. DeBraggo wasn’t who he’d claimed? Then who was he?

  Hart watched the fear shadow her eyes and realized he’d upset her, which was what he should have avoided. “Hey, ignore me,” he said, and laughed. “I’ve never been known as much of an optimist, so what do I know? I’d probably be suspicious of the Pope.”

  She laughed, but he didn’t miss the uneasiness that edged the sound.

  “I mean, he’s probably exactly what he says,” he added.

  Suzanne nodded, feeling a bit relieved and knowing she probably shouldn’t be. “Was there any special reason you came by this morning?” she asked when silence fell over them. “Have you found out something?”

  “I was hoping we could have breakfast together,” he said. “Maybe at that new little café they built down by the old jail.” God help him, in spite of everything, his desire for her, his need for her, was stronger than ever.

  She wanted desperately to say yes, but knew she couldn’t, so she shook her head. “I don’t think so, Hart. I have a lot of phone calls to make this morning for gallery business, and I don’t feel well at all today,” she added quickly, to ward off an invitation to lunch or dinner. She touched her stomach to add credence to her words. “Maybe something I ate last night. But thank you for asking.” She had to stay away from him, keep some distance between them until Molly called back. It was the only way she could think of to keep her emotions under control, and herself safe.

  Ever since she’d nearly let him make love to her, she’d been unable to think of anything else for more than a few minutes at a time, and that was when they were apart. When he was near, her thoughts of him raided her senses and banished every other subject from her mind as if no other existed.

  Hart leaned against the door of his Cobra and watched the rookie who had joined the corps a month ago take a training chopper through a series of difficult, though basic, maneuvers.

  But Hart’s thoughts weren’t on the rookie or the exercise. They were on Suzanne, on accusations he still found difficult to believe, an investigation into his own background he could find no justification for and an invitation to breakfast she had turned down. He hadn’t expected her to say no.

  His cell phone rang.

  He answered, expecting to hear Suzanne before remembering she didn’t have the number.

  “Senator Trowtin on the line for you, sir,” Roubechard said.

  The line clicked twice as Roubechard transferred the call.

  Hart tensed.

  “Captain,” the senator said, “I’m calling you from a secure phone, and I hope to hell that aide of yours can be trusted to forget he even received this call.”

  “He can, sir,” Hart said, hoping it was the truth.

  Then he’s not a suspect. Suzanne’s words flashed through Hart’s mind.

  “You’d better be right, Captain.” The senator’s tone was gruff and hurried. “I’ve got something for you that might help, but you didn’t hear it from me, is that agreed?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Get your hands on a copy of Lieutenant Richard Cassidy’s autopsy report as soon as you can. Then get yourself a copy of the records the retrieval crew wrote up on what was left of his chopper when they finally located it.”

  “Is there—?”

  “I don’t have time to answer questions, Captain. Get those records, and you’ll find some of the answers you need. Then take a long, hard look at your corps members again. And I mean, look long and hard. My info says you’ve got at least one man in the group who shouldn’t be there. He lied about his past when he joined up. Was in the state pen for five years on an assault-and-battery. And if you don’t already know it, there’s a Federal agent watching you and the Cassidy woman.”

  “Who?”

  “His name’s Sal Buenotarres, but he sometimes uses the cover name Salvatore DeBraggo.”

  “DeBraggo,” Hart echoed, surprised. He’d been fairly certain the Spaniard was not what he’d appeared to be, but he would have tagged him as one of the bad guys.

  “That’s it, Captain,” the senator said, breaking into Hart’s thoughts. “If I get anything else of substance, I’ll get it to you, one way or another. But don’t call me if it’s not a matter of life or death.”

  The line went dead.

  Hart stared at the training chopper, circling in the distance, as the senator’s last words repeated through his mind.

  “He’s pretty good for a rookie,” Zack said, saluting Hart.

  Hart turned. He stared at the other man, momentarily disoriented. How long had he been standing there? How much had he heard?

  Zack frowned. “You okay, Captain?”

  Hart shook himself mentally. He had to get a grip. “Yeah, I’m, fine.” He glanced back at the rookie, his chopper now hovering over the runway a few hundred yards away, then looked back at Lieutenant Zack Morrow. Silver-lensed, aviator-style dark glasses hid Zack’s eyes from view, while a black Stetson shaded his face, both complementing his flight suit.

  “So, when are we going to take the newbie out to the Gulch?” Zack said, a devilish grin pulling at his handsome features.

  Hart shrugged. “You want to take him out tomorrow?” he asked, knowing Zack would say yes.

  The Gulch was one of the final tests for a recruit transferring into the Cobra Corps, and Hart knew that Zack loved flying it and putting a rookie through his paces almost as much as he’d once loved riding on the back of an angry bull.

  “Sure thing, boss, but aren’t you coming?”

  Hart always went on the Gulch runs.

  He tucked the clipboard under his arm. “Not this time. I’ve got a few other things to take care of.” Like saving his career—and finding out if the woman he couldn’t stop thinking about and who had turned his passion into his enemy was a murderous traitor. “Radio him in, would you, Zack? I’ve got to go.”

  The sun was just settling beyond the horizon, the air starting to cool, as Hart returned to his office. Roubechard greeted him with more bad news. “I’ve, um, been listening to the tape of Ms. Cassidy’s phone calls, sir, like you ordered, and…”

  Listening to the tapes—or doctoring them? The suspicion flashed into Hart’s mind, instant and unbidden. He just as instantly chastised himself for it. Roubechard was not a suspect.

  “And, well, sir, I think, uh…”

  “Oh, hell, spit it out, Roubechard,” Hart said curtly, the normally tightly held rein on his patience long gone.

  “Yes, sir, well, sir, uh, Ms. Cassidy placed another call to France.”

  Terrific. No, more than terrific, Hart thought, feeling a real urge to put his fist through the wall. Absolutely wonderful.

  “I thought you’d want to listen for yourself, sir.” Roubechard switched on the tape.

  “Oui, Marsei residence.”

  Hart felt all his hopes plunge, his dreams die and every dark suspicion and flame of
anger in him flare beyond his control.

  After the initial pleasantries were exchanged, Robert Marsei asked if everything was finalized.

  “No,” Suzanne said. “We’ve run into a few complications.”

  “Can you handle them?”

  “Yes, we’re working on them. It shouldn’t be much longer. I think Clyde is planning to make the final delivery himself.”

  “Good,” Robert said. “Good. It has been too long since I’ve seen him. Well, mon amie, it has been a pleasure doing business with you, as usual.”

  The blackness of Hart’s mood deepened. She was doing business “as usual” with Robert Marsei. Could there be any real doubt she was guilty? Everything in him screamed no, yet deep inside a part of him still wanted to say yes and believe in her.

  But that wasn’t the cold, logical side he counted on for survival, and it wasn’t a part of himself he could afford to listen to.

  He’d known better than to let his emotions get out of control. Too much was at stake. And like a fool, he’d allowed it to happen, anyway.

  Whether he’d just fallen into her trap or dug a hole of his own didn’t matter. He was no closer to the truth of this whole mess than he’d been when it had started, and he was a helluva lot less objective.

  “Lock it in my safe,” he said as Roubechard turned the tape off.

  “Yes, sir, but there’s something else, sir.”

  “What?” he snapped, no longer concerned with protocol, manners or even the other’s man’s feelings. He needed “something else” like he needed a damned bullet between the eyes.

  “Ms. Cassidy called someone in the State Department and asked them to do background checks on all the corps members. Including you, sir.”

  “Son of a…” He didn’t need this. Hart’s temper ripped from his control. He stood abruptly, his chair scraping the floor and nearly toppling.

  Roubechard stepped back hurriedly, a look of surprise on his face as Hart stalked past him to the door. “Sir?”

  Hart spun. “What, Roubechard? Don’t tell me you’ve got more good news.”

  “Uh, no, sir. I just wanted to know if you’re checking out for the day, sir.”

  “Yes, I’m out,” he said. “So don’t call me unless our enemies are on their way and the damned world is about to explode.”

  “Yes, sir,” Roubechard said, snapping to attention and saluting.

  Hart stalked out, slamming the door behind him. Then he stopped, remembering that Roubechard took everything he said quite literally. Swearing, he walked back into the office. “I didn’t mean that, Roubechard. Call me if you come up with anything else.” He grabbed a cell phone and slipped it into his pocket.

  “Anything, sir?”

  “Yes, Roubechard, anything.” There was no telling anymore what might or might not be important. He held up the cell phone and said, “Number five,” then walked to his car and slid in behind the wheel.

  Damn it all. He didn’t have any more time to spare. If Suzanne was guilty, and that if was looking more and more probable, then she was trying to find another way to lay the blame for treason, and murder, at his doorstep. But on the thinning chance that she was innocent, a State Department geek poking his nose into the military’s top-secret business could escalate the danger to both her and him, if the wrong people found out.

  In his experience with the feds, the wrong people usually always found out. And that usually ended up with a stockpile of dead bodies.

  He jammed the car into gear and spun away from the building. Adding his body to the stockpile was not in his game plan. In battle maybe, but not this way.

  Anger seared through his veins, and though he was loath to acknowledge it, fear seized his heart. He didn’t know what to feel and what to damn, but he knew he was tired of tiptoeing around his suspicions.

  He’d let himself go too far with her and was probably lucky he was even still alive.

  Chapter 11

  Suzanne heard the squeal of tires on pavement, then the crunch of gravel as tires spun over the driveway of her rented bungalow.

  A car door slammed.

  Fear instantly pulled her into its dark grasp and she tensed. Had the FBI finally come for her? She stared at the door, expecting to hear the bell.

  Instead, a fist crashed against the door.

  Suzanne jumped, startled.

  “Suzanne?”

  Hart, not the FBI. Relief and joy swept through her, momentarily pushing all thoughts of caution aside. She ran to the door and flung it open, heedless of the fact that all she had on was a sheer batiste nightgown.

  “Why the hell was Carger here?” Hart demanded as he stormed past her into the living room. He spun around to face her, confront her, and his breath instantly stalled in his throat. She stood in the moonlit doorway, her body silhouetted by the night’s soft light filtering in behind her. The sheer nightgown she wore was like a veil of transparent cloud, accentuating every inch of her and concealing nothing from his sight. Desire flared to life within him, but he fought it off. This was not the right time and she was not the right woman. He swallowed, hard. “Why was the chief here, Suzanne?” he repeated, his voice gruff now with the unwanted emotions flowing through him. “And what the hell kind of business are you doing with Robert Marsei?”

  She stared at him, startled. “I…the chief was… Robert is…”

  His anger left him no patience. “Who did you call in the State Department, Suzanne? I had the personnel reports—you could have asked me for them, looked at them with me anytime you’d wanted. Instead, you stole them. And now you’ve called in the State Department? What are you trying to do, Suzanne? Destroy me?”

  Her jaw fell. “Destroy you?”

  “Dammit,” Hart cursed. Maybe without that halo of light around her she wouldn’t look so damned tempting. He stalked past her and kicked the front door closed.

  It slammed against its frame with a deafening thud.

  Suzanne suddenly realized just how little she had on and grabbed the robe she’d discarded and left lying on the sofa earlier. She struggled into it. “Hart, I…” She’d never seen him like this, and it frightened her.

  He grabbed her upper arms and dragged her to him. “Answer me, Suzanne, dammit. What is Chief Carger to you?”

  “Nothing,” she said, struggling against his hold on her. But it was no use—his grip was like a vise of iron. “I don’t even like Chief Carger. I’ve never liked him. He tried to warn me away from you when I got back. Said you were called away a lot because of your clearance. That you weren’t the kind of man a woman like me should get involved with.”

  Hart’s gaze bored into hers as he searched for any sign she was lying. “Why would he say that to you? Why would he care?”

  She shook her head and shrugged. “He said I deserved better.”

  “And Marsei?”

  “Robert?”

  “Yes, Robert.”

  She shook her head, as if confused. “He’s a client, Hart, that’s all.”

  He released her so suddenly she nearly lost her balance.

  “He’s a damned spy, Suzanne.” Hart stalked across the room, then spun to glare at her. “Marsei buys and sells government secrets like most people buy and sell their worthless pieces of garbage at flea markets. To the highest bidder.”

  Suzanne stared at him. This wasn’t happening. He couldn’t be telling her the truth. She shook her head in denial. “No. That can’t be right. Hart, you must have him confused with someone else. Really. Robert is an old friend of Clyde’s family. His father grew up and went to school with Robert Marsei.”

  “Really? Then maybe you’d better look into the activities of Clyde’s father, Suzanne, before you take on his friends as customers. I am not mistaking Robert Marsei for someone else. The man is a spy, and one of the best and deadliest in the business. He deals in espionage, Suzanne, and he doesn’t care who or what side he works for, who gets hurt or who ends up dead as long as he gets paid.”

  “R
obert?” she said again, stunned by Hart’s words and unable to reconcile them to the gentle, sophisticated man she knew.

  “Who did you call at the State Department?” Hart demanded again.

  She stared at him, her mind still reeling in disbelief at the accusation that Robert was a spy.

  “Suzanne!” Hart snapped, cold fury edging his tone. “Who did you call at the State Department?”

  “My cousin.” The words were out before she could stop them.

  “Why?”

  Her gaze became lost in his. Everything in her warned her to stay silent, to send him away, to heed caution. “To check up on you,” she said, instead.

  His jaw tightened. Fire leaped into his eyes. Anger drew his mouth taut. He clenched his hands into fists.

  Suzanne suddenly ached to reach out to him—yearned to run to him.

  “Did you kill Rick, Suzanne?”

  Her jaw dropped open again, the words, the accusation, like a slap on her face. “What?” she finally managed weakly.

  “You heard me.” His tone was cold, hard, calm. “Did you arrange for Rick’s death, then have someone steal the plans and sabotage his chopper?”

  “Oh, my God.” Any fight left in her fled. She sank to the sofa, her legs trembling so violently they were no longer able to support her. She felt a series of shivers course through her body, one after another, chilling her blood, threatening to stop her heart. “No.” She shook her head. “You can’t mean someone…that Rick was…”

  “That’s exactly what I mean,” Hart snapped.

  Tears filled her eyes. She looked up at him. “No. He can’t have been murdered.” She shook her head again in denial of the possibility. “No.” Her tears spilled over and ran down her cheeks, streams of moisture that turned to trails of silver that glistened in the moonlight filtering in through the patio doors.

  In that moment as Hart looked down at her, something happened. He couldn’t explain it, didn’t understand it, but suddenly all his doubts and suspicions fled. It was unreasonable. Nevertheless it was how he felt. He crossed the room and pulled her into his arms.