Hard Landing (32 page)

Brant caught them. Touched that Kuzinsky would trust him with something of his father's, he said, "Thanks. I'll be careful with it."

The master chief cut a critical look at his attire. "You'll need to change your appearance." He nodded at the orange juice. "Drink that, then follow me."

Intrigued, Brant downed the contents of his glass before standing to follow his leader up the creaking stairs to another of what seemed to be countless bedrooms. Kuzinsky flipped on the light, revealing a hodgepodge of mismatched furniture. He crossed to an old maple chest and lifted the lid. "These clothes were my father's."

Recalling that Kuzinsky, Sr. had died the previous winter and his son had taken a week of leave to close his estate in Orange, New Jersey, Brant peered into the chest, seeing several pairs of neatly folded, brown coveralls.

"
Tata
delivered produce," Kuzinsky explained, using what Brant assumed was the Polish word for father. "He worked from dawn to dusk, every day of his life, until he dropped dead."

Brant didn't know what to say. Maybe that explained the rumor that the master chief was planning to retire soon. He didn't want to do what his father had done and work up to the day he died. He reached into the chest and pulled out a brown hat with a large bill that read
Garden Grown
on the logo.

The master chief handed him a pair of silver-framed glasses. "The prescription's not too strong. Try them on," he invited.

Brant put on the hat and glasses together. Kuzinsky's father had been slightly nearsighted, but the lenses didn't distort his vision too badly.

Kuzinsky nodded his approval. "Good. Now trim your hair, don't shave, and no one will recognize you. That's all I can do for you today. I'm late for work."

"This is plenty. Thanks, Master Chief." As the other man turned away, Brant studied his reflection in an old mirror and marveled at how different he looked.

Kuzinsky paused at the door. "You need anything else?"

Brant remembered his pistol. "Is my Sig Sauer still under the seat in my truck?"

"I haven't moved it." Kuzinsky headed for the door. "Help yourself to whatever you need, and try to stay out of trouble."

His tone implied that trouble was pretty much inevitable.

Brant listened to him walk downstairs and exit his home via the back of the house. Seconds later, he glimpsed a familiar Toyota Camry disappearing up the dirt driveway. Sliding a hand into his pocket, he pulled out his phone.

Becca.
The urge to call her rode him like a determined rodeo rider. Maya had warned him that Max needed to believe he was dead. Rebecca's knowing the truth might possibly jeopardize their game of cat and mouse. For now, Brant would respect Maya's wishes.

He regretfully set his phone down. Dropping the baggy pair of jeans he wore, he reached into the chest and pulled out a pair of brown coveralls. Fortunately, Kuzinsky, Sr. hadn't been as vertically challenged as his son. Tossing the uniform over his shoulder, he went hunting for a bathroom and a pair of scissors with which to cut his hair.

* * *

Rebecca eased into her Jetta and sat for a minute, her hand on her car keys, trying to remember where she was headed. Oh, yes, to discuss what had happened to Bronco with Maya Schultz. Compressing her lips into a determined line, she started up her engine. Bronco's death would not go unatoned, she vowed. She would make certain Max paid for his hideous crimes.

The sound of her own ragged breathing brought her out of her churning thoughts.
Focus.
She was a danger to herself and others driving in her present condition. Her sleep had been intermittent at best and filled with horrific dreams. She'd spent her waking hours unable to work, unable to eat, and ignoring her mother's worried phone calls.

With a sharp exhale, she depressed the clutch, toggled her shifter into reverse, and peered over her shoulder. The jangling of her cell phone halted her progress, even as it startled her overly taut nerves. She glanced down at her purse and decided to answer the call, in case it was Maya, canceling their appointment.

"Hello?"

"Is this Rebecca?"

The voice sounded vaguely familiar. "Yes, it is."

"Hey, this is TJ from the morgue at the hospital. Sandy gave me your number. I hope that's okay."

"Yeah, sure."

"So, you wanted me to tell you when John Doe's body was claimed? I came in this morning, and it's gone. Some family member came in yesterday while Fritz was working and took him home."

"Oh, that's good," she said, trying to muster some enthusiasm, but all she could think of was that Bronco's body would have been down in that morgue, too, where someone from the team must have come to collect him. Bullfrog had told her his body would be cremated, and sent home to Montana following a memorial here. He'd wanted his ashes scattered on a mountaintop. "Thanks for letting me know."

"No problem." TJ hesitated. "Hey, is everything okay?"

"Not really. I'm sorry, but I have to go." She hung up quietly and put her phone back in her purse, before backing up.

A sense of vulnerability assailed her as she exited her apartment complex. The worry that Tony and his henchmen were keeping a close eye on her had grown into an abiding certainty. Since the break-in the other day, she hadn't felt safe inside of her apartment, let alone driving around by herself. With Bronco now dead, she might well be the next one to die, especially if the mob realized what Max was probably starting to suspect: that she had turned his laptop over to the authorities.

Surprisingly, even though life held very little appeal for her at that moment, she refused to become Max or the mob's next target. They were not going to win this fight, she vowed, gripping her steering wheel with white-knuckled hands.

The memory of Bronco's infectious smile tore a sob from her chest. She caught it back, struggling to keep tears from blurring her vision as she drove along the busy streets toward Oceana Naval Air Station. The heavy traffic required her concentration. She edged into the right lane, letting a pushy red Volvo race around her. In her rearview mirror, a shiny black BMW mirrored her adjustment.

Her pulse ticked upward as she stared back at it. Were her fears manifesting, or was Tony and his posse following her? There was one sure way to find out. Checking her blind spot first, she shot out of the right lane and accelerated as quickly as her 2.5 liter engine allowed.

Forty-five. Fifty-five. Sixty-five
. If she were pulled over now, she'd be cited for reckless driving.

To her horror, sunlight glanced off the sunroof of the BMW as it moved into the center lane, increasing speed to close the gap between them.

"Oh God."
Not again
.

It
was
Tony. She was sure of it. The Scarpa family was stalking her, which meant they knew she was on to Max's dealings with them. Her days were numbered.

Suddenly, a third vehicle, a brown delivery van, caught her attention as it cut off another car to keep pace with the sedan. Now three vehicles were flying up Oceana Boulevard at well over the speed limit. Did the van belong to the mob, too? Rebecca wondered. Maybe they were planning to box her in somewhere, toss her in the van, and drive off with her.

Relief shuddered through her at the sight of Oceana Naval Air Station coming up on her left. She edged her speed even higher, waiting until the last instant to whip into the turn lane. She took advantage of a break in the oncoming traffic to peel into the entrance. The driver of the BMW started to follow her, realized she was heading into a military installation, and made a correction. The van showed no sign of turning in either.

Glancing over her shoulder, Rebecca sought a glimpse of the van's driver. The air surged back into her lungs. Even wearing a hat and glasses, he looked just like Bronco!

Tears swarmed her eyes at the cruel circumstances. Letting her foot off the gas, she slowed to a stop at the guard house, lowered her window, and handed the MP her dependent ID.

He glowered down at her over the tops of his sunglasses. "Ma'am, you need to decrease your speed."

"Yes, I know." She sent him a distracted nod. "I'm sorry. I'm safe now."

He frowned in puzzlement, glancing into her back seat as he handed her back her ID. "Is everything okay?"

Everyone seemed to be asking her that lately.

"Not really." Offering up the same answer she'd given TJ, she put her car into gear and proceded toward the NCIS building, her speed far more subdued.

* * *

Brant used his cell phone to video record the BMW as he drove past it. Icy incredulity had ambushed him when he'd caught sight of it peeling out of a parking lot to follow Rebecca up Bonnie Road ten minutes earlier. Before that, he had thought himself the only one keeping an eye on her. The fact that the mob was tailing her confirmed his worst fears.

He'd hung back a healthy distance, letting the driver of the BMW think he was the only one in pursuit. After Rebecca turned in to the air base, Brant decided he could overtake the sedan without endangering her.

As he'd intended, the driver took note of his aggressive driving. Through the tinted glass, a broad-faced man shot him a dirty look. Brant gave him ample time to notice the cell phone pointed in his direction. A figure in the back seat lurched forward and gestured to the driver. Brant dropped his phone in his lap and flipped them both the bird before speeding past. The driver predictably accelerated, pursuing him, just as he'd hoped he would.

"Come and pick on someone your own size," he invited.

There'd been only two men in the car. Following a good night's sleep, he was confident he could handle two opponents, regardless of how much firepower they had, regardless of their tactics. After all, Rebecca's well-being hung in the balance.

Brant frustrated the driver's intent to pass him. Without warning, the BMW crossed the double yellow line, breaking into the oncoming lane and unsettling an approaching driver so badly that she veered off the road and smashed into a ditch.

Crash!

"You crazy fuck!" Brant exclaimed, moving immediately into the right lane before the mobster killed somebody.

The sedan slid along next to him, its fender mere inches from Brant's driver's-side door. Glancing over, Brant made out a face pressed against the back window, sending him a hard stare. Confident that the hat and spectacles concealed his features, he stared back. There wasn't any question that the man glaring at him resembled Rebecca's sketch of Tony Scarpa, identified by NCIS as the oldest son and heir to the notorious crime family.

"Come and get me, asshole," he invited, mouthing the words clearly.

Several seconds elapsed as he waited for the mobsters to try to force him off the road. His vehicle was bigger, but theirs was better built, and they couldn't ask for a more convenient place to do it. He'd get stuck in the grassy ditch and be forced to stop. And then the real fun would begin. But the man in the rear seat sat back, and the sedan sailed right past him. With a puff of exhaust, it pulled away so swiftly that Brant didn't even bother trying to keep up.

Frustration burned the backs of his eyeballs as he watched the vehicle put more and more distance between them. Looking for the first safe place to pull over, he swerved onto a utility road and came to a stop. As his overheated engine cooled, he forwarded the video he'd taken of the mobsters to Maya's cell phone. With proof that the Scarpas were tailing Rebecca, she would have to take Rebecca's safety as seriously as she'd taken his.

* * *

Rebecca McDougal's pale face reflected abhorrence at Maya's proposition that she pretend to reconcile with Max. Ben Metier cleared his throat uncomfortably, while Doug Castle waited for Rebecca to process the request. Like Maya, he was certain she would come around.

"Why would you even ask that of me?" the young woman demanded, her voice quavering. "Max
murdered
Bronco like a cold-blooded serial killer. How am I supposed to even look at him, let alone pretend to want to reconcile?"

Maya bit her bottom lip. "I understand your reluctance—I do." She nodded. "But this could be the only way to convince both the military judge and Admiral Johansen of your husband's culpability. Look, just start out by giving him back the laptop. We've installed spyware on it. If he uses it again, we can capture his keystrokes, his passwords, that kind of thing. If he accesses an offshore account, we'll know it, and we'll be able to view it. If he was paid by a mysterious source to
do
something, that'll clinch our case."

Rebecca's brown gaze dropped to the laptop sitting on Maya's desk. "What do I say when I give it to him?" she asked, with audible reluctance.

"Tell him that you've had it in the trunk of your car for a while. You took it to a friend of a friend who fixed it, and you forgot to give it back, until now."

Rubbing her forehead with a hand that visibly trembled, the commander's wife mumbled, "I'm sorry. I don't think I can bring myself to even speak to him."

Frustration got the better of Maya's tongue. "Stop thinking with your heart and start thinking with your head," she implored. "Honestly, we could arrest him so easily if you would cooperate with us."

Her words startled Rebecca's head up. At last, she had her attention. "How?" she asked.