by Cheryl Biggs
Nothing.
The apartment was filled with shadows. He reached around the doorjamb and flipped the light switch. Several old wall sconces illuminated the room. Shock and disbelief held him momentarily on the spot. Either a raging tornado had hit the inside of his apartment, or someone had done one hell of a thorough job of searching it.
Half the cushions in the living room had been slashed open. Tables were lying on their sides, chairs upturned. Every drawer in the kitchen was open, contents scattered, and the bedroom was even worse.
It looked like a war zone.
“Son of a…” Shock gave way to fury. The last time it had been by professionals who had taken care to leave things as near to the way they’d found them as possible. This time whoever had searched his place hadn’t cared that he’d know. He’d blamed the feds before, and this could be their work, too. Maybe they were looking for whatever copies of the stolen plans hadn’t been sold yet and, if so, didn’t care what they had to do or destroy to get to them.
But as quickly as the thought came to him, he dismissed it. Instinct and experience told him this hadn’t been done by professionals. This had been done by someone who hated him.
He remembered the man in the restaurant who’d played a coin through his fingers and watched Suzanne. He remembered Salvatore DeBraggo—the bereaved widower who was really a fed; Chief Carger, who had warned Suzanne that Hart would only end up hurting her; and Rick, who was supposed to be dead, but who the feds believed wasn’t.
The phone rang, but it took a minute for Hart to find it beneath the mound of bed covers and clothes that had been tossed to the floor on top of it.
“Branson,” he said automatically.
“Sir, it’s Roubechard.”
“What the hell is it, Roubechard?”
“Well, sir, I, um, don’t know if it means anything, but I just discovered that a week before the Jaguar Loop mission Lieutenant Brenner Trent’s wife filed for a divorce.”
Worlds collided as memories washed over Hart.
It’s over, Hart. For good. Suzanne and I are getting a divorce.
Almost the last words Rick had said to him echoed through Hart’s mind.
Suzanne had asked for a divorce, and Rick was dead. Kristen Trent had filed for a divorce, and Brenner Trent was dead.
Could that be a coincidence? Cold skepticism drew at his thoughts. He didn’t believe in coincidence. Things happened in life, good or bad, for a reason, usually in reaction to someone else’s action. Sometimes the connections weren’t readily identifiable, but they were always there.
All of Hart’s suspicions assaulted him anew, stronger and deeper, refusing to be vanquished no matter how much his heart tried to deny them.
But he would have known—while making love to her—if her tears were a lie. Wouldn’t he?
Anger, frustration and resentment filled him. He had to find the truth. If she was guilty, he’d spend the rest of his life missing her—and damning her.
If she was innocent, he had to save her.
Either way, he had to know.
“Roubechard,” he said, his tone hard and determined, “did you get Rick Cassidy’s autopsy report?”
“No, sir. I’ve sent three requests, sir, but they keep being denied.”
“Call Major Lewis. I asked him to try, too. See if he got anywhere on it. And pull together anything else you can get your hands on involving Lieutenant Cassidy. And I want the same on Brenner Trent—he was killed last year. Find out what you can about his wife, too. Hell, check their whole families while you’re at it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I want that information on my desk when I get there,” Hart said. “Which will be shortly.”
“Yes, sir.”
He slammed the phone down and looked around the bedroom again, his anger edging toward rage. There was no more time to waste. He needed to talk to the fed who was supposedly watching him and Suzanne. DeBraggo. Maybe he’d seen who had done this. Or maybe he’d done it. But first Hart had to know how to contact the man.
He grabbed the phone and started to punch out the number for the senator’s aide…then noticed the dark-crimson stain on the carpet. He put down the phone and dropped to his knees, then touched a finger to the stain. Blood. He looked around, his heart racing, his mind refusing to consider even for a second that it could be Suzanne’s blood on the carpet.
She should have been here before him. What if she’d walked in on someone?
The phone rang again.
“Brigade Commander Dellos just called, sir,” Roubechard said without preamble.
Dellos. Not someone Hart wanted to hear from. He was pretty certain he knew what Roubechard’s next words would be.
“You’re to report to the Pentagon in twenty-four hours, sir.”
Dammit. He’d been right. It could be a summons to receive special instructions for a meeting or a highly classified mission, but something told Hart it was more likely to do with the feds, Suzanne and the stolen plans. Which meant he’d just about run out of time as far as proving Suzanne and himself innocent.
“Roubechard,” he said, “find Brenner Trent’s widow, then send a couple of MPs to pick her up and bring her to my office for questioning. And tell them not to take no for an answer.” He glanced down at the bloodstain again and felt a chill of alarm. “Get the police to my apartment. Tell them it was broken into and there’s blood on the floor.” His heart raced. “And send someone to get Suzanne Cassidy. Now!”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll be there in thirty.”
He hung up, then immediately picked up the phone again and punched out Suzanne’s number. Her answering machine came on.
“Suzanne,” he said, after the beep, “are you there? Pick up, it’s Hart. Suzanne?” He waited, drumming his fingers on the nightstand, staring down at the stain on the carpet, feeling his nerves fray further with the passing of each silent second. “Suzanne!”
He slammed the phone down again, then fought to get control of his emotions. She’d probably just gotten angry when he didn’t show up and had gone off to do something else, he told himself. Or maybe she was on her way to the base or back to the bungalow.
Hart glanced at the spot of blood again. Maybe whoever ransacked the place had cut himself on something.
It was a nice theory, but it didn’t convince him. Tension pulled at his bones, strained his muscles and filled him with alarm. And fear.
Then he remembered the senator saying that both he and Suzanne were being watched by the feds. A sense of relief eased some of his tension. Nothing could happen to her if the feds were watching. She wasn’t really alone.
The memory of Suzanne in his arms, her naked body pressed to his, reacting to his every touch, his every caress, tore at him. For the past several years every dream he’d ever had, every fantasy, had centered around Suzanne. Whether he’d liked it or not or even wanted to acknowledge it, she was a part of his life forever.
Chapter 13
Hart changed into a fresh uniform and made it to the base in twenty minutes, walking into the office only a moment before the MP sent to pick up Suzanne returned.
“She wasn’t home, sir,” the MP said. “None of the neighbors had seen her.”
Hart had expected that, since she hadn’t answered the phone. “I was going to check the other places your aide mentioned, but I found this note tacked to her front door, sir, and figured I’d better get it to you.” He handed Hart a folded piece of paper.
Hart glanced at the heavily scrawled message.
Come to the Old Tucson Studios tonight at midnight—alone, or you will never see Suzanne Cassidy alive again.
A chill of fear and guilt crept up his spine.
He read the note again.
It could be a trap meant to lure him somewhere alone—so that they could kill him and set him up to take the fall for the feds—and Suzanne could be the willing bait.
Or this threat could be on the level, and they
would kill her if he didn’t do as ordered.
Hart swore.
The other men feigned deafness.
He could have prevented this if he’d placed a guard on her earlier. Whether he’d believed her or not, he should have taken precautions.
And where the hell had her guardian fed been?
He crumpled the note in his fist and stared at nothing, his thoughts churning. Suddenly, unable to explain it even to himself, he knew, in his heart, that she was innocent.
Whatever wrongs had been done, she hadn’t done them.
With that conviction, the icy calm of battle and determination invaded his veins. He’d participated in too many dangerous missions to be foolish enough to believe that if he followed her abductors’ instructions and went after Suzanne alone, either one of them would survive. Most likely they’d both be killed and evidence left on them to convince the feds they were the traitors.
If Suzanne wasn’t dead already.
The phone rang. Roubechard ran into his office. “It’s Ms. Cassidy.” It was his private line. Hart grabbed for the phone on his desk.
“Hart?”
“Suzanne, where are you? Are you all right?”
“Yes, I don’t know, I think so.” The gash on her head from where she’d been hit was still throbbing, but at least it had stopped bleeding. She tried not to look at the man standing before her. How could she have been so utterly stupid?
She reached up, touched the lump on her head and winced. “Hart, I was at your place… The door was open and I knew that wasn’t like you. I was afraid something had happened to you, so I went in and…” She paused, trying to think of some way to tell him who’d attacked her.
The man standing before her nudged her shoulder roughly, his way of encouraging her to keep talking.
Suzanne felt a flash of pain in her head. “Oh, damn,” she wailed, and closed her eyes against the lightning bolts that shot from the bump on her head straight through her brain and down to her toes.
“Suzanne?” Fear gripped Hart.
“Sorry,” she said weakly. “They hit me over the head at your place and…”
Hart remembered the blood on his carpet.
“Suzanne, do you know where you are?”
“No. They let me call you, but— Ow,” she screamed as the phone was suddenly wrenched from her hand.
“But you won’t see her alive again if you don’t follow our instructions,” a deep voice said into Hart’s ear. “Midnight. The Old Tucson Studios. Alone.”
“Listen, you bas—”
An ugly laugh cut off Hart’s words, then the line went dead.
“Dammit!” he roared, and hung up the phone. He paced the length of the room. The thought that she could already be dead had been enough to threaten the beat of his heart, take the breath from his lungs and the strength from his limbs, which meant he had tried not to let himself even consider the possibility.
Now…they’d let her talk to him so that he’d know there was still hope, so that he’d follow their instructions.
But now that they knew he would come, they could kill her. Icy hands of fear wrapped around his heart and threatened to never let go. But along with fear came rage, firing the adrenaline of battle within him.
“Roubechard, find Lieutenants Morrow and Towler and get them here on the double.”
Rick’s death had reminded Hart why he’d never wanted friends, and when Suzanne walked out of his life, the pain of loss had deepened. He’d tried to close himself off again, but Zack and Rand had refused to let him withdraw completely. Now they remained the only two people he even came close to trusting, the only two people who dared to be his friends.
His thoughts spun. What if the feds had been right all along and Suzanne was guilty, the phone call merely another ploy? What if this was a trap?
Everything in him resisted the idea.
For the first time Hart began to question himself. Was it possible he was wrong, that in spite of what he’d seen, Rick hadn’t died in that crash? It would explain the feds’ suspicions of Suzanne.
But there was another possibility. Rumors had once flown that Rick and Kristen Trent had had an affair. What if the rumors had been true and now—
Roubechard returned. “They’re on their way, sir. And a clerk just delivered this.” He handed Hart a large envelope.
He glanced at it, ready to dismiss it as something that could wait, maybe forever if tonight went all wrong. Then the stamp of the coroner’s office in one corner of the envelope caught his attention.
The autopsy report on Rick.
Hart tore open the envelope and his blood turned cold as he quickly scanned the autopsy report on Rick Cassidy. Positive identification had been inconclusive.
A knock on the door interrupted his shock.
An MP entered and saluted. “Captain Branson, we weren’t able to locate Mrs. Trent, sir.”
Hart glared at the man, angry with everyone now. Was Trent’s widow just out somewhere, innocently going about her business, or was she in on this thing?
Zack and Rand walked into his office and saluted.
“At ease,” Hart said.
They approached his desk. “What’s up?” Zack asked. “Roub said it was urgent.”
“It is. I need your help.”
“Then you need mine, too,” Salvatore DeBraggo said, walking into Hart’s office and flashing his badge.
“Sorry, sir,” Roubechard said hurriedly, following the man. “I tried to tell him you were in a meeting and he’d have to wait or come back at another time, but he just walked past me and—”
Hart bolted to his feet, fury washing over him. “Help? You were supposed to be watching her,” Hart growled. He glared at DeBraggo as an urge to rip the man’s throat out threatened to consume him. “Instead, you let them take her.”
“I didn’t let them do anything,” DeBraggo snarled back, dark eyes flashing. “She went into your place, and I followed her. For my trouble someone damned near split my skull in two.”
Hart noticed for the first time that the back of the man’s head was covered by a large white bandage, but it didn’t make him feel any better, didn’t soothe his anger.
“Did you see them?” he demanded.
“Yes, one of them, though it was the one we’d already figured was in on this thing.”
“Who?” Hart snapped.
“Carger.”
“The chief?” Zack said, looking from Hart to DeBraggo.
“What’s going on, Captain?” Rand asked calmly.
Hart stared at DeBraggo. “You’re sure it was Carger?”
“Do I look Spanish?” DeBraggo sneered sarcastically. He reached beneath his jacket.
Rand, Zack and the MP all lunged forward and grabbed him.
“I’m FBI,” DeBraggo said angrily, flashing his badge again.
The three men stepped back, and DeBraggo poured a couple of aspirin into his hand from the bottle he’d pulled from his pocket. He downed them without water.
“Look,” he said, “the bureau suspected Suzanne Cassidy of treason and figured you might be in on it, but had no proof. Still doesn’t.”
“And what do you and your buddies at the bureau suspect now?” Hart challenged. “That I kidnapped Suzanne and this is some kind of strategic move on our parts?”
Sal DeBraggo smiled coldly. “What my cohorts at the bureau suspect now, Captain, is that your girlfriend is either in one hell of a lot of trouble, or the two of you are the most cunning pair of thieves and murderers we’ve ever run up against.”
“Murderers?” Zack echoed, his eyes widening. “Would somebody explain, please?”
Rand nudged him. “Shut up.”
DeBraggo shrugged. “Someone went down in Cassidy’s chopper, Captain. And we know it was sabotaged. We’ve known that ever since the retrieval team found the wreckage. But IDing the body was impossible. So, we figured either it was Cassidy in that bird and he was murdered, or he’s alive and some other poor sap was sn
uffed in order to take his place. Either way, murder.”
“Why are you telling me all this,” Hart asked, no more willing to trust DeBraggo than he would a rat, “if you still suspect me?”
“Because,” DeBraggo replied, “that’s not my favorite scenario. Lieutenant Cassidy reported the theft of plans before he took off. Why do that if he was going to steal them?”
“To divert suspicion,” Hart said.
DeBraggo shrugged. “Maybe. But it also focused attention on him. No, I believe that it was Lieutenant Cassidy who was killed, his wife knows absolutely nothing and you told the truth when you said you saw his chopper hit and explode and he was killed. You’ve got a clean and pretty damned good record and don’t seem the type to commit espionage and murder. Especially since the guy murdered was your best, and seemingly only, friend.”
“Thanks,” Hart muttered.
“The problem is, the bureau doesn’t have any other good suspects. That’s where I came in. My plan was devised to rout out some other suspects, if there were any.”
“What plan?”
“We figured Ms. Cassidy would run to you for help if she thought she was really in trouble and it had to do with her late husband, you and the army. Especially since the only other person she could have gone to was her cousin at the State Department, and we made sure her cousin wasn’t reachable.”
“Thought of everything, didn’t you?” Hart said, derision coloring his tone.
“No,” DeBraggo said, suddenly sounding half-beaten, “we didn’t think they’d nab her.”
For the next two hours they filled Zack and Rand in and planned Suzanne’s rescue—or, if they were all wrong and she didn’t need one, Hart’s rescue.
Hart glanced at his watch. Everyone was in place and ready. It was almost midnight. He moved away from the Old Tucson Studios entry gate and climbed over the adjacent fence. Dropping to the ground, he hunkered down low, the night-vision goggles he wore allowing him to see as if it were daylight. He scanned the area, seeing no one, then moved down the dark street, staying close to the old adobe-and-wood buildings, thankful there was only a sliver of moon in the sky.