Hart's Last Stand. Cheryl Biggs
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which one to use.
Within five minutes he had pulled up several sites that had something to do with the name DeBraggo. One advertised financial assistance, another was a travel agency in Texas, another a tax attorney in New Mexico and yet another an import/export-business Web site.
None seemed suspicious, but he knew that guilt sometimes had a way of hiding behind a facade of angelic innocence.
He opened the first one, and his brows rose in interest. Their headquarters were based in Los Angeles, California.
A little much for coincidence.
The sound of screeching tires, followed by a crash, suddenly shattered the stillness of the night and Hart’s concentration. He ran to the window of his apartment. Two cars were at the corner, the front end of a sporty red foreign job embedded in the passenger door of a sleek black Lincoln twice its size. A cloud of steam rose from the sports car’s crushed hood as the two drivers started throwing their arms and hands about, obviously arguing.
Hart stared down at the wreck glistening in the glow of the moon. The steaming sports car reminded him of dancing waves of fire.
Rick’s chopper had burst into flames.
Memories assaulted Hart and before he could stop it, time spun backward…
The team had split into pairs, partnering off to circle their enemy, surround them and move in stealthily for the attack. Rick and Hart had been approaching from the rear, flying low over the Raumsean Woods, several miles inside of Iran’s border.
The experimental weapons-detection systems installed in their Cobras warned them of an antiaircraft missile installation hidden within the dense growth of trees below. With that warning they both should have been able to easily avoid any attack and take out their would-be assailant before he even knew they were there.
“Tracker, we got one below,” Hart radioed. “You see it?”
“Got it in my sights, Ice,” Rick answered, using the name the close-knit group of men in the corps had given Hart not only because of his coolness under pressure, but because each of them, in one way or another, had discovered that he kept his innermost emotions on ice; out of reach or touch.
Hart watched him descend toward his target.
Suddenly a missile shot from the trees.
“Tracker, evade!” Hart ordered. “Evade!”
Rick’s Cobra exploded in a burst of flames.
Stunned, unable to believe what he’d just seen, Hart froze. For the briefest of moments he stopped living, as he watched what was left of the burning chopper spiral from the sky, crash into the dense woods and explode again.
Another missile burst from the foliage below.
The instinct for survival rushed in on Hart, and he jerked back on the throttle…
Hart was pulled back to the present by the sound of a police siren. He realized that his only hope of finding out who was trying to destroy him was to turn the tables on them—just as he’d done during that mission. For the briefest of moments that day a year ago he’d stopped being the hunter and had become the prey—a move that had nearly gotten him killed.
It wasn’t going to happen again.
He shrugged aside the past and forced himself to concentrate on the here and now, on what he knew about Suzanne Cassidy.
It wasn’t much.
He snatched the telephone receiver from the hook. The night before Rick’s last mission, she had done the one thing that no pilot could ever forgive. If she was innocent she would have known better.
The thought had nagged at him for the past year. Rick would have trusted her, might even have confided in her—told her things about the corps, about their missions, that he shouldn’t have. Things that she might have, in the end, used against him.
Hart punched out the number for her hotel, but the moment the operator came on the line, he hung up. No. Not this way. He needed to look into her eyes when he asked her that question.
A week ago he would have labeled the mere idea of her stealing secret military plans and setting Rick up to be killed ridiculous, the suspicion ugly and totally unwarranted. Now he couldn’t discount it, because now he knew all too well that she could have come back to do the same thing to him.
Or was she merely someone’s pawn? A total innocent who was being used?
His mind was a jumbled maze of unanswered questions, each filling him with frustration, slicing away at his patience and leaving him too keyed up to even contemplate another attempt at sleep.
He dressed and left the apartment, carrying a brown paper bag in which he’d placed the water glass Suzanne had used at dinner and which he’d managed to slip out of the dining room under his jacket without anyone noticing.
The lab guys at the base weren’t going to like being woken up in the middle of the night, but he didn’t care. If he was going to find out the truth, this was as good a time as any, and he couldn’t think of a better place to start than running her prints and finding out who or what Suzanne Cassidy really was.
All he knew about her was that she’d been Rick’s wife, a schoolteacher and had once said she’d grown up in Virginia. But he had to know what else there was. It might be all innocent; then again, it might not.
It was a fact that the Soviets had always had spies in the United States, families who were devout Russian Communists, but who had lived in the U.S. for years, maybe were even born here. They obtained government jobs and top-secret classifications, became scientists, doctors and teachers, and were usually not caught until they’d managed to pass back secrets to the Russians.
And they weren’t usually caught until it was too late.
On impulse he stopped by Suzanne’s hotel on the way to the base. If she wasn’t in her room, he’d take the opportunity to search it. If she was, he’d apologize for his brusqueness earlier, say it had kept him awake and, in spite of the late hour, ask her downstairs for coffee.
As he entered the lobby he heard the chime of the elevator to his left and glanced toward it.
Suzanne stepped forward as the wood-paneled doors silently slid open.
Salvatore DeBraggo was beside her.
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