was still a fairly new unit, as far as the army was concerned, having been borne out of a special mission during the Persian Gulf war. Six men brought together to fly a mission most others considered suicidal. But they’d succeeded. Now the Cobra Corps, attached to the 12th Aviation Brigade, 99th Cavalry Division Air Mobile, consisted of thirty-two men, all pilots and officers, with a special attachment of mechanics, aides, communications officer, crew chiefs and a medic. Their permanent base was Three Hills, Arizona, but they could be called out at any time for anything. Their missions were usually classified and highly dangerous; rescuing political hostages, “relieving” certain political pressures, circumventing political uprisings, dealing with the before, or aftermath, of terrorists, and conducting top secret surveillance, being the usual types of assignments.
But this time the questions had been about Hart. Still, neither he nor the company commander had been overly concerned. Hart was the corps’s flight leader, and he was up for promotion. The questioning wasn’t routine, but someone was probably just being overly efficient, ordering a check on him “for the record.” A formality.
But he should have been concerned, because yesterday someone from Washington, and he didn’t know who, had requested his 201 file. To request an officer’s personnel file from his commanding officer was an unusual request. It could mean nothing; someone had a question about him before approving his promotion, or he was being considered for a special assignment and his background was being rechecked. There were numerous possibilities, including that his career was in serious jeopardy.
Now he wondered if these incidents and Suzanne’s sudden return and unbelievable claims could be connected?
He shook his head. He was letting his imagination run wild. Anyway, his commanding officer had denied the request. No one had gotten his file.
Hart caught Suzanne’s gaze and held it mercilessly. “The feds can’t resurrect a dead man, Suzanne.”
Bitterness tinged his tone.
“Hart, I don’t—”
“Rick is dead, Suzanne. I saw his chopper take a direct hit. I saw it explode and go down in a shower of flames and debris. No one could have survived that.”
She took a step toward him, panic rising in her again. Whether he was out to destroy her or he was her only chance to survive, she couldn’t allow him to send her away. She wouldn’t. At least not until she knew the truth and could prove it.
Make friends with your enemies, Rick had once said. It throws them off guard.
She stared into Hart’s eyes, searching for answers to questions she never in a million years would have imagined herself asking. But that was before the FBI had come knocking on her door.
Had Hart murdered Rick to protect himself? Was he the man the FBI should be considering a traitor? Maybe even a murderer? She took a deep breath. Was it really possible the body they’d identified as her husband hadn’t been Rick at all? She had to get Hart to help her and in the process convince herself he was innocent, or find some way to prove he was the one setting her up.
“The FBI doesn’t believe Rick’s dead.” She pulled a file folder from her bag and, hands shaking so badly she nearly dropped it, tossed the folder, open, onto a mechanics table near where Hart stood.
He looked down at the papers suddenly scattered atop the table’s tools, but didn’t understand what he was supposed to see.
“That’s a copy of a bank statement for an account I never knew I had,” she said, pointing to one.
He looked down at the statement. It was a new account, opened only six weeks ago. His gaze moved to the bottom of the page, and he noted the balance: $155,000.
She pointed at a photograph that lay beside the bank statement. “And that’s a picture of me talking to a man the FBI claims is a European spy.”
His gaze moved to the photo, recognizing Suzanne but not the man she was talking to. He looked back at her, still unwilling to believe, even for a moment, that anything she was saying could be true.
She could have deposited the money herself and be lying to him now, and the man in the photograph could be anyone. Her accomplice—a friend, a lover, even a stranger she stopped on the street. But why would she make up such an elaborate lie? What did she really want?
“He came into the auction house where I work…” She paused, realizing Hart didn’t know she’d revamped her career. “I don’t teach school anymore,” she said. “I’m a partner in an antiques auction house and gallery in Beverly Hills now.” She paused again, momentarily distracted by thoughts of just how much her life had changed since the last time she’d seen Hart.
She’d gone to Los Angeles with every intention of continuing her career as a high-school teacher. But two days into her new job several students in one of her classes started arguing and she couldn’t get them to stop. A moment later the sound of gunfire exploded in the room, and one of the teenagers fell to the floor.
She’d taken a leave of absence from her job, too shaken to even think of returning to her classroom. A week later she’d been browsing through a little shop that sold all sorts of bric-a-brac when she had run into Clyde, who’d been talking with the owner. Clyde Weller was Suzanne’s second cousin on her father’s side and had been her best friend through high school. They’d lost touch over the years, but seeing him again proved to be just what she’d needed.
They’d gone to dinner and talked, and talked and talked and talked. Finally, well into the wee hours, Clyde made a suggestion that seemed so natural Suzanne said yes instantly. She was widowed, had received a large settlement after Rick’s death she needed to invest, and her degree was in history, with art as her minor. Clyde had been doing freelance bidding on antiques for others for years, so he was already well connected in the business and had always planned on opening his own gallery/auction house.
It was as if fate had brought them together again. They’d pooled their resources, as well as their last names, and started Casswell’s.
Hart stared, but didn’t question her, so she decided not to explain. He obviously wasn’t interested in her personal life, which was fine. She only needed his help in clearing herself of the FBI’s ridiculous allegations.
“Anyway, about two months ago this man in the picture came into the gallery and introduced himself as Mason Brunswick,” Suzanne continued, “and said he was thinking of consigning Casswell’s—that’s the name of our business—some very old paintings for auction. The next day, on my way home, I ran into him on the street. We chatted a minute, and he asked me a question about one of the paintings. That’s obviously when the photo was taken.”
“So again, assuming this story of yours is true,” Hart said, “and somehow Rick survived that crash—and the body identified as his wasn’t, what do you think I can do?” He didn’t even know why he was asking. Her story obviously wasn’t true. It had taken six months after the Jaguar Loop mission and Rick’s memorial service before the army had been able to recover his body. But they had finally recovered it, and he was dead. So what did Suzanne really want? What could she possibly hope to gain by these ridiculous claims?
He didn’t know.
Nevertheless he knew that, instead of asking questions that had kept her from leaving, he should have just gathered up her so-called evidence, handed it back to her and sent her on her way.
“You’re
