Private Maneuvers

Hell. He'd botched things with her on so many levels with no hope in sight for fixing it. He could talk and jam back sunflower seeds until the end of time and he would never have the "socialization" skills to do things any differently.



God, but she was incredible. Max could almost see the stars that would one day gleam on her shoulders. And damned if he wasn't proud of her.



Not that he would let it stop him from seeing her off the island. Rule players like Darcy didn't stand a chance against boundary pushers like himself. It was only a matter of time before he would be standing on the runway watching her takeoff.



Max pitched the sunflower seeds to Crusty. "Time for more of your brainstorming."



His need for solitude didn't mean a thing next to his determination to keep Darcy safe.



Robin fed coins into the sandwich machine in the security police break room, selected tuna salad and snatched the cardboard meal from the slot with impatient hands.



No more time left.



Everything was crumbling.



So much for the promise of caviar and champagne. A lifetime of tuna salad mocked from cellophane.



The final payment wouldn't be wired for a cushy retirement, since the tap had been shut down. The underwater attack had been a complete failure.



Robin dropped into a steel-backed chair and ripped the wrapper off. Only two options remained.



Run. Take the money already stockpiled in the Swiss bank account and begin a comfortable, if not luxurious retirement. Enjoy the satisfaction of having beaten the system, even though Max would be living out his life when Eva's had been taken from her.



Or...



Robin tore a corner off the sandwich and chewed. End it all in a go-for-broke operation that inflicted the most pain on Max before finishing him off.



Enough of playing the supporting role to Batman, being shuffled aside, handling food, running errands while the big guy ran the show. The moment had come to command the lead for one last kick-ass, explosive, season finale where Batman and his leading lady took their final bows.



Chapter 12



Darcy stared out her C-17 windscreen at the clear morning sky. She'd just completed a flawless takeoff for their return flight to the States. God, it seemed years since Bronco had promised her the cool training experience.



In reality, it was only four weeks ago.



Now she had an expanse of crystalline blue and clouds ahead, her craft humming under her guiding hand. Where was the rush? The excitement she'd expected?



She'd left it behind on Guam with a certain beach hunk turned government agent.



Darcy flipped on autopilot and sagged back in her seat. She hated the way she'd ended things with Max. Sure, anger still zipped through her over how he'd called her dad. And she suspected her father and Max had something to do with the speedy departure orders from Guam just after the general left.



But the danger had passed, they all insisted.



Yeah, right. Max had hustled her off Guam so fast her wheels had probably left skid marks on the runway. Damn both of the overprotective louts, two of a kind, in spite of their radically different wardrobes.



Darcy forced her mind back on her job, monitoring the fuel gauges and assessing the plane's center of gravity as burning fuel shifted weight distribution. The crew compartment droned from engines and the occasional radio call from Crusty in the aircraft commander's left seat position. Bronco sprawled behind him in the instructor's seat reading a book.



She should be reveling in the flight. She lived to fly. Always had, except for that brief time after her kidnapping when she'd resented everything military.



Now all she could think about was what she should have said to Max. Everything she'd wanted him to say to her first.



Instead, they'd both said a whole lot of nothing and a chance had been lost. She couldn't envision what sort of meeting they might have back in the States. But she also couldn't imagine never seeing him again.



Never.



Just the word caused an ache that constricted her chest. She could almost hear Alicia snorting over her shoulder. So call the guy. What's the worst he could do?



Break her heart.



And there it was. She was scared to try with Max because defeat would be devastating. The ache in the pit of her stomach swelled.



Crusty thrust a bag of nacho chips her way. "Want some?"



He rattled the bag. The king of moochers sharing?



Darcy searched the label for some kind of gag reading or passed-expiration date.



"No, thanks." She shook her head and transferred her attention back to the control panel.



If he dared crack a PMS joke, she'd off-load him out the back into the Pacific. He and Bronco both stayed diplomatically silent, shooting her sympathetic looks instead.



Worse somehow than being razzed.



Think about work, not about Max and when she might see him again. If she would ever see him. Where she would find the courage.



Ugh! She hated cowardice more than bugs. Darcy flipped through her logbook and updated the fuel reading. She needed to concentrate. No small task in a plane with the capacity to carry 180,000 pounds of gas to balance.



She studied her instruments again, cross-referencing with her notations. Something didn't add up... "Crusty, the center of gravity's moving aft." Not unheard of even though the body tanks of fuel should feed evenly. But worth watching. "I'm going to shift three thousand pounds of fuel forward into the mid-body to equalize."



"Roger, co," Crusty answered.



Darcy keyed in the computerized shift...and over the space of twenty minutes, watched the same damned thing happen again. She tallied up the math. Twice. Only two hours into the flight and they were already four thousand pounds of gas light. Rechecking her math wasn't going to change the numbers. And those numbers kept shifting at an increasing rate too damned coincidental in a month full of "bad luck" hammering her way.



She'd wanted a second chance to talk to Max in Guam, but sure as hell not this way. If her suspicions were correct, they needed to haul ass back to the island—if they didn't end up ditching in the ocean first. Unease trickled down her spine.



What if the target of Max's investigation had given her a parting gift?



Willing training to override emotions, Darcy keyed up her mike. "Crew, I think we have a fuel leak."



Max stood at the end of the dock that thrust out into the dolphin sea pen. One at a time he nicked fish toward Lucy and Ethel bobbing below with open mouths. Since the incident with Lucy's food poisoning, he'd kept closer watch over what the dolphins ate.



Another couple of days and they would both be released into the wild, due to government cutbacks in funding. He was slated to take the place of a retiring trainer working with the marine mammal program and SEALs at Coronado. A kick-ass assignment that would route him around the world.



After he put the bastard responsible for attacking Darcy into that very dark, very cold grave.



Max flung another fish by rote. At least he had Darcy off the island. Now he didn't have to be cautious for her sake. Finally he could do his job, no holds barred,



His world was so damned silent. The dock so damned empty.



Reaching into the bucket, he pitched handfuls of herring and squid farther into the water. Lucy arched over and away with a splash. Ethel stayed behind. Bobbing. Silently.



Max crouched down and stroked her rostrum. "Hey, girl."



He didn't need to say more. Words weren't needed here. Wise eyes stared back, radiating sympathy.



He understood well that humans only communicated with dolphins when dolphins chose. An irony that was lost on many frustrated trainers—the difference between bribing a few repetitious jumps and developing a working relationship. Odd, but he'd never really thought about it before.



Before Darcy made him stretch the boundaries of his world.



Yeah, he felt the sympathy. Too bad Ethel didn't have any more answers than he did.



A low drone echoed in the distance. Built. Swelled into a siren whine.



Max looked over his shoulder. Foreboding knotted in his gut. "What the—''



The alert siren pulsed. Again and again. From the base.



Foreboding fisted into certainty. Max shot to his feet, pounded down the dock and through the gate. Raced for his jeep and launched inside. Cranking the engine, he reminded himself that Darcy was somewhere over the Pacific in her airplane. He'd watched her take off, damn it, to be sure.



But the siren was too coincidental in an op where coincidence had bitten him on the butt more than once.



Max plowed over the rutted road, calling for updates on his radio, cold hard anger growing with each pulse of the siren. Each pulse slamming his temple.



Credentials bought access for whatever the hell he wanted on this island. He didn't hesitate to use them now to purchase the information and entry he needed.



Emergency C-17 landing. Fuel leak on board, followed by a fire on the runway. Crew taken to the hospital for observation.



Observation. Max kept his breathing steady, palm trees whizzing past as he drove. At least if Darcy had been on the plane, she was alive.



Max followed directions to the reception area outside the flight surgeon's office. And found...



Instincts were a pain in the ass and dead-on.



Max stalked into the clinic waiting room. Darcy and her crew sprawled throughout the grouping of stark government-issue office furniture as they filled out seventy-two-hour histories for the accident review board. Tag was nowhere in sight, probably already giving lab samples and receiving an exam. Crusty leaned with his back against the wall, loose, relaxed, nipping through the stack of papers.



Too much so.



Max knew the attitude well—studied disconnection from the event until it could be analyzed from a safer, less emotional distance.



Bronco sat at the table, scrawling on a clipboard, face set, fist resting beside the papers. A fist clenched around a key chain Max knew held a mother/daughter photo.



Bronco glanced up. "Hey, Doc. You must have twisted some heavy duty arms to get in here."



Max shrugged—a damned good cover for working the Darcy-induced kink out of his neck. "What are a few rules here or there anyhow?''



A half smile pulled at Bronco's mouth. He jerked a thumb toward the window where Darcy stood with her back to him. Her fingers parted the blinds to expose the smoke rising in a cloud over the base.



"Wren deserves major kudos. Her quick thinking and air sense saved our asses today. If we'd been farther out over the Pacific..." Bronco's knuckles whitened around the key chain.



Max answered with a tight nod. Anger and something else he didn't want to think about at the moment twisted inside him. He'd worked a helluva lot of ops over the years, had almost bitten it more than once. But he'd kept himself detached from it all, like Crusty over there.



For a damned good reason, especially since Eva.



Detachment gave objectivity. And right now he was feeling anything but objective as he looked at this crew he'd come to know and admire over the past weeks.



At this woman he'd come to know, still didn't understand but had to touch.



Max strode across the room and took her by the shoulders. Just stood, absorbed the warmth of her shoulders, vibrant under his hands, as they both stared out the window.



Max's hands curved around her arms. "Are you okay?''



She nodded, still facing away.



"What happened out there?"



"Fuel leak, so we turned back. Plane caught on fire once we opened the wheel well to lower the gear. Air rushed in, feeding the spilled gas and heat," she answered without turning, her overly controlled tones drifting back. "We landed, ran fast, so it wasn't a problem."



His mind filled in the blanks from her understated account too well.



He leaned closer to her ear and lowered his voice. "You aren't hurt and hiding it, are you?" he asked softly, knowing full well she wouldn't admit anything if she thought her crew could overhear. "You're only a few days out of the hospital."



She tensed under his hands. "I'm fine. No need just to take my word for it. Cutter will have to check us all out, anyway. You can relax. Military airplanes catch on fire more often than you would think. Crusty over there's probably got the seventy-two-hour history form memorized. Just a coincidence that it happened now."