No Man's Land

by David Baldacci

  pictures of you dressed like this with a guy’s tongue down your throat and his hands on your ass, that you could be compromised?”

  “Who the hell would do that?”

  “Let me see some ID.” He barked, “Now!” when she seemed to hesitate.

  She produced her driver’s license.

  “Anne Shepard?”

  “Yes.”

  “Confirm for me your employer’s name. Unless you’re too drunk.”

  He shot a hand out and steadied her as she rocked back and forth on her stilettos. Her lip trembling, she said, “Atalanta Group.”

  “That’s right,” said Puller, who up to that point had never heard of Atalanta Group. “And are you aware that your being here places you in a position to be blackmailed by enemies of this country?”

  “But I’m just here having fun. I work twelve-hour days, pretty much every day. I’m just here to blow off some steam.”

  “There are smart ways to do that. This is not one of them. The guy with his tongue down your throat?”

  “He’s just some guy.”

  “That some guy will be arrested when he leaves here. He’s an American-born spy in the employ of the Chinese looking to steal DoD secrets.”

  “Oh shit! That guy! You’re kidding, right? He just wanted sex, like all guys.”

  “What did you tell him? Did he ask about work?”

  “No, I mean—” She stopped, flustered. “I mean, he asked what I did.”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  Shepard started to breathe heavily. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  “The restroom is down that hall. I’ll be here when you come out.”

  It didn’t make Puller feel good that he was doing this to the young woman, although there were strict rules about what such folks should and should not do in their off hours. And this bar, filled with military and presumably private contractors, actually would be a great place for a spy to operate. He told himself he was teaching her a tough lesson.

  He pulled out his phone, did a search on Atalanta Group, and came up with exactly nothing. How was that possible? Every company these days had an online identity.

  He didn’t even know if Atalanta Group was in business in the 1980s. Or ran the project that was currently being conducted in Building Q. This could all be a wild-goose chase, but somehow Puller didn’t think so.

  Vincent DiRenzo, the former CID agent, had talked about gut feelings being part of any investigation. Well, Puller’s gut was burning right now. He was getting warm. He just needed to keep going.

  When Shepard came out a few minutes later, she looked green.

  “Let’s go somewhere else,” said Puller.

  Chapter

  44

  PULLER LED ANNE Shepard outside where there were still people in line waiting to get in. He waved to Rogers as he passed by, and the latter waved back.

  “Thanks again,” said Rogers.

  “No problem.”

  Puller escorted Shepard to his car and they climbed in. “Am I really in trouble?” she said.

  “That depends,” said Puller. “We’ve actually been watching Atalanta Group for a while now.”

  “Why?”

  “Irregularities.”

  “What kind of irregularities?”

  “How long have you worked there?”

  “Four years.”

  “Well, Building Q has been operational since at least the 1980s.”

  “I don’t know anything about that.”

  “How is the work coming?”

  “Are you read in for this?”

  “Shepard, I wouldn’t be here talking to you if I weren’t.”

  Her face fell. “Okay. Well, we’ve made big strides.”

  “Any issues?”

  “Not really.”

  “Management treating you okay?”

  “Mr. Quentin is supportive and he gets whatever we need.”

  “Quentin?”

  “Josh Quentin. He runs the program. He may own the company for all I know. I’m not at a level that needs to know that.” She looked across the seat at Puller. “Just so you know, he was at the bar tonight too. He goes there a lot. It’s how I found out about it.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “Tall, young, handsome. The ladies really go gaga over him. You might have seen him going up the stairs to the second-floor room.”

  “I did. What goes on up there?”

  “I’ve never been up there. Only Mr. Quentin and his group are allowed up there.”

  “Are the people coworkers?”

  She laughed. “Did those women look like science nerds to you?”

  “So what are they, hookers?”

  “I don’t know. I doubt it. Josh is young and rich. He can get women without having to pay for them.”

  “Okay.”

  “Were you referring to Mr. Quentin when you mentioned ‘irregularities’?”

  “Why?” When she didn’t answer immediately he added, “Shepard, if you have something to say, say it. The Army does not pay me to waste time.”

  “It’s just that Mr. Quentin doesn’t seem to have much of a science background. I mean, when he comes around to check on things the questions he asks are pretty basic. I would have expected him to know more, that’s all.”

  “Maybe he’s just a business guy.”

  “But every project I’ve ever worked on the leadership are serious scientists in their own right.”

  “So maybe this project is different.”

  “Maybe it is.”

  “What part of the project do you work on?”

  “Are you really read in for this?” she asked nervously. “I don’t want to get into trouble.”

  “You’re already in trouble. And I’m trying to save your ass.”

  “Okay, okay. I’m just freaked out.” She took a deep breath. “I work on the exos and liquid armor programs.”

  “Exos?”

  “Exoskeleton hardware. Lightweight systems worn on the outside of the soldier’s body, powered by lithium batteries. It increases their strength multifold. And we’re working on a concept that would increase that multiple dramatically. A lot of this research was done by DoD starting in the 1960s, but the science and materials weren’t there yet. The exoskeleton suits back then reacted unpredictably. I heard some people were even hurt.”

  “Is that right?” said Puller. “And the liquid armor?”

  “Armor that’s flexible until the impact of a bullet triggers it to instantly harden into a shield as impenetrable as steel. Then it repairs itself after being damaged by enemy fire.”

  “Sounds like a Marvel movie.”

  “Only our version isn’t special effects. It actually works.”

  “So you’re basically building the super soldier?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re funded by DARPA, right?”

  “Yes, although I think our direct link is DSO, the Defense Sciences Office. But they report directly to DARPA’s director. Before I came to Atalanta, I worked at another contractor on TMS projects.”

  “TMS?”

  “Transcranial magnetic stimulation. There’s also its counterpart, transcranial direct current stimulation. The differences are pretty much outlined in their names. One uses magnetic fields, the other electrical currents.”

  “And the goal?”

  “In the military, to increase alertness and make the soldier in the field think better and faster in adverse conditions. It’s well past the concept stage. It may be near deployment.”

  “I was in combat. I could have used that.”

  “Well, it’s coming.”

  Puller considered all of this. “I’m going to need your help, Ms. Shepard.”

  “What can I do?”

  “You can be my eyes and ears on the inside. We’ll exchange contact information and you can report to me at regular intervals.”

  She looked panicked. “I…I don’t know if I can do that. Th
ey might charge me with spying or something. Or treason. I…could be executed.”

  “Just calm down. Nobody’s getting executed. You have the weight of the CID behind you. We take care of the people who help us.” He paused and considered another tack, because Shepard did not look convinced. “Let me lay this on the line for you, Shepard. There is something going on at Atalanta Group that smacks of espionage.”

  “Holy shit! Are you serious?”

  “I wouldn’t be here otherwise. You noted it already. Your suspicions about Quentin? His lack of scientific background? His coming to this place and going to that room to do what? You telling me that’s not making you think twice?”

  She nodded slowly. “You’re right. It doesn’t add up.”

  “And if a spy ring is going on over there, we need to stop it. If you help me, your back is covered. If you don’t there are no assurances and it might very well be guilt by association when the hammer comes down. Then you’re on your own.”

  “Omigod!” she exclaimed and rubbed a drop of sweat off her forehead.

  Puller reached over and gripped her hand. “This is not my first investigation like this. I know what I’m doing, Shepard. You just have to trust me, okay? You’ll find out I’m a good friend to have. So, will you do it?”

  She finally nodded. “I’ll do it.”

  They exchanged contact information.

  Puller said, “Now go home and hit the sack. And don’t go back to that bar.”

  “I won’t. I swear. Thanks.”

  “Are you okay to drive?”

  She nodded. “I am now. I don’t think I’ve ever been this sober in my life, actually.”

  Puller watched her hurry across the street, get into her car, and quickly drive off.

  Puller was about to get out of his car when he heard it.

  Screams and gunfire.

  Coming from the vicinity of the Grunt.

  He jumped out of his car, pulled his weapon, and, like he always did, sprinted toward, not away from, the violence.

  Chapter

  45

  IN SOME WAYS it could have been a street in Tikrit or Mosul.

  Gunfire, smoke, screams, the darkness broken by the bursts of fired rounds. The only thing missing was the earsplitting bang and concussive punch of an IED.

  Puller came around the corner and immediately narrowed his target silhouette by shifting to the right. He also kept low, gripping his M11 with both hands. He did arcs with his weapon, looking for targets and trying to discern who was dangerous and who was a victim.

  There were people lying in the street.

  He stopped, took cover, and punched in 911. He identified himself to the dispatcher, taking only two short sentences to report who he was and what he was seeing. She told him to stay safe and that reinforcements were on the way.

  She had obviously never been in the military. Staying safe was not in the job description. Quite the reverse, actually.

  People were running past him, away from the gunfire. Puller checked each one to see if they had a weapon. None did. They were obviously frightened and simply trying to get away alive. Mass shootings had seemingly become ubiquitous in America, but that didn’t make it any easier to deal with when you happened to be smack in the middle of one.

  Puller drew closer to the entrance to the bar, which appeared to be the epicenter of the gunfire. As he went he passed figures on the ground, knelt, checked pulses, and kept going.

  Some were alive; some were dead. He had nothing to triage the living. His only plan was to try to prevent any more dead or wounded.

  He saw the flash of movement to his right a split second too late.

  The gun was kicked out of his hands.

  He turned to see the knife coming at his throat.

  Anyone else would have simply been killed.

  Puller blocked the blade by gripping his attacker’s forearm, then sliding his hand down to the elbow and cranking the limb inward, against the body and not in the direction an elbow was designed to go.

  The man screamed and his knife clattered to the pavement.

  The guy was Puller’s size. He kicked out at Puller and caught him in the oblique. It hurt like hell, and he staggered back, but the blow didn’t stop Puller from executing his plan.

  Puller lunged forward and drove his elbow straight into the guy’s face. The man screamed again and grabbed his face with his one good arm, an arm that was about to be rendered not so good.

  Puller ripped the arm up, bent it against the joint’s natural range of motion and jerked it behind the man’s back, torquing the limb past its breaking point.

  He hooked an ankle around the man’s right foot at the same time as he slammed his knee into the guy’s spine. The man tripped over the foot, and with his left arm bound behind him and his right arm useless from Puller’s elbow twist, he hit face first with Puller’s weight full on top of him, his knee still at the base of his spine.

  He was down for the count. Still breathing but bloodied and unconscious and missing several teeth. Puller rose, found his gun, and kept moving forward.

  The door to the bar was wide open. Paul, the bouncer, wasn’t anywhere that Puller could see.

  He kept sweeping his weapon and listening for sirens.

  More gunfire was coming from inside the bar.

  He reached the doorway and looked inside. His training allowed him to size up stressful and violent situations quickly.

  He could observe, by quick count, about thirty people inside. Four men were on the floor. What their status was, he couldn’t tell. Three were young. One was a big guy dressed all in black and with what looked to be splints on one hand. He was older, as evidenced by his white hair.

  As Puller gazed more closely he could see the man was dead, his eyes wide and glassy under the harsh lights of the bar. The other men’s backs were to him. He didn’t know if they were dead or simply injured.