knew that meant the old man wasn’t yelling at anybody.
He left a message on Shireen’s voice mail telling her where they were and what they had found out. He knew he would have to report in soon to General Rinehart and Schindler from the NSC. How much he would tell them he wasn’t sure.
He checked his watch, gunned up, and headed to the elevator.
Knox was standing there waiting for the elevator car to arrive. She wore a cream-colored skirt that hit right above the knee, an emerald green blouse, and high-heeled, open-toed shoes revealing rose-colored nail polish. Her auburn hair was highlighted against the green fabric and was done up in a way that revealed her long, curved neck. She carried a clutch purse and a wrap was loosely draped around her shoulders. He caught a whiff of her perfume and felt a little lightheaded as he approached.
He looked down at his khakis, polo shirt, and old corduroy jacket. “I’m feeling a little underdressed next to you, Knox.”
She smiled. “You look fine.”
“Where to?” he asked when they reached the lobby. “I don’t know the town that well.”
“I made reservations at a place. Easy walking distance.”
He eyed her spikes. “Even in those shoes?”
She smiled. “I have great balance.”
He eyed her purse. “Gunned up?”
She nodded. “Compact but good stopping power. I use it as a backup ordinarily.”
The air was warm and the dark sky clear. The walk was only two blocks. The restaurant was fairly full at the late hour. The clientele was made up of well-dressed twenty-somethings who looked like lawyers, bankers, techies, and other assorted professionals taking a break from busy lives to play. When Puller saw the prices on the menu he glanced sharply at Knox.
“My per diem doesn’t cover this.”
“Relax, it’s on me.”
They split a bottle of wine and Puller had sirloin steak medium rare, while Knox ordered salmon served on a cedar plank. They divided up a piece of carrot cake over coffee for dessert.
They were the last customers to leave the restaurant.
As they walked back, Knox slipped her arm through his. She leaned into him and for some reason he interpreted this as more for support than anything else. When he glanced at her she confirmed this by saying, “I admit, the heels were a bad idea.”
“Well, they look great on you. Just like the dress.”
She squeezed his arm. “I wasn’t sure you had noticed.”
“I noticed,” said Puller. He paused. “Just like I noticed the four guys following us. Two across the street and two behind us.”
Knox kept looking straight ahead. “And they definitely seem interested in us?”
“They were outside the restaurant when we left. They split into pairs and headed our way. And they’re still there matching us stride for stride but keeping just back.”
“And the next block coming up is pretty isolated. And at this hour we’re the only ones out and about.”
“Let’s hang a left down the alleyway up there and see what happens.”
They made the turn and Puller watched as Knox opened her clutch and took out the pistol. She covered it by sliding her hand inside her wrap.
“I hear footsteps coming across the street,” she said.
“See the Dumpster up there?”
“Yes,” she said.
“When we get there let’s fake a little romantic thing.”
“You mean like making out?” she said.
“Yeah,” he said crisply.
“Okay, but what’s the endgame?”
“I want to be able to see the whites of their eyes. And since we’re outnumbered two to one I hope it’ll make them let down their defenses for the second we’ll need.”
They kept walking at a leisurely pace until they reached the Dumpster. Then Puller turned to Knox, brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes, circled her waist with his arm, and bent low to kiss her. As his lips rested against Knox’s, Puller had not a romantic thought in his head. He was counting off the footsteps in his head. His left hand was coiled around Knox’s waist but his right hand gripped his M11.
He moved his lips to Knox’s neck and pretended to nuzzle her skin. “Three-two-one,” he whispered in her ear.
They whirled, guns pointed at the four men, who were now only ten feet away. From their stunned expressions they had been caught completely off guard.
“Guns on the ground, now,” barked Puller.
One man did not heed this warning and raised his gun instead and fired. He missed his target and the round clanged off the Dumpster behind Puller. Knox fired and the man dropped to the asphalt. As he fell the other three shot back and retreated. Puller returned the fire.
“Go! Go!” shouted Knox. “I’ve got your six.”
Puller hustled after them. Knox checked the fallen man, looked behind her, threw off her heels, and sprinted after Puller.
The three men reached the end of the alley and Puller heard the vehicle coming fast on the next street. He increased his speed, but he needed to duck behind some garbage cans when one of the men turned and fired at him. By the time he got to the street the SUV was just turning the next corner.
Knox came running up to him.
“Anything?” she asked breathlessly.
He shook his head. “They’re gone. Didn’t get the plate.”
“Let’s check the guy I shot back there. Maybe he has some ID.”
But there was no dead guy. There was blood, but no corpse.
They looked everywhere the wounded man could have gone, but found no sign of him.
Knox looked at Puller, dumbstruck. “I hit him right in the chest.”
“Were they wearing body armor?”
“I couldn’t tell. It was too dark. But there’s blood. I hit him.” She smacked her palm against her forehead. “Serves me right. I should’ve aimed for the head.”
Puller phoned the police and explained the situation. Then he called his superior at CID. The cops showed up minutes later. After that came the local detectives, and after that two CID agents arrived from Fort Bragg over in Fayetteville. They didn’t look pleased at having to make the drive at this time of night. They asked their questions and checked over the crime scene, what there was of one.
One of the agents asked Puller if he had any idea why they’d been targeted. Puller didn’t elaborate but told the agents he and Knox were working a case that was classified.
“Well, good luck with that,” said the agent as he and his partner walked off.
After answering innumerable questions from the local cops and looking through mug books at the precinct and giving their official statements, Puller and Knox didn’t get back to their hotel until three in the morning.
“Did you get a chance to report in to your superiors?” he asked Knox as they rode up in the elevator.
She nodded. “You?”
“They weren’t happy. But it wasn’t like I asked somebody to try to kill us.”
She slipped off her heels before walking out of the elevator, leaning against the wall and rubbing one of her feet.
“Not exactly the night I had planned,” she said, sounding depressed.
“Wouldn’t think so.”
“Who do you think those guys were?”
“Same ones who jumped me at Leavenworth, maybe?”
“Did you recognize any of them?”
“The guys in Kansas wore ski masks.”
“So maybe they followed us across the country?”
“Maybe,” he said.
She looked up at him. “You tired?”
“Not particularly. Must be the adrenaline spike from almost getting killed.”
“The Ritz has round-the-clock room service. How about some wine and a snack? I’m suddenly starving.”
They headed to her room and she placed the order. It came twenty minutes later, and after the attendant left, Knox poured out the wine and handed Puller a plate with some crackers, bre
ads, cheeses, fruit, and a small bowl of nuts. They sat across from each other at the little table the attendant had wheeled in.
“Someone really doesn’t want us to find out the truth, Puller,” she said between sips of wine and bites of cheese.
“That’s usual in my experience. A lot of people lie.”
“Do they try to kill you often, in your experience?”
“More than I would like,” he admitted.
They were quiet for a few moments.
“You’re a strange man,” she said in an odd tone.
He swallowed a hunk of cheese. “How so? I always thought I was pretty straightforward.”
“You’re a stand-up guy, all right. Solid, predictable, always looking to do the right thing. You don’t seek glory or medals. You’re all about getting the job done. That is what defines John Puller. I’ve come to accept that as the gospel.”
“So where does the strange part come in?”
“I’m still trying to figure that out. Just call it my gut for now.” She rose. “And now I think we both need some sleep.”
Puller stood and headed for the door. He turned back. “Back in the alley?”
“Yes?” she said.
“You’re a good shot. And fast.”
“I always have been, Puller. Always. That’s how I like to live my life. Fast.” She snatched a quick glance at the bed, and when she looked back she wouldn’t meet his gaze.
“We both need some sleep,” she said. “Big day tomorrow.” She glanced up and their gazes met for a brief instant. “Good night, Puller.”
He interpreted her look as hungry. And not for food. And he thought he might be giving her the same look in return.
She rose and went into the bathroom, closing the door.
Puller stood there for a few seconds trying to dissect what had just happened. Part of it seemed straightforward. Part of it was mud.
He returned to his room, took off his clothes, and dropped into bed. It was nearly four in the morning. His internal clock was seriously screwed up. His heart was racing from what had just happened with Knox. The woman was complicated. Utterly professional one moment, then sending weird signals the next. It might be that as a spy she tended to use all of her assets, including her sexual side. She was very, well, alluring, as old-fashioned as that sounded. He took a deep breath and wondered if a cold shower would help.
His phone buzzed. He swore under his breath, but automatically picked up the phone anyway. He always picked up the phone even if he didn’t always answer it. And maybe it was Knox wanting him to–
A text had dropped into his electronic basket. He read it.
And then he sat straight up. It wasn’t from Knox. But it concerned her.
The text had come from a number he didn’t recognize.
He called it back. Twice. No one answered.
He read the text again. It was short, to the point, and capable of only one interpretation.
Don’t trust Veronica Knox, Puller. She is not what she appears to be.
CHAPTER
41
NILES ROBINSON HAD left work early to catch his son’s soccer match. The boy had gone from death’s door to being a healthy athletic twelve-year-old in less than two years. It truly was a miracle, and one that Robinson never took for granted.
There were a handful of parents watching the match from the sidelines. The day was warm and the boys had already worked up a sweat. Robinson’s son was a center midfielder, which meant he had equal responsibilities for defense and attack. Because of this his kid probably ran more than any of his other teammates, but he seemed up to the task.
Robinson shook his head in wonder as his son flashed past him with the ball. A minute later the ball was in the net and his son’s team had taken the lead. It was a lead they would not relinquish. After the match was over, Robinson congratulated his son and then headed back to work. The boy would be driven home by a friend.
A tall man in a hoodie approached him in the parking lot. Robinson didn’t register on him until the man was nearly upon him.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
Before the hooded man could answer, four men appeared out of vehicles parked nearby and converged on the pair. The hooded man was grabbed and his hood yanked down as his hands were cuffed behind him.
Robinson stared at the man and shook his head. “It’s not him,” he said. “It’s not Robert Puller.”
The man in the hoodie was younger and his face was dirty.
“Get your hands off me,” he yelled. “I ain’t done nothing wrong. Get them cuffs off me.”
One of the other men slammed him up against Robinson’s van. “Why did you approach this man?”
“Is that a crime?”
“It might be.”
“Some dude paid me.”
“What dude? Where is he?”
“Just some dude. Paid me twenty bucks. Said to come over here after the match was over.”
“What did he look like?”
“I don’t know. He was tall as me. Never saw his face.”
“Why’d he pick you?”
“How the hell should I know?”
“You hang around this park a lot?”
“Yeah, going through the trash cans. The kids leave full bottles of Gatorades. And the moms throw half the snacks they bring away. Cornucopia, man.”
“You’re homeless?”
“No, man, I had my private jet drop me off here so I could go through shit in the garbage.”
“When did the ‘dude’ approach you?”
“About an hour ago.”
“Where?”
“Over by the basketball courts on the other side of the park.”
The man let him go and looked at Robinson. “He faked us out with this idiot.”
Robinson nodded. “I told you he was smart.”
The man spoke to one of his colleagues. “Take this smartass and see what else you can get from him.”
They pulled the man away and pushed him into a waiting SUV, which immediately drove off.
The first man looked at Robinson. “If he contacts you, you get in touch with us immediately. Understood?”
Robinson nodded, climbed into his car, and drove off. When he looked at himself in the rearview mirror he was sweating.
He arrived at his house, having decided against going back to work. He emailed an excuse to his boss, went out into his backyard, and sat on a chair on his patio, his thoughts a whirlwind of mostly cataclysmic scenarios.
His personal cell phone buzzed. He had almost been expecting this.
He looked at the screen.
Sorry for all the excitement at the park. Had to flush the Dobermans.
A few seconds later another text came in.
The Escape Page 27