Дэвид Балдаччи - No Man's Land

“That’s not going to change the outcome,” said Rogers. “You just brought the weapon that I’ll use to kill you.”

“You really think a lot of yourself, dude. There’s six of us. Count ’em.”

“There’s really only four, because these two–” he pointed at the two injured men “–aren’t going to be part of it.”

“You think you know ’em.”

“I can read a face,” replied Rogers.

“Still four to one. And we all came ready.”

Rogers watched as one man took out a knife, one a chain, and another a baseball bat from behind his back.

Rogers sized up the situation. One of them might get a lucky strike in and put him down. It was fortunate none had brought a gun. He might lose. But he was probably going to win. The one thing he knew, though, was that he was going to fight.

“Trust me,” he said to the black guy. “It won’t feel like four to one in a couple of minutes. And I’ll save you for last.”

“Right. In case you didn’t notice, we’re all big and a lot younger than you.”

“Well, you were bigger and younger than me last night too. How did that work out for you?”

“Your ass got lucky.”

“Nobody’s that lucky.”

“Hell, we live for violence.”

“Not the kind of violence you’re going to see from me.”

“You’re full of shit!”

“Then let’s get this started.”

Rogers rubbed his head. He knew that once the fighting really started, he was not going to be able to control himself. The muscles in his arms, legs, and shoulders knotted. He was ready to strike. He would have to leave his job at the bar after this. He had no other choice.

He took a breath, let it out evenly. His nerves calmed, his heartbeat slowed, his blood flow grew steady. He popped his neck and was just about to deliver his first kill stroke of the night when a car’s beams cut through the darkness.

They all watched as a police cruiser rolled to a stop. A moment later they got hit with a spotlight mounted on the side of the car.

A voice on a PA said, “What the hell is going on here?”

The black guy called out, “Nothing, Officer, we were just hanging out. But now we’re heading on.”

“Then move on. Now!”

The cruiser waited while the others hustled out the far end of the alley. The black guy looked back menacingly at Rogers.

Rogers was walking past the cruiser when the passenger window came down.

“What was all that about?” asked the police officer.

“I’m the bouncer at the Grunt. That was about some punks not getting to drink beer and wanting someone to take it out on. Namely me.”

“Okay, I get that. Well, lucky for you we came along.”

Lucky for them , thought Rogers.

“Thanks, Officer, good night.”

Rogers walked off and the cruiser pulled through the alley, following the other men just in case.

Roger got to his van and drove off.

His plan tonight was fairly simple.

The Grunt was closed tomorrow night.

So tomorrow night he was going to have a chat with Chris Ballard.

PULLER PACKED THE last of his things in the duffel and zipped it closed. It was like he had just zipped up the end of his life as well.

He had left AWOL with a family living in the same apartment complex. His cat did fine with long separations, but this time Puller had no idea how long he’d be gone. He didn’t even know if he’d be coming back.

He looked down at the email he had received ten minutes ago. It had come from a two-star he had never met or even heard of. The message had been terse but to the point:

The investigation into allegations regarding the disappearance of your mother and culpability of your father has been concluded. No further action will be taken against any party.

Against any party.

That was telling him that his father was safe. The investigation was over.

But that was all bullshit, because there had never really been an investigation. Nothing had been discovered. The truth was still out there but no one was looking for it.

Well, one person is. Me.

He had already written his letter of resignation. He was leaving the Army and the only career he’d ever known.

The United States Army had done something Puller never thought it would do.

It let me down.

Still, as he had typed out the words, “I, Chief Warrant Officer John Puller Jr., 701st Military Police Group (CID), do hereby resign…” a knot had formed in his throat and a piercing pain had erupted in his gut.

He couldn’t believe he was actually doing it.

But he had no choice. They had left him boxed in a corner with only one conceivable way out.

He had sent in the letter.

He was not waiting for a reply.

It didn’t matter what they said to him. If they wanted to try to hold him for some reason, they would have to find him first.

So he was not going to Germany and his next assignment. He was going to continue to investigate this case whether the Army chose to or not.

His goal was simple. His goal was always simple.

It was how he had approached every case he’d ever undertaken.

Finding the truth.

He opened the door to his apartment.

Two men in suits stared back at him.

Five minutes later Puller sat in the back of a Tahoe and kept his gaze pointed out the window. The two men sat in front.

Their credentials had given Puller no choice but to accompany them. His sidearm had been confiscated for the time being. His cell phone had also been taken. He was uneasy about all of this, but he had to see it play out. He had no other option.

The SUV pulled through the guard entrance where the men in naval uniforms checked IDs, scrutinized Puller, and then motioned them on.

Puller knew there was another wall of defense around the place that included men in suits with comm wires in their ears, like the pair in front of him.

The imposing house loomed up in front of them.

Puller had never been here. Most people had never been here.

The truck stopped in front of the house and they all got out. Puller was escorted inside, down a hall, and into a large room outfitted as an office and library. The men left him there.

He didn’t sit. He had no idea what was about to happen, but he would take it standing.

He tensed when the door opened.

He came immediately to attention.

The man wasn’t in uniform, but he once had been.

And more importantly, he was one beating heart removed from being the commander in chief of all the armed forces of the United States. That fact alone required Puller to treat him with military respect.

He was the vice president of the United States, Richard Hall.

Before that he’d been a U.S. senator from Virginia. And before that he’d been a one-star under Puller’s father’s command.

Puller knew all this. And he’d also met the man once, over twenty years ago, before Hall had traded in his uniform for a suit and the life of a politician.

Hall was about five-ten, and still retained much of the muscular build he’d had as a soldier. His hair was white and thinning, but his handshake was firm and his voice deep.

“Sit down, Puller. You look very stiff standing there.”

Puller sat.

Hall went over to a table that held a decanter of whiskey and several glasses.

“Drink?”

“No thank you, sir.”

“I’m pouring you one anyway. You look like you could use it.”

Hall brought the drinks over and handed one to Puller. Then he sat down behind his desk.

“I heard that you resigned from the Army today.”

“News travels fast.”

“Certain news travels fast in certain channels.”

Hall held up his glass and took a sip of his drink. Puller followed suit.