Дэвид Балдаччи - No Man's Land

“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. They 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.

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.

Paul the bouncer was in the process of disarming one guy who was far bigger and younger than he was. As Puller watched, Paul whipped the guy around, clamped two hands around his neck, and jerked to the right. Puller could imagine the neck snapping cleanly in two with the move.

The man died without making a sound. Paul let him go and the man slumped to the floor.

Puller stepped into the doorway, pointed his gun, and fired two rounds crisply at the man who had his gun pointed at the bouncer’s head. The man caught both rounds in the torso and fell forward, as dead as the other guy, only with a lot more blood.

Rogers stared over at Puller and then turned to see the dead guy, his gun still in hand.

Puller called out, “Any others?”

Rogers shook his head. “Don’t think so. Four in here and three outside.”

Another shot rang out a moment later. Puller whipped his gun in the direction. Rogers ducked down and looked that way too.

A man fell forward, the pistol still clenched in his hand.