Дэвид Балдаччи - No Man's Land

“Paul said he killed Chris Ballard. Or who he thought was Chris Ballard.”

“That’s what he said.”

“And he couldn’t have been mistaken?” asked Robert.

“He said he threw the old guy headfirst out a four-story window.”

“Then it was a double.”

“Right, maybe for security reasons.”

Robert said, “Ballard could afford enough security to keep would-be murderers out of his fortress on the beach. If he felt so insecure in his protection that he thought he needed a double handy to take on a potential attacker, then he should have just spent the money on a new protection team.”

“So what can you do with that?”

“I can dig, that’s what,” replied his brother.

“You mentioned the fortress on a beach. I didn’t tell you that.”

“I have access to satellites, little brother. And Ballard, though retired, personally owns a slew of patents that are very important to our defense efforts.”

“Is there any connection between his old company and Atalanta?”

“I’ll check.”

“When do you think you might have something for me?”

“When I know, you’ll know. And John?”

“Yeah?”

“Every flank you have is exposed and no reinforcements are being dialed up. You’re rolling solo, bro.”

Puller glanced over at Knox, who had clearly heard this.

“Copy that,” said Puller. It was pretty much the same thing his CO, Don White, had previously told him.

He clicked off and looked at Knox.

She smiled weakly. “Well, the good news is we’re still alive.”

“And the bad news is that’s all the good news we have,” replied Puller.

SIX HOURS.

For six hours he had counted his breaths like an insane man, waiting for the pain to stop.

He was lying in a bed in a motel he didn’t remember checking into.

He had stolen another car and switched plates with a second car he’d happened upon.

He rubbed his face. He’d washed up at a gas station. But he’d dug a hole in his head; it was now covered by a ball cap.

He sat up but immediately bent over as another jolt of pain pounded him. But the frequency had subsided.

Another hour passed and he was pain free. He took a shower, put his clothes back on, and headed out.

He was running out of time now.

Puller and the woman hadn’t mentioned that they’d told Jericho anything about him, but they might have.

He tapped his ring against the car’s steering wheel.

For the greater good.

Yeah, right. If I can find you, I’ll show you the greater good, or at least my version of it.

It was dark when Rogers drove south. He crossed into North Carolina and headed on to the Outer Banks.

He reached Quentin’s beach house, drove past, left his car in a small public parking lot, and stole back to the house.

There were no cars out front, but there might be one in the garage.

He checked.

The Maserati wasn’t there.

Rogers stepped back and looked up at the darkened house. He knew Quentin was not at the Grunt since it wasn’t open. Was he at Building Q? Had this trip been for nothing? When he had no time to lose? Maybe the man had a place in Hampton. That would make sense, only Rogers had no way to find out where it was. He should have checked the registration on the Maserati the last time he was here. That might have given him an address other than this one, because he recalled the car had Virginia plates.

The flash of a car’s headlights made him leap behind a large bush just in the nick of time. The car pulled into the driveway and the garage door started to wind its way up. As the sleek vehicle pulled past him and into the garage he saw who was driving it.

Helen Myers.

She looked distraught. She got out of the car and headed to the house through a connecting door. She punched a keypad on the wall as she passed through. The garage door came down, but not before Rogers was able to slip inside. He skittered over to the door through which Myers had passed and listened at the wood.

Heels clicked on tile. He heard a thump.

Her bag being dropped on the kitchen island?

Then the footsteps headed upstairs.

He waited another few seconds and then opened the door and slipped through.

The house was quiet, the first floor mostly dark. The only light was coming from the hall leading to the second floor.

He saw her bag on one of the kitchen counters. He searched it but found nothing of interest.

Rogers headed up the stairs. When he reached the top floor he heard the water start up.

He counted down the bedrooms, passing the one where Davis and Quentin had screwed each other’s brains out. Now that he had slept with Davis that memory caused him anger. He wanted to share nothing with Josh Quentin.

There was a light from under the partially open door on the last room on the hall.

Rogers crept there, knelt, and put an eye to the crevice.

Myers was just finishing undressing.

She undid a clasp at the back of her hair and it cascaded down to her freckled shoulders. She stretched and Rogers could see small clusters of muscles in her arms and back. Then she disappeared into the adjoining bathroom.

He waited until he heard her step into the shower and close the door. Then he crept in and looked around. The bedroom was large, with decorations made of seashells strewn throughout and a couple of beach prints on the wall.

When Rogers heard the water being turned off, he sat on the bed and waited. Then a hair dryer started up.

When the dryer stopped running, he pulled out his vintage M11-B pistol and held it in his hand.

The door opened and she appeared wrapped in a towel. When she saw him she leapt back and screamed.

He said nothing, did nothing.

When she saw who it was she stopped screaming and stared incredulously at him.

“P-Paul? W-what are you doing here?”

Her gaze fell on the gun and she took another step back.

He stood and gripped the pistol.

“What are you doing here? How do you even know about this place?”

“I followed someone here once.”

“Why?”

“Because I needed information.”

“Information? About what?”

“About me.”

“I–I don’t understand.”

“Where is Josh Quentin? Isn’t this his place?”

“No. It’s my place. He just stays here sometimes.”

“And Suzanne Davis stays here with him sometimes.”

Her features darkened. “What do you mean?”

“Do you know Davis?”

She nodded mutely.

“They come here to fuck. They do it very energetically.”

Myers didn’t move a muscle. She just stared at him.

“I need to find Quentin. Where is he?”

“I don’t know. But why do you need to find him?”

“He knows somebody I need to find.”

“Who?”

“He works for Atalanta Group. Did you know that?”

“I–I might have heard him mention it.”

Rogers took another step toward her. She drew back. He rubbed the back of his head, trying to push back the pain that was rising in him again. This was getting very inconvenient.

She said, “I don’t know what you want me to say. You’ve broken into my house, Paul. I could call the police. But if you leave now, I won’t. You might still be messed up from what happened at the bar. I know I am. I still have no idea why those men attacked the place.”

“They were coming to kill me.”

Myers caught a breath and stared at him. “How do you know that?”

“I just know.”

“But why would anyone want to kill you?”

“Because I am what I am, and she is who she is.”

“Who is this person?”

“Claire Jericho.”

He watched her closely for a reaction to the name. And got it.