Дэвид Балдаччи - The Escape

Puller glanced sharply at her. The way she said it, she seemed serious.

“The W it is.”

“What about you?” she asked.

“Heading to Quantico to get some fresh clothes and other stuff I might need. And to check in.”

“I’m going to do the same at the hotel.”

“So how will they take the fact that you’ve shot two people and killed one?”

“I think they’ll take it rather well considering the alternative. But I know I’m going to have a roomful of forms to file. And I’ll have to go back to North Carolina and Kansas to deal with it at some point.”

“I’m hoping they can find the guy you shot in Charlotte.”

“Yeah, that would help. Maybe he’s lying dead in some other alley down there.” She added sarcastically, “They can do another follicle test. If there’s ice there, he might be from Alaska. Or maybe Siberia.”

Puller’s phone buzzed again. He checked the screen while they were stopped at a red light. He slipped it back into his pocket.

“Anything important?”

“General Rinehart and Mr. Schindler want to meet.”

“Where?”

“They came back east too. Dinner at the Army-Navy Club downtown. Eight-thirty tonight. You up for it?”

“I don’t think they want to meet with me.”

“I don’t care if they do or not. You’re on my team. So you get to come and report in too.”

“I hear Rinehart can be a bear.”

“Any guy busting his hump for the fourth star can be a bear. I’ll need to get my dress blues. I can pick you up a little after eight and we can drive over together. Sound good?”

“Sounds good, Puller. And I’m flattered.”

“About what?”

“About being included on your team.”

He pulled up to the W Hotel and she climbed out and grabbed her bag from the trunk. She came around to his side of the car and motioned for him to roll down the window.

She leaned in and smiled coyly. “But then again, I always thought you were on my team.” She smacked him lightly on the cheek, turned, and sauntered into the hotel lobby.

Puller watched her every step of the way and then rolled the window back up and drove off.

He stopped by Quantico and met briefly with Don White, his CO. The man was not happy with the situation, particularly since he apparently knew Puller could not tell him everything.

“I know you’ve got a lot of juice behind you on this one, Puller. But my advice to you is to watch all points on the compass. If this turns into a disaster, and it might, fingers will be pointing so fast it’ll make your head spin.”

“Roger that,” Puller had said.

He had driven home thinking about this warning and the similar one that Shireen Kirk had given him. Nothing good could come out of this for him. But as smart as the woman was, she might be wrong about that.

I just might be able to get my brother back.

He called Rinehart’s office and got the okay for Knox’s attendance at the dinner. Then he caught up on some paperwork and checked in with the vet back at Fort Leavenworth to see how AWOL was doing.

“What can I say? The damn cat doesn’t seem to even know you’ve left her,” was the vet’s reply, and Puller could almost see the smile attached to this comment.

“Yeah, well, tell AWOL I love her too.”

He didn’t have a lot of time before he had to head back to D.C. for the dinner, but he put on his sweats and went for a run. Afterward, he walked back to his apartment, his tired muscles feeling good, the endorphins bumping up his spirits. He quickly showered and then sat in a towel on his bed going over the notes he’d collected over the last few days.

Macri dead.

The Ukrainian dead.

Daughtrey dead.

The missing transformers.

The men who had kidnapped him.

The person who had saved him, possibly his brother.

The lying Susan Reynolds.

The attack in the alley.

The dead Niles Robinson.

A letter his father wrote.

His brother out there somewhere.

And Knox. They’d shared a hungry look and had come close to sharing a lot more. And then there was the text. She wasn’t who she appeared to be. The fact was he couldn’t fully trust her. He couldn’t trust anyone on this. This was not the world of soldiering. That was one he understood fully. You counted on the guy next to you and he counted on you, because that was the only way to survive.

But this wasn’t soldiering, though there were uniforms galore in the mix. This was the intelligence field, which apparently came chock-full of lies, dubious allegiances, ulterior motives, changing agendas, and everyone telling you what you wanted to hear while they were sticking the knife deeper into your back and blaming it on someone else. That world, his brother’s world, was totally foreign to him. He felt like a buck recruit, set out in the wild all alone to sink or swim, to live or die.

He put on his dress blues and left Quantico to make his way north on Interstate 95 to D.C. Luckily, he was heading against traffic. Going south on 95 it was, as usual, a parking lot. He pulled in front of the W Hotel and was about to text Knox that he was there waiting outside when she walked out in a navy blue skirt, matching jacket, pale blue blouse, sheer stockings, and high heels. Her hair was done up in a braid and she carried a clutch purse. And now he knew there was a gun in there.

He unlocked the passenger door and she slid in with a swish of skirt and a quick glimpse of her long thighs.

“Productive day?” she asked.

“Pretty good. You?”

“Got some things accomplished. Did you settle things for me to be there tonight?”

“All done.”

“I’m surprised they’d allow it.”

“I’m sure calls were made, emails sent, your record examined inch by inch, inquiries made, and appropriate parties briefed. And there you go. They’ll know more about you now than you know about yourself.”

He pulled off and headed toward the Army-Navy Club, which wasn’t very far away distance-wise, but at this time of night traffic and myriad intervening lights could make it seem like fifty miles.

“So what’s the agenda for tonight?” she asked.

He glanced over to see her staring at him.

“I’m not setting the agenda. They are. Generals and guys with the president’s ear tend to do that. I’m just a lowly CWO.”

“You need to improve your self-esteem, Puller, or you won’t get anywhere fast.”

“Slow and steady wins the day.”

“Unless someone is shooting at you.”

“You feeling better? Gotten over whatever it was?”

She folded her arms over her chest again, something he again noted she did whenever she was feeling defensive or elusive.

“Still working on that.”

“Right. Maybe you should try Sudafed. Or a priest.”

She turned to look at him. “A priest?”

“Your personnel file says you’re Catholic. I figure you might want to try confession. Supposed to be good for the soul.”

“Are you accusing me of lying to you again?”

Puller worked his way through late rush-hour traffic before stopping at a red light. “We’ve got about ten more minutes until we get there.”

“I’m just not following you, Puller.”

“You weren’t sick or coming down with a cold. Your voice was normal, not scratchy or husky. On the drive to D.C. you didn’t cough, sneeze, or even sniffle. At one point I cranked up the AC and you didn’t even shiver. And I’ve got pollen allergies too. And there’s none in the air or else I’d know it.”

“And your point?”

“Your face was flushed and your eyes were red for another reason. Emotion can do that. Crying can do that, more specifically, although you don’t strike me as a weeper. But then again, I really don’t know you all that well. But if something did make you break down, it had to have been something serious. And that might come back to explode in my face. If I’m wrong about any of this, feel free to tell me so.”