The Escape (John Puller, #3)(108)

“Get out of the car!” she screamed. “Get out of the car! There’s a—”

The ground moved violently under her feet, the pavement seemed to whipsaw like a snake on crack. Everything took on the elements of a world reduced to slow motion. She staggered, braced herself for what she knew was coming and could do absolutely nothing about. Visions of Mosul came roaring vividly back to her. Sitting in an armored Humvee one second. Lying far away in the dirt another second later and having no idea how she had gotten there, not knowing whether people were alive or dead, whether she would die here too. Whether her legs would ever function again.

All of this took a millionth of a second to pass through her mind. And that was good, because even with that, she was out of time.

She had looked away at the last moment, and it was a good thing she did. Looking directly at an explosion of sufficient magnitude could blind a person. But it didn’t really matter. People close enough to be blinded by such a flash didn’t usually live anyway.

Her last conscious thought was a surprising one to her.

Sorry, Puller. It’s up to you now.

The concussive force of the explosion lifted her right out of her shoes, throwing her twenty feet through the air like a pellet from a slingshot, until she smashed against the plate glass window of a linen shop. She managed to cover her head with her hands right before impact as her phone flew from her, landed in the street, and broke apart. Knox ended up on the floor of the shop in a heap of limbs.

The Town Car had been obliterated. What was left of the three men inside was no longer recognizable. The explosion had shattered windows up and down the street. People were lying on the sidewalks, bloodied, battered, unconscious, and some of them would never be waking up.

Others were moaning, groaning, and staggering around. Some were in shock, others badly injured, and others, though unhurt, could only stare in horror at what had happened.

It was like a street in Baghdad or Kabul, not an affluent area a few miles from Washington, D.C.

Car alarms triggered by the blast were going off up and down the street. People were running now, some toward the blast site, others away from it, no doubt terrified that more explosions were going to take place. A police officer who had been pulling security guard duty in a jewelry shop did his best to help the injured and direct people to a safer area.

Inside the linen shop Knox was lying facedown on the floor in a pile of glass shards, covered with sheets and pillows that she had crashed into after cracking through the window. Her eyes were closed, her breathing was tight and shallow, and the blood was flowing down her face.

In another minute the sirens started to wail, people started to scream louder, survivors tried to help the injured and the dying. Then there were the dead. They had come here for a meal, or to do some shopping or run an errand, unaware that it would be the last time they would ever do any of those things.

Inside the shop, Veronica Knox didn’t move. The blood just continued to flow down her face.





CHAPTER





54



WHEN VERONICA KNOX opened her eyes the first thing she saw was a blindingly white light.

That convinced her that she was truly dead. And that somehow, despite having committed a mortal and venal sin or two, she had ended up up rather than down, ecclesiastically speaking.

It’s a bloody miracle, she thought. And she was being literal about that.

The second thing she saw were transparent tubes running into her right arm.

That drove the ecclesiastical element and the thought of miracles forcefully from her head.

The third thing she saw was John Puller hovering over her.

That brought her fully back to earth. And life.

She saw him breathe a sigh of relief, and then he flicked his finger against his eye as though to rub something away.

A tear, her groggy mind thought. But no, men like John Puller did not shed tears. If they did shed anything, it would be blood, not water.

She tried to sit up, but he put a big hand on her shoulder and held her right where she was.

“Just chill, Knox. You took a big hit. Doc says it’s a miracle you’re still here.”

She suddenly looked wildly down at her body. “Am I here? Am I all here?”

He gripped her shoulder tighter to calm her. “Two arms with hands attached, though two fingers on your left hand are broken, hence the splints. You have two legs with feet attached. One head with brain intact, though concussed. And a lot of superficial cuts to your scalp, arms, and legs, hence the bandages. And enough blood loss that they had to give you a replacement bag.”

“But can I move everything?”

“See for yourself.”

She tentatively moved first her right and then her left arm, and then wiggled her fingers, even the ones with splints on them. Drawing a deep breath, she looked down at her legs.

Puller saw tears cluster in her eyes and knew she was thinking back to the Middle East when her legs had not worked. He slipped the sheet up a bit, revealing her feet. He squeezed one of her toes. “Feel that?”

She nodded.

“Now wiggle your toes.”

She swallowed, prepared herself, and did so. She felt them, saw them, and sank back on her pillow with a grateful, “Thank you, God.”

He put the sheet back over her feet. “Legs are just fine, Knox. With that said, you were lucky as hell.”