The Escape (John Puller, #3)(14)

“I showed up in Florida voluntarily. You didn’t ask me to come down there.”

“But I didn’t tell you to go back home either.”

“I survived.”

“Barely.”

“And I don’t want anything to happen to you, John. Even if I am in Texas now. I still care about you.”

Though they were not face-to-face, Puller could imagine the look that Carson was displaying right now. Tender and concerned.

“Not worried about fraternization rules?”

“They don’t apply to us. They apply to officer and enlisted. We’re both officers. I’m a general, and even though you started out in the ranks, you’re a chief warrant officer. And you’re not under my command.”

“So you checked?”

Her voice rose over the phone. “Yes, I checked. So you can understand if I feel a little proprietary toward you. You can’t tank your career over this. You just can’t!”

“I can’t sit on the sidelines. I’m sorry.”

“John, please think about the consequences.”

“I’ve done nothing but think about them. But it hasn’t changed my decision.”

He heard her draw a long breath. “Well, then I wish you the very best of luck. And I guess I can’t say I’m surprised. After Florida I understand quite clearly that Puller blood is thicker than even the Army green variety.”

“Thanks for understanding.”

“I didn’t say I understood. Just that I’m not surprised. Take care of yourself, Puller. And consider that a direct order from a two-star.”

“That means a lot, Julie. It really does.”

Puller put down the phone, sat back, and closed his eyes. He had never thought that Julie Carson would be the one. She was a general on the rise. He was a chief warrant officer pretty much topped out. He cared for her, but professionally they were like oil and water. But they could and would remain friends. And he would always care about her. Always.

Loyalty mattered to John Puller. Almost as much as family did. And sometimes they were the very same damn thing.





CHAPTER





7



WI-FI WAS UP and working. And so was Robert Puller. While the enormous machinery of the United States military, along with the even bigger intelligence octopus that spread outward from the CIA and the NSA, was searching for him, arguably the most wanted man in America was sipping an unleaded grande Americano with raw sugar mixed in and pounding away on his Apple MacBook Pro with fingers as nimble as a teenager’s. And he’d been here doing this for most of the day.

It was a bit tricky, because as most Americans with an Internet connection or cell phone knew these days, they were watching. And they could come and get you anytime they wanted.

But Robert Puller knew his way around computers and every known way to trace, hack, or spy on their users. And his laptop had been expressly programmed and loaded with software and unique protections not available to the public. There were no back doors for the NSA to pixel-creep up on him. There were no back doors period. Except the ones he had planted in other databases before he went to prison, and was now exploiting to the fullest. Being at STRATCOM all those years had left him in a unique position to hack everybody. And to do it with style, he admitted to himself as he finished off the grande and looked over the other patrons of the Starbucks, where fancied-up java was not merely a beverage but also a way of life. He had already read all the news stories related to his escape. He had been lucky, that was for sure. But it hadn’t been all luck.

The news reports were full of facts. No real details on the hunt, beyond the painfully obvious. Checkpoints, house-to-house searches, watching airports, bus and train stations, asking the public for help, etcetera, etcetera. Pictures of him were all over the Web. If nothing else, they were a stark reminder of how much his appearance had changed overnight. The MPs he had passed earlier at the diner would have had his mug imprinted on their genes. And yet the one guy who’d looked directly at him hadn’t even troubled himself with a second glance.

Also posted all over the Web was his past history. The brilliant academic career where he had topped the lists at every institution he’d attended. The meteoric military career. His far-reaching fingers in all the intelligence pies. The systems he’d developed, the software he’d coded, the farsightedness he’d displayed in arenas of which the public only had a vague awareness. And then the tumble from the high pedestal, the arrest, and the charges aimed at him like a fifty-caliber machine gun set to blow him into little pieces. Then the court-martial. Then the verdict. Finally, the imprisonment for life.

And now the escape.

All of this he read and digested, but it was ultimately meaningless to him.

There was one angle to the story that had socked him right in the gut.

His father and his brother had both been mentioned throughout numerous articles. The fighting legend now laid low by dementia. And there was dirt dredged up and regurgitated about the reasons why he had never gotten the fourth star, and why the Medal of Honor had never been draped around his thick neck.

And then there was his brother, the highly decorated combat veteran turned CID agent who was building himself into an Army legend. But underlying the articles were the visits John Puller Jr. had made to the DB. How close they were as brothers. The lawman and the lawbreaker. No, the law-crusher, for he wasn’t a mere criminal—he had committed treason, saved from the death penalty by who knew what in the military tribunal process.