The Escape (John Puller, #3)(45)

A minute later two men came careening out of the building where Puller had been held and looked around for their former captive. Not seeing him, they ran to the SUV, climbed in, and the driver started it up. They started to speed off but the vehicle began to wobble badly. The driver put the SUV in park and they jumped out to stare in disbelief at the four slashed tires.





Robert Puller watched all of this from the bushes on the right side of the house. He had fired his weapon through the window, shattering the light. It would have been a difficult pistol shot through glass, but the auto weapon he had was both devastating and incredibly accurate at short range. With the light shot out he knew his brother would have the advantage. Still, he had watched until the chair and then his brother came flying through the smashed window before retreating to his present location. He’d slashed the SUV’s tires before taking up his sentry post at the window.

He quietly retreated to where his truck was parked. He had kept the engine running because it was quieter than trying to later start it. He’d also backed into the spot so he could now pull straight out. He climbed in, slipped the truck into gear, released the brake, eased out, and then basically let the truck’s forward momentum take him where he wanted to go. Once he was sufficiently far away, he hit the gas and sped down the road.

Robert Puller had followed his brother from the motel where General Daughtrey had been found. Then he had continued to follow him all the rest of the day, ending at the place where his brother was staying. He had seen the men force John into the SUV and he had followed them here. He didn’t know what had gone on inside the house. He had heard snatches of a voice, but could not make out what had been said. He didn’t know who the men were. He had made a quick search of the SUV, but there was no registration or other identification documents.

He could have charged into the house, but even with the brutally efficient weapon he was carrying he thought the odds of his winning the battle were too low. And he didn’t want to jeopardize his freedom or his brother’s life on bad odds.

He knew his brother could run a mile in less than six minutes and perform the Army standard two-mile run in a bit under twelve minutes. He checked his watch. John Puller should reach the main highway shortly. He would have found some way to defeat his bindings. He had a gun. He was safe.

Robert Puller pulled off to the side of the road. He did this for two reasons. He wanted to see if anyone was coming after his brother. And he also wanted to give John time to reach the main road. If he passed him in the truck, his brother’s CID instincts would kick in, meaning he would memorize the license plate of the truck, the make and model, and every element of the driver that he could see under the current conditions. And Robert was still paranoid that his brother would be able to see through even his elaborate disguise.

He waited eight minutes and drove down the road at a slow pace until he reached the main road. As he pulled onto it his gaze swept in all directions. He saw him about fifteen seconds later. And he eyed with more than a bit of pride his brother walking along the road, his hands free.

Some people one could completely rely on. And his brother was one of them.

As Robert Puller drove slowly along he saw his brother take out his phone and start punching in numbers. Then he turned off the main road, crossed over a berm, and disappeared on the other side.

You’re welcome, bro. And keep your head down from here on. It’s not going to get any easier. It’s only going to get worse. Trust me. If you still can.

Robert Puller punched the gas and sped on.





CHAPTER





23



JOHN PULLER CHANGED motels once more.

At this rate he thought affordable lodging opportunities in Leavenworth might be extinguished far sooner than he would like. He spent some time with AWOL, who had taken the move better than he had. If only the feline could talk, for AWOL had been the only one other than Daughtrey to see the Air Force general’s killer.

He didn’t know if the police had come in answer to his 911 phone call, not that it would have mattered. He wasn’t planning on reporting his kidnapping. The local cops would not be able to figure it out and Puller wanted to play all these recent cards very close to his vest.

He did call Knox and asked her to meet him the next morning at the same diner where they’d had dinner.

At seven a.m. he was sitting in the same booth when the door opened and she walked in, dressed as usual in a dark pantsuit with a white blouse. He watched her spot him and walk over. As her long legs ate up the ground Puller knew he had to do one of two things: trust her or not trust her. And despite her seemingly sincere and graphic display of her war wounds, he did not trust easily. That was because his trust had too often been either misplaced, outright broken, or both.

She sat down and ordered coffee from the hovering waitress, and when the old woman had gone off to fill the request Puller leaned forward and recounted to her what had happened. He watched her closely to see if her surprise was genuine.

He concluded that it was. But Puller also knew that whatever he was dealing with was so full of deceit and fraught with peril that even the slightest misstep could be disastrous. He was also beginning to doubt his normally reliable judgment.

After her coffee came and the waitress drifted away she spoke. And Knox’s first question intrigued him.

“Who fired the shot that killed the light?” she asked. “Because whoever did that probably saved your life.”