The Escape (John Puller, #3)(6)

“In other words he’d need outside help,” added White.

“You think he had that? How?”

“I have no way of knowing. But what I do know is, it’s quite a coincidence that both the main power and the backup generator failed on the same night. And how a prisoner was able to simply walk out of a max military facility, well, it makes one wonder, doesn’t it? And tack on the fact that a dead guy was in his cell? Where the hell did he come from?”

“Do they have a cause of death?”

“If they do, they haven’t shared it with me.”

“Do they think Bob—my brother killed the man?”

“I have no idea what theories they’re entertaining on that score, Puller.”

“But you think he had inside as well as outside help?”

“You’re the investigator, Puller. What do you think?”

“I don’t know. It’s not my case.”

Don White’s voice rose. “And rest assured, it will never be your case. So during your leave, you stay the hell away from this sucker. You do not need that over your head. One Puller in trouble is enough. You hear me?”

“I hear you,” said Puller. But he thought, I don’t necessarily agree with you.

Puller put the phone down and watched as his fat tabby, AWOL, glided into the room, jumped up on the bed, and rubbed her head against Puller’s arm. He stroked AWOL and then picked up the cat, holding her against his chest.

His brother had been at the DB for more than two years. The trial had been swift and he’d been convicted by a panel of his peers. That was just the military way. You were never going to take years to try a case like that, nor were there endless appeals. And the media had been kept largely at arm’s length. Fancy civilian lawyers more interested in million-dollar payoffs and selling book and film rights than actually achieving justice had no place at such a trial. The uniforms had handled it all and the wagons had circled early and effectively. Sure, you had dirty laundry in uniform, but it was never going to be hung on a clothesline for all to see and smell. It was going to be buried in a landfill masquerading as a prison.

Puller had not even been at the trial. He’d been thousands of miles away on CID deployment in the Middle East, where half the time he was playing soldier again and toting a rifle against the enemies of the United States. The Army didn’t care about his family problems. He had a mission to perform and perform it he would. By the time he’d gotten back stateside his older brother was already at the DB, where he would be staying for the rest of his life.

But maybe not now.

Puller stripped off his clothes and took a shower, letting the water beat down on him as he rested his forehead against the moist tile wall. His breathing was usually slow and steady, like the tick of a clock. Now it was erratic and too fast, like a wheel freed from a car, bouncing crazy-ass down an embankment.

He could not accept that his brother had escaped from prison, for one compelling reason—that meant he truly was guilty.

This was something that Puller had always been unwilling to believe or accept. It just wasn’t apparently in his DNA to do so. Pullers weren’t traitors. They had fought, bled, and died for their country. Puller had relatives going back to George Washington’s day who had taken musket balls to the chest to be free from England. Corporal Walter Puller had died repelling Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg. Another ancestor, George Puller, had been shot down while flying a British Sopwith Camel over France in 1918. He’d parachuted out and survived, only to die four years later in a training accident while flying an experimental aircraft. At least two dozen Pullers had served in all military branches in the Second World War, with many not coming home again.

We fight. We don’t betray.

He turned off the water and started to towel off. His CO had a good point. It did seem like an amazing coincidence that both the main power and backup generator would go out on the same night. And how could his brother have escaped without help? The DB was one of the most secure prisons ever built. No one had ever escaped before. No one.

And yet his brother apparently had.

And left a dead man in his wake whom no one could identify.

He dressed in clean civilian clothes and headed out to his car after letting AWOL out to run around a bit in the sunshine and fresh air.

Now Puller had to go somewhere, a place he did not want to go.

He would almost rather have returned to combat in the Middle East over where he was headed. But go he had to. He could imagine the foul temper his father would be in, if he even truly understood what had happened. Puller imagined that being around his old man when he was not happy was like being around another military legend, George Patton, when he was pissed off. It was not going to be a pleasant ride for anyone within earshot.

He climbed into his Army-issued white sedan, cranked the engine, rolled down the windows to help dry his short hair, and drove off. This was not how he planned to spend his first day back after shooting a fellow soldier in an alley. But then again, in his world nothing was predictable except that each upcoming moment could be the challenge of a lifetime.

While driving to see Fighting John Puller Sr., USA Ret., he decided he would dearly love to have the tanks of Patton’s Third Army as an escort. He might very well need both the armor and the firepower.





CHAPTER