The Escape (John Puller, #3)(8)

He had put in automatic purchase instructions for the credit cards with payments tied to his checking account that had been executed before and during the time he had been in prison. That’s how he had been paying for this storage unit and some other recurring expenses. Under his fake identity he had also purchased and sent gifts and items to nursing homes, hospitals, and strangers whom he had discovered to have been in low circumstances. It had cost him several thousand dollars, but he had done a little bit of good at the same time. It also ensured that there was activity on his accounts, which built up a credit history with reliable payments. Otherwise financial institutions might have looked suspiciously at a dormant account suddenly active after more than two years. And people were watching, Puller knew, because he used to be one of the watchers.

He hefted the last items. A Glock nine-mil and two extra boxes of ammo. And an M4 carbine with three boxes of ammo. Kansas was an open-carry state, which meant so long as your firearm was in plain sight a license was not required. But one did need a permit to carry a concealed weapon, and Puller had one of those too, issued by the great state of Kansas under his fictitious identity. It was still good for another eighteen months.

He slipped the Glock into the clip holster he’d put on his belt and covered this with a denim jacket he’d earlier pulled from his clothes box. He disassembled the M4 and slipped it into a carrier bag, which he placed in the duffel. Then he put on a watch, also from the clothes box, and set it to the proper time. He put a pair of sunglasses in his jacket pocket.

There would be a wide manhunt going on for him. And while he now didn’t look anything like his former self, he also had no margin for error.

He well knew the chaos that must be reigning at the prison right now. He wasn’t sure how it had all gone down, but he realized that he was one of the luckiest people on the planet. This was particularly gratifying since over the last few years he had been one of the unluckiest. The massive swing in his fortunes made him feel a bit lightheaded. He had seized an opportunity when one had presented itself. It was up to him now to carry it all the way to its logical conclusion. He was nothing if not logical. Indeed, some would claim he was too logical at times. And maybe he was.

It seemed to run in the family, though, for his father surely had that capacity. And his younger brother, John, might be the most logical of the three Puller men.

Brother John, he thought. What would he make of all this?

Brothers on opposite sides of the cell door. Now brothers on opposite sides, period. It didn’t feel good, but it never had. And there was nothing he could do right now to change that.

He put everything away and then turned to his laptop. To his delight it came on, though the battery was still charging. He unplugged it and put the computer in a canvas duffel bag. From another box he pulled some more articles of clothing and assorted toiletries and put them in the duffel. Then he slipped it over his shoulder, turned off the light, and exited, locking the overhead door and quickly walking away.

He hoofed it to a diner that was just opening for business as he walked in. Two cops went in ahead of him. They both looked tired, so maybe they were coming off their shifts instead of going on. Puller sat as far away from them as he could. He huddled behind the plastic menu the waitress gave him and ordered coffee, black.

She brought it in a chipped cup and he drank it down in gratifying measures. This was the first cup of coffee outside of prison he’d had in over two years. And that didn’t count the time he had been in custody while his court-martial was going on. He smacked his lips appreciatively and looked over the menu.

He ordered pretty much one of everything, and when his meal came he ate slowly, luxuriating over each bite. It wasn’t that the food at the DB was awful. It was passable. But food just tasted different when you were eating it in a prison cell after it was slid through a notch cut in the steel door.

He finished the last bit of toast and bacon and had another cup of coffee. He had been eating so slowly that the cops had finished and gone. Which was just fine with him. What he didn’t want to see was a couple of MPs take their place, which they did, right as the waitress deposited the bill at his table.

“You have a good one, hon,” she said to him.

“Thanks,” said Puller, before realizing that he had not changed the tone or cadence of his voice.

Pick up your damn game, Bobby.

“Um, you got Wi-Fi here, shug?” he asked in a twangy voice.

She shook her head. “Honey, all we got is stuff to eat and drink. You want that Wi-Fi thing, you got to get yourself down to the Starbucks on the corner.”

“Thanks, shug.”

He zipped up his jacket all the way and made sure his gun was covered.

As he passed by the MPs, one of them flicked a gaze his way and nodded.

Puller drawled, “You boys have a good one.” Then he tacked on, “Go Army.” And then he smiled crookedly.

The man thanked him with a weary smile and returned to looking over his menu.

Puller was careful to close the swing door after him so it wouldn’t bang shut and maybe get those MPs to take a second look at him.

In under a minute he was disappearing into a darkness just about to be broken by the coming Kansas dawn. It was his first daybreak as a free man in a long time.

It tasted first sweet and then turned to vinegar in his mouth.

In another thirty seconds he had turned the corner and was out of sight.