The Escape (John Puller, #3)(89)

Macri dead.

The Ukrainian dead.

Daughtrey dead.

The missing transformers.

The men who had kidnapped him.

The person who had saved him, possibly his brother.

The lying Susan Reynolds.

The attack in the alley.

The dead Niles Robinson.

A letter his father wrote.

His brother out there somewhere.

And Knox. They’d shared a hungry look and had come close to sharing a lot more. And then there was the text. She wasn’t who she appeared to be. The fact was he couldn’t fully trust her. He couldn’t trust anyone on this. This was not the world of soldiering. That was one he understood fully. You counted on the guy next to you and he counted on you, because that was the only way to survive.

But this wasn’t soldiering, though there were uniforms galore in the mix. This was the intelligence field, which apparently came chock-full of lies, dubious allegiances, ulterior motives, changing agendas, and everyone telling you what you wanted to hear while they were sticking the knife deeper into your back and blaming it on someone else. That world, his brother’s world, was totally foreign to him. He felt like a buck recruit, set out in the wild all alone to sink or swim, to live or die.

He put on his dress blues and left Quantico to make his way north on Interstate 95 to D.C. Luckily, he was heading against traffic. Going south on 95 it was, as usual, a parking lot. He pulled in front of the W Hotel and was about to text Knox that he was there waiting outside when she walked out in a navy blue skirt, matching jacket, pale blue blouse, sheer stockings, and high heels. Her hair was done up in a braid and she carried a clutch purse. And now he knew there was a gun in there.

He unlocked the passenger door and she slid in with a swish of skirt and a quick glimpse of her long thighs.

“Productive day?” she asked.

“Pretty good. You?”

“Got some things accomplished. Did you settle things for me to be there tonight?”

“All done.”

“I’m surprised they’d allow it.”

“I’m sure calls were made, emails sent, your record examined inch by inch, inquiries made, and appropriate parties briefed. And there you go. They’ll know more about you now than you know about yourself.”

He pulled off and headed toward the Army-Navy Club, which wasn’t very far away distance-wise, but at this time of night traffic and myriad intervening lights could make it seem like fifty miles.

“So what’s the agenda for tonight?” she asked.

He glanced over to see her staring at him.

“I’m not setting the agenda. They are. Generals and guys with the president’s ear tend to do that. I’m just a lowly CWO.”

“You need to improve your self-esteem, Puller, or you won’t get anywhere fast.”

“Slow and steady wins the day.”

“Unless someone is shooting at you.”

“You feeling better? Gotten over whatever it was?”

She folded her arms over her chest again, something he again noted she did whenever she was feeling defensive or elusive.

“Still working on that.”

“Right. Maybe you should try Sudafed. Or a priest.”

She turned to look at him. “A priest?”

“Your personnel file says you’re Catholic. I figure you might want to try confession. Supposed to be good for the soul.”

“Are you accusing me of lying to you again?”

Puller worked his way through late rush-hour traffic before stopping at a red light. “We’ve got about ten more minutes until we get there.”

“I’m just not following you, Puller.”

“You weren’t sick or coming down with a cold. Your voice was normal, not scratchy or husky. On the drive to D.C. you didn’t cough, sneeze, or even sniffle. At one point I cranked up the AC and you didn’t even shiver. And I’ve got pollen allergies too. And there’s none in the air or else I’d know it.”

“And your point?”

“Your face was flushed and your eyes were red for another reason. Emotion can do that. Crying can do that, more specifically, although you don’t strike me as a weeper. But then again, I really don’t know you all that well. But if something did make you break down, it had to have been something serious. And that might come back to explode in my face. If I’m wrong about any of this, feel free to tell me so.”

The light turned green but Puller didn’t move. A car behind them honked.

“Keep driving,” she said. “Like you said, we have ten minutes.”

Puller drove through the intersection. About a minute later Knox said, “I told you I wasn’t who I appeared to be.”

“And I told you that was no surprise to me.”

“But what if—” She stopped and looked out the window.

“What if what?” said Puller.

She turned to face him. “Pull over.”

“What?”

“Pull over to the curb. We can walk the rest of the way. If we’re a little late, I’m sure the general and Mr. Schindler won’t mind. In fact, walking might be faster than riding in a car in this traffic.”

Miraculously, Puller found a parking spot on the next block, pulling in as another car was pulling out.