Zero Day (John Puller, #1)(104)

He heard the noise as soon as he left the small office.

A motorcycle, coming fast, its engine throbbing. He strode quickly over to a set of windows on the second floor that overlooked the front of the firehouse.

It had to be Dickie. He hit his watch with the light. It was time.

He could see the bike’s single headlight stabbing through the gloom. The motorcycle rolled onto the cracked concrete fronting the firehouse. Now Puller could make out more clearly the man’s image. Blocky shoulders. Chunky torso. It was Dickie.

The sound of the shot made Puller jerk and instinctively duck. As he watched, the round hit the rider directly in the head, smashing through the helmet, drilling through the skull and brain and exploding out the other side. The Harley drifted to the right as the rider let go of the handlebars. The man fell off to the left and hit the concrete. He jerked once and lay still. The bike continued on before hitting the wall of the firehouse and falling over on its side, the engine still running.

Puller didn’t see this last part. He had leapt to the fire pole and slid down it.

The shot had come from the left. Long-range rifle round. Puller figured the sniper was on the ground somewhere. There was no high dirt here, just houses. The shooter could be in one of them. And there were a lot of them. All empty. Well, maybe not.

Puller eased out of the front entrance next to the still running bike. He bent down, turned it off, his M11 making defensive arcs. He thumbed the number on his cell phone.

Cole picked up on the second ring.

He explained things in three efficient sentences.

She would be bringing the cavalry to his aid for a second time today.

He counted to three and then zigzagged his way to the Malibu. Keeping the body of it between him and where the shot had come from, he unlocked his trunk and quickly snagged what he needed.

Night optics.

And his body armor. The outer tactical vest was a modular soft armor configuration that could stop a nine-mil round. But that wasn’t good enough tonight. Puller took a few seconds to slip the ceramic plates into the inserts in the tact vest to bump up his protection level. He powered up his optics and the world was revealed in a sharply defined green. He looked over at the body. The helmet was still on, so he couldn’t see the person’s face. The last piece of equipment that Puller reached for in his trunk was probably the most important.

H&K MP5 submachine gun. It was the clear weapon of choice by Special Forces for close-quarters battle. Its max range was a hundred meters, which meant Puller was going to have to get a lot closer to his target.

Sniper rifle against close-quarters small arms put the latter at a decided disadvantage. Added to that was the fact that Puller was certain the shooter had a night-vision scope to make the kind of shot he just had. He would have preferred to have his bolt-action sniper rifle. But the H&K would have to do.

Puller put his MP on two-shot bursts and slammed the trunk closed.

He had one bit of recon to do. He got in his car, started it, and drove it in reverse over to the body. He used the car as a shield while he slid out.

He saw the entry and exit wounds on the helmet. He popped open the visor and saw Dickie Strauss staring back at him.

He turned to his left and saw it. The slug was lying on the pavement. He focused on it without touching it.

It was a .338 Lapua Magnum round and Puller’s body armor was not rated to stop it. The Lapua also had a range of up to fifteen hundred meters. And with ideal conditions and a little luck, a talented sniper could hit his target from even farther away than that.

He broke all crime scene protocols by doing a quick search of the dead man and retrieving his cell phone and wallet, which he pocketed.

Puller got back in his car and, keeping his head down, drove it forward to the firehouse. He got out on the passenger side and slid the MP5 support sling over his head.

It was time to go hunting.

CHAPTER

74


SAM COLE’S RACK LIGHTS cut through the darkness and her sirens shrieked though the normal quiet. She knew these roads better than just about anyone, but a couple of times she pushed herself and her cruiser so hard that she thought they would both go off the road and into the open air before she plummeted to an early death.

She tore into the last curve and punched the gas when she hit the straightaway. A few seconds later, she saw the firehouse. Pulling to a stop, she pointed her headlights at the body on the concrete. Cole drew her gun and opened her door. She called Puller on her cell but got no answer.

She slid out of the car, keeping the door between her and wherever the shooter might be. She eyed the wrecked bike by the firehouse and then her gaze drifted to the Malibu. She heard sirens in the distance. A minute later two police cruisers pulled next to her vehicle.

She called out, “Shooter somewhere out there.”

She saw the deputies open their car doors and duck down behind them.

“Cover me,” said Cole.

She had on standard-issue body armor and hoped it was enough. She scooted forward and over to the body. She lifted the visor and stared down at the face.

Dickie Strauss didn’t look like he was asleep. He looked like someone had dropped a cannon on his head.

She called out to the deputies, “Fatality.” She eyed the holes in the sides of the helmet. “GS to the head. Heavy ordnance.”

“Better take cover, Sarge,” said one of her men.

Cole scuttled back to the car and took up position behind the door. She eyed her deputies. “Call in backup. I want all roads into here blocked off. Whoever it is, they are not getting away.”