Zero Day (John Puller, #1)(14)

Thump-whoosh-thump.

Of course the sound is coming from there.

Both guns aimed at this spot, Puller advanced, keeping low and his torso turned to the side.

He reached the corner, backed away parallel to the wall. Corners were problematic. “Dynamic corners” were how the Army referred to them, because situations could change quickly once you stepped around one. He said, “Federal agent.”

Nothing.

“Federal agent.”

He eyed the wall. Concrete. If it were wood or drywall he would have fired some shots through it, to get the attention of anyone on the other side waiting to ambush him. With concrete his rounds were more than likely going to ricochet right back at him.

“Slide any weapon out, then follow it with hands on head, fingers interlaced. I count to five, noncompliance will get you a flash-bang right up your ass.”

He counted off, wishing he had a flash-bang with him.

Thump, whoosh, thump.

He holstered one pistol, slipped off his backpack, aimed, and tossed it in front of the opening.

Thump, whoosh, thump.

Either there was no one there, or he was one cool customer. Puller crouched, tensed, and did a quick turkey peek. In that momentary flash he took in a lot. None of it was good.

He edged around the corner. Following the sound, he looked down. The floor fan was on its side. The whoosh sound was the fan. The thump was the fan oscillating from side to side where the frame made contact with the concrete on each revolution.

But something had turned it on. And now he knew what that was.

Puller glanced up. The man was in uniform. He was hanging from the ceiling. The strap used to hold him there had loosened. His body had dropped down, though it was still suspended. It had hit the fan, knocking it over and turning it on.

Puller had just discovered what had happened to the perimeter guard.

He eyed the man through his optics. Clearly dead. Eyes bugged out and glassy. Body hanging limp. Hands bound. Feet the same. Puller approached, touched the man’s skin. Somewhat warm but rapidly cooling. Hadn’t been dead all that long. He checked for a pulse, just to be sure. There was none. Heart had stopped beating and everything else had stopped working instantly. He was past the point of no return, but not by much.

They had taken his police wheels. Warm oil, warm body.

The dead guy looked young. The low man on the totem pole, he’d drawn the crap post assignment. Guarding stiffs in the nighttime, and now he was a stiff too. Puller eased his gaze over the uniform. Looked to be a deputy sheriff. Drake County, the shoulder badge said. He eyed the holster. No gun. No surprise. Man has a gun he’s not going to let you string him up without a fight. The face was swollen enough from the strangulation to where Puller couldn’t tell if he’d been beaten.

He reached down and turned the fan off.

The thump-whoosh-thump symphony ceased.

Puller drew closer to the body and used his optics to read the nameplate.

Officer Wellman.

That was ballsy, thought Puller. To come back here and kill a cop. To come back to a murder scene once you’d done the deed.

What had they missed? Or left behind?

The next moment Puller was sprinting up the steps.

Someone else was coming.

He glanced at his watch.

It might be Sergeant Samantha Cole.

Or it might not.

CHAPTER

9


THE WOMAN CLIMBED out of her ride. It wasn’t police wheels. It was a plain, decades-old pickup truck with a four-speed stick drive and three transmission antennas drilled in the cab’s roof. It also had a white custom camper with side windows and a flip-top gate on the back with the word “Chevy” stenciled on it. The truck’s pale blue was not the original color.

Samantha Cole was not in uniform. She was dressed in faded jeans, white T-shirt, a WVU Mountaineers windbreaker, and worn-down calf-high boots. The butt of a King Cobra double-action .45 revolver poked from inside her shoulder holster. It was on the left side, meaning she was right-handed. She was a sliver under five-three without the boots, and a wiry one-ten with dirty blonde hair that was long enough to reach her shoulders. Her eyes were blue and wide; the balls of her cheekbones were prominent enough to suggest Native American ancestry. Her face had a scattering of light freckles.

She was an attractive woman but with a hard, cynical look of someone to whom life had not been overly kind.

Cole stared at Puller’s Malibu and then up at the house where the Reynoldses sat dead all in a row. One hand on the butt of her gun, she advanced up the gravel drive. She passed the Lexus when it happened.

The hand was on her before she realized it. Its grip was iron. She had no chance. It pulled her down and then over to the other side of the car.

“Shit!” Her fingers closed around the long, thick fingers. She could not break the grip. She tried to pull her gun with her other hand, but it was blocked by her attacker’s arm pinning hers against her side. Cole was helpless.

“Just stay down, Cole,” the voice said into her ear. “There might be a shooter out there.”

“Puller?” she hissed as she turned to him. Puller released his grip and squatted next to the right front fender of the Lexus. He flipped up his night optics. He had one M11 in hand. The other pistol was parked back in its rear holster.

“Good to meet you.”

“You nearly gave me a heart attack. I never even heard you.”