Zero Day (John Puller, #1)(50)

So the analysis came down to a possible lead or someone looking to do him harm. Either revenge from Dickie and company, or a counterattack from someone looking to derail his investigation.

He had put his phone on vibrate. It did.

He looked at the screen, answered it in a low voice.

“Where are you, Puller?” Cole asked.

“At the address. In the woods to the east of the house. Where are you?”

“West of it in the woods.”

“Great minds. See anything? I’ve got zip over here.”

“No.”

“Do you know who lives in the place?”

“No.”

“There wasn’t a name on the mailbox.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Find out why we’re here.”

“How do you want to do this?”

“How about we keep it simple. I come in from the east and you come in from the west. Stop at the tree line and check back in.”

He put his phone away and moved forward. His M11 was out and pointing the way. He assumed Cole’s Cobra was doing the same to the west.

A minute later his phone vibrated.

“In place,” Cole said. “What now?”

Puller didn’t respond right away. He was taking in what he was looking at grid by grid. The Taliban and al-Qaeda had been very clever about leading American soldiers into traps. They could find ways to make something actually very deadly look entirely innocuous. Children, women, pets.

“Puller?”

“Give me a minute.”

He took a few steps forward. He called out. “Hello? Anybody in there?”

No answer. He hadn’t really expected one.

He took two more steps forward until he was clear of the tree line. But he kept the old truck between him and the house.

He spoke into his phone. “Can you see me?”

“Yes. But just barely.”

“See anything on your side?”

“No. I don’t think this place is lived in. Hell, it looks ready to fall in.”

“Ever been down this way?”

“Only going somewhere else. Never even noticed this road before. What do you think is going on?”

“Stay put. I’m going to try something.”

He slipped the phone into his pocket and edged forward until he had a sightline on the front porch. He looked up and then down, side to side. Then he looked down again. From his jacket pocket he pulled a scope that he’d taken from his rucksack.

He looked through it, adjusting the optics until he had a clear look at the front porch. He looked up, down, side to side. And then he came back to the down part.

He slipped out his phone, wedged it against his ear. “Sit tight and keep down.”

“What do you see? What are you going to do?”

“You’ll hear it loud and clear in about five seconds if it is what I think it is.”

“Puller—”

But he’d already put the phone away.

He attached the scope to the top of his M11.

He gave one more look around. “Hello, it’s John Puller. You asked me to come here. I’d like to talk.”

He waited five more seconds. Did they think he was just going to walk right up to the front door?

He lifted his gun and took aim through the scope. His muzzle was pointed at the front-porch floorboards.

He fired three times in rapid succession. Pieces of the decking shot into the air. He heard the ping of metal on metal.

That could only mean one thing. He’d been right. He crouched down.

The front door blew open. The shotgun blast ripped the old fragile wood cleanly. Anyone standing in front of it would have been obliterated.

Anyone being me, thought Puller.

“Jesus!”

He looked to his left and saw Cole staring first at him, then at the large hole in the front door, and then back at him.

“How’d you know it was booby-trapped?” she called out.

“New floorboards in front of the door. They put the pressure plate under it, ran a wire inside the house, and attached it to the trigger on the shotgun that they mounted on something at gut level. Heard my rounds impact the plate.” He moved away from the truck. “Still can’t figure why they thought I would just mosey up to the door and get my head blown off.”

“I’m just glad you’re smarter than they give you credit for.”

She moved forward too.

Puller saw it and launched. He hit Cole right in the gut, lifting her off the ground. They tumbled back toward the tree line two seconds before the truck detonated. A front wheel landed within six inches of them. Debris crashed down around them. Puller covered Cole with his body. A long strip of rubber landed across the back of his legs. It stung, but did no permanent damage. He would have a welt there, but that was all.

As the flames leapt over the truck, Puller knew he had a second problem. He grabbed Cole by the arm, lifted her over his shoulder, and ran into the woods. A few seconds later, the gas tank exploded, sending a second wave of wreckage sailing in all directions.

Puller set Cole down behind a tree and knelt in the dirt well away from the remains of the truck. He let the debris rain down safely away from them and then peered out from the shield of the tree.

“How did you know?” gasped Cole as she sat up.