CHAPTER
2
JOHN PULLER HAD his M11 pistol pointed at the man’s head.
A fancied-up Beretta 92—known in the military as an M9A1—was pointed right back at him.
It was a twenty-first-century duel that promised no winners and portended two fatal losers.
“I’m not taking the fall for this,” roared PFC Tony Rogers. He was a black man in his twenties with the image of a “terrible towel” and the Pittsburgh Steelers logo inked on his forearm. He was about five-nine, and had a shaved head, dumbbell shoulders, ripped arms, and beefy thighs mismatched with a high-pitched voice.
Puller was dressed in khaki pants and a navy blue windbreaker with the gold letters “CID” stenciled on the back. Rogers wore his Army Combat Uniform, or ACU, pants, regulation boots, and an Army T-shirt, with a patrol cap on his head. He was sweating though the air was crisp. Puller was not sweating. Rogers’s gaze was erratic. Puller’s eyes did not lift from Rogers’s face. He wanted to exude calm, hoping to graft it onto the other man.
The pair of soldiers had squared off in an alley behind a bar outside of Lawton, Oklahoma, home to Fort Sill and also the grave of the Indian leader Geronimo. Puller had been to Lawton a couple of times before, and his father had been briefly stationed there once during his Army career. He was here now in his capacity as an agent in the Criminal Investigation Command attempting to arrest an alleged killer who wore the same uniform he did, and who was now pointing his Army-issued sidearm at him.
Puller said, “So tell me your side of the story.”
“I didn’t shoot anybody. You hear me? You are out your damn mind saying I did.”
“I’m not saying anything. I’m just here because it’s my job. You have defenses to the charges, then good for you. Use them.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about you getting a kickass JAG lawyer to defend you and maybe you beat the charge. I know some good ones. I can refer you. But doing what you’re doing right now is not helping your case. So put the gun down and we forget all about you running away and then drawing down on me.”
“Bullshit!”
“I have a warrant for your arrest, Rogers. I’m just doing my job. Let me do it peacefully. You don’t want to die in a crummy alley in Lawton, Oklahoma. And I sure as hell don’t.”
“They’re gonna put me away for life. I got a momma to support.”
“And your mother wouldn’t want you to end it like this. You’ll get your day in court. They’ll hear your side. You can bring your mother in as a character witness. Let the legal system do its thing.” Puller said all of this in an even, calming voice.
Rogers eyed him cagily. “Look, why don’t you just get out my way so I can walk out this alley and out the damn Army?”
“We both wear the same uniform and I can try to help you, PFC. But I can’t do that.”
“I will shoot your ass. I swear to God I will. ”
“Still won’t be happening.”
“I don’t miss, man. Top marks on the damn range.”
“You fire I fire. We both go down. It’s stupid for it to end that way. I know you can see that.”
“Then let’s just call it a truce. You just walk away.”
Puller gave one shake of the head while his gaze and gunsight held on Rogers. “I can’t do that.”
“Why the hell not?”
“You’re in the artillery, Rogers. You have a job to do, right? One that the Army spent a lot of time and money drilling into you, right?”
“Yeah, so what?”
“Well, this is my job. And my job doesn’t let me walk away. Now, I don’t want to shoot you, and I don’t think you want to shoot me, so put the gun down. It’s the smart thing to do. You know that.”
Puller had tracked the man to this location after finding more than enough evidence to put him away for a long time. However, Rogers had spotted Puller and made a run for it. That run had ended in this alley. There was no way out other than the way they’d entered.
Rogers shook his head. “We both gonna die, then.”
“It does not have to end like that, soldier,” retorted Puller. “Use your brain, Rogers. Guaranteed death, or a trial where you might get some time in DB—or where you might even walk away? Which sounds better to you? Which would sound better to your mother?”
This seemed to strike a chord with Rogers. He blinked rapidly and said, “You got family?”
“Yeah, I do. I’d like to see them again. Tell me about your family”
Rogers licked his chapped lips. “Momma, two brothers, and three sisters. Back in Pittsburgh. We’re Steeler fans,” he added proudly. “My daddy was there when Franco caught the Immaculate Reception.”
“So put the gun down and you can still watch the games.”
“You ain’t listening, dammit! No way I’m going down for this. See, that dude drew down on me. It was self-defense.”
“Then make that claim at your court-martial. Maybe you walk away free.”
“That’s not gonna happen and you know it.” He paused and studied Puller. “You got stuff on me or you wouldn’t be here. You know about the damn drugs, don’t you?”
“My job is to bring you in, not pass judgment.”
“This is the middle of nowhere, man. Need some juice to get by. I’m a city guy. I don’t like cows. And I’m not the only one.”
“You’ve got a good record in the Army, Rogers. That’ll help you. And if it was self-defense and the jury believes you, you’re home free.”
Rogers shook his head stubbornly. “My ass is gone. You know it, I know it.”
Puller quickly thought of some way to defuse the situation. “Tell me something, Rogers. How many drinks did you have in the bar?”
“What?”
“Simple question. How many drinks?”
Rogers tightened his grip on the pistol as a bead of sweat ran down his left cheek. “Pitcher of beer and a shot of Beam.” He suddenly yelled, “What the hell does that matter? You messin’ with me? Are you messin’ with me, asshole!”
“I’m not messing with you. I’m just trying to explain something to you. Will you listen to what I have to say? Because it’s important. It’s important to you.”
Puller waited for him to answer. He wanted to keep Rogers engaged and thinking. Thinking men rarely pulled triggers. Hotheads did.
“Okay, what?”
“That’s a fair amount of alcohol you’ve had.”
“Shit, I can drink twice that and still drive a Paladin.”
“I’m not talking about driving a Paladin.”
“Then what?” demanded Rogers.
Puller continued in a calm tone, “You’re about a hundred and seventy pounds, so even with the adrenaline spike I’m guessing that your intoxication level is about a point one, and maybe higher with the shot of Beam. That means you’re legally too drunk to drive a moped, much less a twenty-seven-ton howitzer.”
“What the hell’s that got to do with anything?”
“Alcohol impairs fine motor skills, like the kind required to aim and fire a weapon properly. With what you’ve had to drink, we’re talking a serious degradation of marksmanship skills.”
“I sure as hell ain’t missing your ass from ten feet.”
“You’d be surprised, Rogers, you really would be. I calculate you’ve lost at least twenty-five percent of your normal skill level in a situation like this. On the other hand, my aim and fine motor skills are perfect. So I will ask you once more to put down your weapon, because a twenty-five percent reduction pretty much ensures that this will not end well for you.”
Rogers fired his gun at the same time he yelled, “Fu—.” But he was unable to complete the word.