CHAPTER 20
Puller sat on the bed in his room and looked around. Nothing special. A floor, a door, a window, a bed, and a toilet. There was a double connecting door with the room next to his. He’d stayed in some better places and many far worse ones.
The walls were thin. He could hear the sounds coming from adjacent rooms, not clearly enough to recognize words, but certainly raised voices. On his way up to the room he’d passed several people, presumably residents here, who’d gazed at him suspiciously. He apparently was one of the few whites here. Maybe the only one.
By the glances and the whispers that had accompanied them, Puller assumed that some folks might vocalize their disapproval of his presence here in terms that would require him to take action. He didn’t want that to happen and would prefer if it didn’t. But he would be prepared if it did.
He unpacked the few clothes that he’d brought and checked his watch. He had some time before he was to meet Louise Timmins. Mason had not called back yet. Puller decided to do some more recon of the area and then meet Timmins. He did not like sitting in hotel rooms, whether they be a place like this or the Ritz—not that he would ever see the inside of a Ritz. Not on Uncle Sam’s pay.
He locked his door on the way out. He had left nothing behind that he could not afford to lose. He walked down the hall and reached the elevator, but he passed by this and walked to the stairwell. The building wasn’t in the best repair and he figured the elevator wouldn’t be either. Being trapped on one for several hours was not part of his plan.
He heard it before he could see anything. A man. A woman. And what sounded like a child.
He opened the door and stepped through. It was actually three grown men, a teenage girl about sixteen, and a boy who looked about five. One man was a Latino, one black, and the other had skin color the same as Puller’s. He appreciated diversity in prickish felons.
The girl—clearly against her will—was being held against the wall by the Latino. The black man had hold of the crying boy, restraining him. The kid was swinging his arms and trying to strike out. The white man was standing in front of the girl, a smile on his face. He had loosened his belt and was in the middle of unbuttoning his pants. His intent was as obvious as such intent had been for thousands of years.
Men forcing themselves on women.
When the door opened, the white guy, without even looking to see who it was, snarled, “Get the hell out of here. Now!”
Puller let the door shut behind him and noted the bulge in the back pocket of the white guy’s pants. Stupid place to keep your gun, but then White looked pretty dumb.
“Don’t think so. And you might as well cinch your belt back up. This is not going to go according to your plan.”
The three men turned to look at him. The girl shrank back and clutched at the boy.
White said, “You really want to do this, shit- head?”
“Name’s Puller. First name John. And you are?”
White looked at his buddies and smiled. But there was nervousness behind the smile, Puller noted. The black man was the biggest, but Puller had him by four inches and forty pounds. White was five-nine and a pudgy one-ninety. The Latino was five-six, a buck fifty, and had no demonstrable muscle.
Puller towered over them all. The width of his shoulders nearly spanned the doorway. He edged forward, his gaze directly on White, but his peripheral radar keeping his buddies in view.
White buckled his belt.
“You looking to get your ass killed?” said the black guy.
“No. Same way I’m sure she wasn’t looking to get assaulted by three jerk-offs.”
White slightly turned his head, his right hand dipping to his back pocket in a move that was as obvious as it would prove to be futile.
Puller sighed. Not how he wanted it to go down, but he didn’t have much choice now. He struck before the gun was halfway out of the man’s back pocket. He slammed his elbow into White’s neck and followed that by whipping a knee into his left kidney. As White dropped screaming to the floor, Puller sent a crushing right cross to his jaw. White lay on the floor, blood coming from his mouth along with a few of his teeth.
Half of Puller wanted to give the other two guys a way out, but the looks on their faces indicated that their combined presence was puffing up each other’s courage beyond all reason. Two against one, they were thinking. Easy pickings.
Too bad for them.
He hooked Latino around the head and, using him as a weapon, swung him off his feet and into Black, knocking him down the flight of stairs. He came to rest at the bottom, both the fight and his consciousness gone from him.
Puller kept swinging Latino until the latter’s head met the wall with crunching impact. He slumped down, joining Black in the land of involuntary sleep.
Puller stood there for a moment, not even out of breath, and more than a little pissed off that all this had come to pass.
He looked at the girl. “You okay?”
She nodded. She was pretty, with soft curves and a large bosom. She looked older than she probably was. He doubted that this was the first time this kind of an assault had happened to her. Puller eyed the little boy. “He your brother?” She nodded again.
“What’re your names?”
“I’m Isabel. He’s Mateo,” she said in a tiny, scared voice.
“You want to call the cops?”
Puller thought he knew the answer to this, but felt compelled to ask it anyway. She was shaking her head before he’d even finished the question.
“Do you want me to call the cops?”
“No. Please don’t do that.”
He looked at the fallen men. They had buzz cuts and tats all over. He didn’t think it was possible, but one never knew.
“They in the military?” he asked her.
She shook her head. “No.”
So no jurisdiction for me, thought Puller. Other than as a concerned citizen.
He said, “They won’t stop. I just made them a lot madder, in fact. They might take it out on you.”
She grabbed her brother’s hand and they both ran off through the door. Puller could hear their footsteps for a few seconds and then they were gone.
He did a quick check of the three guys. All breathing. All pulses strong. He didn’t care if bones were broken or skulls fractured. That was the price one paid for being pieces of shit that preyed on others. Especially three grown men against a girl and her five-year-old brother.
When White moaned and moved a bit, Puller kicked him in the head, sending him back to sleep.
“Prick.”
He debated whether to call the cops or not, but without the girl’s statement he’d have nothing except his own account. And if she didn’t back him up, which she wouldn’t, Puller might be looking at being charged with assault, the lies of the three men stacked against him.
He decided just to keep on going. He’d have to deal with the fallout later. He went back to his room, grabbed his bag, and walked out to retrieve his car.
He still had a recon to do. He was here to find out what had happened to his aunt. Nothing was going to detour him from that.
He could not have been more wrong.