CHAPTER 29
Puller walked to the Tahoe, climbed into the back, stretched out, and thought about what he had just learned.
If the guys in the Chrysler were former military, then that changed the balance of things. They might very well see through his disguise and change rides. They might be able to fire at him faster than he could fire back.
And if they were still in the military he wondered why they would be here following him.
If they weren’t in the service he wondered the very same thing.
After what had happened to him in West Virginia it was possible that the military had put a tail on him. He decided to see if that theory held any water. He called Kristen Craig back.
She must’ve recognized his number because instead of hello she said, “Miss me already?” “Always.”
“Seriously, don’t you ever sleep?”
“Look who’s talking.”
“Yeah, but I heard what happened in West Virginia. Not the official story, because there is no official story. But just scuttlebutt, stuff between the lines. I think you could probably write your own ticket right now. Even take a vacation if you wanted to.”
“I’m on vacation. Well, sort of.”
“I have my iPad ready to take down your next assignment, boss.”
Puller chuckled to himself. He got a kick out of the lady, he really did. If she weren’t married, he might have even asked her out.
“I need a license plate run down.”
“Okay. Not usually something I do, but I know people.”
“Do you know people who can get it done sooner rather than later?”
“You know the drill. Somewhere in the world there are DoD personnel awake and on the job.” “And there are two of them on this call.”
“I’ll turn it around as fast as I can. Now, can you tell me a little of what you’re involved in?” “Why?”
“Just in case you get killed and I have to explain my billable hours. Is it even related to the military?”
“Five minutes ago I didn’t think so. Now I’m not so sure. It all started when my aunt sent a letter saying things were not quite right in Paradise, Florida. Then the next thing I knew, she was dead under suspicious circumstances.”
“Jesus, Puller, I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, me too. Anyway, I got down here and things got even funkier.”
“And the license plate?”
“Two guys making my business their business by following me. And from their descriptions they sound a lot like dudes who either wear or wore the uniform.”
“I don’t like the sound of this.”
Her voice had clearly changed. Gone was the playfulness, replaced with legitimate concern. “Me either.”
“Do you have any backup?”
“Like I said, I’m on vacation.”
“You need to stop taking vacations, then, and get back to work. Seriously, Puller, get somebody to watch your back.”
“Good advice. I’ll start looking. In the meantime, get me what you can. I’ll pick up the duffel tomorrow as planned.”
“Just make sure you get to tomorrow.”
“I’ll do my best.”
He clicked off, set his internal clock to wake in two hours, and closed his eyes. His hand gripped the butt of his Mu and he knew it would take him three seconds to wake, aim, and fire at anyone trying to do him harm. If that wasn’t fast enough then he was dead. That’s just how it went.
At the end of two hours he woke in the backseat of the Tahoe, refreshed and ready to go. It was one a.m. now and he believed that the time was right for things to happen. Both military and cops liked to strike at night. Targets were tired, in their beds, with weapons often conveniently out of reach.
Yet even stupid criminals could grasp the concept of coming for you in the dark.
Ten minutes later Puller’s theory turned into a fact.
White, Black, Latino, and three of their best friends were heading down the street, marching with purpose. It seemed like they had worked out the optimal ratio at six to one. To Puller, their math was a little fuzzy, but maybe his standards were higher. Actually, there was no maybe about it, his standards were higher.
All the men’s features were grim. White was perhaps the most grim-looking of all, largely because it seemed his mouth was wired shut.
I must have hit him even harder than I thouqht I did.
They passed the Tahoe without even a glance. On the battlefield this negligence would have resulted in their immediate deaths. But this was Florida and not Afghanistan, so Puller refrained from drilling them all in the back with rounds from his M11.
He could see gun bumps under their shirts, front and rear. Two of them carried baseball bats and another was clasping a metal bar. They were loaded for bear. Geared for war. Ready to kill.
Of course probably none of them knew what being in actual combat was like.
Puller did.
And for those who had experienced combat, they never wanted to experience it again. It was not really a situation sane people tended to embrace. But Puller, who was sane, had embraced it countless times, because he had signed up for the job. It had changed him completely and irreversibly. It had made him a killing machine. He could slaughter people in ways unimaginable to most folks.
He debated whether to let the night pass without this encounter, but then decided it was best to get it over with. Otherwise he would always be looking over his shoulder. And he didn’t have time for that.
He did make one phone call, relayed certain information to the person on the other end of the line, and clicked off. He waited ten minutes and then got out of the Tahoe.
It was time to go to work.