He put his creds away and checked his M11.
He had a spare in a gun case in his bedroom. He rose and fetched it and slid it into his rear holster. He felt a bit better being fully gunned up. But only a bit.
There were not many things that unnerved John Puller.
When you’d been through hell and back, when you’d seen pretty much every way one human being could kill another, it changed you in a way that was irreversible. In some ways it made you far stronger, able to act with confidence when the need arose, no matter the level of danger. People who were not so hardened became paralyzed in such dire conditions.
And they died.
Yet it also made you weaker in some ways, because it made you less compassionate, less able to forgive. Puller knew he suffered from that, but there appeared to be little he could do about it now.
He sat back down in his chair.
What the VP had told him tonight had unnerved him.
Don’t trust anyone.
Not even the VP.
Not even his brother.
On any level it was a stunning revelation.
His phone rang.
He glanced at the screen.
His brother was calling.
He hesitated, but then decided his brother would just keep calling if he didn’t answer.
“Yeah, Bobby?” He kept his voice casual, carefree, although he was right now wound tighter than the nerves of a drill sergeant on ten Red Bulls.
“I heard,” said Robert.
“Heard what?”
“That you resigned.”
“Who did you hear that from?”
“Messenger doesn’t matter. Just got one question for you.”
“What’s that?”
“Are you insane?”
“Not the last time I checked.”
“Resigning? Striking out on your own. For what?”
“For the truth, Bobby. Don’t you think it’s important enough?”
“What I think is important is for you to rescind the letter, get back on your horse, and start following orders again.”
“Not sure I can do that.”
“The Army will forgive and forget, Junior.”
“It’s not the Army I’m worried about. And I can’t forget.”
“Well, with this you have to. I know you want to find out what happened to Mom, but it was thirty years ago. It’s an impossible mission. And you should just forget about it. Why set yourself up for failure?”
“Is that really your best advice?”
“Hey, I get it, you were Mom’s favorite. So you want to avenge her. But this is not the way to do it.”
Puller had stiffened when his brother said this. His attention became riveted instead of lackluster. “You really think so?”
“I know so. Look, I’ve given you advice in the past that turned out to be good, right?”
“Yes.”
“Well, this is good advice too. Take it. Pull back the reins, take some time to clear your head. Hell, go on a vacation for a few days, or even a week.”
“I’m not sure the Army will let me do that,” said Puller. Did his brother know he was officially on leave with no end date?
“I think you’ll find they will. So just lose yourself for a while, Junior. Then come back recharged. You’ll see things a lot more clearly.”
“Okay, Bobby. I guess you’re right.”
“I know I’m right. Now, don’t make me come back there and have to kick your ass, okay?”
“Okay. And, Bobby, thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
Puller clicked off and had to smile.
His brother was on his side.
The phone call was being monitored. Robert had told Puller that by virtue of a lie only the two brothers would have known.
Robert Puller was his mother’s favorite, not John. Though she had never showed it overtly, both sons knew it was true. It had been shown in a thousand small, sometimes barely perceptible ways. Their mother had favored the studious and shy Robert over John, who more closely resembled his father in toughness and with no lack of confidence in his abilities.
And though Puller shared his mother’s sensibilities, it was also true that Jackie Puller had probably sensed that as the older son Robert Puller would be automatically judged by his father’s accomplishments. And what little boy could measure up to that? Thus, her attention had been directed to him.
Robert had told Puller that the Army would be okay with him taking some time off. So he must have known about the official leave.
But Robert had gone a step further. He had told his brother to lose himself. A seemingly innocuous statement, but John knew that Robert had been speaking quite literally. He could translate his brother’s real message effortlessly.
The shit has really hit the fan. Go underground if you’re going to tackle this sucker.
Puller could imagine that his brother had been ordered to make this call, had known that it was being listened in on, and had come up with a way to communicate his real intent to his brother, right under the noses of the listeners.
That was clear enough.
What wasn’t clear at all was everything else.
34
A CLOUDY NIGHT.
A mansion heavily guarded.
A frothing, pitching ocean right next door.
Paul Rogers took each of these things into account while he stared at the gates to Chris Ballard’s refuge.
For he had decided that’s what it was: a refuge.
Maybe from me.
Since he hadn’t had to work tonight he had left Hampton at eleven and gotten here around one.
He knew where the guards were. And how high the walls were. What he didn’t know was where Ballard slept.
That would take a bit of exploring. It would take a bit of risk. But he had no other options.
He scaled the wall on the north side of the compound and dropped lightly to the ground inside. He kept low for a few moments, scanning all compass points before heading toward the main house. The doors, he was sure, were armed. The grounds, he knew, were under video surveillance.
He had seen the camera positioning and spotted a narrow lane of invisibility that he used to reach the main house.
The walls were sheer, no handholds, at least for an ordinary person lacking climbing apparatus. The house rose four stories into the air.
The best views of the ocean were from the top floor. The sun would rise in the east, and he felt confident the owner of this place would want to see it do its thing.
He gripped an invisible crevice in the wall and started to climb, keeping his body tight to the face of the house. His fingers and feet pushed into the roughened surface, finding handholds where none existed.
The windows were dark on the second story.
On the third story he noted a dim light and took a chance looking through the glass.
Suzanne Davis, Josh Quentin’s romp-in-the-sheets partner, was lying in bed, this time alone. The covers barely covered her and evidenced quite clearly that Ms. Davis opted for no clothing at bedtime even when she was riding solo.
Rogers kept going and reached the fourth floor. He veered horizontally against the face of the mansion until he reached the window. It was open a crack, no doubt to get the ocean breeze.
He looked down and saw a guard pass by. But the man’s gaze never moved up. Rogers’s fingers slipped under the wood and gently pushed up. The window, well oiled, slid open quietly.
In a flash Rogers was through it and inside.
He surveyed the darkness. He was not in a bedroom. It looked set up as a home office. Desk, shelves, a small conference table, several seating areas.
He spotted the door at the other end of the room.
In his head he visualized how the house must be set up internally.
The door to his left had to empty out into the corridor. The door at the end of the room must open into an adjoining room. A bedroom?
He moved toward the door and noted the motorized wheelchair with a cane leaning next to it. This had to be Ballard’s room.