Robert Puller, once a major in the United States Air Force and an expert in nuclear weaponry and cyber security, and also the son of one of the most famous fighting soldiers of them all, the now retired Army lieutenant general John Puller Sr., had escaped from the inescapable DB.
And he had left behind an unknown dead man in his place, which was even more inexplicable than how he had managed to break out.
Informed of this seeming impossibility turned stark reality, the prison’s commander lifted the secure phone in his office, and in doing so kissed his once promising career goodbye.
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?”
“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.