“And now he’s escaped. You don’t escape from DB without help. It’s impossible.”
“I know.”
“And so you probably know something else.”
“Yeah, that my brother was guilty. And maybe he killed the guy they found in his cell. So he’s a traitor and a murderer.” As he said these words, Puller felt a sharp pain in his chest, his breathing grew shallow, and sweat appeared on his brow. He knew he wasn’t having a heart attack.
But am I having a panic attack?
He had never panicked, not once in his life. Not while bullets were flying and bombs were bursting all around him. He had been scared then, as any sane person would be. But that was not the same as panicked. It was actually the difference between surviving or not.
“John, are you okay?”
“I’m good,” he said curtly, though he really wasn’t.
My brother, a traitor and a murderer? No, I am definitely not good.
“So I guess that answers my question,” she said.
“What question?”
“You thought your brother was innocent, didn’t you?”
“Maybe I did.”
“I can understand that, John. It’s natural.”
“Is it?” he said heatedly. “It doesn’t feel natural. None of this does.”
“So what are you going to do?” asked Carson.
“My CO gave me some leave time.”
“And he also told you to stay away from this sucker.”
“And I’ve got an NSC suit and two generals maybe wanting me to take a whack at it.”
“But they gave you no direct order to do so, not that they were even authorized to give one. And you might have misread their intent. On the other hand, your commanding officer explicitly told you to stand down. So the answer is easy. You stand down.”
“He’s my brother, Julie.”
“And you’re a soldier, John. Orders are orders. You don’t really have a choice.”
“You’re right, I don’t. He’s my brother.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“Putting this much pressure on yourself.”
Puller took a long breath and then said again more forcefully, “He’s my brother!”
“It doesn’t matter if he’s your brother. That ship has already sailed, Puller. He’s an escaped prisoner. The best you can hope for is that he’s captured safely and returned to DB promptly.”
“So that’s it, then?”
“What more could it be? Look, I know how you must feel. But your brother made his choices. His career and life are over. Are you telling me you want to put yours in jeopardy? And for what possible reason?”
“Everything you’re saying makes perfect sense.”
“But you’re not buying any of it.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.” She took a deep breath. “So, again, what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. And I wouldn’t tell you if I did know. That would just put you in an even more awkward position.”
“I’ve been in those with you before.”
7
WI-FI WAS UP and working. And so was Robert Puller. While the enormous machinery of the United States military, along with the even bigger intelligence octopus that spread outward from the CIA and the NSA, was searching for him, arguably the most wanted man in America was sipping an unleaded grande Americano with raw sugar mixed in and pounding away on his Apple MacBook Pro with fingers as nimble as a teenager’s. And he’d been here doing this for most of the day.
It was a bit tricky, because as most Americans with an Internet connection or cell phone knew these days, they were watching. And they could come and get you anytime they wanted.
But Robert Puller knew his way around computers and every known way to trace, hack, or spy on their users. And his laptop had been expressly programmed and loaded with software and unique protections not available to the public. There were no back doors for the NSA to pixel-creep up on him. There were no back doors period. Except the ones he had planted in other databases before he went to prison, and was now exploiting to the fullest. Being at STRATCOM all those years had left him in a unique position to hack everybody. And to do it with style, he admitted to himself as he finished off the grande and looked over the other patrons of the Starbucks, where fancied-up java was not merely a beverage but also a way of life. He had already read all the news stories related to his escape. He had been lucky, that was for sure. But it hadn’t been all luck.
The news reports were full of facts. No real details on the hunt, beyond the painfully obvious. Checkpoints, house-to-house searches, watching airports, bus and train stations, asking the public for help, etcetera, etcetera. Pictures of him were all over the Web. If nothing else, they were a stark reminder of how much his appearance had changed overnight. The MPs he had passed earlier at the diner would have had his mug imprinted on their genes. And yet the one guy who’d looked directly at him hadn’t even troubled himself with a second glance.