The Forgotten (john puller)

by David Baldacci

  He finally looked at her. “Well-timed op. Secluded spot, middle of the night. Bring them in by water, truck them out.”

  “Right, so?”

  “How many nights you think they do this?”

  “I have no way of knowing that.”

  “Let’s say they do it three or four times a week. Maybe seven days a week.”

  “Maybe not. Maybe we just got lucky.”

  “No one is that lucky.”

  “And your point?”

  “Maybe this is what my aunt saw. Or what the Storrows saw.”

  “Maybe it is.”

  “My aunt was a good upstanding citizen. The Storrows were, by all indications, pillars of the community.”

  “Granted, they probably were.”

  “And you think these elderly solid citizens saw what we saw and didn’t tell the police?”

  Carson started to say something and then stopped. “So your point is they did tell the police and nothing happened.”

  “Oh, something happened. They ended up dead. All of them.”

  “You think the police are in on what we just saw?”

  “I don’t see how you can run an op like that, even once a week, and trust that the cops are not going to happen upon you. All it would take is one cop on patrol seeing a boat light, or the truck, or just happening to walk down the beach and see what we saw tonight.”

  “And they couldn’t risk that?”

  “We just saw four RIBs. They’re not long-dis- tance boats. That means there’s a larger vessel out there that they launched from. I counted eighty people off the boats, and now they’re in the back of that truck. You’re talking equipment, money, and manpower. The payoff has to justify that.”

  “Like you said before. Drugs, guns.”

  “They were people, General. No guns, no drugs.”

  “So maybe drug mules?”

  “And there were young women. So prostitutes. And bigger, older men. Maybe slave laborers.”

  “Slave laborers? In America?”

  “Why not?”

  “I thought we fought the Civil War to take care of that little bit of evil.”

  “If it’s profitable, evil can come back strong, just like a cancer with fresh blood lines to feed off.”

  “Damn, Puller, do you really think that’s what this is about?”

  “A pipeline is a pipeline. You can run lots of different things through it.”

  “And the police?”

  “Part of the equation. Paradise is wealthy and a tourist destination and no one wants to rock the boat and maybe the cops are paid to look the other way. Hell, maybe the whole damn town is.”

  “I can’t believe that.”

  “Maybe not. But if I’m those guys I’m not putting an operation like this together and risking a cop stumbling onto it and blowing it out of the water.”

  “Something like that has to come from the top. So Bullock?”

  “Maybe. I was surprised at how quickly he turned into my friend.”

  “I wonder who’s running the op from the other end.”

  “My bet is on the guy who got his Bentley blown up.”

  “What? Lampert? How do you figure that?”

  “I checked the guy out. Made and lost a fortune. Then made another one back, obviously. Only I can’t find out how. And he screws the hired help. And maybe they’re not hired at all. Maybe he’s got slaves on his ‘plantation.’ ”

  “Okay, let’s say he is the guy. Why would someone blow up his car?”

  “Maybe a guy with size sixteen shoes has a beef with the man.”

  “Size sixteen shoes?”

  Puller explained about the footprints outside the guesthouse window. “He’s the same guy who saved my butt the other night. I don’t think he did it out of kindness. And maybe he regrets it now. But he may be the one after Lampert. He works on a landscaping crew. Why do I want to bet he works the Lampert estate?”

  “And his beef with Lampert?”

  “No idea. And I may be barking up the wrong tree. But guys that big with skills like he has are rare. And I can’t believe he came here to cut grass.”

  “So with the knowledge in hand, what do we do? Call in the Army? The DEA? The Border Patrol?”

  “We need to know more. If we start making noises and they have moles on the inside, we’ll never get the evidence we need to put them away. They’ll be gone, never to return.”

  “Well, when we find out where that truck is going we may have all the evidence we need,” she said.

  Puller suddenly punched the gas and the Tahoe sped up.

  “What are you doing?” Carson exclaimed. “They’ll see you.”

  “We’ve already been seen.”

  “What?”

  “Twin bogies behind us and they’re closing like an Abrams tank brigade on a soft target.”

  She looked behind her and saw the set of twin beams coming on way too fast.

  “Shit!”

  Carson lifted her pistol from its holster.

  Puller shook his head. “Ineffective at this range and tactical position. Take my rifle. I’ll pop the back window. Take up a position in the rear. Use the tailgate to steady the rifle.” He eyed the rearview again. “I’m thinking fifty yards. Aim for the windshield and the radiator.”

  She was already scrambling over the seat. “Roger that.”

  He popped the window, she took her spot, settled the rifle on the tailgate, but then she paused.

  “Puller, what if it’s the police or Feds back there?”

  A bullet shattered the back glass, covering Carson in shards.

  “Don’t think so,” said Puller. “Fire! Now!”

  Carson pumped five rounds from her rifle into the windshield and radiator of the first vehicle. It swerved and smoke started pouring from the hood.

  Carson fired twice more and the windshield shattered completely and then came off in one large chunk. She could see the driver hunched over and then the vehicle flew off the road.

  “One bogie down,” she called out.

  “Don’t declare victory yet,” barked Puller.

  Out of the smoky haze thrown off by the first vehicle the second, an SUV, raced, bearing down on them fast.

  These people were taking no chances.

  Bullets poured from twin gunmen hanging out the windows.

  The Tahoe’s left rear wheel shredded.

  “Puller,” cried out Carson.

  “I know.”

  He fought the wheel, keeping it on the asphalt.

  Carson fired back but then stopped.

  “Keep shooting,” snapped Puller.

  “My rifle jammed.”

  “Shit,” barked Puller. He checked the rearview. Bogie coming fast, major firepower. They had one bad wheel and as he checked his fuel gauge he saw it plummeting. One round must have pierced the fuel tank.

  “We’re losing gas,” Carson called out. “I can smell it.”

  “They hit the tank.”

  Carson looked back and her eyes widened as the SUV came on hard and fast, its hood nearing the back of the Tahoe. Then it abruptly slowed and fell back.

  At first Carson thought they were retreating, but then she saw something that told her otherwise.

  “Puller!”

  “What?”

  “They’ve got an RPG.”

  The man on the right side of the SUV was hanging out the side getting a bead on them with a rocket-propelled grenade launcher riding on his shoulder, while another man inside the truck held on to him.

  That’s why they had fallen back. To avoid the blast from ground zero when rocket and Tahoe plus leaky gas tank erupted in a flame ball.

  Carson ducked down as the man fired. It was a good thing she was holding on, because at that very moment Puller, who’d been watching this unfold in the rearview, cut the wheel hard to the left at the exact instant the grenade launched.

  The Tahoe shuddered and then responded.

  The grenade passed by on the right, h
it a bank of trees, and exploded.

  Carson tumbled across the rear of the truck’s interior as the Tahoe skidded off the road and slid onto the shoulder. The rear door was ripped open and a large hand flew in, grabbed Carson under the arm, and lifted her out of the Tahoe.

  The next instant she and Puller were running for their lives.

  CHAPTER 78

  They had two pistols and a jammed rifle between them.

  Puller led Carson to cover behind a dune. It wasn’t perfect, but it didn’t need to be. They looked at each other as they heard people running toward their general position.

  “Tight spot,” said Carson.

  Puller checked the pistols. “We’ve both been in tighter. They haven’t located us yet. It’ll take some time.”

  “But they will.”

  “Yes, they will.”

  “Superior numbers and firepower.”

  “We’re the underdogs, certainly.”

  “I don’t mind that. It’ll just take a little figuring to move us to the top of the food chain.”

  “I like your confidence.”

  She looked at her phone. “Can’t call in the cavalry. No service.”

  “I know. I already checked mine.” He hunkered down, looked around.

  He said, “We need higher ground.”

  “Soldiers always want higher ground.”

  He looked at her, apparently sizing her up for the question he was about to ask. “You mind taking orders from an enlisted?”

  She managed a smile. “Under the circumstances I think I’m going to insist that I do. I’ve sat behind a desk too long. Your combat boots are fresher than mine are.”

  He rubbed a bead of sweat from his eye. “You think you can hold this position alone?”

  In response she scrambled up to the top of the dune, surveyed the beach, and then rejoined him.

  “If they have another RPG round to fire, no. But if it’s gun to gun, I can. For about ten minutes if I manage my ammo properly.”

  “I won’t need that long. And I’m leaving both pistols with you.” He handed the weapons to her. “What are you going to do?” she asked.

  “Get to higher ground.”

  “As a sniper? But the rifle jammed on me.” Puller cleared the rifle’s breech, checked the firing mechanism, and pronounced it workable.

  She said, “You think anyone heard what happened? The guns, the explosion? We’re not that far out of town.”

  “We’re too far out. And the breakers make a lot of noise.”

  “Okay.”

  “We’ll make it, General.”

  “No doubt. But then every soldier wants to believe that. Good luck.”

  “It’ll be about more than luck.”

  She touched him on the arm. “Counting on you to come back, John.”

  “There’s only one thing that will stop me.” Carson knew what that was.

  Death.

  She drew a long breath and nodded. “Okay.”

  Puller slung the rifle over his shoulder and in a few seconds was gone.

  Carson blinked. It was like he had simply vanished. And for a man as big as he was, that took some skill.

  But then again, he's a Ranger, she thought. That's what they do.

  She gripped her Glock, racked the slide, slid her secondary weapon, Puller’s Mu, into the back of her waistband, and took up her defensive position in a slot she burrowed on top of the dune. She was trying to make herself as invisible as possible. You couldn’t kill what you couldn’t get a bead on.

  Gun on gun she could hold this piece of sand for a time. But after that it would just be inevitable.

  She would die.

  And if they fired another grenade she would be blown into little bits of organic matter.

  She crossed herself, settled in, and took aim.

  CHAPTER 79

  Puller had sized up the battlefield and chosen his high ground. Now he knew he simply had to get there “fastest with the mostest.”

  And in that he had pretty much summed up the winning strategy of every military campaign ever fought.

  When opposed by superior numbers and firepower it was essential to hit the other side fast and hard and in multiple spots. This would hopefully cause confusion, blunt any momentum they might have, and ideally force a tactical retreat.

  Puller would be just fine with confusion. But then he would also be just fine with killing all of them.

  He found his spot and shimmied up a tree, coming to rest in the crook formed by the trunk and a sturdy limb. He settled his rifle into place and sighted along the scope, dialing in necessary adjustments to fit the wind, distance to target, and other factors.

  There were six men. They came on in two groups of three. They were moving in a V shape, one leader and two followers. From Puller’s perch up the tree they looked like two arrowheads moving forward across the sand. They had some military training, he deduced, but not as much as they should have. He scanned behind the men, looking for reinforcements waiting to be deployed. He’d made that mistake at the Sierra; he didn’t intend to make the same error again.

  No reserves-they were bringing their full force against one they presumed was a weaker foe.

  Puller’s tactics had already been thought out. He didn’t just line up one shot. Like a chess match he was lining up four. Two from each group. That would leave it at two on two, odds he liked much better.

  He observed Carson burrowed in on top of the sand dune. He knew she would see the oncoming enemy, but she was holding her fire, awaiting his first strike. Then he knew she would know what to do because she was a soldier just like him. On the battlefield stars, bars, and stripes fell away. You were just two trained fighters using that training to defeat the other side.

  He glanced out at the water and saw a curious sight. It looked like a boat coming in. The navigation lights were steady red and green, so it was heading directly to shore.

  This might be backup coming from the big boat out there. If so, he had to get this skirmish on the beach over with pronto.

  He let out a breath, got his physiological barometer to cold zero, optimal for minimal muscle quiver, and lasered his crosshairs on target number one.

  Bang.

  Number one went down.

  Bang.

  Number two hit the sand.

  Puller had known what the other four would do when the first two went down.

  They scattered. But they scattered in a predictable pattern.

  Bang.

  Number three went down with one of Puller’s 7.62 NATO rounds blowing a large hole in the man’s chest.

  Bang.

  This kill shot came from a Glock.

  Number four went down and stayed there.

  Carson was emptying the clip from her Glock, spraying fields of fire both left and right, which were the only two directions worth aiming at, because it would also cover fore and aft movements.

  She dumped her Glock and aimed the Mu but didn’t fire.

  The two survivors down there had made it to cover, both from Carson below and Puller above.

  But Puller had gotten most of what he had wished for.

  It was now two on two.

  The only unknown was the boat.

  But for that, he would have just played a waiting game, keeping the two pinned down until they lost their patience and made a run for it.

  It would have been a short run.

  Puller would get one.

  Carson would get the other.

  But the damn boat was coming on fast, so Puller didn’t have the luxury of waiting.

  He looked down at the same moment Carson looked up. He didn’t know if she could see him without the benefit of the goggles he had on, but she had obviously either seen or heard the boat.

  He shimmied down the tree, landing quietly in the sand.

  A minute later he had rejoined Carson.

  “Two left,” he said.

  “Right, but reinforcements are coming from the water.”
<
br />   “I know. I saw.”

  “Now what? Those two are between us and the road.”

  “So we have to remove the obstacle.”

  “We don’t have time for a standard pincer movement.”

  He said, “What do you suggest, General?”

  “So I’m back in command?”

  “Superior rank is never really out of command. You earlier deferred to my judgment. Leadership defaults back to you.”

  She looked around. “Feint, draw out, and strike. Speed and finality.”

  He nodded in agreement. Til do the feint and draw.”

  “I was thinking the other way around. You’re better with the rifle.”

  He shook his head. “We’re close enough range to do it with pistols. And I know you’ve kept your certifications up.”

  “How?”

  “You’re chasing the second star. You wouldn’t let something that simple trip you up.”

  “I am damn good with a handgun at anything under twenty-five meters.”

  “Then we’re well within your comfort zone.” “But the feint will get shot at.”

  “That’s the hope.”

  She gazed at him. “Did you so readily volunteer for all the dangerous assignments in Iraq and Afghanistan too?”

  “All the assignments over there were dangerous.”

  Puller checked the water again. The boat was almost there.

  “We’re out of time.”

  “Let’s do it.”

  It worked.

  Nearly perfectly.

  But anything less than perfection under the circumstances was problematic.

  Puller took up position fifteen meters off the left flank of the targets, who had committed the tactical blunder of retreating to the same spot. It marshaled their firepower but also left them sitting ducks for the strategy devised by Carson.

  Carson had taken up her strike position five meters off Puller’s left flank, down in the sand, the Mu positioned on the hard shell of a long- dead sea creature. She had the goggles on now. She had crystal-clear fields of fire.

  Now it was up to Puller to do the feinting just right.

  And he did, almost.

  He sprinted out of seemingly nowhere, a nearly six-foot-four blur wide-stepping through the sand running a zigzag route as though traversing a minefield.