Zero Day (38 page)

S
AM
C
OLE’S RACK LIGHTS
cut through the darkness and her sirens shrieked through the normal quiet. She knew these roads better than just about anyone, but a couple of times she pushed herself and her cruiser so hard that she thought they would both go off the road and into the open air before she plummeted to an early death.

She tore into the last curve and punched the gas when she hit the straightaway. A few seconds later, she saw the firehouse. Pulling to a stop, she pointed her headlights at the body on the concrete. Cole drew her gun and opened her door. She called Puller on her cell but got no answer.

She slid out of the car, keeping the door between her and wherever the shooter might be. She eyed the wrecked bike by the firehouse and then her gaze drifted to the Malibu. She heard sirens in the distance. A minute later two police cruisers pulled next to her vehicle.

She called out, “Shooter somewhere out there.”

She saw the deputies open their car doors and duck down behind them.

“Cover me,” said Cole.

She had on standard-issue body armor and hoped it was enough. She scooted forward and over to the body. She lifted the visor and stared down at the face.

Dickie Strauss didn’t look like he was asleep. He looked like someone had dropped a cannon on his head.

She called out to the deputies, “Fatality.” She eyed the holes in the sides of the helmet. “GS to the head. Heavy ordnance.”

“Better take cover, Sarge,” said one of her men.

Cole scuttled back to the car and took up position behind the door. She eyed her deputies. “Call in backup. I want all roads into here blocked off. Whoever it is, they are not getting away.”

“What about the Army dude?” one of her men said back.

Cole looked out into the darkness.

Come on, Puller. Don’t be dead. Don’t be dead
.

Puller had set up a surveillance position next to an abandoned house about five hundred yards from the firehouse. He had come this way following, in his mind’s eye, the trajectory of the shot. A moderately talented sniper could nail a target all day from six hundred to a thousand yards away, if he had the right equipment. The Lapua round signaled to Puller that the sniper did indeed have the right equipment.

Police snipers in urban settings typically shot at ranges under a hundred feet. Military snipers operated at distances considerably more than that, since combat was an altogether different beast. Puller had heard the report, so the shot wasn’t over a mile away. Military sniper rifles were generally longer than their police counterparts to allow the cartridge propellant to completely burn its fuel load, which reduced muzzle flash and powered up the bullet’s velocity. That kept the sniper’s position harder to find and increased the odds of a lethal shot.

Puller pondered whether the sniper also had a spotter. If so, it was two against one. He heard sirens in the distance. Cole and her team were almost here. That was both good and bad. Good in that reinforcements were always welcome. Bad in that the shooter now had more incentive than ever to get the hell out of here.

He swept the area ahead, looking for the telltale sign of a laser finder. The devices were great at acquiring targets, but discouraged in the battlefields for the simple reason that they gave away your position. Puller had always relied on his scope and spotter, and compared the height of targets to their images on the mil dot scope. The average human head, shoulder width, and distance from the hipbones to the top of the head could be roughly gauged. If you
had that, you could use your scope to find the proper range. Cops aimed for the “apricot,” or medulla oblongata, the roughly three-inch-long part of the brain that controlled involuntary movement. You hit that, death was instantaneous. Since military snipers usually aimed at nothing under three hundred meters, they aimed for the body because the torso was a larger target.

The shooter confronting Puller had blurred this dichotomy. Head shot but at over three hundred meters.

Cop or military?

Or both?

If the shooter fired again, Puller might be able to locate his position by triangulation. But if the shooter fired again and hit Puller in the head or torso, the Lapua round would either seriously injure him or more likely kill him.

He studied what was up ahead, empty houses, quiet streets. But not all of the houses were empty. There were cars parked in front of some. He could see low-level lights in some of them. Were they not aware a sniper was in their midst? Had they not heard the shot?

He looked back in the direction of the firehouse. His focus went to the exact location of Dickie Strauss’s body. Round impacted, bike kept going. He’d fallen off about three seconds later. Back up the timeline to that. Retrace the trajectory. He looked in the opposite direction. He checked the probable firing line one more time. The only straight sightline. House at the end of a cul-de-sac. Dark, no cars out front. Behind it more houses, but on the next block they were all facing the opposite way.

He listened, forcing himself to ignore the sirens. No sounds. No running, no footsteps.

He made up his mind.

A moment later he was on the move. For a big man he could move with almost no sound. It was both easy and hard. Long legs, less movement to cover more ground. But big men were not noted for being light on their feet. People always assumed someone his size would sound like an elephant coming. Some had thought that right before their deaths.

Puller hoped tonight would be another example of this.

T
HE SNIPER RIFLE
weighed fourteen pounds and was forty-two inches long, almost like a barbell. That was why you fired it mostly in the prone position. He carried it in his right hand. The collapsible bipod at the end of the muzzle was in the closed position. He moved quickly but methodically. One kill tonight. He had no desire for another. Not tonight.

He glanced back over his shoulder. Nothing except the darkness looked back at him. He was twenty feet from the tree line. From there a five-minute walk through the woods. A car waiting, a fast drive. Before the police could set up their roadblocks. He liked this area. Lots of ground to cover and not nearly enough cops to do it properly.

He stopped, turned back.

Sirens, yes, but something else. Something unexpected.

His left hand slipped to his waistband.

“Another inch with the hand and you can get a good look at your intestines.”

The man’s hand stopped right where it was.

Puller did not step clear of the trees. He had no idea if the other man was alone. He kept his MP trained on the target.

“First, take the rifle by the muzzle and toss it away from you. Second, lie facedown with your hands interlocked behind your head, eyes closed, and your feet spread-eagled.”

The man set the rifle stock-first on the ground, gripped the muzzle, and threw the weapon. It landed six feet away, thudding to the ground and spraying up grass and dirt.

“First part done. Now execute step two,” Puller said.

“How’d you get ahead of me?” asked the man.

Puller didn’t like the question, but he liked even less the tone in which it was asked. Unhurried, earnestly curious, but seemingly unmindful of the consequences of being caught. His gaze swept the field in front of him. Was there a spotter out there? A backup team to ferry the sniper away?

“Lucky triangulation,” he said. “Worked to the logical conclusion and double-timed it there.”

“Never heard you.”

“That’s right. Why take out Dickie?”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Lapua rounds aren’t that plentiful around here, I would bet.”

“You can walk away from this, Puller. Right now. Maybe you should.”

Puller liked this change in tactics even less. It was like the other man was holding the gun on him. Offering him a free walk.

“I’m listening,” he said.

“I’m sure you’ve already considered it. You won’t learn anything more from me. It’s not my job to do your job.”

“Eight people dead now. Must be a good reason.” Puller slid his finger to the trigger guard on the MP5. Once it ventured inside the guard he would fire.

“Must be.”

“You talk, there might be a deal.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You that loyal?”

“If that’s what you want to call it. I let you get to me. My fault. My responsibility.”

“Facedown. Last time I’ll ask.”

Puller lined up his shot. At this range the man was dead. He braced the MP against his right pec. With his left hand he toggled his forward M11 in a thirty-degree arc.

The man dropped to his knees. Then to his stomach. He started to interlock his fingers. But then his hand shot to his waist.

Puller used his M11 to pump one round into each of the man’s
arms and then stepped to his left and behind a tree. His muzzle flash had given away his position. He had not gone for a kill shot because he didn’t have to. The man couldn’t have gotten off a clean shot at him. And now with his arms immobilized he wouldn’t be able to even point his gun at Puller. The man had gone for his weapon for perhaps two reasons.

First, he’d wanted Puller to kill him.

Puller had decided not to be so accommodating. He wanted a witness he could interrogate.

Second, he had wanted Puller to fire, revealing his position; hence Puller’s sidestep behind the tree.

He awaited incoming fire from another sector.

It didn’t come.

His glance shot back to the wounded man, who still lay there, blood gushing out from his arms. No arterial spray because Puller hadn’t aimed at that.

He noted a second too late that the man’s hand was under him. The shot rang out.

“Shit,” Puller muttered as he watched the man’s torso jerk up and then come back to rest on the ground.

The bullet had come out the man’s back. Dead center. Contact kill shot in reverse. Self-inflicted.

Puller had just lost his potential witness. Whoever these people were, they were dedicated to something. Choosing death over life was not an easily made decision. It seemed the man had intended it all along. As soon as he knew he’d been compromised and was near capture.

Puller had relaxed for just a moment. It was almost a fatal mistake.

He blocked the knife with his gun barrel, but the man leveled a blow at Puller’s arm with his other hand and the impact knocked his MP5 to the dirt. Puller raised his M11, but a side kick from his opponent sent that weapon to the dirt too. The man came at him again, whipping the knife in different directions to confuse Puller. He was six-two, one-ninety, with thick dark hair, a lean tanned face, and the calm gaze of someone accustomed to killing other people.

But then so was Puller.

He pinned the man’s knife arm against his torso, dipped down, and slammed his head into the man’s throat. The blade dropped to the ground. Puller pivoted around, gripped the top of the man’s head with his right hand, and jerked it to the right at the same time he slammed an elbow directly into the left side of the man’s neck.

The man gurgled and blood started to trickle out of his nose and mouth.

“Give it up and you get to live, asshole,” said Puller.

The man continued to struggle. He kicked at Puller’s groin, gouged at his eyes. That was irritating but manageable. Puller wanted this guy alive. But when the man got his hand on Puller’s rear M11 and tried to jerk it free, Puller decided it was better to be alive without a captive he could question rather than dead.

Puller moved fully behind the man, looped one long arm, with the elbow up, around his opponent’s damaged neck, gripped his torso with his other arm, and pulled in separate directions. When he heard the man start to scream, he lifted him off the ground, whipped him around, and slammed him into the nearest tree. He heard the spine snap and he dropped the entire load to the dirt. Breathing hard, he stared down at the mess he’d made of a human body. He looked over at the knife. Serrated blade. Worn handle. Lots of use. His blood was supposed to be all over it. He felt not an ounce of remorse.

“Puller!”

He glanced to his right.

He recognized Cole’s voice.

“Over here. Keep back. Got a dead sniper and his backup and there may be more. I’m okay.”

Ten minutes passed and Cole said, “Can we join you?”

Puller made one last scan of the tree line. “Okay.”

A few minutes later Cole and two of her deputies were within his sightline.

“Puller?”

“To your right.” He stepped out to show his location.

Cole and her deputies scuttled forward to join him around the dead men.

Puller knelt down and eased the sniper over. “Shine your light on his face.”

Cole did so.

The deputy named Lou let out a gasp. He said, “That’s the guy who was pretending to live at Treadwell’s place.”

Puller rose. “I thought it might be.”

“How?” asked Lou.

“He matched the description you gave of him earlier. Now we know he’s as good at sniping as he is at killing up close.”

Lou looked at the other wrecked body. “What the hell did you do to him?”

“I killed him,” Puller said simply. “Before he killed me.”

“That was Dickie Strauss back there,” said Cole.

“I know.”

“What was he doing here?”

“Coming to meet me.”

Cole looked at the wounds on the back of the man’s arms. “Your rounds?”

He nodded. “The guy went for his gun. Thought he was trying to get me to kill him. I didn’t. Then he ate his own round. Should have seen that coming. But a guy wants to kill himself and he has a gun handy, not a lot you can do about it.”

“Guess not,” said Cole curtly.

Puller looked around and said, “Let’s secure the crime scenes. Call in Lan Monroe and whoever else you need. Then you and I can go talk.”

“What about?”

“Lots of things.”