John Puller 02 - The Forgotten Page 38

  Some of the men pointed their guns at the chopper. When two of them stupidly fired at the aircraft, Puller thought to himself, Wrong move.

  He lay flat on the ground, his hands over his ears.

  The 30 mm cannon opened up. It could lay down compact fields of fire at over six hundred rounds per minute. It created what the Army termed a nonsurvivable event. In less than ten seconds nearly twenty mostly obliterated men lay on the ground.

  The chopper landed and Puller raced to it after laying his MP5 down. The last thing he wanted was a 30 mm cannon pointed at him.

  The door of the chopper slid open.

  “We need a medic,” shouted Puller over the whine of the blades. “Got a one-star with gunshot wounds.”

  After grabbing bags of equipment a doctor and a medic jumped off the chopper and followed Puller over to where Carson lay.

  Her face was white but she was conscious.

  Puller knelt down next to her as the doc and medic prepared their equipment. He gripped Carson’s hand as they hooked up bags of blood and saline and stuck IV lines into her.

  She opened her eyes and looked up at Puller.

  “You’re bleeding,” she said, reaching out slowly and touching his arm.

  “Lot of that going around.”

  “Am I going to make it?” she asked.

  Both slugs were still in her. She’d lost too much blood. She was pale and weak and when Puller glanced at the doctor he looked grim.

  But Puller looked at her straight in the eye, squeezed her hand, and said, “You’re going to make it.”

  The human spirit was the strongest medicine on earth. And sometimes all it needed was a little encouragement to pull off a miracle. Puller had seen it countless times on the battlefield, and even been the recipient of such positive words when an IED had nearly ended his life in Iraq.

  You're going to make it. Sometimes that was all it took.

  She squeezed his hand back and closed her eyes as the painkiller the doctor administered took effect.

  Puller stood and jogged back over to where Landry sat on the ground, her hands still secured behind her.

  “Don’t forget our deal, Puller,” she said. “I delivered you Lampert.”

  “Yeah. You can console yourself with that fact when you’re eighty years old and still in prison. And I don’t think they have paddleboards there.” He motioned to a soldier heading over to them, and flashed his creds and badge.

  Puller said, “Sergeant, this woman is a prisoner of the United States Army until she can be turned over to local authorities.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The sergeant trained his weapon on Landry.

  Puller heard a noise.

  He turned, at first thinking Lampert had reappeared and was trying to make a getaway.

  But it wasn’t Lampert. It was Mecho.

  He was running hard and already near the dock that led down to the beach.

  Puller set off at a dead run.

  He knew exactly what the man was going after.

  Peter J. Lampert.

  And so was Puller.

  CHAPTER 95

  Lampert had run as hard as he could. It wasn’t easy with his cuffed hands behind his back. He was in decent shape, but not combat fit. He’d never fired a weapon in his life. He hired others to do that for him. He had never before had to run for his life.

  He was paying for that now.

  The sounds of the gunfire had stopped. All Lampert heard now was the breakers on the beach.

  His boat was docked about a quarter mile out.

  He would live to fight another day.

  It just wouldn’t be in this country.

  That was okay. He was getting tired of living here anyway.

  He pressed his forearm against a stitch in his side and kept his feet pointed toward the dock.

  His twenty-foot tender was out there.

  He could see his yacht from here.

  He believed he could manage to pilot the boat out to the yacht. If Landry could make it all the way out to the oil platform in a tropical storm, he could make it out to the yacht in calmer seas.

  He had a knife on board that he could use to cut the plasticuffs off. Then it was a straight shot out. The tender was sturdy and the waves were diminishing as the winds died down. Yeah, he could make it.

  He was almost at the dock when he saw it.

  At first he didn’t register what it was.

  But then it hit him.

  He was looking at the conning tower of a submarine.

  Rojas’s sub. He had mentioned it during the meeting on his yacht. It could hold lots of people.

  So that was how the gunmen had made it to his estate. They had come by sub.

  Now taking the boat was problematic. What if they came after him? The seas were still rough. If the sub struck the tender, capsized it, and he went into the drink? He would drown.

  He stopped, still pressing at the dull ache in his side. He should have exercised more. The problem was his main form of working out was sex. Somehow it didn’t prepare you for long runs over uneven terrain.

  He looked around desperately for another way out.

  If not the boat, what?

  The road out of his estate was not an option. Even now he could hear sirens in the air. He walked slowly along, parallel to the beach, thinking hard.

  There had to be some way.

  Maybe he should just chance the boat. It would be more maneuverable than a sub, wouldn’t it?

  The fact was he didn’t know. But he couldn’t think of a viable alternative.

  Then, as he watched, the sub started to sink into the water. It turned and, its tower still visible, rapidly made its way back out to sea.

  Maybe they had heard the sirens too, way out there. Or maybe they just assumed that things had gone badly and they had better retreat.

  Whatever the reason, Lampert now had his window of opportunity.

  Lady Lucky had a steel hull. It could take the pounding of the ocean. He had crossed the Atlantic in it before. Once he reached international waters he would feel much safer. It would take time for Landry and the others to talk to the police. Warrants would have to be issued. Police would have to be sent out. By that time Lampert could be very far away.

  He heard the sounds behind him, turned, and saw what was coming.

  Frantic, he started running flat out for his precious boat and the open seas.

  Lampert looked as though he had seen Satan himself after him.

  And in some ways, he had.

  Puller had caught up to Mecho and the two men ran side by side.

  Mecho did not look at him or say anything to him. His total focus was on the man up ahead.

  Puller and Mecho ran like the combat warriors they were. Not the fleetest in the world, they ran with a practiced motion, a fluidity that got maximum results with a modest output of energy. When you were in combat you often had to run. Mobile targets tended to survive. Stationary targets tended to die.

  But when you stopped running you usually had to fight. The latter took a lot more energy than the former. Better not to waste all of it on the running part.

  They were still neck and neck as they gained on their quarry. But Puller snaked ahead at the last moment and tackled Lampert.

  The man went down, the wind knocked from him.

  Mecho reached down and lifted Lampert off the sand with a violent upward jerk of his arms.

  Puller slowly rose and watched the two men.

  Mecho looked at Lampert and Lampert looked back at him.

  Mecho’s features were stone.

  Lampert’s were fear mixed with curiosity.

  “What the hell is your beef with me?” he finally shouted.

  Mecho threw him back down on the sand, reached into his pocket, and pulled out the photo. He held it in front of Lampert’s face.

  “Do you remember her?” Mecho asked, his voice strained.

  Puller kept watching, and waiting. He wasn’t sure wh
at he was going to do if Mecho decided to try to kill Lampert. The man was his prisoner, a potential witness against one of the biggest criminals in the world. Mecho was wounded, but then so was Puller. In a one-on-one all bets were off. Puller knew his skills and his limits and he wasn’t sure he could take the bigger man.

  But then he might surprise himself.

  The thing was, though, Puller didn’t want it to come to that.

  Mecho was not his enemy.

  Lampert stared dully at the photo.

  “Uh, am I supposed to know this person?”

  “Her name is Rada. You took her from a village in the Rila mountains in Bulgaria. Her and many others. That was my village.”

  Lampert looked at Puller. “Is he serious? You think I’m going to remember someone like that?”

  Puller stared stonily back at him. “Wrong answer, Pete.”

  Mecho again lifted Lampert up off the sand, held him up with one arm, cocked his other arm back, and hit Lampert so hard that several of his teeth exploded out of his mouth. He flew backward five feet and landed in the sand. He hit so hard on his cuffed arms that he popped both shoulders out of their sockets.

  Screaming and crying in pain, he tried to wriggle away.

  “Shut up,” said Mecho.

  “Oh God,” screamed Lampert. “Oh my God.”

  “Shut up.”

  Mecho kicked him in the gut.

  “You don’t remember her? You don’t remember Rada?”

  “Oh God.” Lampert was spitting chunks of teeth and bloody gums from his mouth and rolling all over the sand.

  Puller knelt down next to him, cut his bindings, and with two firm, quick thrusts popped both shoulders back in place.

  Lampert lay there crying quietly and gasping for air.

  Mecho stared down at him, his hands balling and unballing. His huge chest heaved with every breath.

  Puller rose and looked at him. “How is this going to play out?” he asked.

  “He is coming back with me.”

  “He’s in my custody. He’s wanted for crimes here.”

  “He is coming back with me,” Mecho snarled.

  “Mecho, we’ll make sure this scum never sees the light of day.”

  “He took everything we had. I made a promise.”

  Puller drew out his sidearm and pointed it at Mecho. He had no bullets left in it, but Mecho didn’t know that.

  “The last thing in the world I want to do is hurt you, Mecho. But I’ve got a job to do and I plan on doing it. This guy was responsible for my aunt being murdered. He’s going to pay for that.” Mecho eyed the gun and then turned to look down at Lampert and held up the photo once more. “Tell me where she is. Tell me now.”

  “I don’t know where she is,” Lampert sobbed through his broken and bloody mouth. “I swear to Jesus.”

  Mecho grabbed him, jerked him up. “You do know. You will tell me.”

  “I don’t. I don’t know, damn it.”

  Lampert fell over on his side crying when Mecho let him go.

  Mecho looked down at the photo and, as Puller watched, tears slid down the big man’s face. His body began to tremble.

  Puller looked out to sea, where Lampert’s yacht was visible. All that money. Based simply on misery. Based simply on greed. Based simply on destroying people’s lives for cash.

  He glanced back at Mecho and holstered his weapon. He gave a long sigh. What he was about to do flouted every rule in the book that had guided him for most of his adult life.

  “How were you planning on getting him out of here?” he asked.

  Mecho glanced up at him. “Why?”

  “Just curious.”

  “I have a friend. He pilots a cargo ship. He will take us back home. No questions asked.” “Where and when?”

  “Tonight. From Port Panama City.”

  Lampert had stopped crying and was listening intently to this.

  Through his busted mouth he stammered, “You... you can’t be serious. You’re not going to let him take me to... to Bulgaria.”

  Puller glanced down at him. “Why not? You’ve been there. Had a good trip, right? Got everything—correction, everyone—you needed, right?”

  “You can’t.”

  “You sure about this friend, Mecho?”

  “I am sure.”

  “What will happen to Lampert back in Bulgaria?”

  “We have justice, just like you do here.”

  “Do you have the death penalty?”

  “We have worse.”

  “Worse? Like what?”

  “He’ll get to live. In a part of Bulgaria that no one would ever choose to live. He will get to live there for the rest of his life. And he will be busy every minute of every day of every year until he drops from being worked to death. We Bulgarians are relentless when it comes to people who hurt us.”

  Lampert struggled to sit up, blood pouring from his mouth. “For God’s sake, Puller, you can’t let this happen. You’re a cop. You’ve got a duty. You can’t let this guy take me. He’s a foreigner. He’ll be kidnapping an American citizen. I’m a taxpayer. I pay your damn salary. You work for me.”

  Puller ignored this and said, “And your friend is doing this for free? Why?”

  “Not exactly for free. I promised him something, but I don’t know how to get it. I’m not even sure what it is.”

  Mecho described his friend’s request. Puller smiled and glanced at Lampert. “That’s okay. I know what it is.”

  Mecho looked surprised but also hopeful. “So you can get this thing?’

  “I can get this thing,” said Puller.

  CHAPTER 96

  Panama City, Florida, was known to generations of college students who invaded the town for spring break.

  Port Panama City was a port with easy access to the Gulf along a nearly nine-mile-long channel.

  Ocean liners disgorged tourists.

  Cargo ships brought products to America through here and took American-made products to the rest of the world.

  It was a busy place, even at night.

  Puller stood on the dock holding a box and eyeing the Cyrillic writing on the side of the steel-hulled cargo ship as cranes lifted metal containers onto the ship, stacking them on top of each other.

  As he continued to watch, a large wooden box was carried on board. There were two men carrying one end and one man carrying the other.

  The one man was Mecho. He was cleaned up from his fighting, his wounds bandaged and mostly hidden under his clothes.

  For those who looked closely, and no one did, the wooden crate had two holes for air drilled in it.

  Inside the box was Peter J. Lampert. He was bound, gagged, and drugged.

  He would wake up in about six hours.

  By then the cargo ship would be well out in the Gulf. It would make its way around the southernmost tip of Florida and then begin the long trek across the Atlantic. The cargo ship would plow along at an average speed of ten knots. Seventy-six hundred nautical miles and a month later it would arrive in Bulgaria.

  Once Lampert touched Bulgarian soil he would never leave it.

  The crate secured on board, Mecho came back down the gangplank followed by a heavyset man who looked strong as a bull.

  His thick-veined neck was the size of an average man’s thigh. His sleeves were rolled up and revealed forearms knotted with cords of muscles. He wore a skipper’s cap, and a cigar stuck out from his mouth at an angle.

  They reached Puller and stopped.

  Mecho introduced the man as his friend and the cargo ship’s captain.

  The captain looked at Puller appraisingly. “Mecho tells me you have something for me.” Puller held out the box. “Ten bottles.”

  The captain lifted the top of the box and looked inside it.

  His smile was wide and immediate.

  Puller handed him the box and the captain thanked him and carried it back on board ship. Mecho looked at Puller.

  “So what is this thirty-year Macal
lan?”

  “It’s a scotch. Actually a very good scotch.” “And it is thirty years old?”

  “So they say.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “Let’s just say that it was another opportunity for Peter Lampert to make restitution.”

  Mecho’s jaw slackened in surprise. “You took it from his house? Weren’t the police around?” “They weren’t watching me too closely.” Mecho put out his hand and Puller shook it.

  “I thank you for all that you have done.”

  “I hope you find your sister.”

  Mecho nodded slowly. “I will never stop looking.”

  “But you can stop looking for Lampert.” Mecho smiled grimly. “I will always know right where he is.”

  Mecho turned and walked up the gangplank. Halfway up he turned and waved back at Puller. Puller returned the wave.

  A few moments later Mecho was gone.

  An hour after that, the ship was gone too and Lampert had begun his long journey to his final resting place.

  “Good riddance,” Puller muttered as he walked back to his car.

  CHAPTER 97

  When Julie Carson opened her eyes the first thing she saw was the bright light overhead. The second thing she saw was Puller sitting next to her hospital bed.

  He gripped her hand.

  “I made it,” she said groggily.

  “Never any doubt on my part. Docs say you’ll be good as new in no time.”

  “Never got shot while wearing the uniform. Only while hanging out with you.”

  “Seems to be an occupational hazard with me.”

  She sat up a bit. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t think I’m going on vacation with you anymore.”

  “Completely understandable.”

  “What happened to Landry?”

  “In custody. Talking her head off. Bullock was thinking of retiring, but after this big bust he might run for governor.”

  “So he’s getting all the credit?”