Zero Day (John Puller 1)

in front of you.

His cell phone rang. The office. Or maybe Cole. Maybe something else had happened. He checked the ID on the screen. His expression changed from one of alertness to something else, something diminished.

“John Puller.”

“You never called me back, XO.”

“Out on a mission.” He paused, but only for a second. “How you doing, General?”

John Puller Sr.’s voice was like the bark of a large, big-chested dog. It was an Army myth that the man could kill men simply with his voice, by making their hearts seize up with fear.

“You never called me back, XO,” he said again, as though he hadn’t heard Puller’s reply.

“Was going to today, sir. Problems?”

“My command is going to shit.”

Puller’s father had had his sons later in life. He was seventy-five now and in failing health.

“You’ll whip them back into shape. Always do. And they’re good men. They’ll respond. Rangers lead the way, General.” Puller had long since given up trying to reason with his father, tell him that he no longer had a command of any kind. That he was old and sick and dying far faster than he believed. Or it might be the old warrior didn’t think he was ever going to die.

“I need you down here. You can get them in line. Always count on you, XO.”

Puller had joined the military on the tail end of his father’s illustrious career. They had never served together. But the old man had kept a close eye on his youngest son’s accomplishments. Things had not been made easier for him because of his connection to the lieutenant general. In fact, they had been made infinitely harder.

“Thank you, sir. But as I said, I’m on another mission.” He paused again, checked his watch. He was behind schedule. He didn’t like to use this card, but he did when he had to. “I saw Bobby the other day. He told me to tell you hello.”

The line immediately went dead.

Puller closed the phone and slipped it into its holder on his belt. He sat there for a few more seconds, gazing down at his boots. He should go, he really should. Instead, he slid his wallet out of his pocket, flipped the photo out.

The three Puller men were all in a row. All tall, but John Jr. was the tallest, beating his old man out by a bare half inch. The general’s face was carved from granite. The old man’s eyes had been described as hollow-point ordnance with max loads. You could do pull-ups on his chin. He looked like Patton and MacArthur rolled into one, only bigger, meaner, and tougher. He’d been a son of a bitch as a general, and his men had loved him, died for him.

As a father he’d been a son of a bitch too. And his sons?

I love him. I would’ve died for him.

Senior had been the captain of the Army basketball team at West Point. They’d never won the championship during his father’s four years. But every team they played went home bruised and battered. And those that ended up beating his father’s team still probably felt like they’d lost. “Getting Pullered” was an expression often used back then. On the basketball court. On the battlefield. To the old man it was no doubt the same thing. He simply kicked the shit out of you until the buzzer sounded.

Or the armies ran out of ammo and bodies to throw at each other.

Puller’s gaze held briefly on the spot in the photo just to the left of his father. There was no one there, though there should have been.

There should have been.

He put the photo away, gunned up and slipped on his CID jacket, and locked the door behind him.

The past is just that.

Gone.

CHAPTER

24

OUTSIDE, as Puller started to get in his ride, he saw the light on in the motel office. Being naturally curious, he decided to check. He eased the door open. The old lady was sitting in a chair in front of the counter. Her right hand gripped her chest. She looked scared, her chest heaving, her face reddening, with tinges of gray skirting the edges.

He closed the door and moved closer. Her lips and the skin around her nose weren’t blue. So no cyanosis.

Yet.

Puller slipped his phone from his pocket and thumbed 911 without looking at the pad.

“How long you been this way?” he asked her.

“’Bout ten minutes,” she mumbled back.

He knelt beside her. “Happened before?”

“Not this bad in a long time. Then I had my quadruple at the hospital.”

“Bad ticker, then?”

“Pretty bad, I think. Yeah. Surprised I lasted this long.” She moaned, gripped her chest harder.

“Like a heavy weight there?”

She nodded.

“Any shooting pain in your arms?”

She shook her head. Tears dribbled out of her eyes.

A big sign of myocardial infarction was an elephant on the chest. Next big sign: sharp pain along the left arm. Not always the case and not always the left, particularly with women, but Puller wasn’t going to wait for it to happen.

The dispatcher came on the line. Puller described the situation in staccato sentences containing precise details and closed the phone.

“They’re on their way.”

“I’m scared,” she said, her voice breaking.

“I know. But you’re going to be okay.”

He felt her pulse. Weak. No surprise there. Bad pump meant reduced blood flow, and that equaled a crappy pulse. A stroke was also possible with someone her age. She felt cold, clammy. The veins in her neck were bulging. Another bad sign. She might be clotting.

“Just nod or shake your head. You nauseous?”

She nodded.

“Can’t catch your breath?”

She nodded again.

He said, “You on any meds for your heart?”

She nodded again. He could see beads of cold sweat lining her brow like a nearly invisible pearl necklace. “I got some nitro too. But couldn’t get to ’em.”

“How about aspirin?”

“Same place.”

“Tell me where.”

“Bedroom nightstand.” She pointed with a shaky finger to her left.

Puller was back in ten seconds with the bottles of pills in hand.

He gave her aspirin with some water. If she had a clot, aspirin was a good way to prevent platelet clumping. And it kicked in fast. And it didn’t screw with your blood pressure.

The problem with nitro was that it only treated symptoms, not the underlying coronary disease. It would help with her chest pain, but if her blood pressure was already low the nitro would push it lower still; that’s just the way it worked. That could significantly worsen the heart problem and also cause organ shutdown. He couldn’t risk that. He had to know first.

“You have a blood pressure cuff here?”

She nodded, pointed to a shelf behind the counter.

It was one of those battery-operated devices with a digital readout. He grabbed it, slipped it on her right upper arm, hit the on switch, and watched the cuff inflate. He read the results.

Not good. Pretty low already. Nitro might kill her.

He looked her over. No sign of retaining fluids, swollen feet, or vascular problems. “You on any diuretics?”

She shook her head.

“I’ll be back in ten seconds,” he said.