from the military, but he obviously couldn’t be certain about that. Maybe it was just the condescending nod the man had given him earlier.
The guy held his nine-millimeter awkwardly, even unprofessionally, as if he had learned how to do it by watching TV or by sitting on his butt at a theater to see how action stars handled their weapons. She carried hers with perfect control and ease, her weight balanced equally between both legs, her knees slightly bent, her silhouette angled to the side to lower her target profile. It was like a Pro-Am tournament pairing, thought Puller.
If his aunt was dead and there had been an investigation, he sure as hell hoped bald and burly hadn’t been heading it up. That had screwup written all over it.
Puller decided to cut to the chase, mainly because he didn’t want the guy to accidentally shoot himself. He slipped a photo from its frame and slid it into his shirt pocket. Then he walked to the front door, opened it, and stepped out into the brilliant sunshine of Paradise.
10
“ F REEZE !”
The order came from the woman.
Puller obeyed the command.
“Hands over your head,” added her partner.
“Do you want me to freeze or put my hands over my head?” asked Puller. “Because I can’t do both. And I’m not looking to get shot over a misunderstanding.”
The two cops moved closer, one to his right, one to his left.
Puller noted that the woman watched his hands, while the guy was glued to his eyes. The woman was right. Puller couldn’t kill with his eyes. But his hand could pull a weapon and open fire within a second without his eyes moving an inch.
She said, “Put your hands over your head, fingers interlocked. Then down on your stomach, legs spread, facedown.”
“I have an M11 in a rear belt holster. And my Army creds and badge are inside my front pants pocket.”
The two cops made the mistake of glancing at each other. Puller could have shot them both dead in the two seconds they took to do that. But he didn’t and so they would get to live another day.
“What the hell is an M11?” asked the male officer.
Before Puller could answer the woman said, “Army’s version of the Sig P228.”
Puller eyed her with interest. She was about five-seven, with blonde hair pinned up tight with a clamp at the back. Her build was slender, compact, but she moved with a dancer’s grace and her hands looked strong.
He said, “If I could reach very slowly in my front pants pocket I’ll show you my creds and badge.”
This time the woman didn’t look at her partner. “What unit?”
“The 701st out of Quantico, Virginia,” he answered promptly.
“CID or MP?” she asked.
“CID. I’m a CWO.”
Before her partner could ask she translated: “Chief warrant officer.”
Puller looked at her curiously. “You former military?”
“My brother.”
Puller said, “Can I get my pack out?”
“Do it really slowly,” said the guy, tightening the grip on his gun.
Puller knew that was the exact wrong thing to do. An overly tight grip meant you would increase your error rate about thirty percent or more. But he was more concerned that the guy would mess up and accidentally shoot him.
“Two fingers in the pocket, that’s all,” said the woman. “And keep your other hand on the top of your head.” Her voice was firm, direct, even. He liked that. Her nerves were definitely not running away with her senses, unlike her partner.
Puller two-fingered out his cred pack and held it up, ID card first, badge second. The CID’s one-eyed eagle symbol was unique.
The two drew close enough for Puller to simply hand the pack to the woman while the man kept his drawdown on him. He actually wished it had been the other way around, because the guy looked wound tight enough to shoot all three of them dead.
She lifted her gaze from the cred pack, checking the photo on there with the man himself, and said, “Okay, but I’m going to have to take your sidearm as a precaution until we
The guy held his nine-millimeter awkwardly, even unprofessionally, as if he had learned how to do it by watching TV or by sitting on his butt at a theater to see how action stars handled their weapons. She carried hers with perfect control and ease, her weight balanced equally between both legs, her knees slightly bent, her silhouette angled to the side to lower her target profile. It was like a Pro-Am tournament pairing, thought Puller.
If his aunt was dead and there had been an investigation, he sure as hell hoped bald and burly hadn’t been heading it up. That had screwup written all over it.
Puller decided to cut to the chase, mainly because he didn’t want the guy to accidentally shoot himself. He slipped a photo from its frame and slid it into his shirt pocket. Then he walked to the front door, opened it, and stepped out into the brilliant sunshine of Paradise.
10
“ F REEZE !”
The order came from the woman.
Puller obeyed the command.
“Hands over your head,” added her partner.
“Do you want me to freeze or put my hands over my head?” asked Puller. “Because I can’t do both. And I’m not looking to get shot over a misunderstanding.”
The two cops moved closer, one to his right, one to his left.
Puller noted that the woman watched his hands, while the guy was glued to his eyes. The woman was right. Puller couldn’t kill with his eyes. But his hand could pull a weapon and open fire within a second without his eyes moving an inch.
She said, “Put your hands over your head, fingers interlocked. Then down on your stomach, legs spread, facedown.”
“I have an M11 in a rear belt holster. And my Army creds and badge are inside my front pants pocket.”
The two cops made the mistake of glancing at each other. Puller could have shot them both dead in the two seconds they took to do that. But he didn’t and so they would get to live another day.
“What the hell is an M11?” asked the male officer.
Before Puller could answer the woman said, “Army’s version of the Sig P228.”
Puller eyed her with interest. She was about five-seven, with blonde hair pinned up tight with a clamp at the back. Her build was slender, compact, but she moved with a dancer’s grace and her hands looked strong.
He said, “If I could reach very slowly in my front pants pocket I’ll show you my creds and badge.”
This time the woman didn’t look at her partner. “What unit?”
“The 701st out of Quantico, Virginia,” he answered promptly.
“CID or MP?” she asked.
“CID. I’m a CWO.”
Before her partner could ask she translated: “Chief warrant officer.”
Puller looked at her curiously. “You former military?”
“My brother.”
Puller said, “Can I get my pack out?”
“Do it really slowly,” said the guy, tightening the grip on his gun.
Puller knew that was the exact wrong thing to do. An overly tight grip meant you would increase your error rate about thirty percent or more. But he was more concerned that the guy would mess up and accidentally shoot him.
“Two fingers in the pocket, that’s all,” said the woman. “And keep your other hand on the top of your head.” Her voice was firm, direct, even. He liked that. Her nerves were definitely not running away with her senses, unlike her partner.
Puller two-fingered out his cred pack and held it up, ID card first, badge second. The CID’s one-eyed eagle symbol was unique.
The two drew close enough for Puller to simply hand the pack to the woman while the man kept his drawdown on him. He actually wished it had been the other way around, because the guy looked wound tight enough to shoot all three of them dead.
She lifted her gaze from the cred pack, checking the photo on there with the man himself, and said, “Okay, but I’m going to have to take your sidearm as a precaution until we
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