No Survivors by Tom Cain Read Free Book Online

man pulled a knife from his pants. He saw the woman looking at some shoes in a store-window display. He knew at once, with absolute certainty, that she was the reason the man had drawn his knife.
    And then he was running across the road, dodging the traffic, praying he could get there in time.
    The man had come up to the woman and grabbed her arm and was snarling threats and obscenities in her ear. Vermulen saw the shock take hold, leaving her wide-eyed and paralyzed, unable to obey the mugger’s instructions, her mouth open but no sound emerging.
    He shouted out, “Hey!” Just a noise to distract the guy.
    The cowled head turned and Vermulen felt the raw, drug-fueled rage in the man’s eyes, then the jittery panic that filled them as the mugger realized he was under threat.
    The man slashed with his knife, slicing through the strap of the woman’s handbag and the sleeve of her coat. He grabbed the bag and started running.
    There were people all around. They were looking at what was happening, shying away, not wanting to get involved, some scattering as Vermulen burst through them, carried on past the woman, and pursued the man up the street.
    He took maybe twenty quick strides down the sidewalk, then pulled up. It would make him feel good to catch the dirtbag and teach him a lesson. But there was a woman standing frightened, alone, and quite possibly wounded. She was the priority now.
    He turned back to her, walking slowly, trying not to add to her fear and distress.
    “Are you okay? Here, let me look at your arm,” he said, when he reached her.
    And that’s when she burst into tears.
    “I’m sorry,” she said between sobs, as though it were she who had done something wrong.
    Gently, he helped her ease her arm from the sleeve of her coat. Her blouse had been cut right through and there was a little blood on her arm, but it didn’t look too serious.
    “You’re lucky—just a scratch,” Vermulen said. “We can get you to an emergency room, to be on the safe side. Or would you rather go straight home?”
    “I just want to get back to my hotel,” she said, and started crying again. “I’m sorry,” she repeated.
    “Don’t be. You’ve had a shock. It’s natural. Where are you staying?”
    “The Georgetown Inn,” she said. “It’s only a couple of blocks. That’s why I thought it would be okay to take a walk, you know? I mean, just around the corner, get some fresh air . . . Oh, God . . . My bag, I had everything in there. . . .”
    “Here, I’ll walk you back,” he said, taking her good arm.
    It took only a couple of minutes. Along the way they exchanged names. The woman was Sandra Marcotti, in town for a meeting with a firm of lobbyists. At the hotel, Vermulen spoke to the front desk, explained what had happened, and left his contact details. Then he gave the woman his business card, and shook her hand, quite formally.
    “Good night. You take care now, ma’am. If there’s anything you need, anything at all, just call.”
     
     
     
    As he left, Sandra Marcotti looked at his card for the first time. At the top it said, VERMULEN STRATEGIC CONSULTANCY and then, below that, LT. GEN. KURT VERMULEN Dsc, PRESIDENT.
    My God, she said to herself. He’s a general.
     
     
     
    Back on the street, Vermulen got out his phone, intending to call his friends and explain his absence. Before he could dial, he noticed a flashing icon, telling him he had a message waiting.
    It was a woman’s voice, a southern accent: “Hello, Lieutenant General Vermulen? This is Briana, from the president’s office at the Commission for National Values, here in Dallas. I know you expressed an interest in addressing our organization. Well, we have a meeting of our charter members coming up in Fairfax, Virginia, day after tomorrow, and one of our speakers has dropped out. I appreciate it’s awful short notice, sir, but if you could take his place, we sure would be grateful.”
    Vermulen listened to the rest of the message,