The Escape


By David Baldacci

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Special Agent Puller’s brother is the country’s most wanted criminal, but his conviction points to a cover-up–and a dangerous enemy bent on burying the truth in this #1 New York Times bestselling thriller.

It’s a prison unlike any other. Military discipline rules. Its security systems are unmatched. None of its prisoners dream of escaping. They know it’s impossible…until now.

John Puller’s older brother, Robert, was convicted of treason. His inexplicable escape from prison makes him the most wanted criminal in the country. Some in the government believe that John Puller represents their best chance at capturing Robert alive, and so Puller must bring in his brother to face justice.

But Puller quickly discovers that his brother is pursued by others who don’t want him to survive. Puller is in turn pushed into an uneasy, fraught partnership with another agent, who may have an agenda of her own.

They dig more deeply into the case together, and Puller finds that not only are her allegiances unclear, but there are troubling details about his brother’s conviction…and someone out there doesn’t want the truth to ever come to light. As the nationwide manhunt for Robert grows more urgent, Puller’s masterful skills as an investigator and strengths as a fighter may not be enough to save his brother–or himself.


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THE PRISON LOOKED more like the campus of a community college than a place where men were kept in cells for ten years or longer for offenses committed while wearing the uniform of their country. There were no guard towers, but there were two staggered twelve-foot-tall security fences, armed patrols, and enough surveillance cameras to keep an electronic eye on virtually every millimeter of the place. Situated at the northern end of Fort Leavenworth, the United States Disciplinary Barracks sat next to the Missouri River on nearly forty rolling, forested Kansas acres, a mound of brick and razor wire cradled by a green hand. It was the only maximum-security military prison for males in the country.

America’s foremost military prison was called the USDB, or the DB for short. The Leavenworth federal penitentiary for civilians, one of three prisons on the grounds of Fort Leavenworth, was four miles to the south. Along with the Joint Regional Correctional Facility—also for military prisoners—there was a fourth privately operated prison in Leavenworth, which raised the total inmate population among the four prisons to about five thousand. The Leavenworth Tourism Bureau, apparently seeking to capitalize on any bit of notoriety to lure visitors to the area, had incorporated the prison angle into its promotional brochures with the phrase “Doin’ time in Leavenworth.”

Federal dollars rolled through this part of Kansas and jumped the border into Missouri like a flood of green paper locusts, boosting the local economy and filling the coffers of businesses that provided the soldiers with smoked ribs, cold beer, fast cars, cheap hookers, and pretty much everything in between.

Inside the DB were about four hundred and fifty prisoners. Inmates were housed in a series of escape-proof pods, including a Special Housing Unit, or SHU. The majority of inmates were here for sex-based crimes. They were mostly young and their sentences were long.

Approximately ten prisoners were kept in solitary confinement at any one time, while the remaining inmates were housed in the general population. There were no bars on the doors; they were just solid metal, with a slot at the bottom for food trays to be shoved through. This also allowed for shackles to be fitted like a new pair of iron shoes when a prisoner needed to be transported somewhere.

Unlike at some other state and federal penitentiaries around the country, discipline and respect were demanded here and given. There were no power struggles between the incarcerated and their watchers. There was the rule of military law, and the primary responses from those being held here were “Yes sir,” closely followed by “No sir.”

The DB had a death row on which currently sat a half dozen convicted murderers, including the Fort Hood killer. It also had an execution chamber. Whether any of the death row inmates would ever see the lethal injection needle would be something only the lawyers and judges could determine, probably years and millions of dollars in legal fees from now.

*  *  *

Day had long since passed to night and the lights from a civilian Piper plane lifting off from the nearby Sherman Airfield were almost the only evidence of activity. It was quiet now, but a violent storm front that had been on the radar for a while was howling in from the north. Another system that had sprung up in Texas was barreling toward the Midwest like a brakeless freight train. It would soon meet its northern counterpart, with devastating results. The entire area was already hunkering down in anticipation.

When the two rampaging fronts met three hours later, the result was a storm of shattering proportions, with jagged lightning slicing sideways across the sky, rain bucketing down, and winds that seemed to have no limit to their strength or reach.

The power lines went first, snapped like string by tumbling trees. Then down came the phone lines. After that more trees toppled, blocking roads. The nearby Kansas City International Airport had been shut down ahead of time, all planes empty and the terminal full of travelers riding out the storm and quietly thanking God they were on the ground instead of up in that maelstrom.

Inside the DB the guards made their rounds, or sipped their coffees in the break room, or talked in low whispers, exchanging scuttlebutt of no importance just to get through their shifts. No one thought anything of the storm outside since they were safely inside a fortress of brick and steel. They were like an aircraft carrier confronted by gale-force winds and heavy seas. It might not be pleasant, but they would easily ride it out.

Even when the regular power failed as both transformers at a nearby substation blew up, plunging the prison into momentary darkness, no one was overly concerned. The massive backup generator automatically kicked on, and that machine was inside a bombproof installation with its own underground power source of natural gas that would never run out of juice. This secondary system came on so fast the short lapse did nothing more than cause jittery fluorescents and a few pops on surveillance cameras and computer monitors.

Guards finished their coffees and moved on to other gossip, while others slowly made their way down halls and around corners and in and out of pods, making sure all was well in the world of the DB.

What finally got everyone’s attention was the total silence that came when the foolproof generator with the endless supply of energy in the bombproof installation made a noise like a giant with whooping cough, and then simply died.

All the lights, cameras, and consoles instantly went out, although some of the surveillance cameras had battery backups and thus remained on. And then the quiet was replaced with urgent cries and the sounds of men running. Communication radios crackled and popped. Flashlights were snatched from holders on leather belts and powered up. But they provided only meager illumination.

And then the unthinkable occurred: All the automatic cell doors unlocked. This was not supposed to happen. The system was built such that whenever the power failed, the doors automatically locked. Not so good for prisoners if the power failure was due to, say, a fire, but that’s the way it was, or the way it was supposed to be. However, now the guards were hearing the clicks of cell doors opening all over the prison, and hundreds of prisoners were emerging into the hallways.

There were no guns allowed in the DB. Thus the guards had only their authority, wits, training, ability to read prisoners’ moods, and heavy batons to keep order. And now those batons were gripped in hands that were becoming increasingly sweaty.

There were SOPs, or standard operating procedures, for such an eventuality, because the military had procedures for every eventuality. The Army typically had two backups for all critical items. At the DB the natural gas backup generator was considered a fail-safe. However, now it had failed. Now it fell to the guards to maintain complete order. They were the last line of defense. The first goal was to secure all prisoners. The secondary goal was to secure all prisoners. Anything else would be deemed an unacceptable failure by any military standard. Careers and along with them stars and bars would fall off like parched needles from a Christmas tree still up in late January.

Since there were far more prisoners than guards, securing all of them involved a few tactics, the most important of which required grouping them in the large open central areas, where they would be made to lie facedown. This seemed to be going well for about five minutes, but then something else happened that would make every guard dig deeper into the Army manuals and more than one sphincter—whether attached to guard or prisoner—tighten.

“We’ve got shots fired,” shouted a guard into his radio. “Shots fired, undetermined location, unknown source.”

This message was repeated down the line until it was ringing in every guard’s ears. Shots fired and nobody knew from where or by whom. And since none of the guards had guns, that meant one of the prisoners must. Maybe more than one.

Now things, already serious, morphed into something bordering on chaotic.

And then the situation became a lot worse.

The sound of an explosion flooded the interior of pod number three, which contained the SHU. Now the borderline chaotic leapt right into utter meltdown. The only thing that could restore order was an overwhelming show of armed force. And there were few organizations in the world that could do overwhelming armed force better than the United States Army. Especially when that gunned-up force was right next door at Fort Leavenworth.

Minutes later, six green Army trucks swept through the powerless boundary gates of the DB, whose high-tech intrusion detection systems had been rendered inoperable. Military police in SWAT gear and carrying shields poured off the trucks, their automatic weapons and shotguns racked and ready. They charged straight into the facility, their fields of vision bright and clear owing to their latest-generation night-vision goggles that made the blackness inside the prison look as fresh and vibrant as anything on an Xbox.

Prisoners froze where they were. Then those who were still standing immediately lay facedown, their hands behind their backs and their limbs trembling in the face of superbly trained soldiers loaded for war.

Order was eventually achieved.

Army engineers were able to restore power and the lights came back on and doors could lock once more. In the meantime, the MPs from Fort Leavenworth turned the facility back over to the guards and left the way they had come. The prison commander, a full colonel, gratefully exhaled as the weight of the world, or at least a sudden wall appearing between him and his next promotion, was lifted.

Prisoners shuffled back into their cells.

A head count was done.

The list of prisoners accounted for was compared to the official list of inmates. Initially, the numbers tallied.


But on further inspection that did not turn out to be the case.

There was one prisoner missing. Only one. But he was an important one. He had been sent here for life. Not because he had fragged an officer or otherwise killed one or many. Or because he had raped, slashed, burned, or bombed. He was not on death row. He was here because he was a traitor, having betrayed his country in the area of national security, which was a term that made everyone sit up and look over their shoulder.

And even more inexplicably, on the cot in the missing prisoner’s cell was someone else—an unidentified dead man lying facedown under the covers. This was the cause of the initial miscount of heads.

They searched every corner of the DB, including the air ducts and any other crevices they could think of. They raced outside into the now dying storm to search there, marching in methodical columns, leaving nothing unexamined.

But this plot of Kansas soil did not yield what they were looking for.

The inmate was gone. No one could explain how. No one could say how the dead man had come to be here. No one could make sense of any of this.

There was only one obvious fact.

Robert Puller, once a major in the United States Air Force and an expert in nuclear weaponry and cyber security, and also the son of one of the most famous fighting soldiers of them all, the now retired Army lieutenant general John Puller Sr., had escaped from the inescapable DB.

And he had left behind an unknown dead man in his place, which was even more inexplicable than how he had managed to break out.

Informed of this seeming impossibility turned stark reality, the prison’s commander lifted the secure phone in his office, and in doing so kissed his once promising career goodbye.



JOHN PULLER HAD his M11 pistol pointed at the man’s head.

A fancied-up Beretta 92—known in the military as an M9A1—was pointed right back at him.

It was a twenty-first-century duel that promised no winners and portended two fatal losers.

“I’m not taking the fall for this,” roared PFC Tony Rogers. He was a black man in his twenties with the image of a “terrible towel” and the Pittsburgh Steelers logo inked on his forearm. He was about five-nine, and had a shaved head, dumbbell shoulders, ripped arms, and beefy thighs mismatched with a high-pitched voice.

Puller was dressed in khaki pants and a navy blue windbreaker with the gold letters “CID” stenciled on the back. Rogers wore his Army Combat Uniform, or ACU, pants, regulation boots, and an Army T-shirt, with a patrol cap on his head. He was sweating though the air was crisp. Puller was not sweating. Rogers’s gaze was erratic. Puller’s eyes did not lift from Rogers’s face. He wanted to exude calm, hoping to graft it onto the other man.

The pair of soldiers had squared off in an alley behind a bar outside of Lawton, Oklahoma, home to Fort Sill and also the grave of the Indian leader Geronimo. Puller had been to Lawton a couple of times before, and his father had been briefly stationed there once during his Army career. He was here now in his capacity as an agent in the Criminal Investigation Command attempting to arrest an alleged killer who wore the same uniform he did, and who was now pointing his Army-issued sidearm at him.

Puller said, “So tell me your side of the story.”

“I didn’t shoot anybody. You hear me? You are out your damn mind saying I did.”

“I’m not saying anything. I’m just here because it’s my job. You have defenses to the charges, then good for you. Use them.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about you getting a kickass JAG lawyer to defend you and maybe you beat the charge. I know some good ones. I can refer you. But doing what you’re doing right now is not helping your case. So put the gun down and we forget all about you running away and then drawing down on me.”


“I have a warrant for your arrest, Rogers. I’m just doing my job. Let me do it peacefully. You don’t want to die in a crummy alley in Lawton, Oklahoma. And I sure as hell don’t.”

“They’re gonna put me away for life. I got a momma to support.”

“And your mother wouldn’t want you to end it like this. You’ll get your day in court. They’ll hear your side. You can bring your mother in as a character witness. Let the legal system do its thing.” Puller said all of this in an even, calming voice.

Rogers eyed him cagily. “Look, why don’t you just get out my way so I can walk out this alley and out the damn Army?”

“We both wear the same uniform and I can try to help you, PFC. But I can’t do that.”

“I will shoot your ass. I swear to God I will. ”

“Still won’t be happening.”

“I don’t miss, man. Top marks on the damn range.”

“You fire I fire. We both go down. It’s stupid for it to end that way. I know you can see that.”

“Then let’s just call it a truce. You just walk away.”

Puller gave one shake of the head while his gaze and gunsight held on Rogers. “I can’t do that.”

“Why the hell not?”

“You’re in the artillery, Rogers. You have a job to do, right? One that the Army spent a lot of time and money drilling into you, right?”

“Yeah, so what?”

“Well, this is my job. And my job doesn’t let me walk away. Now, I don’t want to shoot you, and I don’t think you want to shoot me, so put the gun down. It’s the smart thing to do. You know that.”

Puller had tracked the man to this location after finding more than enough evidence to put him away for a long time. However, Rogers had spotted Puller and made a run for it. That run had ended in this alley. There was no way out other than the way they’d entered.

Rogers shook his head. “We both gonna die, then.”

“It does not have to end like that, soldier,” retorted Puller. “Use your brain, Rogers. Guaranteed death, or a trial where you might get some time in DB—or where you might even walk away? Which sounds better to you? Which would sound better to your mother?”

This seemed to strike a chord with Rogers. He blinked rapidly and said, “You got family?”

“Yeah, I do. I’d like to see them again. Tell me about your family.”

Rogers licked his chapped lips. “Momma, two brothers, and three sisters. Back in Pittsburgh. We’re Steeler fans,” he added proudly. “My daddy was there when Franco caught the Immaculate Reception.”

“So put the gun down and you can still watch the games.”

“You ain’t listening, dammit! No way I’m going down for this. See, that dude drew down on me. It was self-defense.”

“Then make that claim at your court-martial. Maybe you walk away free.”

“That’s not gonna happen and you know it.” He paused and studied Puller. “You got stuff on me or you wouldn’t be here. You know about the damn drugs, don’t you?”

“My job is to bring you in, not pass judgment.”

“This is the middle of nowhere, man. Need some juice to get by. I’m a city guy. I don’t like cows. And I’m not the only one.”

“You’ve got a good record in the Army, Rogers. That’ll help you. And if it was self-defense and the jury believes you, you’re home free.”

Rogers shook his head stubbornly. “My ass is gone. You know it, I know it.”

Puller quickly thought of some way to defuse the situation. “Tell me something, Rogers. How many drinks did you have in the bar?”


“Simple question. How many drinks?”

Rogers tightened his grip on the pistol as a bead of sweat ran down his left cheek. “Pitcher of beer and a shot of Beam.” He suddenly yelled, “What the hell does that matter? You messin’ with me? Are you messin’ with me, asshole!”

“I’m not messing with you. I’m just trying to explain something to you. Will you listen to what I have to say? Because it’s important. It’s important to you.”

Puller waited for him to answer. He wanted to keep Rogers engaged and thinking. Thinking men rarely pulled triggers. Hotheads did.

“Okay, what?”

“That’s a fair amount of alcohol you’ve had.”

“Shit, I can drink twice that and still drive a Paladin.”

“I’m not talking about driving a Paladin.”

“Then what?” demanded Rogers.

Puller continued in a calm tone, “You’re about a hundred and seventy pounds, so even with the adrenaline spike I’m guessing that your intoxication level is about a point one, and maybe higher with the shot of Beam. That means you’re legally too drunk to drive a moped, much less a twenty-seven-ton howitzer.”

“What the hell’s that got to do with anything?”

“Alcohol impairs fine motor skills, like the kind required to aim and fire a weapon properly. With what you’ve had to drink, we’re talking a serious degradation of marksmanship skills.”

“I sure as hell ain’t missing your ass from ten feet.”

“You’d be surprised, Rogers, you really would be. I calculate you’ve lost at least twenty-five percent of your normal skill level in a situation like this. On the other hand, my aim and fine motor skills are perfect. So I will ask you once more to put down your weapon, because a twenty-five percent reduction pretty much ensures that this will not end well for you.”

Rogers fired his gun at the same time he yelled, “Fu—.” But he was unable to complete the word.



JOHN PULLER DROPPED his duffel on the floor of his bedroom, took off his cap, wiped a bead of sweat off his nose, and dropped onto the bed. He’d just gotten back from the investigation at Fort Sill. The result had been his tracking down PFC Rogers in that alley.

And when Rogers, despite Puller’s requests for him to stand down, had started to squeeze the trigger of his Army-issued sidearm, Puller had stepped slightly to the right while narrowing his target silhouette and firing at the same time. He hadn’t actually seen Rogers start to pull the trigger. It was the look in the man’s eyes and the curse that had started coming out of his mouth—only half finished because of the M11’s punch. Rogers was true to his word—he wasn’t leaving the alley without a fight. Puller had to admire him somewhat for that. He was no coward, although maybe it was just the Jim Beam talking.

Rogers’s round had slammed into the brick wall behind Puller. The slug’s impact chipped off a sliver of brick that shot out and ripped a hole in Puller’s sleeve but drew no blood. Uniforms could be mended with thread. Flesh could too, but he’d take the hole in the uniform over one in him.

He could have killed Rogers with a headshot, but while the situation was dire, he had been in worse. He pointed his gun downward and shot the PFC in the right leg just above the knee. Shots in the torso allowed someone to fire back because sometimes they didn’t completely incapacitate. Shots around the knee region, however, reduced the toughest men to screaming babies. Rogers dropped his weapon, fell to the ground, and shrieked, clutching his damaged leg. The man would probably walk with a limp for a long time, but at least he would be alive.

Puller had triaged the man he’d shot, called in the paramedics, ridden to the Army hospital with the wounded man, and even let Rogers try to crush his hand when the pain got too bad. Then he had filled out the requisite mountain of paperwork, answered a slew of questions, and finally jumped on a military transport flight for home.

The man Rogers had shot down in the street after a drug deal gone bad now had some semblance of justice. The Rogers family back in Pittsburgh had a son and brother to support and cry over. The Steelers would still have a fan to cheer them on, albeit from an Army stockade. It shouldn’t have happened. But it had. Puller knew it was either him or the other man. Still, he always preferred to put the cuffs on instead of pulling the trigger. And shooting a fellow soldier, criminal or not, didn’t sit well with him.

All in all, a pretty crappy day’s work, he concluded.

Now he simply needed some shut-eye. All he was asking for was a few hours. Then it was back on duty, because at CID you were really never off duty, though he would be confined to a desk while an incident investigation was performed over his use of extreme force in that alley. But after that he would just go where they told him to go. Crime did not keep a schedule, at least to his knowledge. And because of that he had never punched a time clock during his Army career, because combat wasn’t a nine-to-fiver either.

Puller had barely closed his eyes when his phone buzzed. He looked at the screen and groaned. It was his old man. Or, more accurately, it was the hospital calling on behalf of his father.

He dropped the phone on the bed and closed his eyes once more.

Later, tomorrow, maybe the next day, he would deal with the general. But not now. Right now he just wanted some sack time.

The phone started buzzing again. It was the hospital. Again. Puller didn’t answer it and the phone finally stopping ringing.

Then it started buzzing again.

These pricks are just not going to give up.

And then his next thought was jolting. Maybe his father had… But no, the old man was too stubborn to die. He’d probably outlive both his sons.

He sat up and grabbed the phone. The number on the screen was different. It wasn’t the hospital.

It was his CO, Don White.

“Yes sir?” he answered.

“Puller, there’s a situation. Maybe you haven’t heard.”

Puller blinked and then tied his CO’s ominous statement to the calls from the hospital. His father. Was he really dead? It couldn’t be. Fighting legends didn’t die. They just… were there. Always.

His voice dry and scratchy, he said, “Heard what, sir? I just got back in town from Fort Sill. Is it my father?”

“No, it’s your brother,” said White.

“My brother?”

His brother was in the most secure military prison in the country. Now Puller’s mind turned to other possibilities involving his sibling.

“Has he been injured?” Puller didn’t know how that could be. There were no riots at the DB. But then again, one of the guards had slugged Bobby once, for a reason he had never shared with his brother.

“No. It’s a little more serious than that.”

Puller drew a quick breath. More serious than that? “Is he… is he dead?”

“No, apparently he’s escaped,” White answered.


  • "One of the most compelling characters in David Baldacci's thrillers is John Puller, a crackerjack investigator of military crimes...Twists and turns come fast and furious in the best Baldacci tradition. The Escape is much more than a thriller. It's a moving tale of two military brothers and their father, a retired Army general and fighting legend now suffering from dementia. Emotionally intense, The Escape is Baldacci's best to date."—Associated Press
  • "[In his] clever third John Puller thriller...Baldacci handles the complex plot with consummate ease as the Pullers navigate nearly endless surprises."—Publisher's Weekly
  • "A heck of an opening chapter, guaranteed to jettison readers into hours of addictive reading...Baldacci's last few books have been among the best in his long, busy career, and The Escape stands near the top for sheer adrenalin-fueled entertainment. It's alarmingly topical, too, taking us into the intelligence community and raising questions about privacy rights in the age of government surveillance and other buzz-worthy issues (no spoilers here). Indeed, the crime at the center of The Escape could have been pulled from recent newspaper headlines. Who says thrillers have to be the stuff of escapist fantasies?"—Richmond Times-Dispatch
  • "Highly entertaining...The Escape is a terrific read."—CT News
  • "A phenomenal read, as usual, from David Baldacci--don't miss it!"—
  • "David Baldacci has never been better than in 'The Escape.'"—Providence Journal

On Sale
Aug 25, 2015
Page Count
688 pages

David Baldacci

About the Author

David Baldacci is a global #1 bestselling author, and one of the world’s favorite storytellers. His books are published in over 45 languages and in more than 80 countries, with 150 million copies sold worldwide. His works have been adapted for both feature film and television. David Baldacci is also the cofounder, along with his wife, of the Wish You Well Foundation, a nonprofit organization dedicated to supporting literacy efforts across America. Still a resident of his native Virginia, he invites you to visit him at and his foundation at

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