The same time Jed Starmer was exiting the dusty station wagon, Hannah Hampton and Jack Reacher were leaving Louisiana and entering the state of Mississippi. They were at the midpoint of the Vicksburg Bridge, a hundred feet above the river, on I-20, heading east. As they had been for the last five and a half hours, not including stops for diesel and coffee.
Reacher was driving. He wasn’t thrilled about that. He certainly hadn’t volunteered. Being driven suited his temperament much better. Anyone else on the road who looked into Sam Roth’s truck during the first four hundred miles they covered that day would have said Hannah’s companion was pretty much comatose. He was lying back in his seat, not moving. Except for his eyes, which just flickered open every now and again. And that was only so he could get a fix on their current position. At first their surroundings were flat and featureless with nothing to see apart from an occasional water tower or utilitarian metal shed at the edge of the arrow-straight road. Then a few trees and bushes appeared between the scrubby fields. The land began to gently rise in a few places and fall away in others. After they passed Dallas the sky became a little bluer. The grass, a little greener. The stands of roadside trees thickened up after they crossed into Louisiana. The farmland grew more lush and fertile. Reacher was enjoying the slow motion, magic lantern impression of the landscape as it steadily unspooled outside his window. He would have been happy to file the snapshots away in his memory and save his energy for whatever was waiting for him in Winson. When he would no longer be a passenger. But when Hannah handed him the keys after they stopped at a rest area he figured it would be rude to refuse. And unsafe. There were dark circles under her eyes. Her shoulders were sagging. She struggled to heave the truck’s massive door open against a sudden gust of wind, and she was fast asleep before they made it back onto the highway.
Another bridge spanned the river a stone’s throw away to the north. An older one. It was all solid piles and cantilevered girders with giant rivets and flags flying from the highest points. Reacher recognized it. He had been shown pictures of it, and the river flowing beneath it, when he was a kid in a classroom on a military base on the other side of the world. Before the bridge they were crossing that day was even built. But not in a lesson about engineering, or geography. The idea was that the children were supposed to chant one Mississippi, two Mississippi to help them measure out the seconds. Reacher couldn’t understand why. Even at that young age he was able to keep track of time in his head. So he ignored the official topic and focused on the bridge. It looked solid. Purposeful. Dependable. The way a properly designed structure should be. It only carried trains now. And it was a little worse for wear. Its paint was peeling. Its iron skeleton was streaked with rust. But it was still standing. Still functional. It had once been revered. Now it was surplus to requirements. That was a story Reacher knew well.
A hundred yards beyond the end of the bridge Reacher saw a sign for a truck stop. It claimed to be the largest in Mississippi. Reacher hoped that was true. And he hoped it reflected the scope of the facilities, not just the size of the parking lot. It was time for him to get a change of clothes and none of the previous places they visited had any in his size.
Hannah woke up when Reacher switched off the engine. The sleep had left her feeling brighter so they walked across the parking lot together, toward the main building. It was shaped like a bow tie. The entrance led into a square, central section that contained the restrooms, and showers for the truck drivers. The triangular area on the left was set up as a food court, with chairs and tables clustered in the center and three different outlets spread out around the edges. There was a pizza restaurant on one of the angled sides. A place selling fried chicken on the other. And a burger joint that took up the whole of the base. The store filled the entire area to the right, with shelves and racks and display cases scattered about in no discernible order.
Hannah went through the doors first and started toward the bathrooms but Reacher took her elbow and steered her into the store.
Hannah said, “What, you can’t pick out a pair of pants on your own?”
Reacher checked over his shoulder and said, “You have a phone?”
“Of course. You want to call someone?”
“Does it take pictures?”
“Of course. All phones do these days.”
“Do you hold it up to your eye, like a camera?”
Hannah laughed. “You hold it out in front. You see the image on the whole screen. Much better than a tiny viewfinder. Why?”
“There’s a guy by the counter of the chicken place. He’s lurking around like he’s waiting for an order to come out. But he was actually watching the entrance. And he did something with his phone. He held it out in front and moved it, like he was tracking me with it when we came in.”
“Move your arm to the side, just an inch?” Hannah peered through the gap between Reacher’s biceps and his torso. “White guy, buzzed hair, T-shirt, jeans?”
Reacher nodded.
“He’s still there. Another guy’s with him. They look like gym buddies. He still has his phone in his hand. He keeps staring at it, like he’s waiting for a message. Maybe they’re supposed to be meeting someone? Who’s running late for some reason and hasn’t gotten in touch to let them know?”
Reacher shook his head. “He didn’t raise the phone until he saw me. Then he pointed it right at me.”
“Are you sure? You really think he took your picture? Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know.” Reacher turned around. “Let’s ask him.”
Reacher walked up to the guy with the phone and said, “Next time, call my agent.”
Wrinkles creased the guy’s forehead. He said, “What the hell are you talking about?”
“You want to take my picture, you need permission.”
The guy couldn’t help glancing down at his phone. “I didn’t take your picture.”
“I think you did.”
“OK, smart-ass. So what if I—” The guy’s phone made a sound like someone tapping a wineglass with the blunt edge of a knife. He checked its screen. Nodded to his buddy. Then he lifted the hem of his shirt a couple of inches. A black pistol was tucked into his jeans. A Beretta. It wasn’t new. The hatching on its grip was scuffed and worn. “All right, Mr. Reacher. Enough of this bullshit. Let’s finish this conversation outside.”
The implied threat with the gun was ridiculous. It might as well have been a piece of lettuce. There was no way the guy was about to start shooting. Not there. Not with all the security cameras that were watching him. The dozens of witnesses. The likelihood of collateral damage that would buy him a life sentence, or worse, if anyone died. And in any case, if he was stupid enough to try to draw the pistol he would be unconscious before the barrel cleared his waistband. His buddy would be, too. Reacher half hoped the guy would try it. He had energy to burn after all the hours spent cooped up in the truck. But he knew it would be better to wait until they were somewhere more private, so he decided to play along. He stepped back and said, “After you.”
The guy with the gun shook his head and gestured for Reacher to move first. Reacher started toward the exit. Hannah followed. Then the guy fell in behind them, alongside his partner, and gave directions to the rear of the building. They passed between the long outside wall of the store and a parking area for buses. Eleven vehicles were lined up in their oversized bays but there were no passengers milling around. No drivers. The building was at the edge of the site so there was nothing behind it. No road. No parked cars. No people. Just a strip of cracked pavement between the wall and a fence. The fence was made out of broad wooden slats. It was solid. There were no gaps. No knot holes. It was ten feet high. No one could see over it. No one could see through it. There were no windows on that side of the building. There were no doors. So there were no security cameras. And the walls of the food court and the store angled outward from the bathroom block. That left a trapezoid-shaped area that was totally secluded. No one would see what happened there. No one would call 911. No one would give statements to the police. No one would ever testify in court.
Reacher could see what was coming next. He knew one of the guys behind him was armed. It was safe to assume the other guy would be, too. So they would try to back him and Hannah up against the bathroom wall. That was clear. Then all the guys would have to do was stay back, and stay awake. Their plan could be to shoot Hannah. Or Reacher. Or both. To kill them. Immobilize them. Or just hold them until reinforcements arrived. But whatever the intention, it would be game over, right there.
Reacher took a half step to his right then stopped dead. Hannah was alongside him before she realized he wasn’t moving anymore. She stopped, too. Reacher leaned down and whispered, “Stay behind me. Don’t let the guy get a clear shot at you.”
Hannah whispered back, “Which guy? There are two of them.”
Reacher said, “Not for long.”
Reacher heard a voice from behind him. It was the guy who’d been giving the directions. The one who was definitely armed. He said, “Keep going. No one told you to stand still.”
The guy was close. Closer than when they left the building. Reacher could tell from the sound of his voice. The guy must have taken a couple of extra steps after Reacher stopped, just like Hannah had done. Reacher gauged the distance between them. He pictured the guy’s height. Subtracted a couple of inches. Shifted his weight onto the ball of his left foot. Then threw himself backward. He snapped into a fast, clockwise turn, twisting at the waist to add momentum and extending his right arm. He clenched his fist. It traced a wide arc like the head of a sledgehammer. One wielded by a 250-pound maniac. The guy saw the danger. He started to duck. He fumbled for his gun. But he was too slow. The side of Reacher’s fist slammed into his temple and felled him like a dead tree in a hurricane.
The second guy jumped back. He lifted his shirt and scrabbled for his own gun. Another Beretta. Reacher matched his movement. He stepped in close, stretched out his left hand, and pinned the guy’s wrist against his abdomen. He took the guy’s weapon. Then shoved him in the chest and sent him staggering away, too far to try to snatch the gun back.
Reacher said, “Your friend took my picture. Why?”
The guy didn’t answer.
Reacher said, “You wanted to finish the conversation outside. We’re outside. So converse.”
The guy shook his head.
Reacher raised the gun. “Try this instead. You picked this particular spot. No witnesses. No cameras. Why was that?”
The guy held out his hands, palms up. “I don’t know anything. If you’re going to shoot me, just get it over with.”
“You’re wrong,” Reacher said. “You do know some things. You know my name.”
“Oh. Yeah. OK.”
“You know you were sent out here to look for me.”
“I guess.”
“So you know who sent you.”
The guy shook his head.
“You know. Who was it?”
The guy didn’t answer.
Reacher prodded the body on the ground with his toe.
The guy closed his eyes for a moment. “Our boss sent us.”
“Name?”
“Mr. Brockman.”
“Organization?”
“Minerva Correctional.”
“You work at the prison in Winson?”
The guy nodded.
Reacher said, “How did Brockman know I’d be here?”
“He didn’t. He sent guys to a bunch of places. Just in case.”
“How many guys?”
“I don’t know. Eight? Ten? It wasn’t like a regular team briefing. We got given our orders in pairs. Word filtered out between us later.”
“Which places?”
“I only know one place for sure. The Greyhound station in Jackson. One of the guys who got sent there is my brother-in-law. He called me. A few minutes ago. They just caught a couple of punks trying to kidnap a homeless kid who’d come in from California. Said he wanted to see if we were having any fun like that. Which was horseshit. Really he wanted to break my balls because he knew we would be totally bored.”
“Guess his call was a little premature. What were you supposed to do if you saw me?”
“Verify your ID.”
“And then?”
“Stop you.”
“From doing what?”
“Getting to Winson.”
“Why?”
“So you couldn’t cause any trouble.”
“Why would I cause trouble in Winson?”
The guy shrugged. “Mr. Brockman said you were crazy. Crazy people do crazy things.”
“You had to verify my ID. How?”
“We sent your picture to some guys who know what you look like.”
“Which guys?”
“A couple of co-workers.”
“How would they recognize me?”
“Your paths crossed a couple of days ago. In some town in Colorado.”
Reacher smiled. “I see. Where are these guys?”
“In Winson. I guess. They’re still out sick.”
“I’ll make sure to drop by their houses while I’m in town. Maybe bring them some flowers. Now, Brockman. Is he a good boss?”
“I guess.”
“Is he a nice guy?”
“If he likes you.”
“Right. I saw what happens to people he doesn’t like. In Colorado. So here’s what I’m going to do. I will go to Winson. I will cause some trouble for Mr. Brockman. Maybe a little more than he’s expecting. And when I’m done I’ll make sure he knows how much you helped me.”
“No. Please. Don’t do that. He’ll kill me.”
“Sorry. My mind’s made up. Unless…”
“Unless what? What do you want? Money? ’Cause that’s no problem. I can get you—”
“Not money. Information. There’s something weird going on with the accounting at Minerva. I want to know what.”
The guy’s eyes stretched wide. “Accounting? I don’t know anything about that. How would I?”
Reacher looked at the guy for a long moment. Over the years he had gotten pretty good at sensing when people were telling the truth. Normally he encouraged that kind of response. But on this occasion he was disappointed to be given an honest answer. It meant the guy was no more use to him. So he punched him in the face and watched him crumple and collapse onto the ground.
“Was that necessary?” Hannah was standing with her hands on her hips. “He was no threat. You’d already taken his gun.”
Reacher said, “What about the backup piece in his ankle holster? And the knife in his sock?”
“He has another gun? And a knife?”
“He might have. You wait to find out, you’ll be the one who winds up on the ground. And you won’t be getting up again. These guys are working with the people who killed Sam. Who killed Angela. And they didn’t bring us out here for coffee and cakes.”
Hannah was quiet for more than a minute then she moved closer to the first guy Reacher had knocked down. “Is this one dead?”
Reacher shrugged. “Could have broken his neck, I guess.”
“Don’t you care?”
“Would you care if you stepped on a cockroach?”
“He’s not a cockroach.”
“No. He’s worse. He’s human. He had a choice.”
“You know something? You’re right.” Hannah took another step then kicked the guy in the ribs. “He did choose this. He chose to help the people who murdered Sam. Not just killed him. Killed could be an accident. They took Sam’s life on purpose. For some sort of gain. They’re assholes. I hate them. I think we should get every last one of them.”
“You’ll get no argument from me.”
“Good. So what do we do next?”