Five words were ringing in Jed Starmer’s ears as he crouched between a pair of dumpsters in an alley on the other side of the Greyhound station: I’m a law enforcement officer.
The guy’s voice had been a little muffled from where he lay on the floor of the car but Jed was sure about what he heard. Although he wasn’t sure what kind of officer the guy was. He hadn’t been wearing a uniform. Neither had his partner. So Jed figured they must be detectives. Or FBI agents. Something high up. Important. But he wasn’t too concerned about which organization they belonged to. Or what rank they held. He was just glad they had shown up when they did. He had no idea what the scruffy guys had wanted with him but it didn’t take a clairvoyant to see it wasn’t going to be anything good.
Jed was glad the officers had shown up, but at the same time he was horrified. Because it meant they must have been looking for him. That was certainly what it sounded like from the exchanges he overheard. The guy from his first bus must have called them. After they finished their breakfast in Dallas. He’d kept nagging Jed about going to the police. When Jed refused the guy must have taken matters into his own hands. Which meant Jed would have to change his plans. He had been intending to sleep on the seats in the Greyhound station that night and then make his way to Winson the next morning. He couldn’t risk staying in town now. Not in a public place. Not somewhere out in the open. He had no option. He had to leave. Immediately.
Reacher left the atlas, one of the captured Berettas, and the last dregs of his coffee in the truck with Hannah and walked back to the main building to change his clothes. After that his plan was simple. He was going to find the next pair of Minerva guys at the nearby intersection and give them exactly what they wanted.
For a moment, at least.
He figured that the guys would be looking for him in a car, or at the side of the road as he tried to hitch a ride. If they spotted him in a car, things could get complicated. They wouldn’t be able to stop him right away because of the whole identification rigmarole. They would have to take his photograph, send it off to the guys who had seen him in Colorado, and wait for their response. So they would have two choices. They could follow his car and intercept it if his ID was confirmed. Or they could stay put and send the intel to the guys who would be stationed at the outskirts of Winson. Neither of those options appealed to Reacher. Forcing a car off a highway at speed in heavy traffic is dangerous. There’s plenty of scope for injuries. Maybe fatalities. Maybe involving other vehicles with innocent drivers and passengers. And if the guys passed the information along the chain, that would be no immediate help, either. Reacher would be miles away by then, out of contact, and it would only make his life more difficult when he arrived in the town. So the smart move was to stand where the guys would be hoping to see him, stick out his thumb, and hope no regular motorists were on the lookout for company.
From above, the intersection looked like a capital A, rotated by forty-five degrees, with a curved crossbar. One side was I-20, which swung a little north of east after clearing the river. The other side was US 61, which branched off and ran to the south. The crossbar was made up of the ramps joining I-20 east to US 61 south, and US 61 north to I-20 west. The other significant part of the picture was the space beneath the crossbar. It was taken up by a giant store. Reacher couldn’t tell from the map which chain it belonged to or what sort of products it sold. And he didn’t much care. The only thing that mattered to him was that it had a convenient parking lot.
The plan was simple. Hannah would pull over on the shoulder just before the east/south ramp. Reacher would get out of the truck. Hannah would continue on I-20 toward Jackson, in case anyone was already watching. She would leave the highway at the next intersection and loop around to the giant store. She would wait in the parking lot. The Minerva guys would spot Reacher. They would try to photograph him and detain him, either on the shoulder or in a vehicle. They would have the same kind of success as their buddies at the truck stop had. And when they were unconscious and immobilized, Reacher would climb down the side of the ramp, make his way to the store, and rendezvous with Hannah.
The plan was simple. But it went off the rails before it even got started.
Reacher dumped his old clothes in the trash and walked back to the truck. He opened the passenger door but he didn’t get in. Because someone was in his seat. A guy, late twenties, wearing some kind of European soccer jersey, jeans, and motorcycle boots. His hair was buzzed at the sides and a little longer at the top. He had a goatee. And he was holding a gun. In his left hand. A desert tan–colored SIG P320. His grip was steady and he was aiming at the center of Reacher’s chest.
Reacher grabbed the guy’s wrist and pulled until his forearm was clear of the truck’s doorframe. He forced it back against the pillar between the windows. Twisted, so the gun was pointing at the ground. Then he slammed the door. He threw all his weight behind it. The guy screamed. The gun fell. It clattered against the truck’s running board and skittered away under the next parked car. Reacher felt the guy’s wrist go limp. He’d heard the bones crack and splinter. Then he snatched the door open again. The guy’s head was lolling back against the seat. Beads of sweat had sprung out all over his face. His skin looked almost green. Reacher pulled back his right arm. Closed his fist. The guy’s throat was exposed. One punch was all it would take.
A voice said, “Stop.” It was coming from the backseat. Another guy was there. The same kind of age and build as the one with the broken arm. He had a plain black T-shirt on. His head was completely shaved. He was behind Hannah. Leaning forward. And pressing the muzzle of a revolver into the base of her skull.
Hannah was sitting up so straight it was like she was trying to levitate. Her arms were stretched out in front. She was gripping the steering wheel with both hands. Her knuckles were bone white. She was staring straight ahead and her face was twisted into the kind of scowl you’d expect from a parent who found her teenage kids hosting an orgy in her living room.
The gun looked tiny in the guy’s hand. It was a Ruger LCR. A .22. Probably the guy’s ankle piece, Reacher thought. It wouldn’t be much use at distance. You wouldn’t choose it as a primary weapon. But at close quarters it would be more than adequate. And in that situation it would be ideal. If the guy got his angle right, there was a good chance the round wouldn’t break out through the top of Hannah’s skull. It would just bounce around inside her head, pulping her brain, until its energy was dissipated and it came to rest in the resulting mush. Which meant her blood and cerebral jelly wouldn’t be sprayed across the windshield for anyone to see. And if the bullet did emerge it certainly wouldn’t have enough force left to pierce the truck’s steel roof. It was as discreet an option as the guy could hope for. Although with his buddy’s life on the line he might not care too much about attracting attention.
Reacher opened his hand and lowered his arm.
“Good decision,” the guy said. “Now, we’re looking for two of our friends. This young lady told me you could help us find them.”
Reacher said, “You have friends?”
“This is no time for jokes.”
“Who’s joking?”
“Tell me where they are.”
“How would I know?”
The guy pulled something out from under his left thigh. He held it up for Reacher to see. It was the Beretta he had left in the truck when he went to change.
The guy said, “Stop wasting time. Tell me where they are.”
A vehicle rumbled past the rear of the truck. Reacher took a glance. It was a bus. The old one from British Columbia. There were no passengers on board. Only the driver. Reacher hoped he was taking it all the way to Canada. Or given the sudden shift in his mood, straight to a scrap yard. One that wouldn’t check it too thoroughly before dumping it in the crusher.
Reacher said, “They’re not far away.”
“Tell me where.”
“I’ll show you.”
“Tell me.”
“You’d believe me?”
The guy took a moment to think. “OK. Are you wearing a belt?”
Reacher nodded.
“Take it off. Give it to me.”
Reacher didn’t move.
The guy increased the pressure on the gun. It dug deeper into Hannah’s skin. She clenched her teeth but couldn’t hold back a long, low whimper.
Reacher slipped his belt through the loops in his pants and held it out in the gap between the truck’s front seats. The guy kept the gun pressed against Hannah’s skull and stretched out with his left hand. He grabbed the belt, then bit it between his teeth, near the buckle. He fed the free end through. Took up the slack until he had a circle about twelve inches across. Then he pulled the gun away and flipped the belt over Hannah’s head and yanked it tight around her neck and the metal stalks of the seat rest. She didn’t make another sound but her scowl grew even more fearsome.
“Pep?” the guy said to his buddy in the passenger seat. “Can you move?”
Pep nodded. “Think so.”
“Good. Come over here. To my door.”
Pep slid out of the truck and crept around to its rear. He was clutching his left arm to his chest and moving like he had the mother of all hangovers. He made it to the far side. The guy holding the belt slid across. Pep climbed in behind Hannah and slumped back in the seat. He looked like he was about to be sick.
“Sit forward,” the guy holding the belt said. “All the way. Get your ass right on the edge.”
Pep shuffled to the front of the seat. The guy took Pep’s right hand and tied the belt around his wrist so that his palm was flat against the back of the driver’s seat, just below the nape of Hannah’s neck.
The guy patted Pep between the shoulders then slid the rest of the way across to the passenger side, opened the door, and climbed down next to Reacher. He nodded toward Pep and Hannah and said, “Do I need to draw you a diagram?”
Reacher shook his head.
“Good. Now pick up the SIG Pep dropped. Finger and thumb through the trigger guard. Pass it to me.”
Reacher fished the gun out from under the neighboring car and handed it to the guy.
“OK.” The guy tucked the gun into the back of his pants and made sure his shirt was covering it. “Show me where my friends are. And you better make it quick, for the woman’s sake.”
Reacher led the way back toward the main building and as he walked he tried to picture the remote fob on the key ring he had taken after searching the first pair of Minerva guys. He remembered it had four buttons. The lower two were colored. One was red. It looked like it had something to do with the alarm. One was blue. It was for opening the trunk. The others were black. They had little white padlock symbols on them. The symbols were faint. They were worn almost all the way off but Reacher thought the lock on the top left button was shown as closed.
Reacher slid his hand into his pocket and felt for the fob. He found the top right button and pressed it with his thumb. He looked around the lot, hoping to see a parked car’s turn signals flash.
Nothing happened.
The guy walking behind him said, “Hey. What are you doing?”
“Keeping my pants from falling down.”
The guy grunted like he wasn’t convinced.
They kept on walking. Reacher kept on pressing the unlock button. No lights flashed. They were almost at the entrance to the building. Reacher figured the car must be somewhere else in the lot, so he would have to take the guy around the back of the building. Do the job in two stages. He knew for sure the car wasn’t over to the right because that was where the buses parked. So he rolled the dice one last time. Headed toward the left. Pressed the unlock button again. And saw a pair of orange lights give a long, slow blink.
The car the lights belonged to was in the final row, in front of the fence that continued along the perimeter of the site. There was an empty space on both sides. But it was a false alarm. A coincidence. It was the wrong kind of car. A Ford Crown Victoria. Reacher had seen hundreds of them during his time in the army. And hundreds more after he left. Although this one was much cleaner than most he had come across. Its paintwork was immaculate. Dark blue, almost black. Shiny, like it recently had been polished. It had strange wheels. A weird grille at the front. Dark tints on the windows. It seemed more like someone’s personal vehicle than a detective’s car or a cab. So Reacher looked at it more closely. He saw there was a Mercury logo where the blue oval should be. He didn’t understand why, but he had never been much of a car guy. And he didn’t waste time speculating. He just slid his thumb across to the lock button on the fob. He pressed it. The car’s flashers blinked again. Just as lazily. Reacher figured it was unlikely to be a coincidence a second time.
Reacher said, “This way.” He changed course and made for the rear of the car. It was almost against the fence. Its owner had backed in, ready for a quick exit if necessary. Reacher waited for the guy to catch up then took the keys out of his pocket. He hit the trunk button. The lid unlocked itself but only swung up a couple of inches.
The guy said, “Do you think I’m new? I’m not opening that.”
Reacher said, “No problem. I’ll do it. You don’t need to get any closer. Just one question first. You work for Minerva?”
“Just hit my ten-year anniversary. Where are my friends? They better not be in that trunk.”
“You were sent here to look for me?”
“We were sent to the intersection. Got moved here when the other guys spotted you. What’s in the trunk? Where are my friends?”
“You had guys here. You had some at the Greyhound station. Where else?”
“No idea. Wasn’t told, didn’t ask. Now, enough talking. Show me what’s in the trunk.”
“You’re right. Talking’s not getting us anywhere. It’s time to—”
Reacher butted the guy in the face. He didn’t pull his head back very far. He didn’t want to telegraph what was coming. That meant sacrificing some power so Reacher had to rely on his height and his neck muscles. It wasn’t the hardest blow he’d ever delivered. But it was hard enough. It sent the guy reeling back, still on his feet but already unconscious. He smashed into the fence. Teetered for a moment. Reacher stepped in close. He caught the guy before he hit the ground. Dragged him the last few feet to the car. Lifted the trunk lid the rest of the way. Bundled the guy inside. Then slammed it shut. Unlocked the doors and climbed in behind the wheel.